Preservation (3 page)

They talk about going to see Jan. Both of them have written to her and described the funeral. Sabrina has even tried to make her account a little comical, describing the way Eddie’s toupee had slid over his ear while he was giving the eulogy.

Weeks pass and neither of them hears from her. They wonder about going to see, her again, but it turns out to be complicated. They have to get permission to visit, and be on Jan’s list of people
she wants to see, and when they enquire it seems that Jan hasn’t asked for them again. Elsa is annoyed that after all the trouble they’ve been to, Jan hasn’t bothered to write.

There is a dinner party. There are dinner parties all over this city every night: diplomacy, solid silver cutlery and crystal; business, private rooms in restaurants, some talk, a deal cut and home by ten o’clock; culture, artists or writers or film dudes (but rarely a combination of the three) take over the whole restaurant and shout their way through a main and several bottles of wine. And there are the weekend dinner parties in old houses that have been elegantly refurbished, with dark wood panels and high ceilings, shelves full of books and a handful of good pictures on the walls, wine glasses that don’t always match, dress casual, six or eight people gathered round a table, gossip. Always gossip. These are the ones Sabrina and Daniel like most. They go to a dinner party given by an architect called Mark with whom Daniel often works in the construction business. Mark’s business partner is recently separated from his wife. He’s brought his new girlfriend, a tall rakish woman with tousled red curls, who works in television make-up. Mark’s wife doesn’t approve of Hortense, the make-up artiste (this is how she describes herself), and the atmosphere is cool until the third bottle of wine, when Daniel and Sabrina catch each other’s eye and they’re both thinking that they need to cut this woman some slack.

‘Tell us about your job,’ says Sabrina. ‘It sounds really interesting.’

Hortense is a little drunk by then, and glad to have their attention. She tells them about some politicians she’s made up, and who has had work done on their faces. You’d be really surprised at some of the men who’ve had the cut, she tells them, and names a couple. Mind you, men are easier than the women. Some of the women she gets through are real bitches. Power bitches, she calls them, talking on their cellphones while she’s trying to do their blusher. How the hell do they expect her to keep it even? And
then it’s all her fault. Unless they’re having a bad day and then they want all her attention, expect her to be Mother Teresa. Holy shit, she says, and Mark’s wife begins clearing away dishes, with a bit of a rattle and clatter, but Hortense doesn’t notice.

‘I mean shit,’ she says, ‘I had one in the other day, who’d got this new dress. She was a mess, had a rash on the back of her neck that she was trying to cover up. I said don’t worry, they can’t see your back on telly. She started to bawl. The rash was right around her neck and on her arms, and other bits of her, too, that she’d rather not mention. She told me she had a new dress that she paid major money for, and every time she wears it, the same thing happens, and she gets a fever as well. At first she thinks it’s all in her head, but the night before I saw her, she’d passed out at a dinner party at one of the embassies, face down in the dessert, and you know what everyone was thinking. Pissed. She said she’d never live it down.’

‘It must be in her head,’ says Mark’s wife. ‘How could a dress do that to you?’

‘Well, it seems it’s got feathers on it so she wondered if it was some kind of bird sickness.’

‘What sort of feathers were they?’ Sabrina asks carefully.

‘Oh, I don’t know. She was just one of those silly cows who get hysterical over nothing, I reckon. Who knows whether it was her dress.’ Hortense is looking for her glass to be refilled.

‘Like tui feathers? Or peacock’s or something?’ Sabrina is trying to keep her voice casual, even indifferent.

‘Oh, I’m blowed if I know,’ Hortense says. ‘I never thought to ask.’

‘So who was she?’ Sabrina persists.

Hortense pulls up short, as if her head has cleared. ‘I can’t tell you things like that. It’d be more than my job’s worth.’

‘She sobered up fast enough when it suited her,’ Sabrina says on the way home.

‘Well, she’s right, she can’t talk about her clients.’

‘She mentioned those cabinet ministers.’

‘That’s different,’ Daniel says.

‘I don’t see that it is.’

‘How would you like it if it was you?’

‘She probably made up the part about doing that woman’s make-up,’ Sabrina says. ‘She probably just heard about her. I mean, she would have told us if she knew. You could tell she would.’

‘You’re making too much of it,’ he says in an injured way, as if she has just spoilt the evening. Of course it already is spoilt.

Only, the next week he dines at a restaurant with some businessmen who are going to put money into a project he hopes to get involved in, and when he comes home he tells her he’s heard the story again. ‘Remember, the one about the woman who passed out with her face in the lemon meringue.’

‘I don’t remember that it was lemon meringue.’

‘Whatever.’

‘Did they say who it was?’

‘I missed that.’

‘Daniel.’

Somebody tells her the story over the water distiller at work. ‘Do you know who it was?’ Sabrina asks. She is desperate to know.

The woman telling the story rolls her eyes. ‘Somebody well known, she goes on television. Well, that’s what I heard. She’s quite high up.’ Though what she is high up in is still not clear. The story has become more about the woman passing out than about the dress and the rashes, which Sabrina thinks is just as well.

‘I have to tell the shop,’ Sabrina says to Elsa on the phone. They have been in touch more often than in years.

And Elsa says no, Sabby, don’t do it, or if she must, just leave her out. Sabrina says: ‘We could write the shop a note.’ Because by now she has looked up embalming fluid and knows that it contains formaldehyde, ethanol, ether — a proper cocktail of solvents. Leonie had been preserved in toxins.

‘Look,’ says Elsa, ‘the woman won’t wear the dress again. She’d be a fool to.’

‘You don’t know that for sure. She might think it was a coincidence.’

‘A dress like that? Well, you wouldn’t want to wear it too often anyway. It’s not one you’d forget.’

But Sabrina can’t let it rest. At night she lies awake, flooded with what she supposes is deep moral panic. When she was a child she used to have sleepless nights, thinking, Please God, let me off this time and I’ll never do it again. She is thinking exactly the same thing now, with a variation that goes something like, Give me another chance, and I’ll grow up. She has decided she will go in and tell the shop manager, although first she must tell Daniel, and then goodness knows who else. Her lawyer, perhaps. It could be a crime, after all. Inflicting a noxious substance on an unsuspecting victim. She must tell, because at heart she doesn’t think she’s a bad person.

When Daniel comes home in the evening, she can’t find the right words. While she’s getting dinner he pours a glass of wine for each of them and sits on a kitchen stool.

‘What’s new?’ she asks.

He looks so happy and at ease with his day, that she thinks another time might do to tell him. All the same, she begins: ‘That woman with the dress that freaks her out. You know the one I mean? It makes her faint at dinner.’

‘Oh that,’ says Daniel. ‘The story gets worse. I meant to tell you, someone told me at work yesterday. The woman told a friend who was an industrial chemist and he offered to test the fabric. Turns out the dress had been on a corpse. How gross can you get?’

Sabrina agrees that yes, it’s about the worst story she’s ever heard, and how did it happen, and what did the woman do about it, and is she all right?

But Daniel doesn’t know the answers to any of those questions. Presumably she returned it to the shop, he says.

‘It would be covered by insurance,’ Sabrina says. She has to believe that part. And she sits there thinking, Saved, saved. At least the woman won’t wear the dress again.

This is what she says to Elsa the next morning, and, as it happens, that day they both receive letters from Jan. They are written on cheap lined paper, with the address care of the prison on the back and they say much the same thing. Thanks for everything, they’re a couple of dolls. She and her friend hope to get out about the same time. If probation will let them, they will get a place together. That would be the best thing of all.

Friend, says Elsa, what does she mean by friend? And then she goes quiet at the end of the line. She hadn’t realised.

‘I guess we should have,’ Sabrina says.

‘Perhaps we’ve got it wrong,’ Elsa says doubtfully.

‘She sounds okay, that’s the main thing,’ Sabrina says. Relief floods her, fills her nostrils, makes her hands tremble. Relief and release. And yes, redemption, there’s that, too. Love, so various, has discovered them all.

‘We should get together,’ Elsa says, her voice vague. ‘After the school holidays, perhaps.’

‘Soon,’ Sabrina replies. ‘When I’ve done my annual report.’ She is preparing to leave trade behind. With luck, she’ll get an arts job next.

Yes, they agree, yes, soon.

1934. The young woman, in a sleeveless white silk dress, stood at the window of a small apartment gazing out over the warm organic colours of Rome, its ancient earth and stone. It was evening, and across the roofs of buildings she saw another woman sitting at a window, level with her, looking out as she did. This other woman sat quite still most of the time, reading a book perhaps, for she glanced down at her hands now and then as if turning a page. She wore her hair in a chignon, and from the poise of her shoulders, Jean guessed that she was one of those elegant older women whom she saw making their way to the shops in Trastevere. Jean wished that she would look up, give her a wave, although perhaps that would be considered improper here in Rome. Just some acknowledgement would have satisfied her. She longed for her mother at this moment; the stranger had the same familiar imperious tilt of the head.

The apartment where Jean Batten stood was the home of Jack Reason, secretary to the air attaché in Rome. The walls were pale and sun lit up the room during the day. Otherwise, it was a plain place with little ornamentation beyond a vase or two, a pretty enough rug and some light raffia furniture, as if the owners were used to shifting house often and everything they owned could be easily transported to some other posting. It had surprised her at first that in spite of the ancient buildings beyond, and the difference of the city, she was surrounded by the odours of tobacco and talcum powder, bacon fat and disinfectant — the smells she and her mother had been accustomed to in London, in cheap, temporary lodgings.

The trouble had begun in Marseilles, on the first day of the
flight. Just a year before she had destroyed a plane in Baluchistan, a plane that had not belonged to her. That had been misfortune, she believed, pure and simple, but this time there was no avoiding it had been her fault.

The Gipsy Moth had ended up squatting in a field of grass on the edge of the Tiber, its undercarriage shattered, the wings crumpled. As she had glided through the night, with only a torch to show her the way, twisting and weaving, like a firefly in the night, she had somehow avoided tall wireless masts on each side.

It had been after midnight when she was taken to the Pronto si Corso, a Red Cross station of sorts. The petrol tank had been empty, but then it had been for some time, and that should not have happened. How could she have been so utterly stupid? How could she have failed her mother, whom she loved more than her life, and who had given her so much? But that didn’t bear thinking about. That was the dark bird perched on her shoulder, the haunted dream that made her cry out in her sleep some nights, the creature she had to kill. Her mother knew the bird was there, and only her mother could drive it away. But she was not here, she was in London, waiting to hear that Jean had made the next stage of her journey. What she would receive in the morning was news of a disaster, one that could have been so easily averted, had Jean but listened to the men in Marseilles. Perhaps it was the city of Marseilles itself, unpredictable and dangerous, full of seafarers and gypsies, because she had not wanted to stay in the old port town for a night. But that was not true. She was scared by very little on the ground, it was only in the immensity of the air that she sometimes understood danger. And that was what had driven her on, the need to conquer fear. She had done this to herself, succumbed to her own craziness, a strange light-headed madness that leapt out of control. She should have known.

Behind her, Molly Reason entered the room. She was a plump woman in her late forties or thereabouts, with frizzy hair parted in the centre and anxious eyes, as if her guest made her nervous. She wore a floral frock, pleated over her bosom in a way that
made it look heavy. Her husband had been called directly after the crash, and now he had taken charge and installed Jean in their apartment.

‘Excuse me, Miss Batten,’ Molly said. ‘The doctor is here to see you.’

Jean turned from the window, trying to conceal her regret at having her thoughts interrupted. ‘The doctor? What doctor?’

‘The one who attended you last night. He’s come to check that you’re in better health.’

As if Jean had already agreed to see him, the doctor followed Molly in.

‘Doctor.’ Jean extended her hand. ‘It’s very kind of you, but as you’ll see, I’m perfectly well. Certainly much better than I was last night. Or was it early morning? I’m very sorry you were woken up so late to attend to a foolish girl like myself.’ She forced a small laugh.

When they had met, her left eye was as swollen as a Black Doris plum, while her lip hung loose over her chin. The doctor had been summoned to the aid station, where she had been taken by a group of men who had found her, sodden from stumbling in the rain through marshland. As he stitched her lip together the pain was intense, but she would not cry, would not scream. This was her night of folly and whatever she might feel, she did not wish to reveal it. She knew her mother would say, ‘Chin up, dear. Grin and bear.’ Nellie had no time for complaints. She had, she said, suffered in her time and now that was behind her, and she and Jean could conquer the world together.

‘She’ll be as good as new in no time, won’t she?’ Molly Reason said to the doctor, in better Italian that Jean expected.

He looked at his patient with an appraising eye and spoke rapidly. The older woman lifted one shoulder in acknowledgement and seemed at a loss.

‘What did he say, Mrs Reason?’ Jean asked. She knew she owed it to the doctor to at least listen to his advice, for he had stayed up all night holding cold compresses to her eye, helping the
swelling to go down.

Molly Reason hesitated. ‘He says the signorina is immensely beautiful, and if she looks after herself, her appearance will soon be restored. He says her hair is the colour of falling night, her skin like almond petals. He recommends, Miss Batten, that you spend a few weeks resting, and hopes that you’ll remain in Rome while you recover.’

‘A few
weeks
. That’s ridiculous. I have to fix my plane and fly to Australia.’

‘Well, the world is full of good intentions.’ Mrs Reason seemed to assert herself. ‘But it’s hardly the first time you’ve set out for Australia, is it? I suggest that you climb into bed and get some rest. The doctor says you’re still in shock.’

With that she turned to leave the room.

‘Mrs Reason,’ Jean said, ‘have you not spoken with your husband today?’ She chose her words with care, knowing that the other woman was not happy about her unexpected guest. Quite early in the morning she had left the apartment for Matins, and had not returned until much later.

Molly paused. ‘He didn’t go to church this morning,’ she said, with starch in her voice.

‘That’s because we’ve been hard at work. The Italian Air Force transported my plane to the aerodrome this afternoon. They’re already making a list of the parts needed to repair my machine. Mr Reason has been very kind.’

‘My husband telephoned me after lunch. I understand there are no wings available for your plane anywhere in Rome. You won’t get far without wings.’

Jean glanced down at her pretty dress, swirling around her knees, and laughed again, this time with real humour. ‘Don’t you believe it. I know where there are wings. I’ve seen some in the hangar.’

‘You haven’t got them yet,’ Molly said.

on reflection, The trouble had really begun the week earlier. It had been an inauspicious beginning. She and her mother had risen and breakfasted at the small inn in Kent where they were staying in readiness for Jean’s flight from Lympne aerodrome. Nellie sat opposite her, encouraging her to eat well because, as she said, she didn’t know where she would get her next decent meal and she must keep up her strength. Her mother, the most handsome of women, was tall and strong boned. She ate what she liked and always looked as if she exactly fitted her skin. When they walked along the street together, Jean, small and neatly put together, barely came up to her mother’s shoulder. Heads turned to look at the pair, alike yet so different. Nellie Batten had regular features that her daughter had inherited, a big sensual mouth, heavy-lidded eyes, a strong chin that she held at an angle as she strode along, her back very straight. To look at her, one would think she had the capacity to laugh but she seldom did. There was a time when she had walked the boards of theatres — very small theatres, she said with a hint of wistfulness that was outside her usual demeanour. New Zealand theatres. As if that said everything. Little theatres in little towns.

‘Darling,’ Jean had said, ‘you know my next meal will be in Rome. I’m sure I’ll eat fabulously well.’

At that point they had been joined, rather later than he was expected, by Jean’s fiancé Edward Walter, who had come from London to say goodbye, and to try once again to persuade her not to go. He was still rubbing his eyes, apologising for sleeping through his alarm. Jean watched him across the table while he ate his way through fried kidneys and three eggs, stopping long enough to remind her that he had bought her the axe, so that if she came down in the sea she could hack the wings off her plane to make a raft.

‘I’ve packed it, Ted,’ she said.

‘Well, thank goodness for that. You know I wanted you to take a life raft.’

‘Much good that will do me if I’m truly lost at sea. You know
how little room there is in the cockpit — goodness knows, you’ve flown often enough yourself. I’ve got all the essentials.’ She hesitated, on the point of reminding him that he was a weekend flyer, an enthusiast rather than a real pilot, and that although he, too, owned a Gipsy Moth he had never flown further than the next town, or even over the English Channel. Nor did she itemise what she did consider the essentials, although her mother had given a small conspiratorial smile as Jean mentioned them. She had helped her daughter buy face cream and talcum powder, several changes of underwear, a white silk dress for the evenings when she landed. In her breast pocket she carried powder and lipstick and a small bottle of perfume, along with her comb. ‘Make sure your hair is always neatly parted when you land,’ Nellie had advised her. ‘Make sure you look as if it’s effortless.’

‘I’d like you to take the revolver I offered you,’ Edward said. ‘It’s in the car.’

‘Ted, no. I managed without a gun in Baluchistan. If I start shooting people they’ll shoot back, rather than help me. You’re being dramatic.’

‘That’s not what I had in mind. If you go down in the water, and there are sharks, what then?’

Jean studied him, noting from the angle of his head the bald patch that had begun to spread, the pink gleam of his scalp. He was good-looking enough, with that air of a refined Englishman about him that had attracted her at first, but although his face was lean his chin was collecting soft folds that made him look older than his thirty-three years. ‘You mean I should commit suicide?’ she said.

He pushed his plate aside with an angry gesture. ‘Now you’re the theatrical one.’

Jean got to her feet. Not for the first time, it crossed her mind that this man she had promised to marry might become someone with whom she could share too many breakfasts. His first wife seemed to have tired of him very quickly. An ageing stockbroker who might expect what? A wife who gave dinner parties and
talked about shares and bonds? She twisted the ring on her finger, a half-circle of very good diamonds.

‘We should get going, it’s nearly dawn already,’ she said.

Nellie nodded. ‘Yes, come on, darling. You’re off to Australia today. If you’re going to get there faster than Mrs Mollison.’

Jean sensed that, at any moment, her mother might launch into another recital of Amy Johnson’s achievement in flying from England to Australia in nineteen and a half days. Nellie always referred to the other aviator by her married name, as if to indicate that a domestication had taken place since her marriage, even though Jean’s rival continued to set records. The record for a woman’s solo flight from one side of the world, and the only such flight at that, had stood since 1930, four years earlier. Nellie’s eyes blazed as if in anticipation of the triumph to come. How long is it going to take you, she was in the habit of asking Jean, although the question was always rhetorical. To which her daughter would reply that she hoped, all going well, it would be ten or twelve days.

And now, instead of breaking records, here she was in Rome, alone to all intents and purposes, with Molly Reason needling her about her plight.

‘My husband says that Signor Savelli, who owns the Gipsy Moth, is not keen on parting with the wings of his plane.’

Jean looked across the rooftops, rose coloured in the deepening day. For an instant she thought the woman sitting at the window inclined her head ever so slightly towards her. ‘I assure you,’ she said, tilting her chin, ‘that before today is done, I’ll have wings.’