CHAPTER TWO
“How could you, Joe? How dare you tell that awful Briggs woman that Anne is a head case? Anne is more than a guest, she’s a friend. I though she was your friend too. How can you be so horrible, and after all that poor woman has been through?” They were in the hotel kitchen and Mel hadn’t meant to raise her voice, but her husband had an uncanny way of knowing what she was thinking in spite of what she might say.
“I didn’t say she’s a head case, only that she’s obsessed. And she is obsessed. We both know she’s obsessed, everyone does.”
“Why did you have to open your big mouth in the first place? That’s what I’d like to know.”
“Mrs Briggs overhead two other guests talking about Anne…”
“Oh, and why was that? Who told them? Obsessed poor Anne may be, but contrary to your belief, not everyone knows or even thinks that. At least, they wouldn’t if certain people didn’t go around blabbing it to everyone.”
“Barry…” he began.
“Ah, well, that explains everything. If Barry knows, it must be all over the hotel by now!”
“He’s a good barman.”
“He’s got the gift of the gab, I’ll grant you that.”
“He’s a good barman,” Joe repeated.
“So the guests get the general idea from Barry and Mrs Briggs comes running to you for the sordid details, I suppose, as her sort usually do? Not that she could run anywhere.” Mel chuckled. “I mean, well, fat is fat but she’s enormous. What that young man sees in her, heaven only knows.”
“Money,” said Joe flatly and Mel could only nod in agreement. “She’s not so bad,” Joe went on, “In fact I quite like her. It’s not what you think either. She sought me out to ask if Anne was the same woman, that’s all. Don’t you remember? She was staying here the week young Patricia disappeared. On her honeymoon, she was. She’s put on some weight since then of course. I’ll say she has! It seems she’s had a few more husbands as well. Apparently, Briggs was her favourite so that’s the name she goes by.”
“Huh!” was all Mel said, annoyed that she had forgotten the woman whom Joe plainly remembered very well. She cast her mind back twenty-three years. Yes, there had been a honeymoon couple. But, try as she might, she could place neither names nor faces. She did recall, however, how they had booked in on the Friday and left on the Sunday afternoon. It hadn’t been until the early hours of Monday morning that the little girl was discovered missing. Anne had tucked her in after reading her a bedtime story about ten o’clock and Tom had checked on her just an hour or so later, by which time the child was fast asleep. Both had looked in on the sleeping child before going to bed themselves a little eleven thirty. It could have been yesterday. “Funny, that,” she remarked to Joe on her way to the lounge bar to have words with Barry, you remembering her and me not.”
She was an incredibly good looking woman in those days, Joe reflected, “...with the kind of legs any man would die for. But Mel had already left the room. Besides, he knew better than to voice such thoughts aloud.
It was after six thirty by the time Anne awoke. She had only lain on the bed to rest for a few minutes and now…”I’ve been asleep nearly two hours!” she exclaimed, a sense of panic taking its time to pass. The journey had tired her, it was true, but she had never felt the need to lie down upon arrival before. Could it be that old age was creeping up on her? Rubbish! I’m only fifty-eight, for heaven’s sake, she berated herself.
Even so, she could not check the long, involuntary sigh that escaped from her lips.
She rose, yawning, and crossed the room to a shabby but still handsome mahogany dressing table. Leaning heavily on its well-polished surface, she examined her face in the oval mirror. “Mirror, mirror...” She chuckled dryly, and the lined face creased briefly with amusement before tears filled her eyes as she recalled telling Patricia her favourite bed-time story about Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs. She gave a little giggle. “Surely it should be dwarves, Mummy, not dwarfs?” Patricia would invariably exclaim. Anne would always ignore the interruption and resolutely press on with the tale, not least because she suspected her daughter might well be right. It had become a little ritual between them that both enjoyed.
Oh, Patricia, where are you? Anne gazed pleadingly at the mirror. There was a lot to be said for fairy tales, she reflected gravely, before turning her back on the unresponsive mirror, the better to complete the process of unpacking she had abandoned earlier.
It was nearly seven-thirty by the time Anne found herself strolling, deep in thought, along the promenade, heading for the shelter where she knew she would find Owen Shepherd. Every year, he waited for her there. It was their secret. Mel and Joe had no idea. Nor it did not cross her mind that Owen mightn’t have waited on this occasion because she was so much later than usual. Dear Owen, she mused with mixed feelings. Such a nice man, yet so under his mother’s thumb. How had he borne it all these years? She had never found the courage to ask him. She sighed. But for Alice Shepherd’s domineering streak and Patricia’s disappearance, who knows…?
She liked Owen well enough. For his part, he always behaved very affectionately towards her. Not that he had ever so much as tried to kiss her, she had seen to that. Could I have made a life with Owen, had things been different? Anne wondered and the question surprised her, to say the least. After all, she had never contemplated anything more than friendship with the man. Well, have I? But before she could answer her own question with an emphatic negative, a familiar voice interrupted her. Anne felt at once irritated and relieved.
“Anne, at last, I was ready to give up on you!”
Suddenly she was at the shelter and Owen was giving her a big hug. In the past, she had always thought it an over demonstrative form of greeting but surrendered with good grace, despite finding it suffocating. This time, though, was different. For once, she felt relaxed and quite enjoyed the hug. It occurred to her that events were not following the same predictable pattern as previous years. It was unnerving. She liked things to stay the same. It was a great comfort to her. Again, she felt strangely threatened. At the same time, she felt curiously elated.
Something is going to happen. Yes, something was going to happen, she was sure of it.
Owen Shepherd fretted and fussed as Anne extricated herself from his arms with practised ease and they both sat down. “What kept you? I was starting to worry,”
As always, they had the shelter to themselves. It was as if the busy prom insisted on making this one concession. Or why was there no one else there, enjoying the free scenario of glittering sea, sunlight dancing on pebbles, passers-by chatting, laughing and generally exuding an air of well-being? It was all show and no substance, of course, rather like a fairy tale, but if there was something surreal about their surroundings, for once Anne didn’t mind.
“How are you?” Owen seemed genuinely anxious to know.
His concern for her was, she was certain, genuine enough. At the same time, she found it irritating if only because it was as predictable as everything else about the man. Even so, she took it in her stride, careful not to let her feelings show. “Oh, I’m much the same as ever. How about you, how have you been keeping?”
“Oh, plodding on. You know how it is. One gets by.”
“How is your mother?”
“Not long for this world, I fear. I wanted her to go into a hospice but she won’t hear of anyone else looking after her but me. I get help of course. Everyone has been wonderful, especially when you consider how difficult mother can be sometimes…” his voice trailed off.
Anne pursed her lips and said nothing. It was the first time she had heard Owen criticise his overbearing mother.
“It will be strange after she’s gone,” Owen continued in the same low, almost reverent tone, “She’s always been there, you see. When I was a child, she looked after me and when I grew up it was my turn to look after her. A fair enough exchange, I suppose…”
Anne refrained, as she always did with Owen, from speaking her mind. Instead, she asked, “Who’s with her now?”
“Jean Curtis, a neighbour. She’s a bit of a dragon but used to be a nurse and mother trusts her. She certainly won’t stand any nonsense. I think mother rather likes that. She calls the poor woman everything under the sun, but to be honest, I think mother is just a teeny bit in awe of Jean.”
“That has to be a first,” Anne commented dryly.
“Yes,” Owen Shepherd agreed, “Mother doesn’t get all her own way with Jean. As you say, it’s a first.” He chuckled then, “Oh, but enough of my problems. Do you see anything of Tom these days?”
This unexpected reference to her ex-husband caught Anne off guard and she answered with some bitterness, “We haven’t spoken for years, as well you know, not since the divorce.”
“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to pry.”
“Don’t be.” Anne rallied and attempted to make light of it, “You know me, Owen. I open my mouth and half the time I haven’t got a clue what I’m going to say.”
Both laughed companionably. However, it struck Owen Shepherd as a curious admission. True, Anne was obsessed about her missing daughter but that was understandable. On the whole, though, he had always thought of her as what his mother liked to call a ‘together’ person. “Give me a person who’s got it together any day,” she’d say.
Given the circumstances, Owen brooded as he often did, poor Anne could be forgiven for going completely to pieces. Instead, she had got on with her life and, apart from this pilgrimage every August, refused to let the terrible events of years ago destroy her. She exuded an inner strength he admired and so wished he could emulate. Yet, she never made him feel inferior. Moreover, she was the only person, apart from his mother, with whom he had ever felt comfortable. Most people, he knew, saw him as a weak person, tied all his life to is mother’s apron strings. He saw it in their eyes all the time. It was so unfair. He loved his mother. It had been his choice not to break away, live his life differently, get married and go along with conventions he despised. “I thought maybe you weren’t coming this year, what with its getting late and you always as regular as clockwork,” he said with a shy smile.
Anne sighed. Had she, too, become so predictable? “I have to come. I need to come. If I didn’t, I probably couldn’t live with the guilt.”
“You’ve no cause to feel guilty,” said Own gruffly, and without thinking, placed a reassuring hand on hers.
“I dare say we all have cause to feel guilty about something,” said Anne quietly and would have removed her hand but for the weight on it. She tensed then relaxed. He meant well.
“A nasty thing, guilt,” murmured Owen, “Once it gets its teeth into you, you’re scarred for life.”
A youth with his hair in a ponytail lurched past with a fierce looking dog tugging at the leash. He flung them a cheeky grin and Anne smiled back. She liked dogs although she had never owned one. Patricia had been pestering her and Tom to buy her a puppy that last summer…
“Come on, I fancy fish and chips.” She hauled a half-protesting Owen to his feet, slipped an arm in his and they headed towards the pier.
Fate had not saved them an empty seat on the pier and they had to share with a young couple so wrapped up in each other they would not have noticed had a vampire sat next to them. The image of a vampire abroad in Brighton made Anne laugh. Owen, though, was not amused when she explained.
“A vampire, what do you mean, a vampire? Don’t be daft,” he retorted.
Not for the first time, Anne missed her ex-husband’s sense of humour. Tom would have been in stitches. A colleague had told her only recently that she should ‘lighten up’ but there was little chance of that in Owen’s company. He was a dear but dour man. Yet, over the years, they had learned to accept each other’s failings and not be distracted by them. It was as if they had made an unspoken pact. She refrained from suggesting he mightn’t always cave in to the demands his mother had made upon him all his adult life. He, in turn, would never dream of questioning her coming to Brighton every first two weeks in August since Patricia vanished. Would she ever know what happened? It’s all very well for people to say lighten up, let go, move on…but…how can I?
“I ought to be getting back soon,” Owen was saying, “I don’t like to leave mother with other people for too long.”
“I’ll come back with you. Perhaps I could pop in for a few minutes and say hello, if she’s feeling up to it.”
“Good lord, no. I mean…well…she might get the wrong idea.” He looked suddenly very flustered. “I mean, what with it getting late. That is…I mean to say… she might think we were…well...you know…walking out, or something like that.” He paused then added in a rush, “But do drop by tomorrow. Mid-day is a good time. I know she wants to see you. She talks about you a lot, you know, especially at this time of year. It will soon be August, son, she’ll say. It will be nice to see Anne again.”
Anne found herself imagining what Tom would have made of the phrase ‘walking out’ and saw him plainly in her mind’s eye, convulsed with laughter. It also struck her as odd that she should be thinking so much about Tom this evening. The divorce had been messy. Perhaps if she’d had another child, their marriage might have survived. Tom had wanted to try but she couldn’t face it. By the time she had started considering it, he had already found someone else. Even then, they might have got together again. They had loved each other once, after all. But the woman had been carrying his child. He had already lost one child. How could she ask him to turn his back on another? She had felt angry, hurt and bitter. They had said terrible things to one another. Yet, it was all down to me. I let it happen. I could have at least tried to win him back, but…What was the point? By then, Patricia had been gone nearly ten years. Just as their daughter’s birth had brought them closer together, so her disappearance drove them apart.
“Mother likes you,” Owen was saying, “and that makes you very unusual. Mother doesn’t take to many people…”
But Anne was only half listening as they made their way to the pier entrance. Glancing to her left, she could just make out the burnt-out ruin of the West Pier bathed in a slowly ebbing sunlight that all but gave the impression it was on fire again. It’s such an eyesore, she thought. The council should do something about it. But it’s a piece of history, I suppose. I dare say the people who complain are probably the same people who will miss it most when it’s gone. Another chuckle (or was it a sob?) stuck in her throat. Of one thing she was sure. It was the oddest phenomenon, human nature.
“You must come to lunch," Owen prattled on, "Tomorrow, yes, tomorrow would be nice. We can have it on trays in mother’s room. She’ll like that…”
Idly, Anne glanced across the road. People were passing by but only as nameless shadows in a mist. Suddenly, they leapt into focus. She saw a couple with a child, a pretty blond girl about nine years old. Her feet refused to move another step.
“Are you alright?” Owen was asking. But Anne paid scant attention. The couple had already turned a corner by the cinema and into West Street, taking themselves and the child beyond her line of vision.
“Did you see them?” Anne turned to Owen excitedly, “that couple with the little girl? She was the spitting image of Patricia! Come on, quickly, we must catch them up.” Grabbing his hand, she broke into a run and dragged him, protesting loudly, after her.
“For heaven’s sake, Anne, get a grip. It’s been twenty-three years. That child cannot possibly be Patricia!”
Anne did not falter for a second. “Of course it’s not Patricia. What kind of a fool do you take me for, Owen?” she panted, “But don’t you see? The mother…it has to be Patricia! That child…such a likeness, it’s uncanny…it has to be her. I tell you, Owen, I’ve found her! I’ve found my Patricia! Oh, damn!” berating herself for having to stop to get a second wind.
“We’ll never catch them now, Anne. By the time we get across the road, they could be anywhere. Besides…be honest with yourself, woman. If that child’s mother is Patricia, I’m Donald Duck. How can you possibly tell what she looks like from this distance anyway?” But she ignored him and was already propelling him to the traffic lights, across the road and into West Street. There, she stopped, looked right then left and gazed up the hill with such a look of plaintive longing in her eyes that it cut him to the quick. “It’s no good Anne,” he said gently, “She’s gone.” How many times had he spoken those same words over the years? Too many, he could but remind himself, grimly.
“ We’ll walk up the hill to the station. They may have a train to catch…”
“And they may already have caught it by the time we get there. Or they may be getting into a car, even as we speak, about to start off on the journey home. They could be in a store, at a hotel, on a bus. Or…” He dropped his voice, “you could be mistaken.”
She rounded on him. “I am not mistaken,” she declared, voice ringing with conviction. “That child’s mother is my daughter. I don’t expect you to believe me. But I know what I know. I can feel it…here.” She pressed a hand against her rapidly beating heart. “This time is going to be different. I’ve had the weirdest sense of something quite extraordinary about my trip this year. I couldn’t explain it. I even tried to ignore it, gave myself a good ticking off for starting to hope again, however faintly. But now…now I know…I KNOW.” She flung him a look that sent his pulse racing. “I’m sorry Owen. I know you think I’m quite mad. I’m not, I can assure you. But I have to do this and do it by myself. So, I’ll bid you goodnight.”
Owen Shepherd knew better than to argue. “What about lunch tomorrow? Mother is so looking forward to seeing you.”
“I’ll call you,” was all Anne Gates would say before she turned her back on her old friend and began walking slowly up the hill, first to the clock tower then all the way to the railway station. Her legs moved agonizingly slowly. Her eyes kept darting everywhere, pausing momentarily on a black hat in a charity shop window. She had worn a hat just like it at her father’s funeral, almost twenty years ago. She had worn it again at her mother’s, six months later.
Her parents, she recalled with uncharacteristic bitterness, had been no help to her after Patricia disappeared. On the contrary, they had gone to pieces and she’d had to watch them die…as if it hadn’t been enough that part of herself was dying. But she had forced herself to cling to life - and hope - for Patricia’s sake. How she had found the strength, she would never know. It certainly wasn’t genetic. Nor had her ex-husband, Tom, Patricia’s doting father, been the rock she might have hoped for.
Anne trudged around the railway station until late then took a cab back to the hotel. She felt disappointed, yes, but not defeated. On the contrary, the earlier elation that had coursed through her veins continued to do so. “I’ve just seen my daughter!” she told the cab driver
“That’s nice,” he said.
It struck Anne that it was such an ordinary conversation to be having. She settled back in the seat feeling more relaxed and…yes, ordinary…more ordinary than she had in years.
To be continued on Friday.
