In Her Wake Page 7

  ‘Stop with the asides; it’s off-putting.’

  God, you’re so demanding. And anyway, it’s not off-putting, I’m adding colour.

  ‘It’s not colourful, it’s annoying.’

  Fine. Have it your way. You’re the boss. So, where were we? Yes. These Tremayne people. Alice and Mark – nice names – from St Ives in Cornwall.

  —were staying on a campsite not far from the French town of Biarritz. Mr Tremayne is calling for anyone who might have seen his daughter on the night she went missing to get in touch. The couple were asleep—

  Asleep? Asleep, I ask you?

  —in their caravan when the child went missing from her bed. A team of local police—

  I do believe the correct word, newspaper writer person, is gendarmes, says Tori with a raised eyebrow, which makes me smile.

  —led by senior officer, Jean-Paul Leclerc—

  She says the name in a pantomime French accent that sticks in her throat.

  —have been searching the dunes and beaches near the campsite with dogs. Many concerned locals have turned out to help. Air search and rescue have been scouring the coastline. Leclerc has appealed to anyone with any information that might lead to the safe return of the child to come forward.

  Tori and I look at each other. There’s a sadness in her eyes that belies her jocular tone.

  ‘And the letter?’ I say. ‘Will you read me the letter again?’

  You read that one.

  My heart picks up pace as I unfold the single sheet of blue paper. I stare at the sentences written in his beautiful handwriting. His body flashes into my mind, the slick of dark blood beneath his chair, his skin as white as freshly fallen snow, his wide, glassy eyes.

  ‘Elaine and I are not your real parents. We didn’t adopt you … Your real mother is Alice Tremayne … Forgive me.’

  Tori is quiet for a moment. I refold the paper, the article inside it, then slip both sheets of paper carefully into the envelope.

  I love the way he says Forgive me. Like it’s as simple as that. Like it’s all, Hey, I kidnapped you and kept you prisoner in my house for twenty years, but you know, no hard feelings. Forgive me, yeah? What a fucking idiot.

  ‘I wonder what the Tremaynes are like?’

  You mean your parents.

  I rub my face. My brain is tired from grappling with it all.

  ‘They might not be my parents. This missing girl might not be me.’

  She is you though, isn’t she? I mean, it all makes sense.

  I don’t reply to her.

  You have to find them.

  I pause and shake my head. ‘I’m not sure. What if he made it all up? What if Henry’s some eccentric crackpot and happened to read the story and thought for some insane reason he’d pretend she was me.’

  You know it’s true in your heart of hearts.

  I shrug.

  You never believed that stupid green-eyed great-grandmother story, did you? Such a crock of shit.

  ‘It would explain a lot, wouldn’t it? Why they never saw their families for starters. They’d have known I wasn’t theirs, wouldn’t they? They’d have known she hadn’t had a baby. You can’t turn up at a family get-together out of the blue with a three-year-old and expect people not to ask questions.’

  And remember how she freaked out when Henry helped you apply to university? She never wanted you to leave. She wanted to keep you locked away in that spooky old house forever, didn’t she?

  My fists clench involuntarily.

  You know if you really don’t want to meet them, the Tremaynes, you could always take the next flight out of Heathrow and leave the whole sorry mess behind you.

  Tori laughs and the sound rings in my head.

  ‘This isn’t funny.’

  Not funny-ha-ha, but definitely funny-peculiar. She was weird though, wasn’t she? Your mum, I mean.

  ‘Elaine.’

  Sorry, Elaine. She was, though. Definitely weird, but I never had her down as a kidnapper.

  ‘That house gives me the creeps. It’s like it was in on it.’

  A conspirator, you mean?

  ‘Exactly that.’

  Thinking about The Old Vicarage sends a shiver through me. I hear the echo of bolts, smell the stale, imprisoned air, recall how the house seemed to whisper behind my back as I skipped along the lonely corridors.

  I fall back on the bed and push the house from my thoughts.

  I go over the article again in my head. ‘I have so many questions, Tori. How did they get me out of France, for goodness’ sake? And why did they take me? How did they manage to hide me?’

  Tori shrugs. You’re one of those kids, aren’t you? The ones you read about in the newspapers. The ones who are snatched and locked up for decades. You’re pretty lucky you didn’t end up having five of his babies in the basement, you know…

  I think back over those years growing up at The Old Vicarage, but as I do my mind slips back into confusion. Yes, there had been moments of extreme loneliness and frustration, but isn’t that the case with all childhoods? Even if Henry was telling the truth, and they did take me, there had been no rape, no torture, no cruelty. No starvation or beatings. No terror and no pain. Instead, there had been home-cooked meals, laughter, books and toys, affection, and all-consuming love. Behind those towering walls and drawn curtains and triple-bolted doors, in that gilded prison, there had even been happiness.

  FIFTEEN

  The still hush of the British Library swaddles me as I sit and read. There are numerous articles relating to the case of the little girl from Cornwall, who went missing from the south west coast of France in the summer of 1989.

  As I read each article my chest tightens a fraction more and I have to concentrate on my breathing to keep myself calm. Though the writing style varies from paper to paper – some highbrow, some sensationalist, some judgemental – they all repeat the same basic facts. The girl disappeared from a campsite (a grotty, rubbish-strewn place, one of the reports says snidely) near a village called Vaiches. A teddy bear and a pink Mickey Mouse nightie were found washed up on the shore a few miles north of Biarritz. The Atlantic had been whipped by off-shore winds for over a week, the current was strong, too strong for a small child to battle, and she was suspected drowned. No body was found. The parents were distraught.

  I sit back in my chair, which creaks loudly and breaks the quiet. I imagine people reading those articles all those years ago. Some of them tut sadly, others drip cereal milk from their spoons as they turn the page, passing blindly over the wretched facts. I think of this little girl. How she had occupied people’s thoughts. How strangers had worried for her safety, if only for a few days, before her story slipped back through the pages to obscurity and concerns for her whereabouts were abandoned.

  I gaze around the library at people absorbed in their reading or writing.

  Was I this little girl?

  I look back down at my notebook and stare at the handful of facts I’ve jotted down. The father of the lost girl was Mark, an out-of-work trawler-man, aged thirty-one. Her mother was Alice, an office-cleaner, aged twenty-six. The little girl was three years old. The child was missing, presumed drowned. She was called Morveren. I’ve never heard of this name before. Cornish, I suppose. It’s odd and doesn’t sound like the type of name you’d give to a baby girl. I close my eyes and repeat the name in my head, concentrating, searching my memories for any sparks of recognition.

  I look back at my notebook. The final thing I’ve written is underlined and ringed with circles.

  The little girl, Morveren, had a sister.

  There’s something about this piece of information that kicks the air from my gut. As a child, all I had ever wanted was a sibling. I’d never been a contented only child. I yearned for company and used to beg Elaine to take me to the playground so I could make friends, but she never did. Perhaps if I’d been allowed to go to school, I’d have had friends. But Elaine said all schools were dreadful, either violent hellholes or s
ausage machines that churned out children who couldn’t even write their own names. She said I was too clever, too precious, to go to one of ‘those places’, so she home-schooled me herself, sending me to Henry’s study for science and maths. There had been no friends, only Tori, and I’d have given anything for a sister.

  Was I this little girl?

  If I was, how could Elaine Campbell have let me love her? She’d played the part of loving mother without missing a beat. I had to admire her for that. Not like Henry and his rare and awkward interactions, his lack of interest, the hours he spent shut away in his study avoiding me. I think about our ‘fond respect’, which I’d always tried to pretend was enough, and realise that all along his attitude to me, his distance, was in fact a manifestation of guilt.

  My head hurts as I wrestle with it all. Had Henry written the truth or lies? Much of the time I don’t believe it. I can’t; it’s too surreal. Every now and then I even wonder whether his letter actually exists; perhaps I dreamed it. Crazy thoughts fly in and out of my head. I wonder if Miss Young wrote the letter. Or maybe the policeman. Or had someone snuck in while we slept? Had they murdered my father and planted the letter to mislead me?

  Don’t be ridiculous, a voice in my head says. Of course the letter is real. Who on earth would want to murder a retired, country doctor?

  I need to talk to them. These people from the yellowed clippings. The Tremaynes. I need to see them. I need to know if there is any shred of evidence that supports Henry’s story. There’s no other option; until I know the truth, I can’t let this lie.

  SIXTEEN

  The countryside outside the train flies past in a mush of greens. I watch it racing by and try not to think of David. Of how angry he will be when he gets home from the tennis club to find me gone. Even though he agreed I could have some time away, I don’t think he ever really believed I would. I don’t think I ever really believed he would let me, so I left him a note saying that I was sorry I’d gone without saying goodbye. I told him it would have been too difficult. That I needed to go. I said I’d be gone for a few weeks. I said I’d call as soon as I could and that I’d put clean sheets on the bed.

  On the train, racing away from my home, my heart is beating faster than usual. The confusion and sadness I’m becoming used to is now mixed with an undeniable thrill of anticipation. I listen to the sounds around me, chattering voices, the stationmaster’s whistle, the slamming of train doors, the noise of the train itself as it speeds along the tracks, shooting me further and further into the unknown.

  I think back to Elaine and her fears of travelling, her twitching and worrying whenever she was on the wrong side of our gates. Agoraphobia, I had assumed. I think back to the Eurostar tickets I’d given her, remembering how desolate I felt as I tore the tickets into tiny pieces. I’d always given myself such a hard time for being so insensitive to her issues. Worrying I had drawn attention to a condition over which she had no control. For weeks I would relive the incident, pretend I’d given her a plant, a beautiful white standard rose in a terracotta pot that would have been perfect for the front doorstep. But, of course, it wasn’t my fault. I had done nothing wrong. It was the mention of that place that sent her crazy. The place from which she had taken me.

  I lay my head back against the seat, wrap my arms around my body and hold myself tightly.

  ‘Excuse me,’ says a voice. ‘Is anyone sitting here?’

  The voice startles me. I turn my head and see a clean-cut man in a pinstriped suit, his tie loosened at his unbuttoned collar. He smiles when I nod. Then he winks at me. I look quickly away, but he doesn’t seem to get the message and starts talking to me as he settles himself down. I ignore him and hunch up my shoulders. I know it’s rude, but I don’t want to get into conversation with him, and God knows, he won’t want to get into conversation with me. I’m a mess and the mess is best left inside me. He eventually takes the hint and mutters something crossly under his breath. Later, when my stomach starts to rumble and I ask if I can get past, he scowls and grumbles.

  I lurch through the carriages, alternate hand to alternate headrest, until I reach the buffet car. The boy behind the counter is young and spotty and, judging by the look on his face, isn’t working in his dream job. I look at the menu on the wall, at the sandwiches on offer. Tuna and cucumber, plain ham or egg and cress.

  ‘It’ll have to be an egg sandwich, please,’ I say, doing my best to mask my nerves. I’ve got better at handling myself in public. I pretend I’m Tori sometimes, when my anxiety levels rise, and it helps. ‘I don’t like tuna and I’m allergic to ham.’

  It’s an odd thing to say, but it pops out of my mouth before I’ve properly thought about it.

  Allergic to ham? Tori asks indignantly.

  The boy behind the counter looks rightly surprised.

  ‘I didn’t know you could get allergic with ham,’ he says flatly.

  ‘Oh, yes,’ I nod. ‘It’s rare though.’

  ‘What, like you get a rash or puke up or whatever?’

  ‘Swelling. I just have to smell ham and my throat swells up. I ate a quiche Lorraine by mistake once and turned blue.’

  The boy leans backwards and eyes me warily.

  ‘It’s OK,’ I say. ‘You can’t catch it.’

  He doesn’t seem convinced and grabs an egg sandwich from the fridge and chucks it across the counter.

  I turn away and walk out of the buffet car. Fibbing to the boy was strangely freeing, as if I’d put on a mask and concealed my shyness. It occurs to me now that this is the perfect opportunity to reinvent myself: I’d lost my parents, my past life was possibly built on a tangle of lies, I’d left my husband (albeit temporarily) and nobody on this train or in Cornwall, or indeed outside of the university library, knows who I am. I could be anybody, even a person with a peculiar allergy to ham.

  I sit down in a different seat in a different carriage so I don’t have to be near the man in the pinstriped suit and peel back the cellophane of the sandwich. The heavy tang of egg surrounds me and when I feel the sogginess of the bread my stomach heaves. I should have had an allergy to egg not ham. I’m not sure I like egg sandwiches that much. I manage a bite then put the rest back in the box, which I push away from me. As I do, I catch the eye of a woman in a camel-coloured coat in the seat across the aisle from me. She looks up from the crossword she’s doing and briefly smiles. I look away. Her pen clicks repeatedly, an absentminded tic as she reads, her thumb tapping against the top of the biro, like she’s tapping out code.

  Click, click. Click, click, click. Click.

  And then the sea comes into view and I can’t help but draw in an excited breath. Grey and flat, it laps against the brown, cricket-ball pebbles on the shore a few feet from the track. I love the sea. I remember the first time I saw it. I was with David. He’d booked a cottage in Norfolk for the weekend. It was the weekend I would lose my virginity and the weekend we would get engaged. I remember being so nervous in the car on the way there I actually shook. I think I’d known within a few hours of meeting David that he was the man I’d have sex with for the first time. After we’d had coffee in the café, he wrote his number in the front of my notebook, and while everybody else on my staircase in the hall of residence chattered excitedly, moved in and out of each others rooms, music blaring, I carefully tore around the number in a heart shape and pinned it to my notice board. As I pushed in the pin I knew. But when the time finally came, I was so bewitched by the sea, the actual sex went almost unnoticed.

  ‘This is really the first time you’ve seen the sea?’ he said, as we sat on a bench, nursing watery hot chocolates in paper cups and looking out across the dirty-brown water.

  I nodded. ‘I’ve got a scrapbook with pictures torn out of magazines and I’ve seen it in books, of course.’ I shook my head at the beauty of the water rolling in and out in front of me, crashing onto the shore in a mass of spume and noisy, tumbling pebbles. ‘But I’ve never actually seen it. It feels as if it’s calling to me.
As if it’s been waiting for me.’

  I press my hand against the train window and gaze in awe at the miles and miles of ocean that stretch out towards the horizon and beyond. I hear the click, click to the side of me again and glance back at the woman engrossed in her crossword. As I do I suddenly feel doubt billowing up inside me again.

  Click, click.

  What are you doing?

  Click, click. Click, click.

  Am I making a terrible mistake? I go over the newspaper articles in my head yet again. Nowhere does it mention a kidnapping. There was speculation, of course. Fear of the worst. But no concrete leads. Just a lost child. A girl missing. Then a search. She was presumed dead. Drowned in the sea. The sea I am looking out over. And if that child drowned, if her body had been swept out into the ocean, I couldn’t be her, could I?

  I’m sweating now. Panic has hold of me, tossing me like a leaf in a storm. My lungs constrict as if someone has tied a rope around my chest and is pulling it tighter and tighter. Breathing becomes a struggle. The tips of my fingers and toes begin to tingle. They are growing cold. I can’t get oxygen into my body.

  ‘Are you OK? Do you need help?’

  I jerk my head up and look at the woman with the camel coat. I snatch at her wrist across the aisle. Still I struggle to draw breath. She gets up. Kneels beside me. Puts a hand on my forehead. Looks up and down the carriage for help.

  ‘Do you need your inhaler?’ she says loudly, as if I am suddenly deaf.

  I shake my head. She takes my hand, squeezes it. Strokes her other hand down the side of my face. Her touch seems to kickstart me, calms me enough that I can draw a desperate breath. Then another. I drag lungfuls of oxygen deep into my body as the woman in the camel coat strokes my forehead.

  ‘It’s alright. Take deep breaths. Try and stay calm.’

  Her touch is like Elaine’s. How she used to stroke me when I was ill. I never went to the doctor. No need to, Elaine always said. The doctor’s in the house. And then she’d smile. I close my eyes and recall the armchair. Henry has carried it up from their bedroom. She will sit with me all night. She will stroke my head and feed me sips of water. She won’t leave my side. She will be next to me until I am better.