The Girl You Left Behind (53 page)

Around her, the world wakes up slowly. The
Glass House is shrouded in mist, emphasizing her sense of isolation from the rest of the
city. Beneath it, queues of traffic, visible only as tiny illuminated dots of red brake
lights, move slowly, like blood in clogged arteries. She drinks some coffee, and eats
half a piece of toast. The radio tells of traffic jams in Hammersmith, and a plot to
poison a politician in Ukraine. When she has finished, she tidies and wipes the kitchen
so that it gleams.

Then she pulls an old blanket from the
airing cupboard and wraps it carefully around
The Girl You Left Behind
. She
folds it as if she were wrapping a present, keeping the picture turned away from her so
that she doesn’t have to see Sophie’s face.

Fran is not in her box. She’s sitting
on an upturned bucket, gazing out across the cobbles to the river, untangling a piece of
twine that is wrapped several hundred times around a huge clump of supermarket carrier
bags.

She looks up as Liv approaches, with two
mugs, then at the sky. It has sunk around them in thick droplets, muffling sound, ending
the world at the river’s edge.

‘Not running?’

‘Nope.’

‘Not like you.’

‘Nothing’s like me,
apparently.’

Liv hands over a coffee. Fran takes a sip,
grunts with pleasure, then looks at her. ‘Don’t stand there like a lemon,
then. Take a seat.’

Liv glances around before she realizes that
Fran is pointing towards a small milk crate. She pulls it over and sits down. A pigeon
walks across the cobbles towards her. Fran reaches into a crumpled paper bag and throws
it a crust. It’s oddly peaceful out here, hearing the Thames lap gently at the
shore, the distant sounds of traffic. Liv thinks wryly of what the newspapers would say
if they could see the society widow’s breakfast companion. A barge emerges through
the mist and floats silently past, its lights disappearing into the grey dawn.

‘Your friend left, then.’

‘How do you know?’

‘Sit here long enough you get to know
everything. You listen, see?’ She taps the side of her head. ‘Nobody listens
any more. Everyone knows what they want to hear, but nobody actually listens.’

She stops for a minute, as if remembering
something. ‘I saw you in the newspaper.’

Liv blows on her coffee. ‘I think the
whole of London has seen me in the newspaper.’

‘I’ve got it. In my box.’
She gestures towards the doorway. ‘Is that it?’ She points to the bundle Liv
is holding under her arm.

‘Yes.’ She takes a sip.
‘Yes, it is.’ She waits for Fran to add her own take on Liv’s crime,
to list the reasons why she should never have attempted to keep the painting, but it
doesn’t come. Instead she sniffs, looks out at the river.

‘That’s why I don’t like
having too much stuff. When I was in the shelter people was always nicking it.
Didn’t matter where you left it – under your bed, in your locker – they’d
wait till you was going out, and then they’d just take it. It got so’s you
didn’t want to go out, just for fear of losing your stuff. Imagine
that.’

‘Imagine what?’

‘What you lose. Just trying to hang on
to a few bits.’

Liv looks at Fran’s craggy, weathered
face, suddenly suffused with pleasure as she considers the life she is no longer missing
out on.

‘It’s a kind of madness,’
Fran says.

Liv stares along the grey river, and her
eyes fill unexpectedly with tears.

Henry is waiting for her by the rear
entrance. There are television cameras, as well as the protesters at the front of the
High Court for the last day. He had warned her there would be. She emerges from the
taxi, and when he sees what she is carrying, his smile turns into a grimace. ‘Is
that what I … You didn’t have to do that! If it goes against us
we’d have made them send a security van. Jesus Christ, Liv! You can’t just
carry a multi-million-pound work of art around like a loaf of bread.’

Liv’s hands are tight around it.
‘Is Paul here?’

‘Paul?’ He’s hurrying her
towards the courts, like a doctor ferrying a sick child into a hospital.

‘McCafferty.’

‘McCafferty? Not a clue.’ He
glances again at the bundle. ‘Bloody hell, Liv. You could have warned
me.’

She follows him through Security and into
the corridor. He calls the guard over and motions to the painting. The guard looks
startled, nods, and says something into his radio. Extra security is apparently on its
way. Only when they actually enter the courtroom does Henry begin to relax. He sits,
lets out a long breath, rubs at his face with both palms. Then he turns to Liv.
‘You know, it’s not over yet,’ he says, smiling ruefully at the
painting. ‘Hardly a vote of confidence.’

She says nothing. She scans the courtroom,
which is
fast filling around them. Above her in the public gallery
the faces peer down at her, speculative and impassive, as if she herself is on trial.
She tries not to meet anyone’s eye. She spies Marianne in tangerine, her plastic
earrings a matching shade, and the old woman gives a little wave and an encouraging
thumbs-up; a friendly face in a sea of blank stares. She sees Janey Dickinson settle
into a seat further along the bench, exchanging a few words with Flaherty. The room
fills with the sound of shuffling feet, polite conversation, scraping chairs and dropped
bags. The reporters chat companionably to each other, swigging at polystyrene cups of
coffee and sharing notes. Someone hands someone else a spare pen. She’s trying to
quell a rising sense of panic. It’s nine forty. Her eyes stray towards the doors
again and again, watching for Paul.
Have faith
, she thinks
. He will
come.

She tells herself the same thing at nine
fifty, and nine fifty-two. And then at nine fifty-eight. Just before ten o’clock,
the judge enters. The courtroom rises. Liv feels a sudden panic.
He’s not
coming. After all this, he’s not coming. Oh, God, I can’t do this if
he’s not here.
She forces herself to breathe deeply and closes her eyes,
trying to calm herself.

Henry is paging through his files.
‘You okay?’

Her mouth appears to have filled with
powder. ‘Henry,’ she whispers, ‘can I say something?’

‘What?’

‘Can I say something? To the court?
It’s important.’

‘Now? The judge is about to announce
his verdict.’

‘This is important.’

‘What do you want to say?’

‘Just ask him. Please.’

His face shows incredulity, but something in
her expression convinces him. He leans forward, muttering to Angela Silver. She glances
behind her at Liv, frowning, and after a short exchange, she stands and asks for
permission to approach the bench. Christopher Jenks is invited to join them.

As barristers and judge consult quietly, Liv
feels her palms beginning to sweat. Her skin prickles. She glances around her at the
packed courtroom. The air of quiet antagonism is almost palpable. Her hands tighten on
the painting.
Imagine you are Sophie
, she tells herself.
She would have
done it.

Finally the judge speaks.

‘Apparently Mrs Olivia Halston would
like to address the court.’ He glances at her from over the top of his spectacles.
‘Go ahead, Mrs Halston.’

She stands, and makes her way to the front
of the court, still clutching the painting. She hears each footstep on the wooden floor,
is acutely aware of all the eyes upon her. Henry, perhaps still fearful about the
painting, stands a few feet from her.

She takes a deep breath. ‘I would like
to say a few words about
The Girl You Left Behind
.’ She pauses for a
second, registering the surprise on the faces around her, and continues, her voice thin,
wavering slightly in the silence. It seems to belong to someone else.

‘Sophie Lefèvre was a brave,
honourable woman. I think – I hope this has become clear through what’s been heard
in court.’ She is vaguely aware of Janey Dickinson’s face, scratching
something in her notebook, the muttered
boredom of the barristers.
She closes her fingers around the frame, and forces herself to keep going.

‘My late husband, David Halston, was
also a good man. A really good man. I believe now that, had he known Sophie’s
portrait, the painting he loved, had this – this history, he would have given it back
long ago. My contesting this case has caused his good name to be removed from the
building that was his life and his dream, and that is a source of immense regret to me,
because that building – the Goldstein – should have been his memorial.’

She sees the reporters look up, the ripple
of interest that passes over their bench. Several of them consult, start scribbling.

‘This case – this painting – has
pretty much destroyed what should have been his legacy, just as it destroyed
Sophie’s. In this way they have both been wronged.’ Her voice begins to
break. She glances around her. ‘For that reason I would like it on record that the
decision to fight was mine alone. If I have been mistaken, I’m so very sorry.
That’s all. Thank you.’

She takes two awkward steps to the side. She
sees the reporters scribbling furiously, one checking the spelling of
Goldstein
. Two solicitors on the bench are talking urgently. ‘Nice
move,’ says Henry, softly, leaning in to her. ‘You’d have made a good
lawyer.’

I did it, she tells herself silently. David
is publicly linked to his building now, whatever the Goldsteins do.

The judge asks for silence. ‘Mrs
Halston. Have you finished pre-empting my verdict?’ he says wearily.

Liv nods. Her throat has dried. Janey is
whispering to her lawyer.

‘And this is the painting in question,
is it?’

‘Yes.’ She is still holding it
tightly to her, like a shield.

He turns to the court clerk. ‘Can
someone arrange for it to be placed in safe custody? I’m not entirely sure it
should be sitting out here. Mrs Halston?’

Liv holds out the painting to the court
clerk. Just for a moment her fingers seem oddly reluctant to release it, as if her inner
self has decided to ignore the instruction. When she finally lets go, the clerk stands
there, briefly frozen, as if she has handed him something radioactive.

I’m sorry, Sophie
, she says,
and, suddenly exposed, the girl’s image stares back at her.

Liv walks unsteadily back to her seat, the
empty blanket balled under her arm, barely hearing the growing commotion around her. The
judge is in conversation with both barristers. Several people make for the doors,
evening-paper reporters perhaps, and above them the public gallery is alive with
discussion. Henry touches her arm, muttering something about how she has done a good
thing.

She sits, and gazes down at her lap, at the
wedding ring she twists round and round her finger, and wonders how it is possible to
feel so empty.

And then she hears it.

‘Excuse me?’

It is repeated twice before it can be heard
over the mêlée. She looks up, following the swivelling gaze of the people around
her, and there, in the doorway, is Paul McCafferty.

He is wearing a blue shirt and his chin is
grey with stubble, his expression unreadable. He wedges the door open,
and slowly pulls a wheelchair into the courtroom. He looks around, seeking her out,
and suddenly it is just the two of them.
You okay?
he mouths, and she nods,
letting out a breath she hadn’t realized she was holding.

He calls again, just audible above the
noise. ‘Excuse me? Your Honour?’

The gavel cracks against the desk like a
gunshot. The court falls silent. Janey Dickinson stands and turns to see what is
happening. Paul is pushing an elderly woman in a wheelchair down the central aisle of
the court. She is impossibly ancient, hunched over like a shepherd’s crook, her
hands resting on a small bag.

Another woman, neatly dressed in navy,
hurries in behind Paul, consults with him in whispers. He gestures towards the
judge.

‘My grandmother has some important
information regarding this case,’ the woman says. She speaks with a strong French
accent, and as she walks down the centre aisle, she glances awkwardly to the people on
either side.

The judge throws up his hands. ‘Why
not?’ he mutters audibly. ‘Everyone else seems to want to have a say.
Let’s see if the cleaner would like to express her view, why don’t
we?’

The woman waits, and he says, exasperated,
‘Oh, for goodness’ sake, Madame. Do approach the bench.’

They exchange a few words. The judge calls
over the two barristers, and the conversation extends.

‘What is this?’ Henry keeps
saying, beside Liv. ‘What on earth is going on?’

A hush settles over the court.

‘It appears we should hear what this
woman has to say,’
the judge says. He picks up his pen and
leafs through his notes. ‘I’m wondering if anybody here is going to be
interested in something as mundane as an actual verdict.’

The old woman’s chair is wheeled round
and positioned near the front of the court. She speaks her first words in French, and
her granddaughter translates.

‘Before the future of the painting is
decided, there is something you must know. This case is based on a false premise.’
She pauses, stooping to hear the old woman’s words, then straightens up again.
‘
The Girl You Left Behind
was never stolen.’

The judge leans forward a little. ‘And
how would you know this, Madame?’

Liv lifts her face to look up at Paul. His
gaze is direct, steady and oddly triumphant.

The older woman lifts a hand, as if to
dismiss her granddaughter. She clears her throat and speaks slowly and clearly, this
time in English. ‘Because I am the person who gave it to Kommandant Hencken. My
name is Édith Béthune.’

1917

I was unloaded some time after dawn. I
don’t know how long we had been on the road: fever had invaded me so my days and
my dreams had become jumbled and I could no longer be sure whether I still existed, or
whether, like a spectre, I flitted in and out of some other reality. When I closed my
eyes, I saw my sister pulling up the blinds of the bar window, turning to me with a
smile, the sun illuminating her hair. I saw Mimi laughing. I saw Édouard, his face,
his hands, heard his voice in my ear, soft and intimate. I would reach out to touch him,
but he would vanish, and I would wake on the floor of the truck, my eyes level with a
soldier’s boots, my head thumping painfully as we passed over every rut in the
road.