The Art of Forgetting (3 page)

I may have been the junior partner in this friendship and I may have looked up to Linda, but I couldn’t go along with this and I told her so. To her credit, she didn’t get angry, nor did she try to change my mind, but there was a different feel to our relationship from that point. She started to catch a later train sometimes, or she would rush onto the platform just as our usual train arrived and jump into a different carriage. We had already changed our regular seats, not wanting to see the man, but if we did travel together the atmosphere would be strained and we never discussed that evening, not once. I noticed also that she often wore new clothes – decent clothes, not the cheap and cheerful stuff she had worn before. Was she simply earning more or was the money coming from somewhere else? I couldn’t ask her, and when I complimented her on the new shoes or new jacket she would merely say ‘thanks,’ so that didn’t throw any light on the subject.

It was only a couple of months later that I met Andy, and then my whole life started to revolve around him. That’s what it was like then; girls tended to fit in with their boyfriends’ social circles, not like now, when they still go out with their mates and boys have to fit in with them. Andy was a year older than me, and he was in a band – just some local lads practising in the village hall, but it seemed so glamorous to me – and pretty soon I hardly saw Linda at all. It wasn’t as if we had often been out socially anyway, and if I saw her once a week on the platform we might exchange a few pleasantries and that would be that. I didn’t mind too much, although it did feel rather sudden. It seemed that the relationship had run its course.

That’s probably why it was such a shock when I heard. My parents were full of it when I came down to breakfast one Saturday in October, about seven months after the incident with the man. He was always that: ‘the man,’ even though I knew his name. Using it would have been too personal. They shooed a protesting Wendy out of the kitchen so they could talk to me and I was still wondering what had happened, who had died, when they told me. Linda was missing – hadn’t been seen for two days, and there were posters going up everywhere. It had been on the radio, but Mum had also been talking to someone from the WI who knew somebody who knew the family, so it must be right.

I sat down heavily, my stomach churning. Linda missing. It didn’t seem possible and I tried to remember when I had last seen her, but I couldn’t pin it down to a particular day. I wasn’t even sure if it was last week or the week before as we had barely spoken; a quick
“How are you?”
and “
Oh, I’m fine thanks, and you?”
and it had been over. The train had arrived, but we didn’t even pretend that we were more than acquaintances by that time, and we had both turned and walked to different carriages with nothing more than a goodbye smile.

I had to take some decisions very quickly, there and then, at the kitchen table. The stark ordinariness of the scene – the box of cornflakes, the yellow teapot, the crumbs of toast on Mum’s plate standing out like something from a Warhol print – made what had happened seem even more unreal. I’d like to say that I sat down and took the decision advisedly, considering all the issues, but actually I pushed it all to one side as if it hadn’t happened at all. When I finally spoke I explained that I didn’t see Linda much nowadays and that we didn’t travel together. No, we hadn’t fallen out – we had never been friends, not real friends – and now I was so familiar with the journey we had just drifted apart, especially after I started to go out with Andy.

I’m pretty sure they were disappointed when they heard this, especially Mum. I think she had this vision of taking me down to the police station where I would provide a critical piece of information leading to Linda’s safe return. I don’t know how she could have thought this. Wouldn’t I have missed her if we had still been close? But maybe the thought was too compelling to allow reason to interfere. Some thoughts are like that. Anyway, I got a bit of a grilling – surely you must remember when you last saw her – but that bit was true. I really couldn’t remember, and if I was feeling guilty it either didn’t show or guilt is easily mistaken for shock. I didn’t eat any breakfast, but went back up to my room with a wan smile in response to their sympathetic looks.

I shut the door behind me and sat on the bed. What had I done? I had said nothing about the man, but he could turn out to be the cause of her disappearance. Linda may have been continuing her campaign against him all this time – hence the new clothes – and he may have decided to silence her. I couldn’t keep this to myself. But then I thought of my parents sitting downstairs, of their faces as I told them what we had done, and I couldn’t do it. They idolised me, especially my dad; they would never think the same of me if I told them. And what about Wendy? How would she live it down at school? Your sister’s a blackmailer!

There was another reason too. It was quite possible that Linda would turn up in a day or so – she was a bit wild, after all. She could be having a great time with some boy, then she would come back and find out that I had spilled the beans and we would both be in trouble – big trouble in her case, if she had carried it on. And the man’s wife would find out and have to bring up the child on her own and the child would be teased at school … No, I wouldn’t say anything yet. I would wait and see what happened.

If only I’d had a little longer, maybe I would have changed my mind and told them. However, it seemed my mother’s desire to help, to be involved, was too strong to resist and she had already told a number of people about my friendship with Linda. This led to my name being added to a list and it was only the next day when the police arrived to interview me. Actually, it was just one policeman, not a whole lot older than me, and my parents were there in the lounge with me as he wrote it all down in his notebook. How Linda and I had seen a lot of each other a few months ago, had travelled to work together, been out socially a couple of times. How we had gone our own ways recently – no, we hadn’t argued, we were still on good terms. I had a boyfriend now and we didn’t always get the same train these days.

He was very interested in our last meeting, but although I had genuinely tried, I still couldn’t pin it down to a particular day. It was certainly well before the last day her mother saw her, which was Wednesday, as she left to go to work. Yes, she had seemed fine; perfectly normal. Nothing different in her manner. No, she hadn’t said anything about going away – hadn’t said anything much at all. I told him everything I knew with the one major exception. My only lie was one of omission, but I felt sick afterwards and had to get out of the house, dragging the poor old dog down to the park and willing things to be different. If I could only stay out for an hour, the news would be waiting when I returned. Linda would be back, safe and sound, and my action would be vindicated. I did stay out an hour, but there was no news when I got back and my parents were almost as concerned for the dog as they were for me.

I waited the next day and the next. Each day I was definitely going to tell someone the day after if she didn’t turn up, but then we got the call from the hospital and they had to fetch Paul, with all the trauma that entailed. Also, at about the same time, there was a story in all the papers about a girl who had gone missing and been found in a commune in Wales, and I persuaded myself that Linda would have done something similar. I imagined her in a big old house somewhere, with people who sat around playing guitars into the night. Or maybe she would be in London, sitting on the floor in a squat, listening to someone reading poetry or posing whilst a long-haired man with a beard sketched her half-naked.

As it turned out that wasn’t the case and, looking back, I don’t know why I allowed myself to think any of those things. Linda had never shown the slightest inclination to embrace an alternative lifestyle. She was strictly mainstream, devoted to fashion and looking her best and certainly unlikely to be interested in poetry. But I suppose it must have suited my purpose to believe it at the time, and my parents were so wrapped up in caring for Paul that they hardly mentioned her again so it wasn’t that hard to file it all away.

They were terrible, those first couple of weeks after he came back. The doctor said he was burnt out, studying too hard. Maybe he wasn’t suited to university after all but, slowly, he came out of the dark place he had slipped into and we began to see the old Paul again. Personally, I didn’t think it was studying that had caused him to overdose on painkillers and alcohol though. After all, he’d only been back two or three weeks when we got the call and he certainly hadn’t been doing much studying, or anything else, during the long summer holiday. My parents had complained about this on many an occasion, although they’d had little or no response. He’d get up about lunchtime, go out at about teatime and return in the early hours and I thought he may have got involved in drugs of some kind, as he was very secretive about it all. Anyway, whatever it was, he was well enough to return for the last couple of weeks before Christmas and life returned to normal.

When I say life returned to normal, that is only partly true. I continued to go to work, and Andy and I continued to go out, but

“Is that it?”

Kelly picks up the pad and examines it, flicking through the pages as if the rest of the story could be hiding somewhere between them, but there really is no more. The last word is at the very end of the bottom line of the final page. Their mother hasn’t written on the cover or the cardboard backing, as she might have if there were only a few more sentences left to write.

“There must be some more, another pad,” she says. “Where did you find this one? Come on, show me. I want to find out what happened to Linda.”

They search for over an hour, rooting through the stack of carrier bags yet to be tackled, pulling open drawers and cupboards, to no avail. Every now and then one of them will stop, momentarily overcome by the contrast between the vibrant young woman their mother was and the person she has become, and then they talk. There are even a few tears, but mostly they are captivated by the narrative. It is as if a new and unknown version of their mother has been lent to them for a while then whisked away again, and they want her back When it becomes clear that there is no sign of a second pad in the bedroom, Kelly even wants to go through all the black bags, but that is when Laura becomes cross with her. They argue, just a little, before Laura sees what is happening and stops it.

“Come on, it’s time to go home. Come with me to pick up the kids – you know how they love to see you – and you can eat with us if you like. If it’s here, we’ll find it sometime, won’t we?”

When she finally slumps down on the sofa that evening, the kids in bed and the dishwasher rumbling and swooshing in the kitchen, Laura shows Patrick the pad, but he only flicks through it. “It’s all a long time ago now, love,” he says, his eyes drifting back to the television.

So she texts Kelly.

You around?

Yup

I think we should ask Mum about Linda

Hmm

She might still remember that far back

OK, Sunday?

Sundays have become something of a routine in the past few weeks and are at once a trial and a joy. Sometimes, their mother will be perky and apparently almost normal. They’ll sit in a pub somewhere, those of them who can make it, and eat a Sunday lunch like any other family. But sometimes it isn’t like that. Like the time when she was anxious and confused from the moment they arrived at her house, looking for someone or something she could neither articulate nor possibly leave behind. They guided her out and hoped she’d forget about whatever it was by the time they got there, but she didn’t. That was when she swiped Kelly across the face for attempting to help her out of the car. There were other people in the car park and it was all horribly embarrassing and sad, especially as she had never even smacked them as children.

Still, the good times outweigh the bad. Mostly she sits and eats peacefully, appearing to listen to conversations but then reminding them all that she can’t any more, not really, by telling them something random that had happened years ago or mixing up who they are. This is particularly the case with the children. When Laura’s two and Robin’s boys are all there, she finds it impossible to work out who they are and often calls Lily Laura and all the boys Robin, even though the adult versions of both are sitting there, glaring at their offspring if they seem inclined to laugh or correct her.

When Sunday comes, Kelly arrives to pick up Laura and they ask Patrick to bring the kids and meet them at the pub. It is difficult taking children into the home anyway, as they don’t know how to respond when some whiskery old man wants to talk to them or when the tall, thin woman who always patrols the entrance hall glares at them as if they are intruders.

The Willows residential home is a good-sized Edwardian house, set in its own grounds and painted a tasteful muted green. They pull into the drive, the gravel crunching under the tyres, and find a parking space round the back. It is a nice day, breezy but sunny. Several of the residents are on the patio, in wheelchairs or comfortable cane furniture, some with blankets over their knees.

“Oh, look, there’s Mum,” says Kelly, pointing at a figure at the far end of the lawn.

“That’s good. We’ll have a word with her out here. She’s often calmer outside.”

They get out of the car and Laura walks over to her mother, while Kelly goes through the back door to have a quick word with the staff to see how she’s been in the past couple of days. This is supposed to be a short-stay placement, to give them time to sort out the house and put a package of care into place. However, none of them could have guessed how long it would take, or how seriously confused she had become.

“Hello, Mum, how are you?”

“Hello, love. Well, I’ll be a lot better when I get back to my own house. Have you come to take me?”

“No, not today, Mum. You have to stay a bit longer,” says Laura brightly. “Come on, let’s sit over here and have a chat.”

So they sit down on a bench in the sun and Kelly joins them. Laura notices that her mother is wearing slippers, and somebody else’s slippers at that. She is making a mental note to sort that out before they leave when she realises that Kelly is leaping in with the question.

“Mum, do you remember a girl called Linda? You used to catch the train with her when you worked in London.”

“Linda? Is she coming?”

“No, she’s not. Do you remember, she went missing when you were both young? Did she come back?”

“Come back? Did she? She was a naughty girl, but I didn’t tell them that. Is she coming here?”

They give up at that point. It is clear that their mother is too confused to throw any light on the subject today and anyway it is time to leave, so they sort out her shoes and drive to the pub without mentioning it again. It is both funny and sad, the way she looks out of the window and exclaims in surprise and delight at what should be the familiar streets, fields and trees as they approach the pub, a mile or two into the countryside. To her, the buildings are all big and impressive, the shops new and inviting, and the landscape must seem like the African veldt, judging by how excited she becomes. Laura is sitting in the back with her and she can see Kelly’s shoulders shaking. She hopes it is with laughter.

The meal passes without incident, and it is only at the last minute that Laura decides to go back to The Willows with Kelly. She could just as easily jump into the car with Patrick and the kids. There are all the usual Sunday things to do when they get back and she could use the time, but she taps Patrick on the arm as they approach their car.

“I think I’ll go with Kelly, just in case,” she says. “You don’t mind, do you?”

Patrick merely shrugs and points the key fob at the car. She almost changes her mind again, but then he stops and looks at her. “No, go on. You’ll only worry if you don’t, but Kelly is perfectly capable, you know.”

She knows that, or at least, part of her does. Although she is not yet thirty, Kelly has volunteered in a village in Africa, travelled on an aid convoy and now she is teaching part-time in a tough school in south London. But dealing with your mother, your confused and sometimes difficult mother, when you are the baby of the family?

Laura turns and calls over to them, a couple of cars away. “Hang on, I’m coming with you!”

She sees the slight flash of irritation on Kelly’s face.

“I could’ve managed.”

“I know. Sorry. I’m just a worrier, but I’ll get better, I promise.”

They sit in the back as they had before. Kelly’s car is old and has no child locks in the front, so there is no choice, not if they want to avoid a repeat of the incident when their mother decided to get out of the car whilst they were waiting at a red light. It was lucky they’d been in the inside lane, or the results could have been tragic, but even though no-one had been hurt, it had been incredibly difficult to coax her back into the car. Kelly had to drive round the corner and sit, hazard lights flashing, until they arrived about five minutes later. Laura was fraught and close to tears but their mother remained serenely unaware of the trouble she had caused.

“Linda Lucaretti,” she says.

“What’s that, Mum?”

“Linda Lucaretti. That was her name. Do you remember? She used to go on and on about being Italian. I’d forgotten about that. We were quite good friends for a while, but then, but then ...”

“She went missing, didn’t she?” says Laura.

But the moment of relative lucidity seems to have passed, as Judy starts to talk about her sewing box which she is convinced has been stolen. In fact, they haven’t even brought it from her house as they have no idea where it is and she has always hated sewing anyway. But still, no amount of encouragement can persuade her to leave the subject alone, even when she is safely ensconced in her room. Eventually they have to leave somebody else to deal with it.

“Phew,” says Kelly as they set off for Laura’s house at last. “It’s just as well she didn’t have that sewing box, or I might have stuffed her head in it.”

That makes Laura laugh
.
“I know. Look, I don’t think we’re going to get much out of her, nothing more than snippets anyway, but now we know Linda’s full name, shall I do a bit of digging? May as well do something with all this time on my hands.”

“You will get another job, you know,” says Kelly, picking up on the bitterness in her sister’s voice. “But yes, until you do, if you have time ...”

So it is decided, between the two of them. They don’t talk to Robin and Beth, they don’t talk to Patrick, they don’t even talk to each other in any detail. It isn’t a big deal. All Laura is going to do is try to find out if Linda Lucaretti had ever returned; if she is still alive. If she is, that will be the end of it, and if she isn’t, well there probably won’t be much they can do about that either. That is what Laura thinks as she waves Kelly goodbye and lets herself in, and she is glad of the little surge of excitement and pleasure in her stomach. That has been missing for a while.

The next day, Laura forces herself to do useful things for at least an hour after she gets back from the school run. The novelty of this little routine wore off quite quickly after she stopped working, and there has never been much charm in housework and washing, but she feels this must come first. Naturally, Patrick has been nothing but supportive, but she still feels terribly guilty about being at home whilst he is at work, and keeping the house running is one way of abating that guilt. She knows it is useful that she has time to work on sorting out Mum’s house, but that is something she finds very difficult to do on her own and she often finds herself inventing reasons not to go. Perhaps she will go later, she thinks.

Her laptop is on the dining room table, and that is the obvious place to start the search for Linda. So, as soon as she has tidied up a bit, filled the dishwasher and the washing machine and opened the post, she makes herself a coffee and sits down. Linda Lucaretti. There is nothing relevant on the first two pages of search results, with that or any other spelling she tries, and most of the hits are American anyway. So that is a dead end and a further couple of hours are equally fruitless. By the time she has grabbed a bite to eat, it is time to think about dinner and then there is the school run again. It isn’t until quite late in the evening that she is able to give it any more thought.

“Do newspapers keep all their old back copies?” she asks Patrick, who is half-watching something on the sports channel whilst flicking through the local paper.

“I guess so, though I can’t imagine why anyone would want to read this in the future,” he says, dropping the paper onto the floor beside him. “Any particular reason?”

“It’s just that thing that Mum wrote, you remember, that I showed you. I wonder if that girl’s disappearance was covered at the time.”

“Hmm, could’ve been. But I wouldn’t worry about it anyway. Like I said, it was a long time ago.”

She can see he is already back with the sport, so she spends an hour searching for the names of the local papers. She narrows them down to one, which had been in existence throughout the time but changed its name, and another which has been absorbed by a larger concern. At least she has something to work on and the fact that Patrick is not interested is probably a bonus.

The next day she spends the best part of the morning on the phone before establishing that she will have to go to The Kent Messenger office in Maidstone to stand any chance of reading back copies from that period. They are all stored on microfilm, but members of the public can access them by appointment. She decides to go on Thursday, when the kids have after-school clubs, in case she is delayed getting back. Now there is nothing else she can do but she texts Kelly to let her know, half-hoping she may not be working that day and will offer to come with her. However, Kelly’s reply puts paid to that.

That’s great, well done! I’ll call after school to see what you’ve got!

By Thursday, Laura finds herself unreasonably excited by the prospect of a trip to Maidstone, and the fact that she hasn’t told Patrick anything about it just seems to add to the excitement. She has been to the station and bought tickets in advance, so all she has to do is take a taxi at either end. For some reason, she pays for everything by cash, and the £60 she withdrew the day before is dwindling fast by the time she arrives at the newspaper offices.