Presence of Mind (10 page)

In the morning a policeman called round and took notes of all we could tell him, including Briony's headaches and her blackout the other evening. A house to house search was initiated and to my numb horror I could see groups of men systematically searching the fields opposite, veering away from the narrow path Briony would have followed to scour the nearby copses and drag the stream. Outhouses were searched, enquiries made at the bus depot and railway station.

Various tantalising facts emerged which might or might not have to do with her. The clerk at the station booking office knew her by sight and was adamant that he hadn't seen her that morning, but the bus company couldn't be so sure. Different drivers and conductors knew different members of the public and of course the time we were trying to check on was one of the busiest of the day. There
had
been a girl roughly answering to Briony's description who had boarded a bus to Newmarket, but there was no saying whether or not it was actually she and in any case no one had noticed at which stop she left the bus. There appeared to be no further trace of her.

Briony looked old enough not to arouse suspicion by the mere fact of not being at school and in the summer the sixth form girls were allowed to wear their own cotton dresses, so there was no uniform to recognise.

It was Wednesday, and Lance should have been at the art college. He had phoned to explain his absence, cutting short all expressions of consternation and sympathy at the other end of the line. ‘I have to be with my wife,' he'd repeated more than once. I was touched by his thoughtfulness but as the gruelling day wore on, I found myself wishing passionately that I could be alone. His tangible anxiety, his starting every time the phone rang, intensified my own reactions to the point where I had to bear everything in double measure.

At one point I slipped away from him up to Briony's bedroom and sat looking about me as though some clue might be written in the wallpaper. I bent to gather up the scattered drawings and studied them more closely. I couldn't imagine what it was about them that had triggered off Lance's violent reaction. They were very good – I could see that. Several were of the same girl who had been labelled ‘Self Portrait' – mostly unfinished sketches with the head turned in different directions. But one group of figures seemed vaguely familiar and I realised with a sense of shock that they resembled preliminary sketches for a section of the painting downstairs. Immediately all the old fear and distrust welled up in me again. I had always hated Briony's absorption with it. On the other hand, what could be more natural, if the girl really wanted to paint, than to experiment in reproducing a work of her father's which she so obviously admired?

Morning slid into afternoon. In desperation for something to occupy me I burst into the office. Startled, Moira looked up, her rather austere face softening when she saw mine.

‘For pity's sake give me something to do,' I said hoarsely.

‘Of course. Perhaps you'd check these sheets of figures with me?'

I was glad to. It passed two full hours. Lance looked in once to see where I was, hung around for a few minutes and then went out again. By the time I came to the end of the task the figures had blurred into wicked black little men wriggling and climbing over the paper, but they had served their purpose.

There were one or two false alarms. The police phoned to say Briony had been reported in Aldeburgh and again later in Cambridge. After hours of unbearable tension, both sightings were discounted. At regular intervals Mrs Rose brought in cups of tea, bowls of soup, sandwiches. My throat was blocked with a knot of solid nauseous fear. Lance, too, pushed the food away from him untouched. By nine o'clock that evening I was completely exhausted.

‘I think I'll go upstairs and have a bath,' I said.

“Yes, all right.' He hesitated. ‘Would you mind if I went to the studio for a while? You can ring me on the internal phone if you need me.'

‘Yes, you go. It might help you to relax.' As always we were as polite to each other as strangers. Apart from that desperate brief straining together in Briony's room our joint agony had done nothing to bring us closer. Wearily I made my way upstairs. The evening was warm, the air outside still purple. I lay back in the scented water drifting in and out of sleep until the coolness round my thighs forced me out of the bath.

I had intended to spend the night fully dressed again, but the waiting garments looked confining and uncomfortable. Instead I just slipped on my dressing-gown. I could dress quickly enough when – if – Briony phoned.

I laid my clothes carefully on a chair so that I could put them on with maximum speed. Then, in the cool loose robe I lay down – just for a minute – on the bed.

I woke with a start some hours later. I had been dreaming Lance was calling me and I was unable to get to him. Had it been a warning? My mind was in a state to believe any fantasy. The room was in darkness. I switched on the light and, blinking, looked at the bedside clock. One-thirty. And Lance's bed was still untouched. The dream swooped back, closing over me with superstitious dread. I slipped off the bed, pushed my feet into slippers and pulled the belt of my robe tighter. Then I opened the door and stood on the landing listening. All was quiet and still. Mrs Rose, knowing Lance was still in the studio, had left a small lamp burning for him in the sitting-room to guide him across the dark garden. Its pale glow barely reached the hall but was sufficient for me to make my way down the stairs.

The long shadowed room lay still. The small yellow pool only lit the corner by the french windows. Silently as a burglar I crossed the room and let myself soundlessly out on to the moonlit terrace. Over to my right a tree rustled suddenly and my heart leapt. No light was streaming across the grass from the studio. In a rush of panic I sped down the steps and over the soaking dew-wet grass, round the corner to the studio. It was lit only by the moonlight. I said ‘Lance!' but the word didn't leave my throat. Then I saw him. He was lying halfway across the table beside the easel, his head buried in his arms. Fear deluged me. First Briony, now -

‘
Lance!
' I said again, and this time my voice rang through the silent room. To my boundless relief he spun round, staring up at me. In the moonlight I could see traces of tears on his ravaged face. I said on a sob, ‘Oh, darling!' and as I moved forward he reached out blindly and grabbed hold of me, pulling me towards him. I stood for a long time pressing his head against my body and as the robe gaped open, felt his hot wet tears on my skin. Time had no meaning. I simply cradled his shaking shoulders, my cheek resting on the thick fair hair. After a while he grew quieter but his grip didn't ease and at last, slowly, still holding me, he rose to his feet. I stood motionless, waiting Gently he raised his hands and slipped the open robe off my shoulders. It fell to the ground in a rustling heap.

‘Ann,' he said softly. I reached up to cup his face with my hands and drew it down to mine.

The sky was already paling when we made our way back across the grass and the light of the faithful little lamp was swallowed up in the grey of dawn. Lance switched it off as we passed. Back up the stairs we went, leaving two sets of wet footprints on the carpet. In the bedroom he tilted back my chin and looked searchingly down into my face. I put my hand up over his and he smiled a little ruefully.

‘Not much of a helpmate, am I? Just when you need me most I fold, and you have to play the role of comforter.'

Since I couldn't find the words to describe how I felt I made no reply. This would have been the most wonderful night of my life, if only Briony were safely home. But if she had been, the situation would never have arisen.

It was nine o'clock before we woke, and the night hours had no more substance than a faintly remembered dream. Once more we were edgy, full of dread, straining for the sound of the telephone. Another day like yesterday. I knew, especially after last night, that I couldn't bear it. As we ate our belated breakfast I urged Lance to go to college as usual.

‘I shan't leave the house,' I promised, ‘and if there's any news you'll have it as soon as I do. Yesterday we only made each other worse – you must see that. You need to get away from this atmosphere for a few hours, to have something else to think about.'

He hesitated and I knew he was tempted. He was slightly constrained as he always was after our times together. It would be a relief to him to be away from me for a few hours. ‘But what about you? What will you do?'

‘I'll be all right.'

‘I shan't be able to concentrate.'

‘Never mind, it will do you good to try.'

Perversely, when he finally gave in and went out to the car, I almost called him back. Could I really face another endless day of waiting, all alone?

At ten-thirty I phoned the police station, without hope. They were kind and reassuring. No, there was no news as yet but there were several promising leads they were following up. After the disappointment of yesterday they didn't want to go into details until more definite information was to hand. As soon as they had any -

Wearily I put the phone down. Moira wasn't here today so there were no more figures to check. Mrs Rose had her transistor turned down low, as befitted a house of mourning. Swiftly I repudiated the phrase. My straining ears could just detect the cheerful, inconsequential prattle of a disc jockey. If she derived any comfort from his banalities I could not grudge it to her.

At lunch time she brought me the inevitable bowl of soup. My throat closed at the sight of it. Yet somehow I must keep my strength up. ‘I think perhaps,' I said gently, ‘I might manage one very small, fluffy omelette, if you wouldn't mind making one. I – seem awash with soup!'

‘Of course, madam.'

But when it came the omelette was after all beyond me. I managed a bare half of it, choking it down against the threat of nausea. The morning paper still lay in its pristine folds on the coffee table. I picked it up and put it down again, moving restlessly about the room. And with the compulsion of a magnet the painting drew me unwillingly towards it. Dully my eyes went over the exquisite colours, the ethereal quality which had led more than one enthusiastic critic to compare it with the work of Hieronymous Bosch.

Well, I addressed it silently, are you satisfied now? Is this what you wanted, to drive her away from us? No doubt it was neurotic to hold an inanimate work of art to blame, but in fact it seemed to have a mind, a dimension, very much its own. It withstood my confrontation stoically and I turned helplessly away. Yet conversely I was left with a thread of comfort. There was an undeniable psychic bond of some kind between Briony and the painting. Eventually she would have to return to it.

I put my hands to my throbbing head. The constant stress was obviously addling my brain. If only there were someone other than the respectfully sombre Mrs Rose to talk to! And, like the answer to a prayer, Edgar came.

He stood hesitantly just inside the door, uncertain of his welcome, with the same half-hopeful, half-cautious expression on his face with which I had so often seen him await Cynthia. And he said deprecatingly, ‘If you'd rather I just left, you only have to say so.'

I had taken a couple of steps towards him before I remembered the ambiguity of our last meeting and stopped dead, torn by conflicting emotions. Then I said helplessly, ‘Oh, Edgar!' and burst into tears. All the mounting worry and dread of the last few days, capped by the frenzy of Lance's love-making and his inevitable withdrawal that morning, was suddenly more than I could stand. I had never been so emotionally vulnerable in all my life. I just stood like a child sobbing uncontrollably with my hands over my face and Edgar came swiftly across and took me in his arms, holding me close and murmuring words of comfort as, not so many hours before, I had held Lance. I was in desperate need of someone to lean on, someone who, in the face of this particular trouble, was not weaker than I was myself. Edgar supplied that need and asked for no repayment. Not then.

‘I thought at least Lance would have been with you,' he said when my sobs had quietened to a series of gentle hiccups, and the anger in his voice comforted me further even though it was unwarranted.

‘I persuaded him to go to college,' I murmured, fumbling for a handkerchief. Edgar put his own into my groping hand. It was large and soft and smelt of tobacco. I said between a laugh and a sob, ‘I'd better not get lipstick on it, or you'll have some explaining to do!'

‘It wouldn't matter to Cynthia,' he replied quietly, and then, abruptly closing that line of conversation,
Why
did you persuade him to go to college?'

I dabbed ineffectually at my eyes. ‘Because he's so desperately worried himself he makes me worse.'

Edgar's arms tightened fractionally and I felt the time had come to disengage myself. This I did, gently, and he made no attempt to prevent my moving away.

‘Thanks for providing a shoulder, Edgar. I really needed that.'

‘If you can talk about it all, tell me exactly what happened.'

He sat down beside me on the couch and took hold of my hand. It seemed a natural gesture with no intention other than continued comfort, and I let my hand lie in his. Carefully omitting all the queries which loomed so large in my mind and, I was beginning to suspect, even larger in Lance's, I said merely that Briony's headaches had been causing us concern for some time and we were afraid that she had unknowingly suffered from one or two attacks of amnesia. This seemed the most probable explanation of her disappearance.

‘The police called at the house yesterday, making enquiries,' he told me. ‘It's something you hear about all the time, but you never dream of it happening to you.'

‘No,' I said numbly

‘So all you can do is wait?' I nodded, not trusting my voice.

‘I suppose there's some comfort in the fact that you've an idea what might have happened. At least there's a possible explanation other than –' He broke off with an anxious sideways glance at my set face.