The Daughter (15 page)

“No, I . . . Thanks for the drawing.”

He looks at me intently, and then he turns and is gone. Shoulders hunched, sad and angry at the same time. He's escaping the family Christmas and has come looking for something. I feel I have failed him.

I stir the onions again, add the fish and stock, saffron, wine. The phone buzzes a message in my pocket. I wipe my hands and take it out.

Unable to make Xmas. Hope New Year. T

Not sorry. No love. No message for Ed or Theo. I had promised myself that I would never again allow him to surprise me with hurt.
Unable to make Xmas
. If his plane has been canceled, why not explain? I put my phone down without texting back. Over the last year I had worked it so that what Ted did wasn't important, and by now I thought I had made it true.

BRISTOL, 2009

SIX DAYS AFTER

Ted's infidelity wasn't the issue. We would deal with it afterward, when we had time. It wouldn't hurt then.

I told myself that I was good at this. I prioritize all the time.

Ted phoned from the police station later in the morning.

“I told them,” he said briefly. “It wasn't too complicated after all.”

Perhaps they had been complicit at the police station. It's a male thing, infidelity, they might have said to themselves; they probably thought that it didn't really matter.

When Ted reappeared in the kitchen, he looked better. There was even a glimmer of pleasedness about him, like a little boy who has done wrong but discovers he might get away with it. In another life I could have replayed back to him the practiced excuse of being at the hospital he had given me the night she disappeared, but I already felt we were very far from where I thought we had been then and there seemed no point. I was curious, though.

“How come they believed you?”

“They asked Beth to come in and . . .”

“And?”

“They phoned the restaurant where we tried to get a meal. They remembered telling us they were closed.”

We. Us. I stood there, the words echoing in my mind as Ted watched me silently. I couldn't let this matter. I wouldn't allow it to get in the way.

“I've made a list of what we need to do,” I said briefly.

Ted looked away. “It was unimportant, Jenny. I was tired and drunk. A stupid lapse. It couldn't matter less.”

A lapse. Not a betrayal or a lie. After twenty years there were layers of how it mattered, but if I let go of where I was, I could get sucked into depths of minding.

“I don't want to talk about any of it now,” I said.

“We can't just pretend it didn't happen.” His eyes looked puzzled.

“That's exactly what I'm going to do for now. When we find Naomi, we'll deal with this.”

“You don't care if I was unfaithful?” He sounded incredulous.

“What do you want, Ted? A scene?”

“Well, it would be a natural kind of . . .” He didn't know how to finish.

“I'm not doing it. There isn't time.”

Something flickered at the back of his eyes. Disappointment? Triumph? Then he shrugged and spoke quickly. “You're right. We're losing time. What's on the agenda today?”

“Miss Wenham.”

“Miss Wenham?”

“The headmistress. We have an appointment at midday.”

“Damn. I delayed my clinic to start at noon because I had to go to the police station.” He pulled his mouth down and spread his hands wide. Helpless.

Let it go. I can do it.

“It doesn't need both of us,” I said. “I want to see if anyone at school has thought of anything since they saw the police. Then I've made five hundred copies of her school photo with information about when she was last seen.”

“I thought the police had done that.” He frowned as if he had missed something. “There's one on the lamppost outside; the school must have lots, of course.”

“It's not for around here,” I said. “I'm going everywhere in Bristol—­clubs, pubs, railway station, bus station. Anywhere there's a space, I'm going to put them up.” I was walking around the room as I spoke, collecting the file of pictures, Blu Tack, thumbtacks, hammer, nails.

“I could help this evening; perhaps I could get off later this afternoon.”

I found it difficult to look at him.

“Michael will come with me.”

“What do you think we should say to the boys?”

“Nothing.”

He looked relieved. “Really?”

“They've got enough to deal with. You said it yourself; nothing important happened.”

TED LEFT AND
I had a bath. As I lay in the water, my body soothed by its warmth, unbearable images began to push themselves into my mind. Naomi dirty and longing for the comfort of a bath, her torn body crusted with dirt or, worse, covered with it. Soil in her ears and mouth. If she was dead, would her eyes be open? Would her mouth? I got quickly out of the bath, toweling myself dry fiercely. Think of something else, anything. Anything hopeful. The boys are coping. Jade is getting better. Survive, I told the white face in the mirror. Think of Naomi's smiling face as it was after the play, when Ted hugged her. It wasn't possible that I wouldn't see her again. “Survive till then,” I whispered, but I wasn't sure whether I was talking to Naomi or myself.

I didn't bother with a coat, though it was a cold gray late November day. Outside the front door a weary-­looking man in his forties pushed himself away from the garden wall, notebook in hand, a careful look of sympathy on his pudgy face. He started taking photos when it was obvious I wouldn't reply to his questions. I turned away and began to hurry down the road; for a while I could hear him puffing after me. The school was only five minutes' walk away. She had done this hundreds of times. Had she been watched in the last few weeks? Even as she was making a new relationship, was someone else tracking her, working out the times she came and went and when she was likely to be on her own?

Miss Wenham was in her study. A bulky woman in her fifties, she stood up to greet me. Her appearance never changed; speech day or sports day, the iron-­gray hair was always neatly curled. She shook my hand.

“Dr. Malcolm, I'm so terribly sorry. Such an anxious time. We as a school are doing everything we can to cooperate with the investigation.” As we sat down, her glance was searching. Not unkind, just curious.

“Thanks. I just wanted to see you in case something had occurred to any of the staff, or perhaps”—­I could already see that she had nothing new to tell me, and I felt an overwhelming tiredness so that I could hardly finish my sentence—­“perhaps one of the children might know something and have told you since the police came, or . . .” It was pointless.

She shook her head. “The police have been here three times now.” She went on: “However, Mrs. Andrews is Naomi's homeroom teacher. She wanted to talk to you.”

She gestured toward a chair. A pale young woman I hadn't noticed until then stood up and walked forward to meet me.

“Hello, Dr. Malcolm. I'm Sally Andrews.”

Her hair had slipped from a clasp at the side of her head and was falling into her eyes. She took my hand in a weak grip and smiled awkwardly. “I'm very sorry for what's happened.” She flushed. “I've been trying to think, since the police came. They said to say if anything out of the ordinary struck us. Last night it came to me. There had been something different about Naomi.” She sat down next to me on the sofa.

“What do you mean, different?” I asked her, more sharply than I meant to.

“For about two months she was a bit dreamy. I thought she was under the weather, actually. But she said she felt fine.”

I was silent. Sally Andrews had noticed her pregnancy, though she hadn't realized it. I was no further forward.

She was carrying on: “I wasn't worried about the dreaminess really, but she asked me something about leaving school, which struck me as odd at the time.” She swallowed. “She wanted to know if she could come back and finish her exams if she left early.”

“Early?”

“I thought she must mean if she left after the standard tests. She might have wanted to take a breather then. Some girls do, and then they come back for final exams afterward. But last night I was in my bath when they were talking about Naomi on the radio again.”

I imagined her slender body floating in the bath, hair in a bath cap, while her husband padded in and out.

“It came to me then that it was almost as if she'd known she would be leaving before the tests next summer. It's just one of those funny coincidences, I expect, but when I heard you were coming today, I thought I must tell you what she'd said. In case.” She stopped talking; her cheeks looked pink.

After I had shaken her hand again and thanked both of them, I left. On the way home I felt like running. Perhaps Naomi had planned this, after all; she might have collected money over weeks, and worked out what to do about the exams she would be missing. If she had left on purpose, it changed everything. She would be all right. She would come back.

WHEN MICHAEL CAME
to collect me, he looked surprised to see me ready in the kitchen, makeup on and the wad of photocopies in my hand.

“All set?” he asked.

I nodded and we left together. There was no trace of awkwardness as he opened the car door for me; he had obviously put that kiss aside easily. Could it be because he had done it before and he knew how to behave as if nothing had happened?

I told him what Sally Andrews had said. I could see him carefully judging the significance of her words.

“Naomi was pregnant,” he said. “She was thinking ahead. The baby would have meant time off and possibly missing the standard tests. I expect she wanted to know if she could take the exams later.”

The hope I had felt started to drain away.

“She doesn't sound like the sort of girl who would cause her parents so much suffering. If this was planned, she would have let you know by now.” He glanced over at me. “Sorry, Jenny.”

Would she, though? The streets slid by the car windows, full of ­people who weren't Naomi. As I watched them walking along the sidewalks, alive and unhindered, I realized I hadn't just lost her; perhaps I had lost her long before she disappeared and I had no idea who she was anymore.

 

Chapter 21

DORSET, 2010

THIRTEEN MONTHS LATER

Unto us a child is born.

Unto us a son is given . . .

T
he joyful morning voices escape through gray stone and stained glass, floating out over lichen-­covered graves. Strange how everyone is so glad that Jesus was born when they know how the story ends. Surely they realize that if the girl in the stable had been told what would happen to her baby, she would have been heartbroken.

Naomi's birth by Caesarean had been so easy compared with the physical anguish of pushing out the boys; it had felt like cheating. She was lifted out and given to me to hold, blood-­wet and burning against my skin. She had stared calmly into my face, her dark blue eyes serious, as if she recognized me. I didn't want to let her go, but they wrapped her up and Ted held her in the hot peace of the delivery room while I was being stitched. They had looked totally absorbed in each other.

Bertie sniffs at the church wall and cocks his leg. He trundles off down the bridle path with his head close to the ground. I follow, trying to keep up; waiting for the children to come back from the pub last night, I'd fallen asleep in the chair, so I woke feeling stiff and my pace is slow. The bridle path leads us down to the beach. The story in the village is that this little track is an ancient smugglers' way. At night, some in the village say, you can hear the crunch of booted feet on stone and horses whinnying, the echoes of oaths and the rumble of carts bearing caskets of rum. This morning there is only the delicate crack of ice below the snow under our feet. A male pheasant startles up from the hedge with his hollow rasping cry of alarm. Handel's music fades behind us as I follow Bertie farther down the bridle path.

We have come out onto the shingle; the sea churns with yellow foam. No one else is on the beach. As the sun rises, points of light shift and shine on the water; if I half close my eyes, I can almost make them like the city lights, which had seemed lit more brightly for Naomi's first night. The bereavement counselor had said to leave some memories as if wrapped in tissue paper, for when I felt strong enough. I feel strong enough now. I remember the city landscape had spread out like a shining canvas in front of me. From where I had stood in front of the window in the hospital, even at midnight it dazzled with light, magical and mysterious. I knew that the roads were thudding with traffic and there would be vomit on the pavement, pigeon shit, and blown rubbish. But, from the distance of the fourth-­floor maternity unit, the streets had looked immaculate and celebratory. In the distance, Clifton Suspension Bridge blazed with lights, like birthday candles in a dark room. Her head was waxy under my lips, her hair like damp feathers. I had sat on a chair near the window, wincing as the catgut stitches dug into tender flesh. Naomi had stirred and whimpered. I had guided her head carefully, pushing in the nipple. As I fed her, I'd felt as connected to her as if she was still inside me. Ted had gone home to sleep. I imagined him facedown, head turned to my side of the bed, arm over my pillow. He would be peacefully snoring, and I remember smiling as I cradled her over my shoulder, her warmth reaching into my heart.

The snow has started again; time to go home. I look around, expecting Bertie to be just behind. He's not there. I know he came down onto the beach from the lane. The surf is high and fierce. In a few moments the waves have become sinister—­where is he? I shout his name over and over, but my voice is whipped away by the wind. I run up the beach, half staggering on the shingle. He might have started up the path back home, and then I catch sight of him hidden behind a boat. He is lying down, shivering; a wave must have caught him. My arms strain to lift him. He is soaking and awkwardly struggles out of my clasp to stand with his tail wagging.

“Stupid, stupid dog.” I lay my cheek against his silky wet head. “Don't ever do that again.”

BACK IN THE
cottage, everyone is up. The fire is blazing. I breathe in the scent of coffee and dough while I rub Bertie dry with a towel. Sam is wearing my apron and there is a shiny waffle-­making machine on the table with a red bow on top.

“Your present,” he says. “I wanted to give you a taste to go with it.”

Golden crisp waffles are stacked on the plate. His smile is friendly. The edginess of our meeting yesterday has gone. I feel I am meeting him properly now.

Ed comes in from the sitting room; he avoids looking at me. He's probably glad I fell asleep so early; it meant there wasn't an awkward suppertime and at least I'd cooked them a good meal. He picks up a waffle and eats it whole. He is thinner than I had realized.

“When's Dad back, then?” he asks.

“He sent me a message yesterday. He's not coming after all . . . he says he's unable to make it. Flight problems, I expect.”

“I knew it. I told you he was on holiday.”

He sits down. Sam, stirring more waffle mixture, briefly touches Ed's shoulder.

“It's that woman's fault, isn't it?” Ed stares at me.

“What woman?” I look at him, puzzled. Is he blaming Ted's secretary for canceled flights?

“Oh for God's sake, Mum. You don't have to pretend for me. I know.”

“Know what?”

“About Beth, of course. They came to see me to say good-­bye just before they left for South Africa. I bet it's her decision. She probably wanted to stay on. Do a safari or something.”

Her name sounds so casual in Ed's voice. Just once, Ted had said. He'd called it a lapse and I'd decided to believe him. The room is quiet. I sense Sam look at me quickly. I struggle to keep my face calm.

“He'd rather be with her. Obviously,” Ed says briefly.

“It may not be that.” I reach for the chair and sit down. “Perhaps he's held up somewhere.”

“Stop protecting him.” Ed shrugs. “I mean, who cares? Why does it matter, really?”

He's wrong. I'm not protecting Ted, I'm protecting myself. I look around the room. My mind reaches for its touchstones. The boys. Michael. Bertie. My paintings. The cottage. Mary and Dan. Theo comes in and gives me a kiss, then kisses Sam.

“Don't dare kiss me,” Ed says to his brother, covering his head with both hands.

“Don't worry. I'm not going to touch your louse-­ridden head.” Theo reaches over for a waffle. “These look brilliant.”

“Dad's not coming,” Ed tells him.

“What?” Theo says indistinctly, his mouth full.

“Enjoying himself in Africa, with his girlfriend.”

“Girlfriend?” Theo stops eating. “What girlfriend?” He turns to look at me.

“Mum's cool with it,” Ed answers. “So who cares?”

“And it does mean”—­Sam balances two more waffles on the pile—­“all the more waffles for us.” He laughs.

Thank God for Sam. I love him in that minute. Theo sees me smile and smiles uncertainly; in the moment of silence Sophie appears, in a red and orange sweater. She looks toward me, checking how I am.

“Happy Christmas,” she says.

SAM LEADS THE
way into the sitting room, where he stands in front of the roaring fire and opens one of the champagne bottles he brought; the cork hits the ceiling and frothing liquid spills over his sleeve as he tries to pour it into glasses. He gives the first glass to me.

“For courage,” he says. His brown eyes are kind.

I smile back at him then and raise my glass. “Courage.”

“Yeah, Mum. You have to be brave to have us lot for Christmas,” Theo says.

Brave? They are rescuing me. I look outside quickly. In the garden someone—­Theo? Sophie?—­has scattered crumbs along the top of the far wall. The birds are little downward-­tilted triangles feasting, fluttering up and down, jostling for places. A vivid image comes to mind. Our honeymoon. A tent in the Serengeti. Birds flying around us at mealtimes. Alighting on our table, fighting for crumbs. Ted holding me. We held each other all the time. Heat and sex and happiness. The smell of hot canvas. My skin prickles. They have been together for a year. Not a one-­off lapse, after all. They are celebrating in Africa.

“Mum. We're waiting to open our presents.”

He never stopped seeing her; he lied again and again.

“Ed, wait for Mum.”

How stupidly trusting I'd been. The signs had been there but I had refused to see them, and, as I close my eyes briefly, it's as though I am breathing in the faintest scent of lavender.

“Look, Mum.”

I open my eyes.

Theo and Sam have brought in a huge flat parcel from their car, propping it against the wall. Theo fetches the scissors from the kitchen drawer and hands them to me, but he keeps a hand on the parcel.

“On second thought, Mum, you may want to wait to open this.”

“Wait? Not a chance.” I have to focus on what's important right now. The lavender scent fades in the warm smell of the burning apple logs and the pine from the Christmas tree. This will be one of Theo's photos of New York perhaps, or of Sam. Theo and Sam against the New York skyline.

I start to cut the paper.

“It's Naomi, Mum.” Theo sounds tense.

I pull the rest of the paper off.

All the photos are of Naomi. There is a large one in the middle, taken by the school for
West Side Story
. She must have been pregnant then. Her skin is luminous. There are at least a hundred other photos of her, different shapes and sizes. I take in three-­year-­old Naomi piggyback with Ted, five years old with an uneven fringe that she had cut herself, at ten with braces, waving from the branches of our tree, at twelve with a hockey stick and Nikita, laughing.

“Theo . . .” I can't continue.

“I'm sorry, Mum.” He looks stricken.

Sam says in an undertone, “I warned you. Let's take it away.”

He stoops to lift the heavy frame.

“Wait. It's wonderful. Don't take it away. Leave it here by the wall.” I point to the space. “I'll hang it just by Grandpa's chair. That way I'll see it every day when I sit here. I'll be able to take it in, bit by bit.”

“I found all these pictures when I went to clear out the loft with Dad.” Theo looks happier now. “I've wanted to give them to you before but I thought it would be better to wait. I probably shouldn't have given them to you yet.”

“It's a perfect present.”

Ed puts more wood on the fire. Sam has insisted on cooking Christmas dinner. He brought corn bread from America and somewhere found cranberries and stuffing. Theo and Sophie vanish into the kitchen as well; they don't allow me in.

“We want you to rest.” Sophie smiles shyly and quietly shuts the door.

Ed is lying by the fire, his head propped on an elbow, reading one of his new books. His body is relaxed, as if he has said what he needed to yesterday. I watch his eyes scanning back and forth. Maybe one day he will see that it wasn't easy, and maybe that's as much as I can hope for.

There is quiet knocking at the door. Ed gets up and goes into the hall. There is a little pause, then: “Hey. Your tree looks great. Want to see it?”

“No . . . I . . . just wanted to say my gran says the wood has run out . . . could we borrow . . .”

The kitchen door opens; from where I sit I see Sam come out and put a glass of champagne in Dan's hand. His voice is welcoming: “You can't visit at Christmas without coming in for a drink.”

Dan comes in, slips his shoes off. He glances toward me, questioning. I smile and raise my glass. He is wearing his hoodie again and his jeans have slipped down on his hips. He looks cold, as if he's been outside for a while.

Dan disappears with Sam into the kitchen. In a while I see Theo in the garden loading the wheelbarrow with wood and then pushing it out through the side gate to the lane, for Mary. She'll know Dan is escaping the family meal with his parents and she'll make his excuses.

There is almost no room in the kitchen. On the table holly and ivy strands weave between candles. Sophie has fed Bertie and he sits at her feet. Sam puts a steaming plate with crumbling slices of turkey, stuffing and gravy in front of Dan, who looks awkward.

“I didn't—­”

Theo cuts in. “We've wanted to meet you. Mum told us how you used the branches of the old apple tree. I took some photos of my sister once, and the branches around her were like the ones Mum said you used for your wood sculptures.”

Sister. My sister
. I haven't heard those words in months. They make it sound as though she is still here. Ed looks at me. One arm is around Sophie and he raises his glass. He looks at me. His eyes are guarded, but not like they were before.

BRISTOL, 2009

EIGHT DAYS AFTER

Ed's eyes frightened me
.

I had woken that morning into the realization that it had been a week and a day since Naomi had gone. Some momentum should have gathered. Instead everything seemed to have slowed down. I was simply waiting. Worse, I was pinned down, immobilized by fear.

“Enough.” I said it out into the silence as I kicked the duvet off. “Enough.” Today would be different.

Ted had gone to work already. Theo had left early too. He'd put a note on the table to say he'd gone to assemble the materials for his scholarship exam. He'd applied for a photography course at the New York Film Academy the following year; the scholarship could be decisive, but I'd forgotten it was today. Normally I'd have sent him off with a good breakfast. We would have discussed timing and techniques, and I would have said good luck. Guilt reached deeply inside; I was letting everything go. Ed came down as I was making coffee. He sat at the table and as I passed him I caught the stale smell again.

“So, Friday,” I said as I tried to remember his routine. “Rowing practice?” Anya told me his sports clothes had been on his bathroom floor, soaking wet, for days.