The Girl Who Passed for Normal (15 page)
Read The Girl Who Passed for Normal Online
Authors: Hugh Fleetwood
“She’ll lose it,” Luke said.
“No, it has a very safe clasp.”
Luke laughed. “That’s like mother. Listen, do you remember what mother was wearing when she left?”
“No,” Barbara said. “I mean, yes. She was wearing a fur coat, a brown mink coat. And I think she had a white head scarf — I’m not sure. I know she had one with her because it was windy but I don’t know whether she put it on. And dark glasses. And she was wearing brown boots. Why?”
“Well, we know she arrived in New York. I guess we could ask the airline people whether they remember anyone like mother — I know it’s absurd. Or the stewardesses on the plane.”
“I think it was a jumbo jet,” Barbara said.
“Yes, it was, and full.”
Barbara felt quite elated with her lucky guess. She had forgotten to ask Catherine what kind of planes she had traveled
on — although Catherine wouldn’t have known anyway. She would have said “big.” Also, Barbara didn’t like to remind the girl of her mother’s death, and her flights back and forth across the Atlantic; she had been frightened, the whole of the day that Catherine returned, that the girl was going to have a complete breakdown. She had lain in bed crying,
sleeping
, talking to herself, staring accusingly at Barbara when she came into the room, looking as if the trauma of her mother’s death had pushed her into total insanity, instead of curing her, as Barbara had hoped.
But on the morning of Christmas day, when Barbara had gone into her room with the little golden package, and the present — an abstract painting — that she had bought for Catherine two weeks before, the girl had looked pale, and slightly sulky, but had recovered from her hysteria of the
previous
day. She looked, for her, normal — certainly no better — and Barbara thought it would be unwise to aggravate her in any way by asking questions.
“And I honestly don’t know what she was wearing under her coat,” she said to Luke. “We had an early lunch and then she said she had to go upstairs to change, and when she came down she already had her coat on. She probably took it off in the plane.”
“Yes, she probably did. Marvelous mother. O.K. I better say good-bye now. I’ll be in touch as soon as I hear anything.”
“If I get any message about where to send the trunks, I’ll let you know,” Barbara said. “And I hope Mrs. Emerson turns up soon. It is a bit worrying.”
“Not really,” Luke said. “Bye.”
“Good-bye,” Barbara said.
Barbara didn’t get any message about where to send the trunks, which she had repacked, as she had planned, when Catherine returned from America, with the contents of the two suitcases. The only things she threw away were some cosmetics and some not quite clean underclothes; she thought it unlikely that anyone would leave these to be sent in a trunk. The mink coat, which Barbara guessed Mary had been
intending
to travel in, was in the back of the car. If anyone came to the house to check, Barbara decided that she would say that Mary had had two mink coats; had traveled in one, and left the other behind. Then it occurred to her that not even Mary would have left it behind forever; that, too, would have been in a trunk, ready to be shipped off. So with difficulty she managed to pack it away — the trunks were bursting — and though she thought it was a shame to crush the coat like that, she realized that in any case she would have to have it remodeled for herself or Catherine, in a year or two.
*
Iva returned on the 2nd of January, and Barbara wondered what she should tell her about Mary’s disappearance; but she couldn’t make up her mind, so she told her nothing. Later — quite soon now, probably — the woman would find out, but Barbara would say she hadn’t thought about it; she had thought that Mary’s disappearance was part of her new and private life, and no concern of anyone else. She certainly hadn’t thought that she should worry, she would say.
Barbara was sure Iva would notice nothing strange about the wilderness. The track they had made dragging the body to its grave was no longer visible; the signs of their digging and the cuts in the turf undoubtedly were, but no one was
likely to go there for a while. Iva wouldn’t — she never did — and no one would come trespassing, looking for Catherine, or for small birds to shoot, until the spring; and by spring the grass would have grown and there would be no trace of anything. However, when spring came, she would tell Catherine to walk on the other side of the wilderness. She would also have to buy some anti-snake-venom serum. They were going to have to be careful.
*
At the end of January, when there was snow on the ground and they stayed indoors most of the time, doing five or six hours of lessons a day — Catherine would sulk if Barbara had anything else to do — a letter arrived for Barbara.
We are now really very worried. There is simply no trace of mother — the police have been making inquiries everywhere, but there’s not a single clue as to where she could have gone, or what’s become of her. I think they’ve more or less stopped looking — yesterday one of them told me that thousands of people disappear every year, as if that should make one stop worrying. The only possible thing is — this was from the psychiatrist attached to the missing-persons bureau — that it might just have something to do with our father, who disappeared for two years. I told him about our family history, because he said that sometimes one finds clues there, and he said it might be that mother, coming back to live here, had had a sort of breakdown, since father’s suicide was one of her last memories of living here before. I told him I thought that was too much like a novel, especially since mother’s been back often for a couple of weeks or so without a hint of trauma. She is, I’m sure you’ll agree with me, the most unneurotic of women. Anyway, we’ll check up on all the theories, and keep looking.
Please do me a favor, and don’t mention this to Catherine. If she asks where mother is or why she hasn’t written, tell her that she’s busy setting up home and will write later. I hope she will! I’m afraid with all this mess about mother I never did send Catherine a present or a card or anything for her birthday — I hope she didn’t notice or, if she did, didn’t mind. Anyway, I hope you’re all well, and I’ll be in touch as soon as I hear something.
Best wishes,
Luke Emerson.
Barbara wrote back by return:
Thank you for your letter. I’m sorry there’s still no trace of your mother — what can have happened to her? I certainly won’t say anything to Catherine — though she does ask me why I don’t send the trunks off. I tell her her mother’s moving, and not ready for them yet.
Now please forgive me if I repeat what I said to you on the phone after Christmas, and which you don’t seem to have considered. Forgive me if I’m wrong, but don’t you think it’s
possible
,
however remotely, that your mother has gone off with David? Since David left me I’ve had no word from him — that was to be expected — but I wondered whether you had heard anything from him at all? If not — surely such a solution to your mother’s disappearance should be
considered
.
At the end of February she received a note from Luke in which he wrote:
I’m afraid I cannot accept your theory about mother going off with David. You say you know David and I guess you do, but you must know that basically David didn’t like women.
His relationship with you, and he told me this, was something different. I guess it wasn’t different enough, which was why he left — but I don’t really know, and I’m sorry. Added to which David told me that he didn’t like my mother.
Barbara wondered if Luke and David had written that together. With her lips leaping on her face she wrote back:
I’m sorry if my suggestion about David seemed ridiculous to you, but I think I must have known him better than you. Please, I beg of you, find David, and you will find your mother.
In April she read,
We can only conclude that mother has disappeared without trace. Do you think you’d better break it gently to Catherine? I hope you are well.
Luke Emerson.
Catherine was unchanged. They did their lessons, but she made no progress whatsoever, and eventually Barbara
abandoned
the reading, the listening to music, and the history, and concentrated on the movement. Sometimes they did an hour of painting, but the atmosphere of easy creation was forced, and nothing, really, ever came of it. Barbara realized that Catherine knew enough to get by in her foreign world, to pass for normal, and there was no reason for her to do, or want to do, more. If she could not — and Barbara told her this angrily one day — understand the concepts of truth and reality, there could be no progress, no hope, no normalcy.
With the spring Catherine resumed her walks in the
w
ilderness
, but she didn’t go near her mother’s grave. Barbara offered
to accompany her sometimes, but the girl always shook her head, with a smile.
Iva said to Barbara that normally, in the spring, they got a tractor to cut the grass in the wilderness down, so that the grass wouldn’t get completely out of control, but Barbara said she liked long grass. Perhaps next year, she said, they would have it cut. Iva said it was dangerous for Catherine, with the snakes, but Barbara said it was more exciting for the girl, and besides they had the serum in case she was bitten.
As summer came, Barbara went out at night quite often, to dinner with men she met — generally, when they picked her up as she was doing her shopping in the center. Catherine didn’t seem to mind; she stayed home and watched the
television
, and went to bed early. If Barbara arrived home very late, and slept till eleven the next morning, that didn’t worry Catherine either, because she rarely got up before eleven
herself
.
They went to the beach together sometimes, and Catherine got quite tanned and looked pretty; but she never learned to swim — she was frightened of the water — so in August they went to the mountains instead of to the sea, and they walked during the day, and Barbara told Catherine she need not have any more lessons until October.
Barbara’s mother died at the end of September. Her sister flew back from South America to make the arrangements for the funeral, but Barbara told her on the phone that she couldn’t come to London, as she couldn’t leave Catherine, and their lessons were due to start in another couple of days.
One evening in October she met Marcello in a restaurant.
“Are you still in town?” he said.
Barbara smiled. “Oh, yes. I don’t think I’ll ever leave.”
Marcello nodded gravely. “That’s what all you foreigners say. But you can’t stay abroad forever.”
Barbara shrugged her shoulders. “I don’t see why not. I’m happy here.”
“And David?”
“I don’t know where David is.”
“I read in the paper that that woman you worked for
disappeared
after she left Rome.”
Barbara nodded. “Yes. She’s never turned up again. She arrived in New York and vanished. It was very strange.” She smiled. “You see what happens to foreigners when they go home. I think she might have gone to live with David.”
Marcello looked at her strangely; almost, she thought, sadly. “You don’t,” he said slowly. “You know she hasn’t.”
“What do you mean?” Barbara flushed under her makeup. Her lips felt very red.
The professor of philosophy shook his head. “You’re a dangerous witch. You just touch people and they disappear.” He put out his hand. “But I must say you’re looking very well.”
Barbara took his hand. “Yes, I am.” She said, “It’s been nice to see you again. I’ll phone you soon. Perhaps we could have dinner or —”
Marcello said, “Good-bye.” He looked quite relieved as he turned to join his friends; as if he, at least, had escaped.
*
She was sitting on the bench by the fountain a few days later, with Catherine beside her. It was a wonderful afternoon,
the air transparent and warm and gold. In the fountain there were scarlet fish, and the villa, and thelong tired grass of the wilderness, seemed to hum, quietly, with a deep tenderness.
Barbara smiled at Catherine for no particular reason, and Catherine smiled back.
“I’m glad mother’s never coming back,” the girl said.
It was the first time she had mentioned her mother since Christmas. “I got a letter from your brother the other day,” Barbara said. “He always starts all his letters ‘still no trace of mother.’”
Catherine smiled dreamily. “I hope Luke never comes back either. I never want to see him again.”
Barbara nodded.
Catherine looked into the sky and said, “We’re happy together, aren’t we? I wish you were my mother.”
Barbara smiled. “I am, more or less, aren’t I?”
Catherine nodded, and looked at her. “Yes, I guess you are.” She giggled. “Perhaps I should call you mother.”
Barbara looked at the shadows cast by the afternoon sun and said, “No, I don’t think so.” Then she asked, “Why don’t you want Luke to come back and see you?”
Catherine bowed her head. “He was meant to come back and look after me. He said when we were grown up he’d come back and save me from them.”
“But he has in a way. They’ve gone, haven’t they?”
Catherine glanced sharply at her, as if wondering how she knew who “they” were — or if, indeed, she did. She shrugged her shoulders, leaned over, picked up some gravel and threw it at the scarlet fish in the fountain. The reflected afternoon broke up.
“And I’m here now. I’ll look after you always.”
Catherine smiled sadly.
They sat in silence for five minutes until Catherine said, “I’ll never get well, will I?”
“I don’t know,” Barbara said gently.
Catherine picked up some more gravel and threw it, stone by tiny stone, into the water. She said in a little voice, “If I got well you’d have to go away, wouldn’t you?”
Barbara didn’t reply.
“You would, wouldn’t you?”
“Yes, I suppose I would.”
“So you don’t want me to get well, do you?”
“Of course I do.”
“It doesn’t matter,” Catherine said simply. “I think only Luke could have made me well. If he’d come back and taken me away I might have got better. But I suppose he couldn’t, could he?”