Losing Nicola (14 page)

I have no luggage with me. I walk purposefully from the station up to the sea front and turn right. Last time I walked along this beach, there was nobody else about. Just me, and the wind and the relentless rain, spilling out of the sky, splashing upwards from the tarmac, hitting the shingle like bullets so that the suck and draw of the waves and the shotgun sound of the downpour blended into one. I had tramped along this same path, bareheaded, heartbroken, not sure where tears ended and rain began. In the distance, obscured by the curtain of water, I had just been able to make out the cap of grass crowning the cliffs five miles away above Beachdown. Beside me, the sea was a dull unforgiving khaki, with small whitecaps driving inland, one after the other, spumes of spray flying as they caught the wind. Back then, I'd been saying goodbye, to my childhood and to love, for I knew then, as one does at twelve, that I could never love again.

Today, the skies are blue, the water turquoise, banded with darker green and a blue that is almost purple. Thin clouds trail high overhead. The sea rocks gently, lapping at the edge of the steeply pebbled beach. And as seagulls scream overhead, and a dog scampers across the pebbles chasing a thrown ball, the memories of that final summer before we all scattered, lost touch, tried to forget, threaten to overwhelm me.

I push them aside. Not now, I think. Wait. Wait . . .

Already I can see Aunt's house –
our
house – deprived now of the Virginia creeper which once covered it with glossy triangular leaves that turned apple-red in autumn, though the house next door is still painted white with Wedgewood blue trim. The other houses along The Beach look exactly as they always did, almost unchanged since I was last here, though I can see doorbells now, neat piles of them beside the noble front doors, indicating multiple occupancies.

There are estate agents' boards here and there, clapped against the brick front-garden walls. And one of them . . . I stare, I for a moment grow still, while fate, destiny, chance, smiles . . . one of them is at Number Fifteen, where Mrs Sheffield once lived – and for all I know, lives still.

‘
Up, up . . . and now down, down, down
. . .' The words are clear in my head. I smell his aniseed breath again, feel his warm hands on mine. Sasha Elias. It's so many years since we met. What happened to him, I wonder? Where did he go? What is he doing now?
Why didn't he find me?

I walk rapidly over the grass, slide between the gap in the municipal railings and cross the road.
FLAT FOR SALE
the board announces. The office of the selling agent is five hundred yards up the road and I almost run to it, push open the door, rush to the desk as though afraid someone will get there before I do, although there is no one else in the place.

‘You're selling a flat along The Beach,' I say. ‘Number Fifteen.'

‘Yes,' says the greasy young man behind the desk. ‘First floor.'

Destiny has not faltered. I had been certain it would have.

‘Spacious lounge with magnificent sea views,' he recites, rising to find the details in his filing cabinets. ‘Two bedrooms, separate kitchen-cum-dining room, bathroom with separate WC, plus convenient bedroom three or study.'

‘I'd like to have a look at it.'

He opens a ledger, runs a finger down the pages. ‘Our viewing agent's booked up all day today.
And
tomorrow. We could squeeze you in on Friday.'

‘I need to see it now,' I say.

He shrugs. ‘Sorry. No can do.'

‘I've got to go back to London tonight,' I lie. ‘I'm looking for exactly that kind of flat.'

He shuts the book. ‘There's no one else available to show it. Sorry . . .'

‘It's a minute's walk from here,' I say. ‘Couldn't you close the office for ten minutes and show me round yourself?'

He starts to shake his head.

I lean on the desk and push my face towards him. I use the aggressive firmness I've learned over the years in the States.

‘Look, I'm a cash buyer,' I say, checking the points off on my fingers. ‘I'm familiar with the place – a friend of mine used to live there – so I already know what it's like. My time is extremely limited. Are you going to show me this flat or am I going to write to your parent company and tell them you refused to do so, and missed a sale out of sheer inefficiency?'

Because of some neediness in my expression, or perhaps simply fearing for his job, he finds a piece of paper and scribbles something on it. He stands up, takes a set of keys from the board behind him, and walks to the door. Turning the OPEN sign round so it reads CLOSED, he wedges his sheet of paper behind it.
2:23 pm, it says. Back in 20 minutes.
‘You'll get me shot,' he says.

Two minutes later, we're standing on Mrs Sheffield's former doorstep and he's wrestling with the key in the damp-swollen front door. The salt-tarnished bull's-head knocker is still there. The letter-flap, also tarnished brass, has some leaflets for a local restaurant sticking out of it. The paint is faded and cracked by the sun.

‘Who owns the place these days?' I ask.

‘Some old lady,' he says carelessly. ‘She's moving to Brighton, so she's had the place converted into flats. Actually, I think she's into property development. Lot of money to be made in that. Wish I could get started on that myself.'

‘Really?' I try not to sound sceptical. ‘So the owner's still in town, is she?'

‘Just about. She's renting a place in the centre, at the moment, while she sorts herself out. These days nobody can afford the upkeep on big old places like these.' He manages to get the door open and we step into the front hall.

The paint is bright, the patterned tiles shining, there is a fine oak table in the hall and a couple of watercolours hang from the walls, but the smell is much the same. I breathe in the fusty odour of damp and stone and salt, unchanged since I stood there, that last summer, my leather music case in my hand. I follow the agent up the stairs and wait while he fumbles with the key to the first floor flat.

‘Are any of the other flats sold?' I ask.

‘The one on the ground floor is. A couple from London. They use it as a weekend place, not a permanent residence.' With a flourish, he stands aside and waves me in. ‘And there's been quite a bit of interest in the second and third floors.'

‘But no sale?'

‘Not as such,' he agrees reluctantly, as though he has in some way been found wanting.

I walk in, and there it is, Sasha's room, the same in almost every particular. The same view, the same smell – is that really a hint of aniseed? – the same copiously-carved marble fireplace, even the same velvet curtains, looped back with faded red ties.

‘How much is it?' I don't really care. I'll pay whatever he asks.

The price he names seems unexpectedly cheap. ‘I'll take it,' I say. I have no alimony, nor would have expected any, my former husband being in every respect the injured party. But I was able to earn handsomely in Michigan, and Allen, guilty in his own way, has given me an unasked-for settlement in lieu of my share of our house and furniture.

‘Don't you want to see the rest of the place?' He leads me towards the back of the flat. ‘Nice light kitchen,' he says. ‘Big enough to double as a breakfast nook. Reasonable bathroom.' He sees my expression. ‘Might want to upgrade one of these days,' he says quickly. ‘And of course, a terrific master bedroom, plus one smaller one. Not forgetting the . . . uh . . . study.'

‘I'll take it.'

He looks at me doubtfully. ‘Um . . .' he says. Is it drains or unlooked-for ingress of water that worries him? Is there a right of way through the flat of which he should warn me?

‘I'll buy it,' I repeat, more firmly.

‘Well,' he says. ‘I'll put your offer to the owner.'

‘It's not an offer. It's the asking price. I'm prepared to pay it.'

‘I . . . um . . . I have to pass it on to her. I can't just accept it without consultation.'

‘It's not Mrs Sheffield, is it?' I ask.

He looks panic-stricken, as though some inviolable rule has been broken. ‘We're not supposed to . . . How did you know?'

‘I used to live down the road,' I say. I have no doubt that my bid will be accepted. ‘Tell her I'm Fiona Beecham's daughter.'

‘Fiona Beecham,' he repeats, but I've wandered to the bow window and am looking out at the sea. There's the flint-stone lifeboat house. There's the sailing club. In the front garden to the right, there's the Baldwins' flagpole; in the one to the left, Major de Grey's magnolia tree, just as they always were. For the first time in years, I am in a place where I feel a possible sense of belonging. I need this flat, I must have it, this is where I want to be, where I have to be if I am to regain possession of myself. To forget. To reunite myself with innocence.

It takes two months for the sale to go through, despite the fact that I have money in the bank and am ready to hand it over to the vendor right then and there, a whole suitcase full of cash, should the need arrive. In the hope of hurrying things along, I travel down from London having made an appointment to see the manager of the Shale branch of my bank.

I'm shown into one of those neutral cells that banks favour, furnished with a blond wood desk on four iron legs, two chairs and a cardboard rack stuffed with brochures advertising the financial services the bank offers. There is a window, but it's set too high in the wall to see out of. When the manager appears, he is tall and overweight. His skin has an unhealthy sheen and his fair hair is receding at a rate, which, at his relatively young age, must surely worry him.

He is, to my intense surprise, Julian.

‘Do you remember me?' I say, as he sits down across the desk from me. ‘Alice Beecham?' I hold out my hand.

‘But it says here . . .' He looks down at my married name then smiles. ‘Good Lord, so it is! How extraordinary! How
are
you, Alice? What are you doing here?'

I explain.

‘I can't get over this!' he exclaims several times. ‘I never expected to see any of you again, especially not after . . . not after . . .' He stops and we stare bleakly at each other.

‘Did they ever find out who . . .?'

He shakes his head. ‘Unsolved mysteries of our time.' His face creases. ‘If I remember correctly, you and . . . erm . . .'

‘Orlando.'

‘Ah yes, of course, Orlando . . . you actually found her, didn't you?'It's obvious that he remembers perfectly, both who discovered her and what our names are, though I can't see why he should pretend otherwise. I nod. ‘I'm amazed that you're still living here.'

‘So am I.' He leans towards me across the broad desk and to my surprise, his eyes are welling up. ‘Do you know, I think about her just about every day. Not just her, but the . . . what happened to her. I suppose that's partly why I haven't moved on. At least, I did move on, obviously, school and so on, and joining the bank, up in London. But when this position came up, I jumped at it.'

‘Why?'

‘Good question. I don't really know. Unless it was a way of getting back to . . . to a time when everything was so much simpler. Or seemed it. Do you remember old Strafford-Jones, the bank manager here when we were kids?'

‘Yes. His son, at least.'

Julian shakes his head. ‘Never, even in my most downhearted moments, did I see myself in the same position as him. Yet here I am. It's like being stuck in a time warp. As though she . . .' He stares at me across the desk, ‘. . . she – or what happened to her – stunted me in some way.' His expression is grim. He seems much older than his . . . I take a moment to calculate . . . his thirty-five years. ‘Emotionally, or something.'

‘Julian,' I begin, ‘Do you . . .?' I want to ask if he has any idea who might have killed Nicola but the question is too vast for this lifeless little room, with gulls flying across the viewless window and a dusty plastic rubber plant in the corner.

‘Is that what's brought you back here?' he asks. He seems uneasy. ‘Are you hoping to make sense of it all or . . .' He laughs unconvincingly, ‘. . . or even find out whodunnit?'

‘I'm not a private detective.'

‘No, but someone who was there, who knew the people involved, might have a better chance of finding out what happened than the police, don't you think?'

‘Possibly.'

‘I mean, I've been interviewed at least four times over the years. I'm surprised you haven't.'

‘I was once,' I say. ‘Over the telephone. I suppose nobody could find out where I was living. But, moving to other matters, you look prosperous enough, Julian. Are you married?'

‘Yes. A couple of years ago. No children as yet.' Again he leans forward. ‘You know who else is still here?'

I shake my head.

‘David. Remember him? He's with Makepeace & Thring, the solicitors in King Street. Married Mary Arbuthnot, would you believe?' Again he laughs. ‘There's a couple of others from the old days. Small world, isn't it?'

Small, I wonder, or simply stopped in its tracks by the events of twenty years ago?

‘Now . . .' Julian spreads papers in front of him. ‘About the matter you came to discuss . . .'

While I wait for my flat to go through, I have several further conversations with the agent, whose name, I unwillingly learn, is Gary. He rings me in London to tell me that there's a bit of damp on the chimney-breast; Mrs Sheffield wants me to be aware of this, though I can tell from his voice that he thinks she's mad.

‘
Caveat emptor
,' I can hear him telling her, supposing he knows the phrase. ‘That's her problem, not yours.' And Mrs Sheffield, not just the product of a more honourable age but a former friend of my mother's, insisting that I be told.