by Isabel Wolff
‘Okay, Herman,’ I sighed. ‘Let’s go.’ I opened the driver’s door and was hit by a sudden blast of scalding air. Despite the shade from a huge chestnut, the interior was like a bread oven. We’d just have to wait. As I opened the passenger door I glanced at the house, and suddenly saw Jimmy framed in an upstairs window, standing there, looking down. He hovered for a moment, then disappeared. Disconcerted, I put Herman in the back and got in. The car was still hot, but I just wanted to leave. I’d wound down all the windows and was putting on my seatbelt, struggling with the clasp, when I was aware of a sudden shadow across the dashboard.
‘Hello, Miranda.’ I looked up at Jimmy. He was blocking out the sun. ‘I thought you were ignoring me,’ he said. He was doing his best to sound composed, but he was slightly breathless. He’d clearly just run down the stairs.
‘You thought I was ignoring you?’ I said, with a serenity which surprised me. ‘I had the impression it was the other way round.’
‘Oh not at all,’ he replied. ‘But I’ve been very busy, what with so many people to talk to and, well, I just wanted to thank you for helping us out.’
‘That’s fine,’ I said coolly. ‘Don’t mention it.’ I looked into his grey eyes, trying to read the expression in them. ‘And of course it’s in a very good cause. I remember how keen you always were on animal issues,’ I added boldly, my heart pounding.
‘Hmm,’ he said. ‘That’s right.’ He leaned against the neighbouring car and folded his arms. ‘And you, Miranda, you were very enthusiastic yourself,’ he said pleasantly. ‘Quite a fanatic in fact.’
‘Oh I wouldn’t say that.’ Now I understood what his agenda was. He was trying to establish my attitude.
‘Do you ever think about those days?’ he asked casually. He looked away for a moment, then returned his gaze to me. This was what he really wanted to know.
‘Do I ever think about those days?’ I repeated slowly. He was hoping that I’d say, ‘No. Never. Forgotten all about it.’ ‘Yes,’ I said. ‘Actually, I do. I’ve been thinking about them quite a lot lately, as it happens.’
‘Really? But it was so long ago.’
‘That’s true. But at the same time it feels like yesterday in some ways. Doesn’t it to you?’
‘No.’ He’d said it firmly, but I saw a flicker of anxiety. ‘But you look just the same, Miranda,’ he said, trying to steer the conversation back to safer waters.
‘You look quite different—I hardly recognized you.’
‘Well,’ he touched his head and grinned. ‘I don’t have quite so much hair. Anyway, I just wanted to say “hi” and well, thanks. So goodbye then, Miranda. It was nice to see you.’ He began walking towards the house.
‘Can I ask you a question, Jimmy?’ I called.
He stiffened slightly. ‘My name’s James,’ he corrected me.
‘Is it? Okay, James,’ I tried again. ‘What I want to know is…’ My mouth felt dry as dust. ‘Don’t you ever feel sorry for what you did?’ He stared at me, then blinked a few times. ‘Doesn’t your conscience ever prick you?’
‘I don’t know what you mean.’
‘Yes you do. There’s no point pretending. There really isn’t. At least, not with me.’
‘Oh. Well…’ he put his hands in his pockets then emitted a weary sigh. ‘As I say, it was a long time ago. I really think it’s best…forgotten.’
‘I’m afraid I don’t agree.’ We stared at each other for a moment and I noticed him discreetly shift his weight.
‘Have you ever…mentioned it?’ he asked quietly. ‘To…anyone?’
‘Have I ever mentioned it to anyone?’ I repeated. I decided I’d make him wait for my reply. He ran his right hand through his hair and I noticed a dark, spreading stain beneath his arm. ‘No,’ I said finally. ‘I’ve never told a soul.’ I could almost smell his relief.
‘I didn’t think you would have done,’ he went on softly. ‘And of course that really is the best thing all round. I’d forget about it, Miranda. I really would.’
‘I’ve always found that hard to do.’
‘Well, I would,’ he insisted with benign menace. ‘Otherwise, well, you could land yourself in a lot of trouble. Couldn’t you?’
I felt my insides coil. ‘Is that a threat?’
‘A threat?’ He looked mildly scandalized at the suggestion. ‘Of course not. It’s just…’ he shrugged. ‘Friendly advice. You’ve got a nice TV career as an animal expert after all, and I’m a very busy man; and you see what happened then—’
‘No. Not “what happened”,’ I interjected hotly. ‘What you did. To the Whites.’
He shifted his weight again then looked away. ‘Well, that was as a result of…’ his eyes narrowed as he seemed to grope for the appropriate term, ‘…youthful indiscretion.’
‘Is that what you call it?’
He folded his arms again and then stared at the ground. ‘Well…maybe we did…misbehave.’ Misbehave? ‘But we were very fired up with our beliefs, weren’t we?’ he went on smoothly. ‘And we were so young.’
‘I certainly was—I was only sixteen. But it’s interesting that you should view it as mere “misbehaviour”.’ I snorted with mirthless laughter. ‘Is that really how you see it?’
There was silence for a moment.
‘We all make mistakes, Miranda.’
I shook my head. ‘Oh it was much, much more than that.’
His face suddenly darkened, and the corners of his mouth turned down. ‘Anyway, the old git had it coming to him,’ he muttered.
‘Why?’ He didn’t reply. I stared at him non-comprehendingly. ‘Why?’ I repeated. ‘What had he done? I never understood.’
‘Oh…plenty of things. Plenty,’ he repeated, his face suddenly flushing. Then he seemed to collect himself. ‘But what a coincidence,’ he said smoothly. ‘Your meeting my wife like that.’
‘Yes,’ I agreed. ‘It was. But I didn’t make the connection immediately as of course you were called “Smith” in those days.’
‘Mulholland’s my mother’s maiden name,’ he explained. ‘I changed it when I became a journalist to make it a little more…distinctive. It’s not a crime, is it?’
‘No. That’s not a crime,’ I agreed. ‘You must have got a bit of a shock seeing me again.’
He gave me a tight little smile. ‘I guess I did. But on the other hand it’s a small world, and it did sometimes occur to me that you might pop up. Anyway,’ he glanced towards the house, ‘I mustn’t keep you. And Caroline will be wondering where I am.’ He tapped the top of the car to bring the conversation to an end. ‘Nice to see you again, Miranda. Goodbye.’
‘Goodbye, Jimmy,’ I said as I started the engine. His smile vanished.
‘James,’ he said firmly. ‘It’s James.’
CHAPTER 4
‘That’s my answer,’ I said to Herman, as I drove back with the front windows wide open. ‘Not the slightest shred of remorse. He’s just worried in case I tell anyone. He’s probably been worried about it all these years. That’s why he decided to speak to me now. He’d clearly been wrestling with it, despite his outward calm, then at the last minute he decided he would. He saw me leaving, hesitated, then made the decision to chance it.’ For Jimmy clearly had a lot to lose. And he knew that, even now, sixteen years on, I could let the cat out of the bag. I could go to Scotland Yard and make a statement and he’d be out of Westminster before you could say ‘Big Ben’. But what good would be served by doing that, I wondered, as we drove through St Albans. Justice, of course. But who would actually benefit from it? I thought of Jimmy’s wife. She seemed a genuine, kind-hearted, nice person, and I had no wish to spoil things for her. She clearly knew nothing about what her husband had done—if he’d told her she would have been appalled. She might well not have married him. I know I wouldn’t if I’d learned something like that.
Now, as I passed Potter’s Bar, I wondered what Caroline did know about Jimmy’s past. He’d probably just told her that he’d been a
bit of a radical. That would be okay. Having gone on demonstrations in your youth, even taking part in the odd riot, is no bar to public life. Or rather, it’s no bar as long as you haven’t done anything criminal. But Jimmy had. I wondered, as I often had wondered, what would happen to me if I told. This, clearly, was what Jimmy was still banking on. The fact that I’d lose my career. It would be even worse now than it would have been before—because of who Jimmy had become. It would be all over the newspapers—I shuddered at the imagined headlines—and that would be curtains for me. Even if there were no prosecution, I’d be tarnished. The TV company would drop me like a shot. Who’d want to watch me on Animal Crackers, knowing I’d done something like that? It was one thing to spray graffiti on a fur-coat shop. It was quite another to… I shuddered again as I remembered. Yes… That was quite another thing. There was, of course, one person who would benefit from any disclosure. All I knew was his name. David White.
That night I hardly slept. It was so hot I had the skylight above my bed wide open. I could hear the gibbons shrieking in the zoo, and the occasional roar of a lion—maybe that’s why I’d had that dream about The Wizard of Oz. Less romantically, I could hear the screaming of car alarms and the dull rumble of traffic from the Marylebone Road. My mind was in turmoil as I alternately dozed and then woke. I’d tried to bury this awful thing in my subconscious all these years, but now I wanted to unburden myself. But to whom? Certainly not to my parents. It’s not something I’d ever want them to know.
Now I wondered—as I so often had done—about confiding in Daisy, but I didn’t want to put our friendship at risk. As my carriage clock chimed three thirty I thought about writing to an agony aunt. Perhaps that nice woman, Beverley McDonald, on the Daily Post, with her support dog, Trevor? I’d seen her on TV a couple of times. She’d sounded sensible and sympathetic. I wondered what advice she’d give. And, as the first birds began to wake and whistle, I composed a letter to her in my mind.
Dear Beverley, I hope you can help me, because I have this dreadful problem. Sixteen years ago I was involved, albeit unwittingly, in something truly awful—something which caused a lot of damage and pain to a totally innocent person, but the thing is… I sighed, then turned over. I just couldn’t do it. Even if I used a pseudonym she might, somehow, discover it was from me and feel duty-bound to tell the police. I saw my life, already troubled by my crisis with Alexander, about to be utterly ruined. I wondered if I could talk it out with a counsellor or a therapist; but I didn’t have one and, again, what if they told? I sat up in bed, as Herman snoozed beside me, sighing intermittently—he even manages to look stressed in his sleep. And as the shreds of pink cloud began to striate the fading navy of the retreating night, I had another, better, idea. There were online therapists and psychiatrists—‘Cyber-shrinks’. I threw off the sheet and went downstairs.
I switched on my computer, entered ‘online counselling’ into Google and came up with about two thousand hits. There were ‘Share-Feelings’ and ‘Help2Cope’. There was a California-based one called ‘Blue.com’, which claimed to offer a ‘cure’ for any psychological problem ‘within ten minutes’. Sceptical, I clicked to the next. This one was called ‘Thought Field Therapy’ and claimed to use ‘advanced psycho-technologies’ to resolve ‘any personal issue’. These were listed alphabetically in a sort of tragicomic shopping list, from abuse, affairs and alcoholism through to snoring, transsexuals and stress. Which one of them would I click on? That was easy. ‘Guilt.’ It had squatted on my life like a dead weight. There were other sites with pictures of the sun rising, of rainbows and of clouds lifting. They all sounded appealing—but how could I choose? Then I stumbled on an Australian website, ‘NoWorries.com’ for ‘people who would like to talk to someone about their problems anonymously, and to do that with total confidence from home’. As I surfed the site I could hear soothing classical music, and there were images of flickering candles and messages in bobbing bottles. Attracted to its simplicity, I logged on.
It said that I could be counselled by e-mail, telephone or face-to-face. I opted for an e-mail session of fifty minutes—the traditional psychiatrist’s hour. When did I want it? I could book any time slot, so I clicked on the window marked ‘Now’. I used my Hotmail address as it’s more anonymous, then began to tap in my credit card number. Hang on… I hadn’t been thinking straight. My credit card has my name on it. Too dangerous. With a heavy heart, I pressed ‘Quit’. I went back to bed and lay there, staring through the skylight, trying to work out how I could unburden myself. And I was just wondering whether perhaps the simplest thing wouldn’t be to go to the nearest Catholic church and find a priest to confess to, when the phone went.
‘Hello?’
‘Sorry to ring so early,’ said Daisy. She sounded dismal.
‘That’s okay. I was just getting up. What’s the matter?’
‘Oh…nothing,’ she said, bleakly. ‘I’m…’ I heard her voice catch, ‘…fine.’
‘You don’t sound it. How was last night?’
‘Well, to be honest, not quite as “special” as I’d hoped.’
‘Where did he take you?’
‘The Opera House.’
‘But that sounds lovely.’
‘Well…yes. It was. Seats in the stalls. Champagne before and after. But…’
‘He didn’t…?’
There was the sound of a suppressed sob. ‘No. Although when I realized it was The Marriage of Figaro my hopes were right up. And at the end the singers were knee-deep in confetti, and I was just sitting there thinking… Well, you know what I was thinking.’
‘Hmm.’
‘Then afterwards, Nigel took me to this gorgeous little French restaurant, and I was convinced he was going to do it—at last. But we were just chatting in a perfectly normal way and he didn’t look at all nervous; and then he had to take an emergency call about this merger he’s working on, so he went outside. And at the next table was this couple, and I heard the guy propose to his girlfriend.’
‘Really?’
‘I actually heard him say the words. She just looked so radiantly happy, and then she started to cry. Then when the waiter realized what had happened he announced it and we all clapped and raised our glasses—and Nigel missed the whole thing. So when he came back to the table I told him what had happened; and instead of saying, “How romantic”, or “How lovely”, or even, “Will you marry me, Daisy?”, he just said, “How extraordinary”. Like that. As though it really puzzled him. Then he spent the rest of the evening talking about the opera.’
‘Hmm.’
‘And as he had to catch a very early flight to Bonn, I came home. I don’t think it’s ever going to happen!’ she wailed.
‘Well there’s always his fortieth, isn’t there? When’s that?’
‘Next month.’
‘Maybe the prospect of impending middle age will do the trick.’
‘But his dad didn’t marry until he was forty-six.’
‘It doesn’t follow that Nigel will be the same.’
‘Maybe, but I don’t want to wait another five and a half years to find out. Christ, Miranda, I’ll be thirty-nine by then! I’ll have jowls and grey hair.’
‘Don’t be silly.’
‘I’ll have more lines than the London Underground.’
‘You won’t.’
‘I’ll have atomic knickers—and a stoop—and arthritis.’
‘Rubbish, Daisy!’
‘I’ll probably have a Zimmer frame. You’ll have to push me up the aisle in a bloody wheelchair!’
‘You’re being ridiculous now.’
‘And I won’t be able to have kids.’
‘You will. Honestly, Daisy,’ I went on, as her sobs finally subsided. ‘You’ve got to get a grip. You’ve been here with Nigel enough times before, so why are you so especially upset now?’
‘Because, well,’ she sniffed. ‘I’ve just done something rather…silly.’
‘What?’ There was silence. ‘Daisy,
what have you done?’
‘Come to lunch and you’ll see.’
When I rang Daisy’s bell at twelve, I expected her to come to the door with red eyes and tear-stained cheeks, but instead she seemed to have recovered some of her natural élan.
‘Nige phoned me from his hotel,’ she said, ‘so I’m feeling a bit cheerier than I was. Ooh, what lovely flowers. Did you come by car?’ she added.
‘No. I got the tube.’
‘Good, because I’ve just discovered a bottle of fizz I didn’t know I had. I’ve had it in the freezing compartment for an hour. It should be nicely chilled by now.’
‘Great.’
I followed Daisy down the narrow hallway, which was crammed with all sorts of stuff—a large rucksack, two helmets, three kagouls, several coils of rope, a pick-axe and cramponed boots. A pair of racing skis was upended against the wall next to something which looked like a huge kite.
‘Sorry about all the junk,’ she said. ‘I don’t have much storage space.’
‘What’s this thing here?’
‘A bit of my hang-glider.’
‘Oh. And this netting?’
‘It’s a sling.’
‘A sling?’
‘A hammock. For sleeping in when you’re halfway up a cliff face.’
‘Ah.’
‘They’re so useful, you know. You just knock in a couple of nails, suspend one and climb in. Water for Herman?’
‘Yes please.’ She went to the sink and turned on the cold tap.
‘Okay,’ I said, as she put a bowl down for him. ‘Tell me.’
‘Oh,’ she sighed as she straightened up. ‘Right… Well, I’d actually decided, on reflection, that I wasn’t going to bother you with it after all; but, okay then, what happened was…’
Then I saw it. On a chair. A stiff, expensive-looking carrier bag bearing the legend, ‘Bridal Belles’. I stared at it, and then looked at her.
