The Secrets of Sunshine

by Phaedra Patrick

  When he took out his mobile and switched it back on, he saw three missed calls on his screen. All were from the same number, one he didn’t recognize. When he rang it back, it belonged to a hospital.

  Anita had been involved in a car crash and could he get there quickly?

  Mitchell knocked over his chair in his rush to flee out of the building. He left his wallet and laptop on his desk.

  He dove into his car and slammed the door shut, beating his palms against the dashboard before he tried to compose himself.

  Throughout his two-hour drive to be by Anita’s side, he yelled at the traffic lights, his knuckles white from gripping the steering wheel.

  When he got to the hospital, Mitchell ran blindly through anonymous grey corridors to find her ward. Dread coursed through his veins.

  Except he was too late.

  When he and Poppy returned home, later that night, they were like two soldiers returning from war, defeated and devastated, never to be the same whole people ever again.

  A lilac envelope had been waiting for Mitchell, propped up against a pepper pot on the dining room table.

  He picked it up, clutched it to his heart and cried.

  11

  Sheet Music

  It took three and a half hours for Liza to eventually pull up outside a compact Victorian folly in the middle of the countryside. The small castle with turrets stood proudly at the edge of green fields. Several tents dotted around them, like a badly promoted music festival.

  ‘I feel a bit sick, Dad.’ Poppy tumbled out of the car, her face pale, and Mitchell gave her a mint. He was still smarting after reading Jasmine’s letter, and his heart pounded as he tried to blank out the fateful events that led him to losing Anita.

  ‘Take some deep breaths,’ he told Poppy, holding her tightly until his pain felt less raw. ‘You’ll be okay.’

  A woman who could only be Jean stood on the front step of the property. She wore tight black jeans and an off-the-shoulder white T-shirt. Her feet were bare and a large silver crescent moon pendant sat on her chest. Her lips were over plump and Mitchell guessed she was in her mid- to late sixties, though her bleached long hair made her look younger.

  ‘Hey, why didn’t you tell me you were coming?’ She threw open her arms and swooped on Liza, kissing her on alternate cheeks twice over. Her accent was a mishmash with hints of London, the US and Yorkshire mixed in.

  Mitchell shrank back as he received a big hug, too. Poppy sidestepped out of Jean’s range.

  ‘You refuse to use a phone, Auntie Jean. How anyone hears about this place, I don’t know,’ Liza said with a laugh.

  ‘Good news travels fast. My gang arranges all the humdrum stuff for me. Come on in.’

  Mitchell followed Jean, Liza and Poppy into the house, and Sasha scampered after them. The spacious square room was light and airy, painted all white, with arched windows. A tiled floor, patterned rugs and cushions gave it a Moroccan riad feel, at odds with its Victorian exterior. Gold discs in frames hung on the walls, with the name Jean Jamieson featured over and over. A tall shelf displayed lots of dolls in national costumes from around the world, and a banjo lay on the sofa.

  ‘It’s like a posh restaurant!’ Poppy brightened up.

  Mitchell gave her a small nudge. ‘Manners, young lady.’

  Jean laughed. ‘The room’s got a cool vibe, hasn’t it? I don’t stay here much, prefer life on the open road.’ She turned to Liza and winked. ‘Are you here to introduce me to your new beau?’

  Mitchell felt like he’d been plunged into icy water. ‘Oh no, sorry, we’re just—’

  Liza appeared to enjoy his discomfort. ‘Auntie Jean, you’ve always been a troublemaker. This is Mitchell, and we’re not together. The lovely Poppy is his daughter.’

  ‘Darn it. I relish a good love story,’ Jean laughed as she moved closer to him. She examined his face, as if he was an old master in an art gallery. ‘Nope.’ She clicked her teeth. ‘Not your type of dude at all. Let me guess. Hmm, you’re an accountant like our Yvette?’

  Mitchell felt strangely offended by this. ‘I work in maintenance for Upchester council. I cut padlocks off the bridges.’

  ‘Hmm, interesting.’ Her expression said the opposite. ‘So, what’s the groove between you and Liza?’

  Liza’s smile slipped. ‘This isn’t about us. Not that there’s an us at all. We’re here to speak to you about Yvette.’

  ‘Oh.’ Jean’s face crumpled with sadness. ‘And here I am joshing and all. Is there any news?’

  Liza rubbed the top of her aunt’s arm. ‘Can we sit down?’ she asked.

  Mitchell headed for a blue velvet armchair so Jean, Liza and Poppy could share a small sofa. Sasha lay down with her head on his foot.

  When they had all settled, Liza spoke. ‘Mitchell saw Yvette on a bridge in Upchester.’

  ‘When?’ Jean gasped, her black winged eyeliner creasing.

  ‘Four days ago,’ Mitchell said.

  ‘Are you sure it was her?’ Jean said urgently. ‘Where is she?’

  Liza’s and Mitchell’s eyes met. She nodded at him to tell his story.

  Mitchell leaned forward and told Jean about Yvette falling from the bridge, and the padlock she’d hung there. Poppy busied herself by looking at the shelves full of dolls.

  ‘That all sounds crazy,’ Jean said after listening. ‘Why would Yvette use the name of my song on a lock?’

  Liza stood up. She unhooked a photo frame from the wall and handed it to Mitchell. In it, Jean was much younger and had flowers in her blonde hair as she strummed a mandolin. Three girls sat by her feet. They each wore white dresses in contrast to their dark hair.

  ‘Naomi, Liza and Yvette loved my songs when they were small,’ Jean told him. ‘They used to dress up like me and sing them, my own little girl gang. I wonder if there’s something in the lyrics that could tell us more…’ Her lips worked as she sang quietly, her voice guttural with age and cigarettes. When she’d finished, she shook her head. ‘I really don’t know.’

  Liza held on to her hand. ‘Please think about it some more, Auntie Jean. It could be a clue, our only one.’

  ‘I’ll try. Um,’ she added cautiously. ‘Have you spoken to your mother and Naomi about this?’

  ‘No. Naomi is always rushed off her feet with the kids, so I want to try to find out more first. And as for Mum…’

  The two women’s eyes met in an intense, knowing stare.

  Jean moved her moon pendant along its chain and back again. ‘I need space to think about this. Clear my mind. I’ll make us some apple tea, okay?’ She stood up and padded out of the room.

  Liza continued to stare at the photo. She gripped the frame tightly, lost in her thoughts. Mitchell gave Poppy a brief apologetic smile.

  When Jean reappeared, she held a trayful of small coloured glasses and a slim jug. They clinked together as she sat down and Mitchell saw her hands shaking. ‘Here we are,’ she said lightly, but he heard the catch in her voice.

  ‘The glasses are pretty,’ Poppy said.

  ‘They’re from Morocco, a present from a fan.’

  Poppy held a blue one up to her eye and peered through it. ‘I’ve never been there, but I like Spain.’ She didn’t pause for breath as she continued. ‘I went with Mum and Dad. I had paella and bought some maracas.’ She mimed a motion of using them. ‘Olé.’

  Jean smiled and set the tray down on the floor. She took a Spanish doll off a shelf. Her voluminous black hair was pinned into a bun and she wore a red lacy dress.

  ‘Wow. She’s beautiful.’

  ‘You can keep her, if you like. I don’t have anyone to give the dolls to, now the girls are grown up.’

  ‘Really? Thanks. I’m too old for dolls now, but I’ll look after her. I’ve kept ones Mum bought for me.’

  ‘You can show this little lady to her.’

  Poppy moved the doll’s arms up and down. ‘Um, no. Mum died.’

  Jean and Liza shared a look, heavy with sympathy.
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  ‘Me and Dad live in an apartment together in the city,’ Poppy gabbled. ‘You can look out of my bedroom window at the stars, and I sometimes think Mum is up there, looking down on me. That’s the best thing about it. Oh, and pigeons have built a nest in the gutter. I hope they have babies.’

  Mitchell didn’t know where to look. He gulped at his apple tea.

  Jean reached out and squeezed Poppy’s knee. ‘If you like the stars, you should wander into the forest, just over there, at night. Everything is so clear. The moonlight makes everything beautiful, even the darkest things.’ She sat there for a few seconds, rocking back and forth, before she focused on Liza. ‘I need to tell you something,’ she said. ‘It’s about Yvette. Please don’t be crazy mad at me…’

  Liza lifted her eyes. ‘What is it?’

  Jean fidgeted with her pendant again and didn’t speak.

  Poppy looked around at the adults. ‘Shall I take Sasha for another walk?’ she asked awkwardly. ‘She might need a wee.’

  ‘That’s a great idea,’ Liza said. She took the dog’s lead from her handbag and attached it. ‘Take her for a wander around the garden. She’ll like that.’

  Jean waited until Poppy had led Sasha outside and cleared her throat. ‘Yvette came to see me, the week before she disappeared,’ she confided.

  Liza frowned. ‘But when she vanished, I drove up here to ask when you’d last seen her. You said it was a couple of months before. And now you’re telling me it was the week before? Don’t go all flaky on me, Auntie Jean. This is important. When actually was it?’

  Jean picked up a fringed paisley shawl and draped it over her shoulders as if she was cold. ‘It was six nights before she disappeared, not two months. She stayed with me for a couple of days and didn’t seem like herself. She was quiet and I could sense there was something on her mind, but she clammed up when I asked her. She told me she’d been seeing this guy, Victor, and showed me a photo of him.’

  Mitchell’s ears pricked. Liza had said Yvette wasn’t in a relationship. He tried to catch her eye, but she looked away.

  ‘I told Yvette he had a dark aura. It was grey, with no glow. I can sense these things, smell them out. He was bad news. Yvette went all pale and said she’d broken things off with him recently. She’d done something and said he was going to be furious with her when he found out. But she wouldn’t tell me anything else. Then she left the next morning without saying goodbye.’ Jean trailed her hand down her neck and held it at her throat. ‘I’ve not seen her since.’

  Liza’s eyes flared with anger. ‘Why on earth didn’t you tell me this before?’

  Jean shrank back. ‘Your mum has always seen me as a rabble-rouser. She’d probably blame me for Yvette leaving. I kept hoping she’d come back – then everything would be okay. I’ve been torturing myself for months over where she is. I don’t think anything I said was enough to make Yvette disappear.’

  Liza stood up. ‘Bloody hell, Jean.’ She clenched her fists and stormed out the door, slamming it shut behind her so hard the frames on the wall jumped.

  Jean turned to Mitchell, her eyes wide with shame. ‘Oh, mercy, what have I done? I was only trying to help.’

  Mitchell struggled to think of what to say. Through the window, he could see Liza pacing around in the garden with a set jaw and her hands thrust into her pockets. ‘Let’s give her some time alone and I’ll pour you another apple tea.’

  ‘Thank you, Mitchell,’ Jean said meekly.

  After a few minutes, Liza returned. ‘Sorry,’ she said, sitting back down. She ran a hand quickly through her hair. ‘I just want to find Yvette, okay?’

  ‘We all do,’ Jean whispered. ‘We need to be strong and be here for each other. Family.’

  Liza took a few long breaths and the atmosphere in the room calmed. She picked up the banjo and strummed a few strings before she turned to Mitchell. ‘You know, Mum and Auntie Jean are both musical, but have very different tastes. Mum’s interests were always more orchestral. She only played instruments from sheet music and practised pieces over and over, striving for perfection.’

  ‘I was more experimental than Sheila,’ Jean said. ‘I liked to mess around and create my own songs.’

  ‘Mum insisted Naomi, Yvette and I learned the guitar after school each day, and on weekends,’ Liza continued. ‘I was the only one of us to keep it up. When I was ten, Mum got arthritis in her fingers and she grew even more obsessed with us doing well. She pushed us to play the music she could no longer perform herself. Except Naomi had no interest in learning instruments, could never remember the notes. Yvette was older, so she got away with saying no more. Which left me.’

  Jean cleared her throat. ‘I remember Sheila rapping the back of your hands once because you got a note wrong.’

  Liza distractedly rubbed her knuckles. ‘She apologized afterwards. She got carried away.’

  ‘My sister is an amazing woman, Mitchell.’ Jean nodded at him. ‘But she has super high expectations about everything and everyone. I’ve never been able to meet her standards, musically or personally.’

  Mitchell looked around at all the framed discs on the walls. ‘But you have all these awards and hits.’

  ‘They’re for folk and pop music, so they don’t count to her.’

  Liza pursed her lips. ‘It’s more than that, Auntie Jean…’

  A strange silence settled in the room until Jean eventually found Mitchell’s eyes with hers. ‘In a nutshell,’ she said, ‘Sheila and I fell for the same man – more than forty years ago now. It caused a huge rift between us.

  ‘When I was a young woman, before I had my hits, I performed my music in clubs across Europe. One night, in a jazz bar in Germany, I met a man called Luther and fell head over heels for him. He was charismatic and talented, the leader of a top orchestra. We hooked up that night and from then on, if we ever found ourselves in the same city, we met up and had fun. We kept things simple, didn’t talk about our families, so I never asked him if he knew Sheila.

  ‘Anyway, after a year or so, Sheila confided to me that she’d fallen for someone special, and his name was Luther. She hoped it was serious between them. My heart stung when I realized we were both seeing the same man at the same time.’ She took a moment to gather her thoughts. ‘I tried to break it to her gently that Luther and I had a thing going on, but Sheila refused to listen. I think she knew deep down I must be telling the truth, but she didn’t want to believe it.’

  Liza picked up her story. ‘Mum accused Auntie Jean of making it all up because she was jealous.’

  ‘But what did Luther say?’ Mitchell asked.

  Jean grimaced. ‘He totally denied our relationship and told Sheila he’d only met me a couple of times. He always thrived on lies and drama. I could see she was in love with him and I tried to warn her. But Sheila chose to believe him over me. My sister and I didn’t speak a word to each other for a couple of years after that.’

  Liza nodded sympathetically. ‘Eventually Mum found out the truth – that Luther had lied to her about Jean, and other women, too. Mum was devastated, but she met my dad not long afterwards. He was lovely, and another musician, a clarinet player. They got married within months and had me and my two sisters.’

  ‘I moved to Germany and shacked up with a record producer,’ Jean said. ‘I wrote “My Heart is Always Yours” about Luther. But my relationship with Sheila never fully recovered.’ She gazed out of the window. ‘We don’t speak much, though I send her tickets to my concerts for her birthday, and she sends me Brahms sheet music for mine. We’re different people and keep our separate ways.

  ‘That’s why I was flabbergasted when Yvette told me about this Victor. He sounded very controlling, telling her what to do. After living with your mother, I thought she’d have had enough of that type of behaviour. I’m glad she split up with him.’

  ‘Hmm.’ Liza looked down, studying the floor. ‘That still doesn’t explain why Yvette used your song lyric on her padlock.’

  �
��I know Yvette’s been in touch with us from time to time, but I’m still really worried,’ Jean said. ‘I’m supposed to be hosting my campfire jamboree tonight, but I don’t feel in the mood for it now.’

  Mitchell shifted in his seat, not sure there could be two worse words bolted together in the English language than campfire and jamboree.

  ‘Don’t let this spoil things for you, Auntie Jean,’ Liza said. ‘I thought Yvette’s padlock would be good news for you.’

  ‘The young musicians have been working hard and I don’t want to let them down.’ Jean shook her head. ‘I’ve not even asked if you’ve had something to eat.’

  ‘Oh, don’t worry about us. We’re fine.’

  ‘You must stay,’ Jean insisted. ‘I’ve made some parmesan and dill scones just this morning, and you’ve always loved the jamboree. Please, Liza, I don’t see you very often. Perhaps I’ll think of something else about Yvette or Victor to tell you.’

  Liza looked at Mitchell. ‘Okay,’ she said, her voice subdued. ‘Do you have spare tents we can use?’

  ‘Those are all full, I’m afraid. But you can always sleep in your old room.’

  Liza found a small smile for her aunt. ‘I think Poppy will love that.’

  Mitchell felt a pulse of alarm at the thought of him, Liza, Poppy and Sasha having to share a space. ‘Poppy and I can get a hotel,’ he offered quickly. ‘Are there any around here?’

  ‘We’re in the middle of nowhere,’ Liza said. ‘Sorry.’

  Jean patted his leg. ‘Don’t look so horrified, Mitchell. Liza’s old room is under the stars. Sleeping bags on the floor of the forest.’

  12

  Campfire

  After they’d all eaten the strange parmesan and dill scones, Mitchell, Liza and Poppy walked across a field towards a small green hut. A young man wearing a black woollen hat and a khaki army jacket handed over three sleeping bags. Each was tied with a string bow.