Authors: Isabel Wolff
‘That would be lovely,’ she said when I phoned her. ‘The girls are away—they’ve finished school now—so we’ll have a nice catch-up on our own. And you can see the boys. You haven’t seen them for a while, have you?’
‘No, I haven’t. That would be great.’
On Wednesday morning, Herman and I set off for Brighton early. I wanted to arrive before nine in order to maximize the chance of someone being in when I called. I didn’t need to look at the map as I knew the way there so well. Through the City, over Blackfriars, then down the A23, past Hurstpierpoint; then I saw the Brighton sign. I had a pit in my stomach as I drove through the town centre towards Queens Park then turned right into West Drive. I’d revisited it in my dreams—and nightmares—so many times. The house was towards the end, semi-detached, Edwardian, set back, with a neat front garden protected by a low hedge. As I went slowly by, I saw no movement, but then it was still early—a quarter past eight. I turned round at the end, then parked two doors down, feeling like a private detective on the trail of some errant spouse. As I sat, waiting and watching, Herman would emit the occasional anguished sigh. At eight thirty I saw the postman arrive, but by nine there was still no sign of life. Perhaps they were away—the grass looked quite long. At nine fifteen, I got out of the car. Breathing deeply, I opened the gate, then walked up the path—remembering, with a sick feeling, the last time I had done that—and now, heart pounding, I rang the bell.
Strangely, I hadn’t given much thought to what I would
actually say. As I waited I mentally rehearsed it. ‘Hello, my name’s Miranda. I just want you to know that it was me. In 1987. It was me. I did it. But I didn’t mean to. I’ve just come to say how sorry I am.’ There was no answer. I peered through the frosted-glass panel, but could detect no shadows moving inside. I rang again, but still there was complete silence. I’d have to leave a note. I could have asked the postman if they still lived there, I realized, as I returned to the car. And I’d just reached into the glove box and pulled out the writing pad I’d brought with me for this purpose, when I heard a door slam. I looked up. A man was coming out of the neighbouring house with a black cocker spaniel. I got out of the car again and crossed the road.
‘Excuse me!’ He glanced up, and I smiled at him politely. ‘I’m sorry to bother you, but could you tell me if the Whites still live at number forty-four?’
The man looked at me blankly. ‘The Whites? The
Whites
?’ he said again. ‘Goodness me, no. They left years ago.
Years
ago,’ he repeated.
‘Oh.’ I felt crestfallen.
‘Mind you,
we’ve
been here twenty years. Twenty years, we’ve been here…’ He seemed to like saying everything twice.
‘So you knew them then?’ I ventured.
‘The Whites?’ I nodded. ‘Oh yes. Nice family.
Very
nice family.’
‘And when did they move?’
‘Ooh, in about, what, ’87 or ’88? Yes. Must have been. Not long after… Well, they had a spot of bother. Nasty business, that was,’ he shook his head. ‘
Nasty
business.’ He looked at me quizzically. ‘Why do you want to know?’
‘Well, I’m…an old friend of their son, you see.’
‘Michael?’
‘No,’ I said carefully. ‘Erm, David actually.’ I felt a sudden surge of adrenaline.
‘Ah, David. Yes. Good lad.
Good
lad he was.’
‘
Was
?’ I repeated, my heart racing.
‘
Is
. I mean I just remember him as a nice lad. How do you know him then?’
My insides were churning, but I had my lie ready. ‘We were at college together.’
‘I see. So you’re trying to get in touch again. Friends Reunited and all that.’
‘Yes,’ I said brightly. ‘That’s right.’
‘But don’t any of your other college friends have a number for him?’
‘Er, no. They’ve all lost touch.’
‘Well, of course he left university early, I seem to remember now.’
‘
Did
he?’ I felt ill. ‘I mean, of course he did.’
‘After that nasty business.’
‘Er, yes, that’s…right. But, um, anyway, I remembered that his parents used to live here,’ I stumbled on, ‘so I thought maybe there was a chance they still did. I don’t suppose you know their present address, do you?’
‘I’m afraid I don’t.’ He clicked his tongue against the roof of his mouth, then shook his head. ‘No. I’m afraid I don’t.’
‘And what about the people who live in the house now?’
‘They’re on holiday, and, in any case, they’ve only been there two years. It’s changed hands three times since the Whites left. I doubt anyone would have a forwarding address now.’
‘Oh,’ I said blankly. ‘I see. So you have no idea where they went, or how I could get in touch with them again?’
‘Not really.’ He was making thoughtful little sucking
noises with his teeth. ‘My wife might know,’ he added, ‘but she’s visiting her sister. I could ask her when she gets back.’
‘Would you? I’d be so grateful.’ I scribbled my mobile number down, and next to it, simply, ‘Miranda’. ‘If your wife does have any information, I’d really appreciate it if you could let me know. I’d, er, really like to see David…again,’ I concluded.
‘It’s been a long time, has it?’
‘Yes,’ I said. ‘It’s been a long time.’
By now it was twenty to ten. I wasn’t due at Mum’s until twelve. I could simply have phoned her to say I was coming early, but there was something I wanted to do first. I wanted to revisit my old haunts—I was in the mood for a trip down memory lane. I drove past the Pavilion, smiling at its absurd splendour, then I parked close to the Palace Pier. The seagulls wheeled and cried as Herman and I walked along the sea front, the waves glinting like beaten metal in the sun. Then we walked through The Lanes. I found East Street, where Jimmy’s flat had been, on the corner, above a newsagents. It was a Thai restaurant now. Then I went back to the car, and drove down Kings Road, turned right into Brunswick Place, then parked outside Brighton and Hove High.
As I sat staring at the square, cream-painted, eighteenth-century building, I could hear female voices floating through the open windows, then a bell, then the sudden scraping of chairs. I thought about how much I’d hated it there. Right from the start I’d been earmarked as ‘obstreperous’ and ‘uncooperative’, but after the incident with the Whites I changed. Subdued by shock—and terrified I’d be caught—from then on, I kept my head down. I abandoned all my animal rights activity, worked like a slave, and got straight ‘A’s after that. Now I remembered, on my last day, the headmistress congratulating me as I went up on stage.
‘You’ve been a credit to this school,’ she said as I got the valedictory shake of her hand. ‘You’ve also been an example to other, well,
challenging
girls,’ she’d added with an indulgent smile. If she’d known the truth she would never have said that. Then I’d gone to Bristol, Mum had moved away, and I’d left Brighton and its dark memories behind.
‘Miranda!’ Mum exclaimed, as she opened the door to me forty minutes later. ‘You’re so thin!’
‘Am I?’ I said absently as she hugged me. ‘Yeah, I guess so.’
‘I don’t have to ask why,’ she said as we went down the hall to the kitchen. ‘When Hugh ran off I lost nearly two stone. I suppose Alexander did the same, did he?’ she went on. ‘Just ran off?’
‘Well…’
‘Men let you down,’ she said, shaking her head. I didn’t contradict her. ‘Animals, however, don’t.’ That was true. ‘You should have phoned me,’ she added. ‘You must have been feeling distraught.’
‘Well, no, not quite. I just feel…’ What
did
I feel? ‘…disappointed. But I’d rather not discuss it, if you don’t mind.’
She sighed. ‘All right. You know, I don’t think you’ve ever discussed
anything
with me, Miranda. No daughterly confidences. Nothing. It’s disappointing.’
I shrugged. ‘I’m sorry, Mum. That’s just…how I am.’
‘I know. Anyway, tell me what you were doing in Brighton?’
‘Oh. Erm, work. There was a very…tricky…donkey.’
‘What was the problem?’
‘It kept…getting…’
‘Out?’ she anticipated. Mum often anticipates—it’s really annoying.
‘Ye-es…’
‘How dangerous. It could be killed, poor darling, or cause a horrible accident. So what did you advise?’
‘I…told them they’d have to get a better…’
‘Gate?’ I nodded, wearily. ‘Well, they could have worked that out for themselves. Still, all money in the bank for you,’ she added cheerily as she opened the fridge. ‘So Perfect Pets is going well then, is it?’ she enquired over her shoulder.
‘It’s coming along. So where are the girls then?’ I have three half-sisters; Gemma, who’s twenty, and Annie and Alice, who are twins of eighteen.
‘They’ve gone to see their father. They’ll probably spend the whole summer there.’
‘Do you mind?’
‘No. Not any more. It’s very good for their French and I really can’t blame them—a grand place like that. In any case,’ she shrugged, ‘that was the deal, so I can’t argue about it.’
‘Of course.’ Hugh left my mother four years ago. He’d been commissioned to re-landscape the grounds of this small chateau in Burgundy. The owner, Françoise, an attractive young widow, prevailed upon him, successfully, to stay. Mum got the farm on condition that she didn’t stop Hugh from seeing the kids. When I say it’s a farm, it’s really just a large cottage with a barn and a couple of fields. Mum chose to stay there as it suited her, plus the girls liked it, and in any case she was quite resigned about Hugh in many ways. He’s ten years younger than her, and heart-stoppingly handsome, so she says she always knew, in her heart, that it wouldn’t last.
‘I
knew
he’d go off,’ she said again today, as I laid the kitchen table. ‘I always knew he’d go off, when the girls were older. Of course, it was awful when it happened, but if it hadn’t been his French
chatelaine
,’ she enunciated disdainfully, ‘then it would only have been someone else.’
‘Is that why you’ve always seemed okay about it?’ I asked, as she put the vegetarian lasagne in the Aga.
‘Partly, but that’s not the only reason. The main reason is that if Hugh hadn’t left me, I’d never have had the boys, would I?’
‘That’s true. Can we go and see them?’
‘Of course we can. We’ll leave Herman inside.’
We stepped through the French windows into the garden and suddenly in the middle distance, through the apple trees, I saw eight pairs of ears prick up. They hung in the air, like furry inverted commas, then slowly swivelled our way.
‘San-cho!’ Mum called, rattling a bucket of pellets. ‘Bas-il! Car-los!’ And now they were cantering daintily towards us across the hillocky grass. ‘Miranda’s come to see us! Isn’t that lovely? Come on Pedro! Come on boys! Come and say hello!’
I can understand Mum’s passion for llamas. They’re so endearing. Just the sight of them makes me smile. They look like nothing else on this earth—or rather they look like all sorts of other things smashed together. With their donkeyish ears, horsey faces, their giraffe necks, and antelope behinds; and their rabbity noses and their big doe eyes with ludicrously long, glamorous lashes, and their luscious camel lips. It’s as though the species is the result of a genetic pile-up: it’s an improbable but somehow elegant mix.
‘Dalai Ll-ama!’ Mum called. ‘Jo-se!!!’ They came tripping along, wearing an expression of intense, intelligent inquisitiveness. Llamas like people. They’re mad about them, actually. And these ones adore my mum. She often says, when asked about her family, that she has ‘four girls and eight boys’.
When Hugh left, I came and looked after my sisters—who seemed spookily unperturbed—while Mum went walking in Peru with a friend. She was in a state when she left, and the trip was meant to be recuperative, but when she returned
I was amazed at the change. She had this funny, secret little smile on her face and she radiated an odd kind of joy. When pressed, she explained, cryptically, that she’d ‘fallen in love’, but she wouldn’t say with whom. So I assumed she must have had a fling with her tour guide, or with someone in the group. But it wasn’t that at all.
‘I’ve fallen in love, with…llamas,’ she finally announced, with a soppy smile. ‘They’re just so…
beautiful
. They make you feel happy,’ she sighed. ‘The way they walk along beside you, humming away—that’s what they do, they hum—as if they’re
talking
to you, and they’re incredibly easy to lead. They’re so soft,’ she went on rhapsodically. ‘And they’re so sensitive and clever. It was like an epiphany,’ she exclaimed. ‘Before I went to Peru I’d never even seen a llama, and now I just want to be with them
all the time
!’
We thought she’d gone mad and that she’d get over it, but the next thing we knew she’d bought two males. Then six months later she bought two more. And then she bought another four—including, recently, Henry, who’s a little bit tricky—and she decided to run llama treks. That’s what she does now, most weekends. She walks over the South Downs with sixteen people—two per llama—and the ‘boys’ carry the picnic in their special llama backpacks. It’s a very popular day out.
‘Hello!’ I said as one of them came right up close to me. ‘We haven’t met before, have we? You must be Henry.’ I stroked his piebald fleece, as soft as cashmere. ‘Hey,’ I giggled. ‘Cut that out!’ He was kissing me, planting his thick, mobile lips on my right cheek. Now he kissed me again. ‘
Hey
!’ I laughed, dodging his mouth.
‘I can’t stop him doing that,’ said Mum. ‘He’s very pushy about it. He often chases me round the field demanding
kisses, don’t you, Henry? I don’t mind one or two,’ she confided, ‘but the constant snogging can be a bit of a drag.’
‘Why does he do it? Has he been spoiled?’
‘Well, sort of, he had too much human contact when he was a baby. He imprinted on people because he wasn’t socialized with other llamas enough. I’m trying to work on it though. Couldn’t you feature him on
Animal Crackers
, Miranda? The publicity would be jolly handy as I’m a bit down on the bookings at the moment.’