“Let me hazard a guess,” he said helpfully. “Your father died —” They both nodded vigorously as if relieved that Jackson had grasped this point. “Your father died,” he continued, “and you started clearing out the old family home —” he hesitated because they looked less sure of this, “This
is
the old family home?” he checked.
“Well, yes,” Julia said. “It’s just”—she shrugged—“that sounds so
warm,
you know. ‘Old family home.’”
“Well,” Jackson said, “how about we remove any emotional significance from those three words and just treat them as two adjectives and a noun. Old. Family. Home. True or false?”
“True,” Julia admitted reluctantly.
“Of course, strictly speaking,” Amelia said, staring out the kitchen window as if she were talking to someone in the garden, “‘family’ isn’t an adjective. ‘Familial’ would be the adjective.”
“No, it wouldn’t,” Julia said.
Jackson decided the best thing would be to carry on as if neither of them had spoken. “Not close to the old guy then?” he said to Julia.
“No, we weren’t,” Amelia said, turning round and giving him her full attention. “And we found this in a locked drawer in his study.” The blue mouse again. The Blue Mouse.
“And the significance of the ‘Blue Mouse’?” Jackson prompted. He hoped they hadn’t just discovered their old man was some kind of soft-toy fetishist.
“Did you ever hear of Olivia Land?” Julia asked.
“Rings a bell,” Jackson said. A very small bell. “A relative?”
“She was our sister,” Amelia said. “She disappeared thirty-four years ago. She was taken.”
Taken? Oh, not alien abduction, that would really make his day. Julia took out a packet of cigarettes and offered him one. She made offering a cigarette seem like an invitation to sex. He could feel the sister’s disapproval from where he sat but whether it was of the nicotine or the sex, he wasn’t sure. Both probably. He declined the cigarette, he would never have smoked in front of a client anyway, but he inhaled deeply when Julia lit up.
“She was kidnapped,” Julia said, “from a tent in the garden.”
“A tent?”
“It was summer,” Amelia said sharply. “Children sleep outside in tents in the summer.”
“So they do,” Jackson said mildly. Somehow he had the feeling that Amelia Land had been the one in the tent with the sister.
“She was only three,” Julia said. “She was never found.”
“You really don’t know the case?” Amelia said. “It was very big.”
“I’m not from this area,” Jackson said and thought of all the girls who must have disappeared over the last thirty-four years. But, of course, as far as the Land sisters were concerned, there was only one. He felt suddenly too sad and too old.
“It was very hot,” Amelia said. “A heat wave.”
“Like now?”
“Yes. Aren’t you going to take notes?”
“Would it make you happier if I did?” he asked.
“No,” Amelia snapped.
They had obviously reached some kind of conversational impasse. Jackson looked at the Blue Mouse. It had “clue” written all over it. Jackson attempted to join the dots. “So, let’s see,” he ventured. “This is Olivia’s and she had it with her when she was abducted? And the first time it’s been seen since is when it turns up after your father’s death? And you didn’t call the police?”
They both frowned. It was funny because although they looked quite different they shared exactly the same facial expressions. Jackson supposed that was what was meant by “fleeting resemblance.”
“What wonderful powers of deduction you have, Mr. Brodie,” Julia said, and it was hard to tell whether she was being ironic or trying to flatter him. She had one of those husky voices that sounded as if she were permanently coming down with a cold. Men seemed to find that sexy in a woman, which Jackson thought was odd because it made women sound less like women and more like men. Maybe it was a gay thing.
“The police didn’t find her
then,
” Amelia said, ignoring Julia, “and they’re not going to be interested
now.
And, anyway, maybe it’s not a matter for the police.”
“But it’s a matter for me?”
“Mr. Brodie,” Julia said, very sweetly, too sweetly. They were like good cop, bad cop. “Mr. Brodie, we just want to know why Victor had Olivia’s Blue Mouse.”
“Victor?”
“Daddy. It just seems . . .”
“Wrong?” Jackson supplied.
J
ackson rented a house now, a long way from the Cambourne ghetto. It was a cottage really, in a row of similar small cottages, on a road that must once have been in the countryside, farm cottages, probably. Whatever farm they had been a part of had long since been built over by streets of Victorian working-class terraces. Nowadays even houses that were back-to-backs with their front doors opening straight onto the street went for a fortune in the area. The poor moved out to the likes of Milton and Cherry Hinton, but now even the council estates there had been colonized by middle-class university types (and the Nicola Spencers of the world), which must really piss the poor people off. The poor might always be with us, but Jackson was puzzled as to where they actually lived these days.
When Josie left for nonconnubial bliss with David Lastingham, Jackson considered staying on and living in the marital Lego house. This thought had occupied him for roughly ten minutes before he rang the estate agent and put it on the market. After they had split the proceeds of the sale, there wasn’t enough money left for Jackson to buy a new place, so he had chosen to rent this house instead. It was the last in the terrace, on the run-down side, and the walls between it and the house next door were so thin that you could hear every fart and cat mewl from the neighbor’s. The furnishings that came with it were cheap and it had an impersonal atmosphere, like a disappointing holiday home, that Jackson found strangely restful.
When he moved out of the house he had shared with his wife and daughter, Jackson went round to every room in the house to check that nothing had been left behind, apart from their lives, of course. When he walked into the bathroom he realized that he could still smell Josie’s perfume—
L’Air du Temps
—a scent she had worn long before he had ever met her. Now she wore the
Joy
by Patou that David Lastingham bought her, a scent so old-fashioned that it made her seem like a different woman, which she was, of course. The Josie he had known had rejected all the wifely attributes of her mother’s generation. She was a lousy cook and didn’t even possess a sewing basket, but she did all the DIY in their little box house. She said to him once that when women learned that wall anchors weren’t the mysterious objects they thought they were, they would rule the world. Jackson had been under the impression that they already did and made the mistake of voicing this opinion, which resulted in a statistical lecture about global gender politics—“Two-thirds of the world’s work is done by women, Jackson, yet they only own one-tenth of the world’s property—do you see any problem with that?” (Yes, he did.) Now, of course, she had turned into retro woman, a kind of Stepford wife, who baked bread and was going to knitting classes. Knitting! What kind of a joke was that?
When he moved into the rented house he bought a bottle of
L’Air du Temps
and sprayed the tiny bathroom with it, but it wasn’t the same.
A
melia and Julia had given him a photograph, a small, square, faded color photograph from another time. It was a close-up of Olivia, grinning for the camera, all her regular little teeth on show. There were freckles on her snub nose and her hair was looped up in short plaits, tied with green-and-white gingham ribbons, although all the colors in the photograph had acquired a yellow tint with age. She was wearing a dress that matched the ribbons, the smocking on the dress partly concealed by the blue mouse that she was clutching to her chest. Jackson could tell she was making the blue mouse pose for the camera—he could almost hear her telling it to smile, but its features, appliquéd in black wool, carried the same air of gravity then that they did now, except that time had robbed the blue mouse of half an eye and a nostril.
It was the same photograph that the papers had used. Jackson had looked up the microfiche files on his way home. There were pages and pages about the search for Olivia Land, the story ran for weeks, and Amelia was right—the big story before Olivia had been the heat wave. Jackson tried to remember thirty-four years ago. He would have been eleven years old. Had it been hot? He had no idea. He couldn’t remember eleven. The important thing about it was that it wasn’t twelve. All the years before he was twelve shone with an unblemished and immaculate light. After twelve it was dark.
He listened to the messages on his answering machine. One from his daughter, Marlee, complaining that her mother wouldn’t let her go to an open-air concert on Parker’s Piece “and would Jackson talk to her, please, please?” (Marlee was eight, no way was she going to an open-air concert.) Another “Frisky” message from Binky Rain and one from his secretary, Deborah Arnold, berating him for not coming back into the office. She was ringing from home—he could hear two of her loutish teenagers talking in the background over the blare of MTV. Deborah had to shout in order to inform him that there was “a Theo Wyre” trying to get in touch with him and she didn’t know what it was about except that he “seemed to have lost something.” The name “Theo Wyre” sounded startlingly familiar but he couldn’t place it. Old age, he supposed.
Jackson fetched a Tiger Beer from the fridge, pulled off his boots (Magnum Stealths, the only boot as far as Jackson was concerned), lay down on the uncomfortable couch, and reached over to his CD player (the good thing about living in a tiny house was that he could touch almost everything in the room without getting up) and put on Trisha Yearwood’s 1995
Thinkin’ About You
album, now unavailable for some reason. Trisha might be mainstream, but that didn’t mean she wasn’t good. She understood pain. He opened
An Introduction to French Grammar
and tried to focus on the correct use of the past using
être
(although when he lived in France there would be no past and no future, only present), but it was difficult to concentrate because the gum above his rogue tooth was throbbing.
Jackson sighed and retrieved the blue mouse from the mantelpiece and placed it against his shoulder and patted its small, soft back, in much the same way he had once comforted Marlee when she was small. The blue mouse felt cold, as if it had been in a dark place for a long time. Not for a moment did Jackson think that he could find that little girl with the gingham ribbons in her plaits.
Jackson closed his eyes and opened them again immediately because he’d suddenly remembered who Theo Wyre was. Jackson groaned. He didn’t want to remember Theo Wyre. He didn’t want anything to do with Theo Wyre.
Trisha was singing “On a Bus to St. Cloud.” Sometimes it seemed to him as if the entire world consisted of one accounting sheet—lost on the left-hand side, found on the right. Unfortunately the two never balanced. Amelia and Julia Land had found something, Theo Wyre had lost something. How easy life would be if it could be one and the same thing.
Amelia
V
ictor died as he wished, in his own bed, in his own home, of nothing much more than old age. He was eighty-four and for as long as they could remember had been adamant that he wanted to be buried rather than cremated. Thirty-four years ago, when their baby sister Annabelle died, Victor had bought a “family plot” for three people in the local cemetery. Amelia and Julia hadn’t really considered the arithmetic of this until Victor himself died, by which time the plot was two-thirds full—their mother having joined Annabelle with gratuitous haste—leaving just enough room for Victor but excluding his remaining children.
Julia said it demonstrated typically inconsiderate behavior on Victor’s part, but Amelia said their father had probably deliberately planned it this way in case it turned out that there was an eternal afterlife and he might be forced to spend it with them. Amelia didn’t really think this was likely—Victor was a staunch atheist and it wasn’t in his stubborn, abrasive character to suddenly start hedging his bets at the end—it was just that proposing a contradictory viewpoint to Julia’s came automatically to her. Julia was as tenacious (and as yappy) as a terrier when it came to disputes, so that they both constantly found themselves arguing the case for opinions that neither of them really cared about one way or the other, like a pair of bickering, jaded courtroom lawyers. Some days it felt as if they had returned to their turbulent childhood selves and any moment now would resort to the covert pinching, hair pulling, and name-calling of those earlier years.
They had been summoned. “Like attending the deathbed of a king,” Julia said resentfully, and Amelia said, “You’re thinking of
King Lear,
” and Julia said, “What if I am?” and Amelia said, “You can only relate to life if you’ve seen it on the stage,” and Julia said, “I never even mentioned fucking
Lear,
” and so they were arguing before the train had even pulled out of King’s Cross. Victor died a few hours after they arrived. “Thank fuck,” Julia said, as they had been suspicious that Victor was trying to finesse them back into the family home to look after him. They both resented the word “home”—it was decades since either of them had lived there, yet they couldn’t stop using the word.
Amelia said, “Sorry,” but Julia was staring out the train window at suburban London passing by and didn’t speak again until they were traveling through the full summer fields of East Anglia, when she said, “Lear wasn’t dying, he was abdicating power,” and Amelia said, “Same thing sometimes,” and was glad they’d made peace.
T
hey sat on either side of him, waiting for him to die. Victor was beached on his bed in what had once been the marital bedroom, a room that was still decorated in the overblown female style that their mother had once favored. Was Rosemary getting ready at this very moment to welcome Victor into the clammy soil of the family plot? Amelia imagined her parents clasping each other’s bodies in a cold embrace and felt sorry for their poor mother, who probably thought she had escaped Victor forever.
And anyway, Amelia pointed out to Julia, picking up the argument despite her best intentions, neither of them wanted to be close to their father in life, so why would they want to be close to him in death? Julia said that wasn’t the point. It was “the principle of the thing,” and Amelia said, “When did you start having principles?” and so the conversation went downhill again, long before they had got round to discussing the more difficult topic of the funeral service itself, for which Victor had left no guidelines.
When had they decided to stop calling him “Daddy” and start calling him “Victor”? Julia sometimes called him “Daddy,” especially when she was trying to cajole him into a pleasanter mood, but Amelia liked the distance that “Victor” gave. It made him more human somehow.
Victor’s chin was bristled with white, and this new beard, coupled with the weight he had lost, made him unfamiliar. Only his hands seemed not to have shrunk—still huge, like bony shovels, brutish against his sticklike wrists. He suddenly mumbled something neither of them could make out and Julia cast a look of panic across the bed at Amelia. Julia had expected him to be dying but she hadn’t expected him not to be himself. “Do you want anything, Daddy?” she said loudly to him and he shook his head as if trying to dislodge a cloud of flies but it was impossible to say whether or not he had heard them.
Victor’s GP had told them on the phone that district nurses were coming in three times a day. “Popping in” was the phrase he had used, which made everything seem convivial and informal, but neither Amelia nor Julia had expected those adjectives would be applicable to Victor’s death, as they certainly hadn’t been applicable to his life. They thought the nurses would stay, but the minute Amelia and Julia arrived, one of them said, “We’ll be off now then,” and the other shouted to Victor over her shoulder, “They’re here!” in a cheerful way as if Victor had been waiting anxiously for his daughters, which he wasn’t, of course, and the only one pleased to see them was Sammy, Victor’s old golden retriever, who made a gallant attempt to greet them, his arthritic hips moving stiffly as his claws clacked across the polished boards of the hallway.
Victor had a massive stroke, the GP said on the phone. A month ago, a different GP had told them that there was nothing wrong with Victor except for old age and that he had “the heart of an ox.” “The heart of an ox” had seemed a muddled axiom to Amelia: wasn’t it “heart of a lion” and “strong as an ox”? What was an ox? Just a cow? There were so many facts that Amelia no longer felt certain about (or perhaps she had never known them). She would soon be nearer fifty than forty, and she was sure that every day she could feel more neural pathways disappearing—fusing and arcing and dying—leaving her unable to retrieve information. Right up until the end, Victor’s mind had been as methodical as an efficient library, whereas Amelia felt that hers was more like the cupboard under the stair where ancient hockey sticks were shoved in beside broken Hoovers and boxes of old Christmas decorations, and the one thing you knew was in there—a five-amp fuse, a tin of tan shoe polish, a Phillips screwdriver—would almost certainly be the one thing you couldn’t lay your hands on.
Victor’s mind might have remained organized but his house hadn’t. After they left home it had steadily deteriorated until it was now almost squalid, like one of those houses where environmental health officers had to be brought in to clean up after some unfortunate had lain dead and unnoticed for weeks, lying in a pool of their own putrefaction.
Everywhere you looked there were books, all of them mildewed and foxed, none of them inviting you to read them. Victor had long since given up maths, it was years since he had kept up with research or shown any interest in journals or publications. When they were children Rosemary had told them that Victor was a “great” mathematician (or perhaps it was Victor himself who had told them that), but whatever his reputation it had long since faded and he had been nothing more than a plodding member of the department. His speciality had been probability and risk, which Amelia didn’t understand at all (he was always trying to demonstrate probability to her by tossing coins), but it struck her as ironic that a man who studied risk for a living had never taken one in his life.
“Milly? Are you alright?”
“What
is
an ox?”
“A cow. A bullock.” Julia shrugged. “I don’t know. Why?”
They had eaten ox heart as children. Rosemary, never having so much as boiled an egg before her marriage, had learned to cook the kind of stalwart, old-fashioned food that Victor favored as being both nutritious and cheap. Boarding-school food, the kind he was brought up on. The very thought of all those liver-and-bacon casseroles and steak-and-kidney puddings made Amelia feel sick. She could still see a bloody heart sitting on the kitchen counter, dark and glistening, and swagged with threads of fat, looking as if it had only just stopped beating, while her mother, huge knife in hand, contemplated it with an enigmatic expression on her face.
“Oxtail soup, I remember that,” Julia said, making a disgusted face. “Was it really made from a
tail
?”
Rosemary had slipped out of her own life very easily. She had shown no tenacity for it at all when she discovered that the baby girl she was carrying when Olivia disappeared had a twin, not Victor’s longed-for son, but a tumorous changeling that grew and swelled inside her unchallenged. By the time anyone realized it signaled a life ending rather than a life beginning, it was too late. Annabelle lived for only a few hours and her cancerous counterpart was removed, but Rosemary was dead within six months.
V
ictor seemed to be snoring—a deep, wheezing noise as if his windpipe were narrowing and collapsing. This was followed at regular intervals by a dreadful gasping when his reflexes kicked in and he found another breath. Amelia and Julia stared at each other in alarm. “Is that a death rattle?” Julia whispered, and Amelia said, “Shush,” because it seemed impolite to talk about the mechanics of death in front of the dying. “He can’t hear,” Julia said, and Amelia said, “That’s not the point.”
This noise subsided after a while and Victor gave all the signs of being peacefully asleep. Amelia made them both tea, scrubbing out the stains from the mugs first, and they drank the tea standing by the window, looking down into the darkness of the garden.
“What about the funeral service?” Julia whispered. “He won’t want anything Christian, will he?” Apart from a few feeble attempts on Rosemary’s part to send them to Sunday school, they had been brought up without religion. As a mathematician, Victor considered it his duty to inculcate skepticism in his daughters, especially as he thought they were frivolous girls—apart from Sylvia, of course, who had always traded on being a bit of a maths nerd. After she left their lives, “nerd” was turned into “prodigy” by Victor and later still into “child genius” so that the longer she was gone the more clever she became, whereas, as far as Victor was concerned, Amelia and Julia grew more brainless the older they got. There was a time when Amelia might have argued with him, although it would more likely have been Julia who would have put up a spirited defense of “the arts” because Amelia found it difficult to counter Victor’s hectoring style. Now she wasn’t so sure, wasn’t he right? Didn’t they, after all, know nothing?
“And so what do you think?” Julia said. “He has left the house to us, hasn’t he? Do you think he’s left us any money? Christ, I hope he has.” Victor had never discussed his will with them, never discussed money with them. He gave the impression of having none, but then he had always been miserly. Julia started airing her grievances about the family plot again, and Amelia said, “It would be quicker to cremate him, you know. I think it takes longer to get a burial certificate.”
“But we’d probably be cursed for life,” Julia said, “like women in Greek tragedy who don’t observe the correct rituals for their dead father, the king,” and Amelia said, “We’re not characters in a play, Julia. This isn’t
Euripides,
” and Julia said, “No, really, Milly, it’s bad enough that we don’t love him,” and Amelia said, “Whatever,” and frowned when she heard herself sounding like one of her students.
Julia announced she was going to have a nap and she cradled her head in her arms on the grubby bedspread so that she looked as if she were making some kind of strange homage to her dying father. Victor’s big hands rested on top of the coverlet, folded piously in a way that suggested he was prepared for death. It would have taken only the slightest effort for him to raise one of those hands and rest it on Julia’s head, to give her a final benediction. Had he ever touched them in a kind way? A kiss, a hug? A tender caress on the cheek? If he had, Amelia couldn’t recall it. “Wake me if anything happens,” Julia mumbled. “If he dies or something.” Julia was still a heavyweight sleeper, and she was as dead to the world as Victor within minutes. Amelia looked at the dark curls on her sister’s head and felt a rush of affection for her that was more like a pang of grief.
Julia hadn’t had much work recently. She used to work all the time, provincial theater, archly modern plays in tiny London studios and bit parts in television—underclass victims in
The Bill
and terminal patients in
Casualty
(she’d died twice in ten years), but now she never even seemed to be called to auditions. She had done some kind of corporate training video last year but it was for an oil company subsidiary and Amelia had been annoyed with her for doing it, saying that she “should have considered the politics of it,” and Julia had said that it was easy to have “the luxury of politics when you had enough food to eat,” and Amelia said, “That’s a ridiculous exaggeration. When did you ever starve?” but now she was sorry because Julia had been happy when she told her about the job and she’d spoiled it for her.
Amelia had seen almost all of Julia’s work, and although she always told her how “wonderful” she was, because that was theatrical protocol, she often found herself thinking that Julia wasn’t really very special at all when she was onstage. The best thing she’d seen her in was a pantomime in Bristol, a generic kind of piece, probably
Cinderella,
where Julia had been cast as a dog—a black poodle with a lion cut and a French accent. Julia’s shape, short and busty, had somehow been perfectly suited to the costume and she had caught a certain kind of Parisian arrogance that the audience loved. She hadn’t needed a wig—her own untamed hair had been piled up in a topknot with a bow in it. Amelia had never thought of Julia as a poodle before then—she always imagined her as a Jack Russell. It seemed suddenly very sad to Amelia that the best role of Julia’s career was as a dog. And that she didn’t need a wig to play a poodle.
W
as he dead? He looked very much like he did when he was asleep—lying on his back with his eyes closed and his beaky mouth open—but there was no sign of the rise and fall of his troubled breathing and his skin was an odd putty color that suddenly brought back the memory of a dead Rosemary in a hospital bed, so unexpected that Amelia couldn’t move for a moment. She must have fallen asleep as well. The bad daughters of the king who couldn’t even sustain a deathbed vigil.