by Jill Childs
I recognised some at once from the grainy images in the newspaper. That coat with its metal buttons, laid out on its back with the arms outstretched as if it were flying. The lace-up shoes, photographed from the front, from the side.
I picked up the picture of the brooch and looked more closely. It was clearer here. The diamante chips were still in place, drawing a sparkling line round the shape of the swan, its strong body and long, slim neck. They outlined a crown on its head. The enamel blushed with the slightest hint of blue. It was my swan. Battered now, the metal frame rusted, but still mine. I swallowed hard. My mouth tried to smile, thinking about the past, but my lips buckled and I had to bite my lip to stop myself from crying.
It didn’t look expensive now. It looked ordinary. I could see that now, with my adult eye. But it had seemed so beautiful to me, at the time.
I spotted it in a bric-a-brac shop on the main street, in their annual sale, marked down not just once but twice which meant I could just afford it. I’d been thrilled. It came pinned on a scrap of cushioned white satin in a smart red box. I gave it to Caroline on our last day at school together, the week before her family left the country.
I couldn’t explain how much I wanted her to have it. It was too precious for me. Too special. But it was perfect for her. She was a swan herself. She’d know how to wear it. She had the elegance. She’d have the right clothes to show it off.
I kept it a secret between us. I didn’t even tell my mum. She’d have been angry, I was sure. She’d have shaken her head and said I made too much of Caroline and, if I loved it so much, why didn’t I keep it for myself?
It took guts, finally taking it out on the bus as we travelled home together, wrapped in tissue paper filched from my mum’s cupboard, and risking the horror of offering it to her. What if she laughed at it? What if she made fun of me?
In fact, she just smiled and said thank you coyly, as if she’d known all along that I might buy her something on our final day, and she pushed it deep into her schoolbag, out of sight.
I never saw it again. I never saw it again until now.
The Detective Inspector’s eyes seemed to read everything. She pushed a box of tissues across the table towards me and I took one, dried my eyes.
‘What can you tell me?’ she said.
She didn’t make notes, she just listened as I tried to explain, only interrupting me now and then with questions about specifics – the name of the shop, the year, the name of our school. Her eyes never left my face.
“Only I don’t know why that woman had it.” I swallowed. “Caroline might know, my friend. I could ask her to come in, if you like.”
When I’d finished, she didn’t speak for a moment. I felt suddenly self-conscious. I had no idea what she was thinking. For the first time, it crossed my mind that she might not believe me.
She touched the other photographs on the table.
‘Do you recognise anything else?’
I made a show of looking at them more closely, one by one, then shook my head. I was disappointing her.
She gathered the photographs together again into a pile and put them back into the file, rested her hands together on the surface.
‘I can see this has brought back a lot of memories.’ Her voice was gentler now.
I nodded. It had. I hadn’t thought about that brooch for twenty-five years.
‘Thank you for coming in to see us.’
I looked up sharply. Was that it? Was I being dismissed?
‘So, should I ask Caroline to come in? It’s something to go on, isn’t it, the brooch?’ I was stalling. I didn’t want to go yet. I wanted to know more about the dead woman and why she was wearing my swan. I wasn’t ready yet to give her up.
She didn’t exactly say yes, but she inclined her head to show she was listening.
‘I know this woman must be…’ I hesitated, trying to find the right words. It all felt indelicate, almost ghoulish and that wasn’t how I wanted to sound. ‘I realise the body is in a bad state. It said as much in the article. But can’t you still find out who she is? I mean, what about DNA?’
She gave me an appraising look. ‘We will identify her. But in a case like this, it may take a while. DNA is important, but it can only confirm identity if we already have a relevant sample. If they have an existing criminal record, for example. With this female, that doesn’t seem to be the case.’ She hesitated. ‘It may still help, though. If someone reports a relative as missing, someone who hasn’t yet come forward, for whatever reason, we can compare this woman’s DNA with theirs and see if there’s a match.’
She reached for a printed form in the pile of papers and leaflets at the far end of the desk and pushed it across the table towards me, then took a ball-point pen from her pocket and set it on top. A standard contact form. Name and address, email, mobile and landline numbers, signature and date.
‘If you’d just fill that in for me? We’ll be in touch if we need anything more.’
I blinked. ‘What do you think? Is it a lead? The brooch?’
Her face was emotionless. ‘It’s possible, of course, that this is the same brooch. The one you gave your friend when you were girls. I’m not ruling that out – by all means ask your friend if she passed it on to someone local.’
‘But?’
‘But it’s a manufactured piece. You do understand. They must have made thousands of them. Possibly tens of thousands.’ She gave me a narrow look. ‘And even if it were the same one, even if it were linked to your friend in some way, that may not help us to identify the deceased. Maybe your friend just lost the brooch in the street and someone else picked it up. Or took it to a charity shop last time she had a clear out? There could be a dozen reasons why it changed hands.’ She paused. ‘And that’s supposing it’s the same actual brooch you gave her. Which is perfectly possible. But frankly not at all likely.’
My eyes slid away from her face to the table.
She tapped the form. ‘But leave your details. Just in case.’
Afterwards, at the front door, she shook my hand again. A firm, assured grip.
‘Difficult, these cases. Unidentified remains.’ She gave me a half-smile. ‘They often get a good public response. They bring back so many memories, you see. So many questions from the past. What if it were my estranged mother or my long-lost sister or my first girlfriend? It makes people stop and think, doesn’t it? About the people who’ve really mattered in life.’
* * *
I felt deflated as I headed down the path and went to find the bus back out to the village. I picked up a sandwich and soft drink on the way and ate on the bus, looking moodily out at the passing shops which steadily turned to houses as we reached the outskirts of the town – then gave way to fields and farms as we struck out into the countryside. I didn’t know why I was so disappointed.
I’d felt such a surge of emotion. It looked so like the brooch I bought Caroline. I thought it must mean something. Now, dismissed by the police, I felt foolish.
I thought too about what she’d said about the nameless body making people reflect on who mattered to them. Who did I have left? My parents were both gone. No brothers or sisters. No husband. No child. Was that why I’d been excited about helping the police solve their mystery? Was it a pathetic way of making myself feel less alone, less disconnected from the rest of the world?
The police officer was right, of course. It was only a cheap brooch. There must be thousands of them out there. Caroline probably threw hers away years ago. I was mad to think she’d have taken it round the world with her, to all those different cities, and then had it shipped home again. She must own so much expensive jewellery now. That one wasn’t worth saving.
* * *
The house was deserted. It felt lifeless without Lucy. I made myself a cup of tea and took it up to my bedroom, then settled on the bed, my back resting against the headboard, knees drawn up, feet tucked under the duvet, and opened the next detective novel at chapter one.
My eyes passed over the opening sentence, but nothing went in. The words danced. It was a struggle to concentrate. My head lifted from the page to the trees through the window, the branches stark and half-naked now as their leaves turned golden and fell.
My mind was elsewhere. I was on edge, expecting to hear them in the hall soon, Lucy’s quick, slight footsteps and Caroline’s confident voice.
Something bothered me. I wasn’t quite sure what it was. A nag. A jagged edge.
I pushed Caroline’s note back into the book, marking the start of the chapter, and went to the window to look out. The windows were directly under the nursery with the same three-sided view over the end of the gravel drive at the front of the house, then forward along the edge of the cliff and finally, from the other side window, out towards the sea.
I ran my hands over my hair. What was troubling me so much? I’d felt uneasy since the first day I’d arrived here. Since seeing Caroline walk into the station café, all sunglasses and style. Was it just my own sense of being displaced, of being lost?
Outside, the sky was heavy. The wind was getting up, whipping the waves and writing lines of foam along the surface of the water. I should make plans. I should accept the fact I needed to leave now, however much I felt drawn to Lucy. She’s not my daughter, she’s Caroline’s. I had no place here. Maybe it was better to break the tie before it grew any stronger.
I forced myself to turn back to the bed, picked up the novel again and lifted the note out. I glanced over it as I held it in my hand, ready to start reading.
Then I stopped. The paper shook between my fingers. I opened up the book more widely and laid the note alongside Caroline’s inscription on the fly leaf. I looked from one to the other. From one signature to the other. My head swam, taking in the differences in handwriting, the change in the way she’d signed her name.
The name and date on the fly leaf were from some years ago, presumably when Caroline bought the book. It was a more adult, less loopy version of the handwriting I remembered from our school days.
The note was written this morning at the kitchen table.
They weren’t in the same hand.
The writing, the signature, were completely different.
Eight
Caroline
It wasn’t going to be an easy conversation and I chose my moment with care.
A Sunday afternoon, when the amah was on her day off. I persuaded Dominic to come out with us on a trip to Lamma Island. I bought fresh bread, sliced cheese, cooked sausages and crisps and we set out from the ferry terminal on one of the sandy walking trails to find a spot to picnic.
It was a hot day. Once we were clear of the water, flies droned in our ears and Dominic’s polo shirt soon showed dark patches under his arms and across his back. Lucy ran ahead, her sun-hat bobbing on her hair which hung in two plaits past her ears. She was wearing a cotton sundress. Rows of strawberries on a pink background.
We climbed the summit and made our way slowly down the far side. I kept hold of Lucy’s hand in case she fell as we headed towards the small beach below. It wasn’t the prettiest or the most remote spot on Lamma, but it was far enough for Lucy with her little legs. She could ride back to the ferry on Dominic’s shoulders afterwards, once she was exhausted.
We sat on a blanket and Lucy ran around on the sand, searching for shells and picking up sticks, running back to us, then out again, like a crazy puppy. Barbecue smoke drifted across from the dunes further along where a gaggle of Chinese teenagers in jeans were cooking burgers and sausages for lunch. The girls put their hands over their mouths when they laughed, hiding their teeth. A coy gesture. No loud music, no drugs, just giggles and burgers. I’ll miss this, I thought. I’ll miss Hong Kong.
Dominic was wearing the mirrored, designer sunglasses I’d bought him for his birthday. I remember thinking, as I set out the food on the surface between us, cracked open a warming can of Tsing Tao and handed it across too, that he must have thought he had an advantage, hidden behind those expensive shades. But in fact, he had no idea what was coming.
I waited until Lucy looked busy, poking with a stick in the sand, crouched on her haunches. She was close enough to be safe but too far away to hear.
I cleared my throat and said as clearly as I could: ‘I’m taking Lucy to England. She’ll get a better education there.’
It wasn’t an opening gambit or a question, it was a statement. I told him without preamble. I didn’t think he deserved more.
He was sitting with his back slightly curved, looking out at the sea, at Lucy. His head didn’t turn. A moment’s silence. I wondered if he’d heard.
Finally, he said, ‘I don’t think so.’
I took a deep breath. I had a wedge of bread in my hand, but I couldn’t even pretend to eat it, I felt too sick. ‘I can’t make you come with us. I know that. But I am going, Dominic. And I am taking Lucy.’
He turned now. I had his attention all right. Frown lines wrinkled his forehead. His sunglasses showed pale, tiny pictures of my face, reflected back at itself forever.
‘You can’t do that.’
I swallowed hard. ‘Actually, I can. I know what’s been going on, Dominic. If you try to fight me, if you try to take her away from me, I’ll fight back with everything I’ve got. And I promise you, you’ll lose.’
He didn’t say anything. He stubbed his food into the sand as if it were a cigarette and then got slowly to his feet, strode down to Lucy and crouched beside her, drew pictures with her on the beach.
We went home without speaking to each other, our chat directed only at Lucy, the innocent between us.
That night, Dominic moved his things wordlessly into the spare bedroom.
* * *
We waged our own private war.
Dominic stayed away from the apartment for days at a time and when he did appear, for fresh clothes and to sleep, he didn’t speak to me.
I kept my grief to myself and used the little energy I had to set plans in motion for us to leave.
I instructed the managing agents in London to give notice to the tenants in the flat my father had made over to me. It was a decent size. It could house us for a while, Lucy and I, if we needed it.
I directed estate agents to search for a family home, somewhere with character that a child would love, within striking distance of London. At once, links to dozens of properties, large and small, suburban and rural, started appearing in my inbox.
Here in Hong Kong, I gave notice on our apartment. Dominic couldn’t stop me. After all, I was the one who paid the rent each month and covered the bills. I found the amah a place with another family.
Inside, I was in turmoil. I had pushed Dominic into a corner. I knew that. He had to make an abrupt choice between Fi and me. He had to find the money to back his business without me or swallow his pride and accept marching orders from a wife he no longer loved.
I had two powerful cards and I was gambling our marriage on them both.
I had money. And I had Lucy.
They adored each other so much, those two. You only had to see them together to see it, those two heads bent close, his strong arms round her, her cheek nuzzled against him. Perhaps she was the only female who would ever win his heart forever.
I tried to shield Lucy from the unpleasantness, as much as I could. We had treats and outings, paying final visits to the places in Hong Kong she knew, without her even realising she was saying goodbye to them. I kept a smile on my face during the day, for her sake. I did my crying at night, once she’d fallen asleep.
And it was alone at night that I was consumed by fear about the other reason I needed to move quickly to London. It wasn’t only about Fi. It was about me too. My health.
The moments out of time, that strange, paralysed blanking, came regularly now.
The holes in my memory were ragged and debilitating. I was struggling more and more to pass them off as normal forgetfulness, as the product of a busy mind. In truth, I was barely managing to cope with dai
ly life.
I was crippled by headaches, intense pulses of pain behind my eyes, such pressure in my skull that it made me vomit. I’d never known such agony.
I needed help. I couldn’t deny it any longer. But I’d delayed for so long because I was afraid. I was frightened of starting a long journey of appointments and treatments here in the expatriate goldfish bowl of Hong Kong.
I wanted the very best doctors. I wanted anonymity. For that, I needed London.
* * *
The cold in the UK came as a shock. A persistent dank chill that cut through to the bone. I wrapped myself in layers of cashmere and hugged the folds of the thick woollen coat I’d had made in Hong Kong.
It was natural to feel the cold, I told myself. I’d lived in Asia for so long. My blood had thinned.
The light was different too, dim and oppressive. I stood at the window of the hotel, looking down at the grey Kensington streets and felt suddenly sapped of energy, fleshless and afraid.
After weeks of stasis, life was again accelerating.
The turning point came with the house. The Conifers. I knew it was right, just by the name.
I’d spent evening after evening alone in the apartment, scrolling without enthusiasm through screens of property details. Boxy houses on middle-class housing estates, converted barns with modern extensions in satellite villages, tall, narrow terraces, when suddenly The Conifers had appeared.
I loved it from the first picture. That proud Victorian home, set all alone on the edge of the cliff, surrounded by trees. Isolated and full of character. Waiting for me.
I secured it the next day with a large deposit. It was rash but I didn’t care. I wanted it. I wanted to plunge in and take the risk. And frankly, even if I ended up walking away, the deposit didn’t matter all that much. So there I was, a cash buyer. No chain. No fuss. I must have made the estate agent’s day.
