Authors: Isabel Wolff
‘Well, I’ll ask, but I doubt they’ll say yes—my own mum. So you aren’t that busy then?’
She shrugged. ‘We are at weekends—depending on the weather—but we don’t have nearly enough going on in the week. I really feel I ought to develop new things to do with them but I don’t really know what.’
‘You still do the charity work though?’
‘Yes, I take Carlos to Eastbourne hospital every Tuesday morning, and he cheers up the patients. But I need them to make some hard cash. Pedro had an audition for a beer commercial last week, which would have been a nice earner, but I don’t think he got it or we’d have had the phone call by now.’
Suddenly my mobile rang and the llamas’ ears all rotated like satellite dishes, then they stepped forward, straining to listen.
‘Is that Miranda?’ asked a vaguely familiar male voice, as Henry gave me another fuzzy kiss.
‘Yes?’
‘It’s Bill McNaught here from West Drive.’
‘Hello. Oh stop it, will you! Sorry—not you.’
‘Erm…you were asking me about the Whites.’
‘That’s right.’
‘Well, my wife happened to call me a few minutes ago,
and I told her about meeting you. She does have a bit of information about them.’
‘Really? That’s great.’
‘She says that although she doesn’t know where they live now, she did hear from a friend of a friend that Derek White had died—this would be about eight years ago now—and that Mrs White had gone to live in Norfolk, near Michael. As for David…’
My pulse quickened. ‘Yes?’
‘Apparently he became a photographer. Up in London. Now, she didn’t know any more than that, but I suppose it narrows it down a bit.’
‘It does. He’s a photographer? Well that gives me something to go on. Thanks so much for ringing. I’m really grateful.’
‘What was that about?’ Mum asked, as I flipped shut the phone.
‘Oh—I’m just trying to find an…old…friend.’
‘Who?’
‘Oh, this chap called David.’
‘David? That doesn’t ring any bells. Did I ever meet him?’
‘No. You didn’t.’
Neither did I
.
‘Anyway, let’s have lunch.’
We began to walk back to the house. ‘Mum, there’s something I’ve got to tell you,’ I ventured as she opened the gate.
‘What?’ She looked at me suspiciously.
I’d been dreading this moment. ‘Well…it’s about…’
‘Your father?’ she anticipated. ‘It is, isn’t it?’
‘Actually, yes—it is. I had an e-mail from him last week.’
‘Really? And what did he say?’ My mother, some twenty years on, is still hostile towards my dad. It’s ridiculous.
‘That he’s leaving Palm Springs.’
‘Oh. Is that all?’ She sighed with relief. ‘And where’s he
going? Florida again? Bermuda? Or some other golfers’ paradise?’
‘No. None of those. He’s, um, decided to come back here.’
‘Here?’ She stopped dead in her tracks.
‘Yes, here.’
‘Here, as in the
UK
?’ I nodded. Her face was a mask of incredulity.
‘Why?’
‘For work.’
‘Running another silly golf club, I suppose?’ she said, striding towards the house once more.
‘Er, yes,’ I said. ‘That’s right.’
‘I just hope it’s in John O’Groats,’ she said crossly.
‘Well…it’s a bit nearer than that actually…’
She stopped again. ‘Where?’
‘Erm, about five miles away.’
She looked at me, dumbfounded, her mouth slightly agape. ‘You don’t,
surely
, mean five miles from
here
?’
‘Ye-es. I do mean that.’
‘You don’t mean that glitzy new one they’re building at Lower Chalvington?’ I nodded. Her eyes rolled in her head. ‘Oh.
Shit
.’
‘Look,’ I said, as she stomped off again, muttering expletives. ‘Dad just asked me to tell you so that there’s no awkwardness in case, you know, you bump into each other in the supermarket or anything.’
‘What an awful thought!’
‘Well, it
could
happen, Mum—so it’s better that you know.’
‘This is
all
I need.’
Over lunch she tried to explain her attitude to my dad.
‘It’s weird,’ I said wearily. ‘Especially as you’re so relaxed about Hugh. But the fact is Hugh left you for another
woman
.’
‘Yes,’ she said calmly. ‘That’s right. Hugh left me for another woman. An attractive, rich—and according to the girls,
perfectly charming—blonde woman, fifteen years my junior. My natural sense of justice means I can’t argue with that.’
‘But he had three children with you and was married to you. I don’t think he should have left you at
all
.’
‘Oh I don’t know,’ she sighed. ‘We’d grown apart by then—we hardly talked—and the girls were growing up. But your father abandoned me for a
game
. That’s
far
more humiliating! As though he didn’t like
being
with me. He played twelve hours a day, seven days a week—we hardly ever
saw
him. There were no family holidays because he was always away playing in some silly golf match. Don’t you remember any of this, Miranda?’
‘Yes,’ I sighed. ‘I
do
. I do remember he wasn’t around that much. But…’
‘Do you know
why
I called you Miranda?’ she interrupted.
I groaned, softly. ‘You’ve told me often enough. You called me Miranda because Dad was away
so
much it was a…’
‘…
wonder
you were born. Well it
was
!’ I nodded wearily. ‘It was miraculous, in fact. And it wasn’t even as though it was a game I could take the slightest interest in,’ she added crossly.
‘I see, so if he’d been a tennis player that would have been all right, would it?’
‘Well, I wouldn’t have hated it as much. But golf’s such a
stupid
game,’ she muttered as she opened the Aga. ‘Whacking a small ball about; ruining the landscape. Just the sight of those over-manicured links makes me spit. Soon there won’t be any countryside left—it’ll all be fairways and putting greens and driving ranges. Did you know that it’s practically possible to circumnavigate the planet without ever actually leaving a golf course?’ she added irritably.
‘No. I didn’t know that actually.’
‘Anyway, when’s the silly man coming?’ I told her. She nearly dropped the lasagne. ‘Next
week
?’
The first thing I did when I got back to London was to e-mail Dad to tell him that I’d broken the news to Mum. ‘
She was fine about it
,’ I lied. ‘
Just a little surprised
.’ Then I turned to the matter in hand. I grabbed the Yellow Pages and looked up photographers. There were at least four hundred, but only one David White, spelt ‘Whyte’. But on the same page I saw a number for the Photographers’ Association. I called it.
‘There are three David Whites on our register,’ the receptionist said. ‘Which one do you want?’
‘Well, I don’t know…’ I said, as I nervously doodled on an envelope.
‘You don’t know?’ she repeated. ‘Why not?’
I glanced out of the window into the Mews where a strikingly beautiful blonde woman was walking by. I found myself wondering who she was. ‘Because I’m…not sure what sort of photography he does, that’s why.’
‘Is it advertising, editorial, commercial or fashion?’ she demanded.
‘That’s the problem. I haven’t a clue. All I know is that he works in London. Or used to.’
‘According to our records these three all work in London.’
‘And they’re all called David White?’
‘They are. But one’s David M. White, one’s D.J. White, and one’s just Dave White. Which one do you want?’
My pulse was racing. ‘I’m not actually sure. Could you possibly give me all the numbers?’
‘Only if you’re phoning about work. We don’t give out our members’ contact details for any other reason.’ I heard Herman sigh. ‘Is that why you’re calling?’
‘No. It’s a…personal enquiry actually. He’s an old friend,’ I lied.
‘I’m sorry, but in that case I can’t help. However,’ she went on, ‘we do have a website—the-aop.org—and they may have put their details on that.’
I quickly scribbled down the address. ‘Thanks.’
I went to the site and found that all three photographers had put their studio numbers and their mobiles alongside their names, and they all had links to their own websites too. I looked at the photos they’d put on them. David M. White was a fashion photographer; D.J. White was a photojournalist; while Dave White did advertising work. I wrote their respective details down. And as I began to dial the first one I mentally rehearsed what I’d say. Obviously I wouldn’t just spill the beans over the phone. I’d find out whether they’d ever lived in Brighton. Then, once I’d established that I’d definitely got the right David White, I’d make some excuse to go to his studio, and then…and then…? And then, I’d tell him. But—
how
? I stared out of the window again. How would I begin a conversation like that? I put the receiver down.
‘I can’t do it, Herman.’ He looked stricken. ‘It’s a big thing. I need more time.’ And now, as I put out the folding chairs for the puppy party, I tried to imagine what he might look like. Like his father, perhaps. I remembered the grainy shot of Professor White which had appeared in
The Times
the next day. I went to my desk, found the file at the back of the drawer and took out the cutting. Dated 22nd March, 1987, it was brittle, yellow and frayed.
Letter-Bomb Sent to Scientist
announced the headline. Inset, was a photo of Derek White with the caption,
Animal Rights Target
. I read the piece again.
Derek White, 58, Professor of Biochemistry at Sussex University, was the target of animal rights fanatics yesterday when a letter-bomb was sent to his house in the Queens Park area of Brighton. The device, which was concealed in a video case, rather than the padded
Jiffy bags usually favoured by animal liberation activists, was delivered in person in the early hours. Professor White, for whom it was intended, escaped injury, but his twenty-year-old son, David, a student, who opened the parcel in error, suffered serious injuries to his hands
. A wave of nausea swept over me.
Professor White has never previously been threatened
, I read on.
His colleagues said the attack had come out of the blue
. And now, as I put the cutting back, I remembered what Jimmy had said. He’d said that Derek White had ‘had it coming’—but he wouldn’t say
why
. I looked at the three telephone numbers again. I’d phone tomorrow afternoon—when I wasn’t busy. I wanted to prepare myself emotionally first.
I glanced at my watch. There was half an hour before the puppy party crowd would arrive, so I checked my e-mails.
‘My cat has just had kittens,’
said the first one.
‘I can’t help feeling jealous—all the attention she used to give me is now lavished on them. Is it normal to feel like this?’ ‘I recently got a collie,’ said the next, ‘but I’m worried that it regards me as its intellectual inferior.’ ‘My rabbit refuses to breed,’
complained the third. Suddenly the phone went.
‘Miranda? This is Lily Jago. Just to say I’ll be coming to the puppy party tonight. I’ve just seen it on your website.’
‘You’ve got a puppy already?’
‘Yes. Another shih-tzu. We collected her yesterday.’
‘That was quick.’
‘There was just one left in the litter. She’s absolutely
exquisite
—almost twelve weeks. Jennifer and I felt we should get her on the social circuit as soon as possible.’
‘Well, the problem is I haven’t really got room. You see my maximum number’s eight, Lily, and I’m fully booked now.’
‘But she’s only a
tiny
thing. Honestly, Miranda. She’ll hardly take up any room. See you later!’
‘Eight
people
,’ I said, as the line went dead. Now there was a knock on the door, and the first puppy arrived; a Tibetan terrier called Maisie, with her owner, Phyllis, who’s eighty-three. I used to see Phyllis with her old dog, Cassie, when I was a vet in Highgate. When Cassie died last year, Phyllis was heart-broken. I’d advised her to get another dog.
‘I can’t,’ she’d said, tearfully, when I visited her. She gazed at a huge portrait of Cassie over the fireplace. ‘I just
can’t
.’
‘Why not?’ I asked. ‘Is it because you’re worried about having another dog at your age, because I’m sure your daughter would help out if you ever needed her to.’
‘No, it’s not because of that. It’s because of Cassie,’ she’d explained.
‘What do you mean?’
‘Well, it’s because Cassie would
know
. She’d
know
, Miranda.’ Phyllis’s pale blue eyes were shimmering with tears. ‘And she’d be terribly up
set
.’
‘I don’t think she…
would
know,’ I’d said. But Phyllis had flatly refused to countenance a canine replacement; then, all of a sudden, she’d changed her mind. She’d phoned me last week to say she’d got another Tibetan terrier and wanted to bring it to the party. I was thrilled…
‘Hello, Maisie,’ I said now, as I looked at the puppy. ‘Aren’t you sweet? I’m glad you decided to get another dog, Phyllis. I’m sure Cassie would be happy.’
‘Oh she
is
happy,’ said Phyllis. Her eyes were shining. ‘In fact, she’s
very
happy.’
‘Really? Er, what do you mean?’
‘Well,’ she began, in a confidential whisper, ‘Maisie isn’t really Maisie.’
‘Isn’t she?’
She shook her head. ‘I just call her that in order not to
confuse people. Maisie is actually Cassie,’ she explained seriously.
I stared at her. ‘Really?’
‘Yes. You see,’ she said, laying her frail hand on my arm, ‘Cassie’s come
back
.’ She gave me a beatific smile. ‘Cassie’s come back—in the body of another
dog
.’ She nodded at Maisie.
‘
Ah
.’
‘So it’s all worked out beautifully,’ she concluded happily.
‘Well, that’s just…great,’ I said.