Losing Nicola (36 page)

The writing trails off, and there are no further entries.

Aunt died of a heart attack three days after she was admitted to hospital that night.

I
have just taken a couple of roast chickens from the oven when the doorbell rings. Wiping my hands on a tea towel, I run down the stairs to the communal front door to find Mr Johnson standing on the doorstep. He looks like a corpse. There are dark shadows under his eyes, and his skin is grey and waxy. In the days since I last saw him, he must have lost at least ten pounds. I invite him in, close the door and lean against it for a moment, watching him climb the stairs. His steps are heavy, his shoulders bent.

I know why he has come.

I sit him down at the small café table in the kitchen, make coffee, and take a chair opposite him. He fists his hands together on the table, and sits with lowered head.

‘Are you all right, Mr Johnson?'

He shakes his head. ‘No.'

Behind him, in the big sitting-room, is a table covered in one of Aunt's linen sheets and set with a pile of plates, Aunt's solid silver cutlery, pink linen table napkins. Two crystal vases full of pink rosebuds sit in the middle, and glasses are grouped together at either end. Sixteen people are coming this evening to celebrate my birthday and I am very busy. But the significance of his presence overrides everything else.

‘Is there anything I can do?' I ask.

‘No. Except listen to what I've got to say.' He sighs tiredly. ‘First of all, I want to apologize. Earlier this morning I went to see Louise Farnham, as was – Stone, she's calling herself now – and she told me you've never got over the shock. Over finding Nicola Farnham's body, I mean.'

‘That's true. But I—'

‘Like I told you when you came to the house the other day, I never . . . it never occurred to me that it would be children would find her. Not
children
.'

I say gently, ‘Why don't you tell me about it?'

‘It was all because of the chain. The gold chain. It wasn't on Valerie's body, you see. I went down to the police station and asked specially and they said there hadn't been any chain round her neck when she was found in Nicola's bedroom. And I knew someone must have taken it, because she wore it all the time, she loved it. And then after they'd put Geoffrey Farnham away, Nicola and her mother came round to see us, to say goodbye, they were going to leave and settle somewhere else. I could hear Mother screaming and crying when she realized who it was at the door.'

‘I can imagine.'

‘When you think about it, it was so hurtful. So . . . cruel, really. I have to say Louise seemed pretty ashamed to be there. She said that Nicola had insisted on saying goodbye and how sorry she was about Valerie, but she didn't
look
sorry. I wouldn't let them in, of course, didn't want to talk to them, and then, when they turned to walk away, I could see the girl was wearing a gold chain round her neck, kept running her fingers round it. I didn't think anything of it at first – I mean, why would you? – but later I remembered how Valerie used to tell us that Nicola was really jealous, wanted one just like it but her parents wouldn't get her one. It took me a long while before I started wondering, putting two and two together and coming up with five. And by then, they'd left town, so I couldn't check.'

‘Of course not.'

‘It took me the best part of two years to find out where they'd gone – Louise changed her name, you see, can't say I blamed her, who would want people knowing her husband was a murderer? I finally tracked her down that summer, twenty years ago, saw a photograph in the local paper, some arty prize or other that she'd won, and after that, I couldn't keep away. I spent hours watching for Nicola. Of course, Mother was still managing to cope at that point, hadn't given way to depression and illness, so I was freer than I am now. And one day, I'm sitting on that bench out there . . .' He gestures at the window. ‘. . . and Nicola comes up, cool as a cucumber, says, “Hello, Mr Johnson, what are you doing here, nice to see you again,” something like that.'

‘What did you say?'

‘Came straight out with it, asked her about the chain. And she laughed, said it was nice, wasn't it? I said our Valerie had one exactly like that, and she said did she really? She had this nasty sort of a look on her face, almost . . . triumphant.'

I'm thinking back. I'm remembering noticing Nicola talking to some man, not Edwardes now, but someone else. The past is refashioning itself in my mind. It must have been Johnson, twenty years younger, his hair still dark back then. ‘Did you ask her where she got it?'

‘She said she'd got it from a good friend. It was the way she said it, that's when I knew for certain that it must have been her all along, that evil little she-devil. It wasn't her father who strangled Valerie, it was
her
. And what's more, she knew I'd cottoned on to her and she didn't give a damn . . . sorry, sorry, shouldn't use language.' Emotion chokes him and he presses thumb and forefinger to his forehead.

‘What did you do?'

‘I wanted to grab Valerie's chain – I just
knew
it was Val's – off her throat, but I didn't. Too many people about, for one thing. So I just nodded, said it was nice, said I had to get back, even said, God help me, that Mother sent her love. And in the car on the way home, I decided that one way or another, I'd get it off her.' He coughs. ‘For Valerie's sake, you see. It seemed only fair.'

‘So what happened?'

He sips at his coffee. ‘I overheard the young people – that's you and your friends, and Nicola – talking about a party you were having a few nights later and since Mother was out playing cards that evening, I drove over with Minnie – my dog, that is. I'm not quite sure what I expected to do, really, but I was that upset and angry . . .' His voice breaks.

I get up and refill his cup with coffee. There is so little I can do to help him. The events of twenty years ago blister him now as much as they did back then.

‘I kept peering over the wall round your front garden,' he says. ‘And then there was a point when that Nicola was alone, out on the lawn, and I decided that was the chance I needed. I called her name – softly, mind – and she looked up and saw me, grinned that triumphant way again. So I pushed at the gate, started to open it and come up the drive, when I saw an old lady up at the window, watching me. Didn't want her calling the police or anything, so I walked round the corner. Still kept an eye on the house, though, and then later, I saw the girl set off towards the cliffs, so I followed.'

‘Did you know where she was going?'

‘I had a sort of idea, because I'd been up there before, seen her doing . . . well, disgusting things with some man or other. I wasn't bothered about that, though. I just wanted to get Val's chain back, she had no right to it, I couldn't bear seeing it round her wicked neck. And then this young lad passed me, started walking along with her, she was teasing him, leading him on . . . you know . . . and then when they got up to the cliffs, she pushed him away. Told him to get lost.'

I nod.

‘He lashed out at her, and she fell down. Swearing, he was, really upset, and who can blame him? I was standing behind some brambles, and when he'd run off, I stepped out and said “I'll have that chain, thank you,” and reached out for it.'

‘Was she surprised to see you?'

‘If she was, she didn't show it. And I said, “It was you, wasn't it, it was you as killed her.” She laughed at me, said, just you try and prove it, and something – I know they all say this, but it's true – something snapped and I . . . I hit her, smashed my fist into her face, and it wasn't enough, it wasn't nearly enough, and I looked around for a stick or something and there was a golf club lying on the grass – don't know why – and I picked it up, started hitting her with it.' He buries his head in his hands and again I touch his arm.

‘I just intended to hurt her,' he says, his voice muffled, ‘but then all the rage and the sorrow, Mother's broken heart, and mine, I don't know, I just couldn't stop. She always looked so innocent and all the time she had such a black heart. And there was our Valerie, so sweet, so good, our only one, gone forever.' He begins to sob. ‘Oh God, I didn't mean to, I really didn't mean to kill her.'

There's nothing I can say. I stroke his hand, the lumpy veins, the liver spots, the arthritic knuckles. Compassion for his wasted life brings tears to my own eyes.

He looks up at me. ‘I'd have gone to the police then and there, but I looked around and I realized that no one had seen what I did, and in any case, Maureen – Mother – needed me. So I . . . I picked her up and . . . I . . . uh . . . I threw her in among the brambles, then I got the golf club and drove back to Madden. Mother was still out, so I'd got time to change out of my . . . there was . . . blood, you see. I burned them on the bonfire, bit by bit. Mother never knew.'

It occurs to me that when the news of Nicola's murder filtered through, she might have had her suspicions, but I don't say anything. ‘That's good,' I murmur.

He pushes himself upright. ‘I'm going now, to give myself up. I just wanted to let the Farnhams know, first. I thought they were the only people who needed to hear this but I decided I'd best come and see you too, when they told me that you'd been having . . . difficulties.' His voice skates over the word, embarrassed by the possibility of mental instability or psychological problems, both of them likely, in his vocabulary, to be euphemisms for madness.

‘What purpose will be served by you going to the police now?' I ask.

‘It's only right.'

‘Haven't you suffered enough already?'

He smiles faintly. ‘Justice has to be seen to be done, isn't that what they say? I've got to take my punishment.'

‘I'd have thought that you've been punished enough.' I can see that with this confession, his purpose has come to an end.

‘There's the other thing.' His hands twist together. ‘I should have said earlier . . . Mother died last week.'

‘Oh dear, I
am
sorry.'

‘It was for the best, really. She's been ill a long time. But you can see there's nothing to stop me from giving myself up now she's gone.'

‘Think about it first.'

‘I've thought of little else for twenty years,' he says. ‘And anyway, without Mother to care for, I haven't got much else to live for.'

We shake hands formally. At the door of my sitting room he stops and looks at the decorated table, and I imagine he's remembering that pink rosebuds were Valerie's favourites. From my window, I watch him climb into an old Hillman Minx, its chrome gleaming, its bodywork shining. The badges of various motoring organizations are fixed to its polished grille. I wonder how many times over the years he has cleaned the car, washed it down, chamois-leathered it, an ordinary man taking pleasure in doing the best job he can, as I imagine he has done with everything in his life. A good man, the salt of the earth, and as he drives away, I am weeping for his sad life, and all his empty years.

He can have no idea of the burden he has lifted from my shoulders.

And then, across the green, I see Orlando. He is looking up at my window, and I wave at him as he comes towards me. The sun glints on his silvered hair. Behind him lies the peacock-blue of the sea, above is the richness of the summer sky. The boats in the yacht club gleam as though freshly varnished; the chrysanthemums in the garden below my window are copper, apricot, flame, crimson, the magnolia leaves a brilliant jade green. Next door, in the Major's flowerbeds, marguerites, like miniature suns, nod against the garden wall, egg-yolk yellow hearts, petals white as milk. As Orlando smiles up at me, my heart thrills and soars.

‘So terribly sad,' I say, telling him about Mr Johnson. ‘What a heartbreaking life. I wouldn't be in the least surprised to hear that he'd killed himself.'

‘
For nothing now can ever come to any good
,' Orlando quotes sombrely.

‘That's absolutely right.'

He puts an arm around my shoulders. ‘What time's everyone coming?'

‘Any time after four. But we're not eating until six.'

‘Anything I can do to help?'

‘Not really. Just be.'

And so he does, playing Chopin and Mozart on the piano, while I continue my preparations. Finally, I pour us both a glass of chilled white wine and we toast each other, smiling.

He takes my hand. ‘Alice . . .' he says earnestly. ‘Listen . . .'

I take a shower, make up my face, slip over my head the dress I bought specially for today, last time I was in London. Around my neck are pearls; there are more of them in my ears.

As I come out of my bedroom in a sheath of linen – not pink, but Old Rose – Orlando at the piano launches into
Happy Birthday To You
, decorating the tune with flourishes and variations that turn its banality into something magical. He is wearing a white shirt and a silk tie that exactly matches my dress. ‘How did I know you'd be wearing that colour?' he asks.

‘Because we're joined at the heart.' I rest a hand on his shoulder as the doorbell rings and the guests begin to arrive.

It is much later. We are flushed with wine and good food. I stand up and tap a glass. ‘Quiet, please. I'd like to say a few words.' I look round at them all: my parents, my brother Dougal and his wife, dear Bella and her husband, Erin, Sasha Elias, Gordon Parker, Vi Sheffield, Julian and Monica. Even BertramYelland. ‘Most of you were at the last birthday party I had in Shale, just down the road from here, a long time ago. Some of those who were present then are no longer with us – Aunt, for instance, and our beloved Ava – some are unfortunately not able to come. But I want to thank those of you who made it and who remember what it was like back then.'