Behaving Badly Page 10

  ‘But why do you want to try and put it right now?’

  ‘Because, instead of fading with each year, it’s got worse. It’s never left me. I want to get it out of my head—and I don’t think I can unless I finally do something.’

  ‘And what do you think you could do?’

  I shook my head. ‘I don’t know. All I know is, I want to…atone. I’d like to stop feeling guilty. I’ve been feeling guilty for so long.’

  ‘I know what you could do,’ Daisy said softly, after a moment. ‘But you must have thought of it yourself.’ I looked at her, then looked away.

  ‘I have. I’ve thought of it many times. I’ve had…’ I sighed, ‘these fantasies about doing it. But that’s all they’ve been—just fantasies—because I’ve never been brave enough to carry it out.’ I glanced at the sky where a distant plane was sewing a slender white trail across the blue.

  ‘Then be brave now,’ I heard Daisy say as I gazed upwards. ‘Be brave, Miranda.’

  ‘Isn’t it too late?’ I asked bleakly.

  ‘No. It’s never too late.’ I looked at her. ‘Find him, Miranda.’ My heart turned over. ‘Find David.’

  Find David…

  ‘But what would I say?’

  ‘What would you say?’ she echoed. ‘Well, “sorry”, I suppose.’

  I laughed a mirthless little laugh. ‘I don’t think “sorry” would be quite enough. “Hello, David. I’m Miranda. You know that parcel you got sixteen years ago? The one that exploded in your hands? Yes, that’s right. That one. You probably remember it quite clearly, actually. Well, the person who delivered it was me!” I’m not sure “sorry” is going to be quite enough,’ I repeated, as I felt my eyes fill.

  ‘Well, it might be,’ she said. ‘It’s the least you can say—and the most you can say. It’s the only thing to say, actually, when you think about it.’

  ‘Hmm,’ I croaked. ‘That’s true.’

  ‘Look for him, Miranda,’ she said gently. ‘Then maybe you’ll be able to put this behind you at last. Isn’t that what you really want to do? What you’ve always wanted to do?’

  ‘Yes,’ I whispered, after a moment. ‘It is. I do want to do it. I’ve always wanted to do it. I’ve always wanted to find David White. And I will.’

  CHAPTER 5

  By the time I left Daisy’s, a couple of hours later, I felt shattered, but relieved. I’d unburdened myself, Daisy hadn’t judged me, and she’d given me such good advice. Just the thought of trying to find David made me feel so much better. The thought of taking action at last. But where on earth would I look? He could be in Paris, or Peru, or Prestatyn. He could be anywhere in the world. But I knew what my first port of call would be. When I arrived home, I got the number and dialled.

  ‘Welcome to the University of Sussex,’ said a recorded voice. ‘The switchboard is open from nine o’clock until five thirty, Monday to Friday. If you know the extension number—’ I’d have to wait. Then I looked up ‘Professor Derek White’ on the Net. There was nothing. And so, although I knew it to be a futile exercise, I looked up ‘David White’ too. There were nearly four million entries. There was a David White selling optical instruments; a David White who bought antiquarian books; a David White offering heating services; and David White, the actor, who starred in Bewitched. There were David White power tools and David White furniture, there was even a rap artist called David White. Maybe ‘my’ David White had become a scientist, like his father. Maybe he’d completely dropped out.

  At nine o’clock the next morning I called the university switchboard again.

  ‘I don’t want to be put through to him,’ I said carefully. ‘But could you tell me if Professor Derek White is still on the staff?’

  ‘Just a moment please…’ There was a quick burst of synthesized Vivaldi. ‘I can’t see that name, no. What department is he in?’

  ‘Erm… I’m not sure. Biology, probably. Or maybe Biochemistry.’

  ‘I’ll check for you again. No. There’s no one of that name. Do you wish to be put through to anyone else in the Science department?’

  I panicked. ‘No, thanks.’ They might ask me who I was, or why I was calling. I’d have to try a different tack. So I rang directory enquiries again, and tried to find a home number.

  ‘Do you have the address?’

  ‘Yes. I do.’ I’d never forgotten it. ‘It’s forty-four West Drive, Brighton.’

  ‘Please hold… There’s no listing for a Professor D. White at that address,’ the operator announced.

  ‘Not even ex-directory?’

  ‘There’s no listing for that name at that address,’ she repeated automatically. ‘Would you like another number, caller?’

  ‘No. Thanks.’ I replaced the handset with a sigh. This wasn’t going to be easy, but then it was a long time ago—they could have moved, or he might have died. He must be well over sixty-five by now, so he’d probably retired. Maybe their neighbours might know where they’d gone, or would agree to forward a note. With no other leads, I decided to go down there. I could combine it with a visit to Mum. I looked in the diary. Wednesday was free. Once I’d done my sleuthing, we could have lunch.

  ‘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!’