The Girl in the Picture Page 21

  I nodded, impressed with his insight into Violet’s world. We stayed quiet for a while as we sped through the downs, past the university and the sweeping curves of the new football stadium, where Ben’s team played. I wasn’t sure whether to tell Dad that there was more about Violet that interested me than just the mystery.

  ‘Violet’s mum died,’ I said eventually. ‘When Violet was five years old. She died giving birth to her baby brother, and he died too. I think that’s another reason I feel so involved in her story. I just can’t ignore the similarities between our lives, even though she was born so long ago.’

  ‘Ah,’ said my dad. I waited for him to carry on, but he didn’t. So I leant my head back and watched the landscape rushing by in my wing mirror.

  ‘Do you miss her,’ I asked. I’d never asked that before, strange as it sounded.

  Dad was silent for so long I thought he wasn’t going to answer.

  ‘At first,’ he said. ‘I missed her every hour of every day. Then eventually I got used to her being gone, but it still hurt. I just arranged my life around her not being here.’

  He overtook a camper van.

  ‘Imagine you had a beautiful garden and someone dug a hole right in the middle of it,’ he said. ‘Eventually you might learn to walk round the hole, but you wouldn’t like it. Then I met Barb and things were different. Of course I still miss your mum, and I wonder what she’d be like now, and I think about how much she’d have loved seeing you with Ben and the boys. But Barb has helped me build a bridge over the hole that she and Billy left.’

  Dad kept his eyes fixed firmly on the road, but I could see a glitter of unshed tears.

  ‘I miss her too,’ I said. Dad, still looking at the traffic ahead, reached out and took my hand briefly and I smiled. We were approaching Eastbourne now, pretty villages giving way to wide fields and large roundabouts.

  ‘Dad,’ I said, staring straight ahead. ‘When Violet’s mother died, her father sent her to live with relatives.’

  ‘Poor git,’ Dad said. ‘He must have missed her.’

  I took a breath. ‘When Mummy died – at the funeral – I heard you ask Sally to take me,’ I said.

  My father inhaled sharply. ‘I remember,’ he said. ‘I begged her. God, what a mess I was.’

  I wasn’t sure I could speak.

  ‘And you heard me say it? Hells bells, Ells.’

  I smiled, despite myself, at the expletive he’d used so often during my teenage years.

  ‘Have you got the directions?’

  I pulled out the map I’d printed off. ‘Winnie said to follow the signs to the Marina,’ I said. ‘It’s left at the next roundabout.’

  Dad indicated left and I felt annoyed that I’d missed this opportunity to talk about what he’d said. But I’d misjudged him.

  ‘I don’t remember much about that time,’ he carried on. ‘I barely remember the funeral. I was falling apart. I thought I couldn’t look after you. You were this wonderful little girl with a broken heart and I didn’t know how to put you back together – I couldn’t put myself back together. So I asked Sally if she’d take you.’

  ‘She said no,’ I said. ‘But not because she didn’t want me.’

  Dad laughed. He actually laughed. ‘Of course not because she didn’t want you,’ he said. ‘She knew I was yours and she knew I would realize that soon enough.’

  I closed my eyes.

  ‘About three weeks after she died, I woke up,’ Dad said. ‘I wasn’t numb any more, which was terrible because suddenly I missed your mum and the baby with a crippling pain. But it was also good because I realized how much I loved you. More than that, she knew I needed you. What would I have done without you, eh? You were all I had.’

  ‘Straight over at this junction,’ I said. I felt a tear trickle down my cheek.

  ‘One day you came to me; your hair was all tangly,’ Dad said. ‘You gave me your hairbrush and a bobble, then you sat down and waited for me to sort it out – just like your mum would have. I didn’t know where to begin. I nearly told you to go away. But then I looked at you, just sitting there, trusting me to make it better, and I knew I had to try.’

  ‘Left here,’ I said. ‘It’s number 56.’

  Dad slowed down to turn the corner. ‘I even got a book out of the library,’ he said. ‘This is number 40, so I’ll just stop here.’

  He undid his seatbelt and deftly reversed the Audi into a tiny space.

  ‘A book?’ I said in a shaky voice. I bent down to pick up my bag from the footwell and wiped away a tear before Dad noticed it.

  ‘A book about how to do hair.’ He chuckled. ‘I never did get to grips with plaits.’

  ‘Dad,’ I said. ‘The whole time I was growing up, I thought you’d send me away if I was naughty.’

  Dad looked at me, his brow knotted with worry.

  ‘I never got into trouble,’ I pointed out. ‘Never. Because I was too scared.’

  ‘Oh, Ella,’ Dad said. ‘That’s what you meant in the pub.’

  I gave him a weak smile. ‘That’s what I meant. I thought if I did something you didn’t approve of, you’d not want me any more. I knew moving to Sussex was a bit risky, and I knew you’d worry, and I thought if I did it anyway you’d be cross and then you’d – I don’t know – cut me off or something.’

  Dad paused for a moment, then he turned in his seat and took hold of both my hands. ‘Ella,’ he said. ‘Nothing you can do will stop me loving you. I admit, I’m a cautious bugger and I realize that’s because of my own issues about what happened with your mum. I see dangers everywhere and I know you do too, and that’s the way we are.’

  I gave him a rueful smile, but he’d not finished yet.

  ‘If you decided to climb Mount Everest, or start a new career as a trapeze artist, or move to Australia, I’d worry of course but I’d still be your dad. You can’t get rid of me that easily.’

  Once more I couldn’t speak. Dad had just got rid of worries I’d held on to for thirty years.

  ‘I’m scared of spiders,’ I managed to say eventually. ‘So Australia’s out. And I’m not great with heights. I think I’ll stick to writing in Sussex for now.’

  Dad and I smiled at each other for a second, then he turned off the engine.

  ‘Shall we go and solve this mystery of yours, then?’ he said.

  ‘Let’s do it.’

  As Dad got out of the car and came to stand next to me on the pavement, I gave him a hug. He ruffled my hair like he’d done a thousand times before and I ducked away like I’d done a thousand times before. I realized that all the while I’d been worrying my dad wouldn’t love me, he’d simply been getting on with it. Loving me in his own way.

  ‘We didn’t do so bad, did we?’ he said.

  ‘We didn’t do so bad at all,’ I agreed. I looked down at the address in my hand in surprise.

  ‘This is it,’ I said. ‘I think …’

  It was nothing like I’d imagined Winnie Flood’s house to be. We were standing outside a newly built, glass-fronted apartment block. To the side and in front of us was the Marina, where rows of beautiful yachts bobbed gently.

  ‘God it’s like San bloody Tropez,’ said Dad. ‘This isn’t how I remember Eastbourne.’

  I grinned and pushed the buzzer for number 56.

  If Winnie Flood’s house was nothing like I’d expected, then Winnie herself was even more of a surprise. She was no little old lady. Instead she had silver-blonde hair in a neat bob and she was wearing a striped Breton T-shirt, cropped chinos, and – I blinked in surprise – Converse.

  ‘My husband and I did a lot of sailing,’ she said as she made us all tea. ‘When he died three years ago, I found I no longer wanted to be at sea, but I did want to be near the water. So I sold our house and the boat and bought this flat.’

  Despite her downsizing, Winnie had a wealth of family history. She’d brought out a large hatbox full of papers and photographs and laid them out on her glass dining table.

&nbs
p; ‘I have three older brothers,’ she said. ‘One is local but the other two live in Australia. They weren’t interested in all this stuff.’

  That was when Winnie passed me the photograph of Frances and I realized our theory had been wrong.

  ‘So Frances was my great-grandmother,’ Winnie was saying. ‘I never met her, of course, or my grandfather Charles. I was a very late baby for my mother – I think I took her by surprise.’

  Dad took the photograph from me. ‘Do you know anything about her?’

  ‘A bit,’ Winnie said. ‘There are some papers she left. I know her husband died before Charles was born.’

  Feeling slightly awkward about revealing how Winnie’s great-grandfather had met his end, I explained about the attack and that Violet had gone missing at the same time. Then I got out Frances’s diary.

  ‘I found this,’ I said. ‘It belonged to Frances. It explains that she was planning to leave.’

  Briefly I filled Winnie in on what I’d read – about Edwin’s abuse and Frances’s pregnancy.

  ‘Because Frances was so sure she’d lost the baby, we wondered if Violet had somehow stolen her identity,’ I said. ‘Once Frances had gone to Scotland.’

  Winnie looked thoughtful. ‘I’m sure someone went to Scotland.’ She began to rummage through the hatbox.

  ‘Ah yes,’ she pulled out a sheaf of letters, bound together with yellowing string.

  ‘I knew I’d seen Scotland written somewhere,’ she said. ‘Frances was writing to someone there.’

  I was excited but I managed to resist the urge to punch the air. ‘So Violet got away,’ I said. ‘Frances gave her the idea – and the diary – and she went. I’m so pleased …’

  But Dad was shaking his head. Winnie had untied the string and he was leafing through the letters.

  ‘They’ve all been returned,’ he said. ‘They’re letters from Frances, not to her. They’re only addressed to Florence Bennett, North Berwick – so she was obviously only guessing as to an address.

  ‘And so they never got to where they were going,’ I said. I was very disappointed. It seemed every time I thought I’d found Violet, she eluded me once more. I took a letter from the pile and opened the envelope.

  Dear Florence, the letter read.

  I do not know where you are. I trust you have made your way to North Berwick while I was unwell and are now settled. Please respond by return.

  Your sister, Polly.

  ‘Polly?’ I said.

  ‘Maybe another fake name,’ Winnie pointed out. ‘Like Florence. It’s definitely Frances – it’s the same writing as in the diary.’

  ‘And perhaps Frances planned to pose as Violet’s sister,’ I said. ‘Those clever, brave women.’

  ‘But it doesn’t look like Violet made it to North Berwick,’ Dad said. ‘There are dozens of letters here – all returned.’

  ‘Read them,’ Winnie urged. ‘Go ahead.’

  So Dad and I sat in Winnie’s stylish apartment, with its huge windows and tiled floors, and revisited Frances’s life.

  She had written to Violet – Florence – for more than a decade. At first she explained she’d stay in Sussex until Violet wrote to confirm she was in North Berwick. Eventually her letters became more chatty, concentrating less on arrangements and instead sharing news of ‘the gentleman next door, who misses his daughter so dreadfully’ that he had shut up their house and moved away.

  ‘That’s Violet’s dad,’ I said. ‘Frances obviously wanted Violet to know what had happened to him. I think that proves Florence is Violet.’

  ‘I agree,’ said Dad. ‘At least, it proves that Frances believed Florence to be Violet. Look, in this letter she tells her that she can’t keep quiet any longer and says she is going to share Florence’s whereabouts with the gentleman next door.

  ‘Frances must have felt awful, watching Marcus search and knowing there was a chance Violet was in Scotland,’ I said. ‘Though she obviously wasn’t there.’

  I read through some more letters until I found one that referred to Marcus visiting North Berwick.

  ‘Listen,’ I said to Dad, reading out loud. ‘It seems you have not settled in North Berwick after all. The gentleman from next door visited last month and though I asked him to look out for you, he neither saw nor heard talk of you …’

  I sighed. This was hopeless.

  Meanwhile, Dad had found a letter detailing Violet’s father’s death.

  ‘This is all terribly sad,’ he said. ‘It looks to me like Violet definitely didn’t end up in North Berwick. It’s a small place as I recall, and though Frances didn’t have the exact address, one of her letters would have reached her eventually.’

  ‘So we keep looking,’ I said, wondering where on earth we went from here.

  ‘I think we do.’

  Chapter 52

  1855

  Edwin

  Edwin was on the stairs, looking out the window at the beach when he heard the doorbell and muffled conversation below.

  He ignored the voices. Frances was downstairs; she could deal with any visitors. He turned to go up to his bedroom, but Frances called up to him through the bannister.

  ‘Mr Hargreaves is here,’ she said. ‘He asked for you.’

  Edwin sighed inwardly. He couldn’t be bothered with fake friendship at the moment. But nevertheless, he had to maintain good relations with his neighbours. Heavy-footed, he went downstairs.

  Agnes, sullen-faced and silent, showed Edwin into the drawing room. Mr Hargreaves was standing by the fireplace, his hat in his hand.

  ‘Edwin,’ he said, in an overly jolly voice.

  ‘Marcus,’ Edwin said, shaking his hand.

  ‘Sit down. What brings you here?’

  Marcus paused and Edwin noticed his fingers were gripping the brim of his hat very tightly. A slight shudder of anxiety passed through him. Had Marcus realized Edwin and Violet had been enjoying a closer relationship than was proper?

  ‘I’m afraid I have something rather unsavoury to tell you.’

  Edwin took a breath. ‘Go on.’

  ‘It would seem my daughter, Violet, has developed an, erm, attraction to you.’

  Edwin breathed out again. He smiled. ‘Oh just a young girl with a harmless fancy.’

  Marcus frowned. ‘I wish it were harmless,’ he said. He turned his hat round in his hands. ‘She has an interest in art, you know: Violet.’

  ‘Yes, she told me,’ Edwin said.

  ‘To my shame, I have discovered she is pursuing this interest rather more vigorously than is appropriate.’

  ‘Go on.’

  Marcus looked wretched. ‘She has been drawing you,’ he said. ‘I found sketches of you, that she had drawn.’ He lowered his voice. ‘Sketches of you almost naked. Without a shirt.’

  Edwin arranged his face into a shocked expression. ‘Heavens,’ he said. ‘What a vivid imagination she must have.’ He shook his head. ‘Marcus, dear fellow,’ he said. ‘Please don’t allow this to upset you, or spoil our friendship.’

  Marcus looked very tired suddenly. He pinched the bridge of his nose. ‘Ah, Edwin,’ he said. ‘I am at a loss. I feel this is all my fault. I should have remarried. A girl needs a mother. I was often away, and Violet was left unchecked. Her imagination has run riot.’

  ‘Marcus, please,’ Edwin said. He was beginning to feel uncomfortable. He didn’t like shows of emotion, especially from men. ‘You must calm yourself. Where are these pictures now?’

  ‘I have asked Philips, our gardener, to destroy them. The ones of you and indeed all her artwork. I want to nip this in the bud before it gets too out of control.’

  Edwin felt a rush of horror. ‘Are there many pictures?’

  ‘Indeed,’ Marcus said. ‘None as lascivious as those of you. But she has obviously been spending her time painting. Time that could have been much better spent.’

  ‘Marcus,’ Edwin said. ‘Do not worry yourself. I bear no ill will towards you or Violet. I must confess, this is not th
e first time a young woman has developed an attraction towards me. Frances will tell you that. I fear I am naive and sometimes my endeavours to help young people can backfire. Alas, I continue to do my best.’

  Marcus gave Edwin an uncertain smile.

  He carried on. ‘Frances, and I, and all who know me, know I do nothing to encourage such behaviour. Your Violet is just a girl with an overactive imagination and too much time on her hands. There is no harm done.’

  He smiled at Marcus in what he hoped was a reassuring manner, but inwardly his mind was racing. Could he get his hands on more of Violet’s pictures? Could he reach this Philips before he destroyed them? He had to get rid of Marcus somehow. ‘I have but one worry,’ he said. ‘Can this Philips be trusted?’

  ‘In what way?’ Marcus asked.

  ‘At the moment, it is just you, Violet, and myself who know of these pictures, yes?’ Edwin lied, thinking of Laurence, the old man on the train, the buyer in Yorkshire …

  ‘Yes,’ Marcus said. ‘And Philips, of course. Though he hasn’t seen them yet.’

  ‘I am just slightly fearful he might talk,’ Edwin said. ‘You know how servants can be. I am a man of some standing in the local area and I worry about the damage such idle chatter could cause to my reputation.’

  Marcus paled. ‘Indeed,’ he said. ‘I hadn’t thought.’

  ‘No matter,’ Edwin said. He stood up. ‘I have a thought. Stay here, friend. I will ask Frances to come and sit with you. Please, help yourself to a drink to steady your nerves. Meantime, I will go to your house and speak to this Philips. I will impress upon him the importance of keeping this quiet.’

  Marcus looked relieved that someone else was taking charge. ‘That sounds like a good idea,’ he said. ‘If you do not mind?’

  Edwin patted him on the shoulder. ‘Of course not,’ he said. ‘Now, make yourself comfortable. I shall not be long.’

  He found Frances in the kitchen, chatting to Agnes.