Rachael's Gift (23 page)

‘Thank you so much for meeting me,’ I began. ‘How do you know my grandfather?’

‘Our families were great friends.’

‘You’ll be glad to know he’s still alive, although, I’m afraid, not very well. When did you see him last?’

‘A few years ago, wasn’t it, Papa?’ Jacques said. ‘At the opening for the new museum.’

Yves turned to his son and asked him to fetch a light lunch for them. Jacques hesitated and asked him if he was sure, but his father dismissed him. Reluctantly, Jacques heaved himself off the sofa. I heard some keys jangle in the hall, and then the latch on the door clicked quietly.

‘So what type of work did you do together?’ As I waited for him to reply, I noticed his arthritic fingers trembling involuntarily. I was desperate to ask him about
La Baigneuse
.

Yves’ gaze remained constant but he said nothing. I could have sworn the corners of his mouth were turning up. Was he smirking at me?

‘Did you work together for a long time? Were you in the same business? Did you work at the Louvre as well?’ I rambled, trying to fill the silence.

An artwork caught my eye, the Braque. Was it stolen? ‘Did you know him too?’ I asked, pointing to the painting. Yves nodded. I stood up to take a closer look. The painting was medium-sized, brown and tan lines slashing diagonally across the canvas. ‘My grandfather knew him. He used to tell me stories about him.’ I wanted to take it down from the wall and check the back of it.

There was another, a Matisse, next to the Braque. How many others did he have? How many had he sold? Where was all the money? Matisse would be fetching millions these days – if it could be sold legitimately.

Up close to the canvas I could see the picture was made up of hundreds of small colourful dots; when I stood back they formed an image of people sitting beside a lake in a park on a summer’s day.

I went back to my chair. The cold eyes followed me. I noticed he had no remaining eyelashes.

‘You look very much like your mother.’

‘Pardon?’ My belly somersaulted.

‘Marguerite.’

‘You knew her?’

‘Very beautiful.’ He kissed his fingers.

I felt a shiver, the hairs on my arms standing on end. ‘I must thank you,’ I said meekly. ‘It’s very kind of you to meet with me.’

He began to speak very slowly, clipping each syllable. ‘We were a family of art dealers. Anton was the academic – the professor. He was analytical and logical, whereas I was led by my nose.’ Yves touched the side of his nose with his finger. ‘Things changed with the war.’ He paused. ‘So you want to know about
La Baigneuse aux Cheveux Roux
?’

‘You know about it?’ Jacques must have told him.

‘Of course. I know that Lilian Bernard’s great-granddaughter is petitioning for it to be returned.’

‘Do you remember it?’ I was barely breathing.

‘It is a masterpiece,’ he said wistfully. ‘Yes, I remember it well. We sold it at the Hôtel Drouot, I think in ’43, maybe ’44. I cannot recall exactly. We sold many works there.’

‘Can I ask how you came to own it?’

The loose skin under his chin wobbled. ‘To tell you the truth, it is hard to know. There were so many.’

‘And you don’t have any records left?’

‘I’m sorry.’

I hesitated, then as an afterthought said, ‘You know what happened to the family, don’t you?’

He closed his eyes; was that a confirmation? I wasn’t sure.

I looked at the pictures on the walls again, overcome by that sinking feeling of being so close and yet so far. It was time to leave. I bid Yves goodbye and he took my hand.

‘It has been a pleasure. You are
si charmante
,’ he said. ‘Send my regards to your mother.’

I froze, realising that he did not know.

‘Of course,’ I said. ‘I’ll say hello for you.’

I let myself out.

The doorbell rang. A four-foot white sheet cackled and a pumpkin-head beamed. ‘Trick or treat!’

‘Witches cackle,’ I said. ‘Ghosts howl and pumpkins don’t say anything.’

‘You got some candy, mister?’

‘We don’t have candy. You’ll have to go to America.’

‘We’ll throw this on your doorstep.’ The little mug unfolded a grubby hand and produced a raw egg.

‘I’ll see what I can rustle up.’ I shut the door, went foraging in the kitchen and came back with some cheese sticks. ‘Sorry, mate, this is all I’ve got.’

The boy shook the white sheet off his head. ‘You’re yankin’ my chain, aren’t yas?’

Crikey, when did ten-year-olds become so lippy?

‘Don’t wanna have to throw this at ya!’ They brandished their eggs. ‘What about some cash?’

‘Yeah,’ said the pumpkin.

I fumbled in my jeans pocket and pulled out some dollar coins. ‘Here, take this you little squirts and don’t come back.’ I handed them a dollar each.

‘Is that all?’

‘Yeah, we can’t even buy a Paddle Pop for that.’

I gave them another dollar each. ‘Now scram. Go on, get lost!’

Halloween – I’d forgotten.

I hid in my workshop and tried to ignore the noise. All that Facebook stuff and hearing those women in the supermarket had freaked me out. Beer made me feel bloated and reefers only muddled things up. I tried to keep my hands busy. The radio was kept on full blast and the noise of my sander zizzed, up and down, up and down, my shoulder blades grinding. But there was no relief: I poured myself a whisky.

The golden stuff ran down my gullet and cleared my head and I got to thinking there was something I was missing. I lumbered into Rach’s room, a pigsty since she’d left it almost two weeks ago, and headed straight for her desk. I put down my glass and flicked through some sketches she’d left lying about – nothing but doodles of eyeballs. Underneath these I found some black-and-white photographs of a young couple naked on a bed. Oh Jesus, this was edgy – she was only fourteen, for Christ’s sake. What the hell was a teacher doing letting her submit stuff like this? Had the lawyers seen these? Had Everett encouraged her? I gathered them up to send them off to Harvey. Then I remembered – and it killed me to admit it – that Rach was no innocent. Not by a long shot.

The doorbell rang, but I ignored it. Those little shits could paint my house in egg yolk and I wouldn’t give a crap, right now. She must have some notes, some letters, a diary? Bugger it – kids did most stuff on their phones these days, and she’d have taken her phone with her. So that was out. Her laptop was shoved under all the crap. Email. Facebook. Bingo! I opened it and switched it on. The computer whirred and a box flashed up asking for a password. The kids outside were getting rowdier. I felt annoyed and then gave myself a ticking off for sounding like a real old fart and instead blocked out the noise and focused on trying to guess her password. I tried her birthday, her middle name – Louise – and then Mr Brown, but no luck. I looked at the corkboard above her desk: postcards of Paris and her favourite paintings – Matisse. No, that didn’t work. I tried Degas, Chagall and Ingres. No. A message flashed up on the screen warning me that I had three attempts left. I was so close and yet so absolutely nowhere. There was a real racket going on outside now: whistles and even a bloody vuvuzela. Rap music boomed from a car stereo and something thumped on the front door: thwack, thwack. Mr Brown was going crazy barking.

I gulped back some more whisky and wrenched open a desk drawer: paints, pens, stationery, old bus tickets, old cinema tickets, small change . . . Maybe I could find someone to hack into her laptop? Another drawer was filled with old sketchbooks. I flipped through them and began to feel a tad guilty. These were her private workings; she had pasted in pictures and written and drawn stuff that meant something only to her. Jesus, what sort of depraved desperado was I? Hack into her emails? Read her diary? I’d never thought I’d stoop this low.

I heard voices chanting:
Rachael. Rachael. Rachael.

Still I kept searching. Some of these books were from years back, the handwriting just a kid’s. I picked out a newer-looking one and opened it to a random page. Oh Jesus. I had to take a sec. They were graphic drawings of people having sex. Lips. Limbs. Bits. Sordid stuff. How did she even know things like this? The word ‘Sade’ had been shaded in on one page. My good self told me to stop looking, to shut the book, to put it back in the drawer and get the hell out of her room, but I couldn’t rip my eyes away.
Rachael. Rachael. Rachael
. I flicked to the next page and recoiled in shock. His mouth was open in frozen ecstasy, one hand gripping onto ripe butt cheeks, the other hand pulling her hair, hips driving violently and on his neck a pair of snarling fangs and the snake-eye. I slammed the book shut, went back to the kitchen bench where I’d left the whisky and slugged straight from the bottle. My head hammered. How did we get here again?

I wandered back to her laptop. One more try: C-L-I-P-P-O. The computer whirred to life. Of course, it had to be. Her Facebook page opened when I clicked on the icon – her password stored. The front page was filled with hate messages:

Get lost bitch
.

Go back to where you came from
.

Liar!

We never wanted you here.

You’re a showbag! Full of shit!

I felt bad for Rach. I couldn’t understand why one minute these girls were her mates and the next they hated her.

The message button was lit up red with the number twenty-four. I clicked on it and scrolled down, reading the names and checking the pictures – they were mostly other schoolgirls. Several were from Lucy, trying to get in touch:
Where are you? Can you please reply? I need to speak to you. I think I should tell them.
So Lucy did know something. Another message from Becca Tomlinson:
I know you stole my painting bitch – give it back.
And then there it was, his name: Ashley Everett. Christ.

Please don’t ask me to meet you again. I trusted you.

That was all. No reply from him. Just her message.

I checked the date. Saturday 20 October, the weekend before she left, but after the painting had been reported stolen. Surely this was evidence? Or would it just be more he said/she said? I scrolled on further but there were no messages from him at all. I clicked on the ‘Friends’ button and looked for Ashley Everett but he wasn’t listed. I stared at the screen.

Rachael. Rachael. Rachael.

The voices outside were getting rowdier. Mr Brown was going nuts at the front door.

Smash!
The sound of glass shattering. I started out of my stupor.
Rachael! Rachael! Rachael!
The chanting grew louder and I realised it was not in my head but out in the street – high-pitched girls’ voices: ‘Rachael! Rachael! Rachael! Come out, come out, wherever you are.’

I ran to our bedroom. The blind rattled in the breeze. Splinters of glass lay on the floor. Torches sprayed the walls. I pulled the blind to the side and something gooey and moist dripped on my hand, yellow and sticky: egg. The voices began shrieking. I ran to the front door and yanked it open. Mr Brown bolted out and barked his head off.

‘What the hell is –?’

Something flew at me and I ducked as an egg sailed through the front door and hit the floor with a dull crack. Something broke underfoot and I looked down and saw a pool of raw egg and broken eggshells. It was everywhere. On the door, on the tiles, on the bricks, on the windows, on the garden path. Streetlights backlit a horde of girls running around in long black dresses and black wigs, their faces painted white. They skulled from spirit bottles and waved torches around and screamed Rachael’s name hysterically. Mr Brown barked and growled.

I stood, dumbfounded, and then anger blasted through me. How dare they, the little fuckers! Stepping forward, I shook my fist at them and then slipped and fell on my backside. They hooted maniacally. ‘I’m calling the cops!’ I yelled. One girl stopped running and stared at me. A pair of chubby cheeks blew in and out. We looked at each other and then she lumbered off. ‘I know who you are!’ I shook my fist again. But the girls just snorted and ran away, still shrieking.

Back inside, I wiped up the smashed egg in the front hall and picked up the glass from our bedroom floor and then I found it – a bit of paper that had been taped to a rock. In big red capital letters was the word ‘SLUT’.

The bells rang out in the church square as I waited for Lucien on the terrace of a cafe, drinking a coffee. I had arranged to meet him here, wanting to discuss Rachael’s progress.

My phone started buzzing. It was Wolfe. I had to take it.

‘I’m holding the wolves at bay but they’re getting closer.’

My heart beat louder at the sound of Wolfe’s voice. Although we’d been texting, we hadn’t spoken for a week.

‘I overheard a bunch of mothers gossiping at Woolies,’ he said.

‘It’ll go away –’

‘It won’t, Cam,’ he cut me off. ‘Her school friends pelted the house with eggs last night.’

‘No!’

‘They threw a bloody rock, Cam. They smashed the window. I had to get it replaced. It was wrapped in a note that said “slut”.’

‘Jesus,’ I murmured, shocked. ‘But why . . . ?’

‘How the fuck would I know?’

I had to hold the phone away from my ear.

‘Cam? Is she there?’

‘No – she’s at Francine’s.’

‘Where are you?’

‘At a meeting.’

‘You’ve got no idea.’ He was breathing heavily. ‘There’s a fucking witch-hunt on for Everett. They want him fired. It’s the parents who are after him. They think the school is protecting him . . .’

‘So he’s back at the school?’

‘He’s back, as if nothing happened. Christ – if only they had found something else.’

‘It’s better this way, okay?’ I heard a rising note in my voice and tried to level it. ‘You want Rachael’s life to be stalled? You want her to be emotionally scarred and ostracised from her peers? It would haunt her adult life for years to come – ruin her. Don’t you get it?’

There was a loud rustling sound, as if he was holding the receiver against his chest.

‘Why can’t you just come home?’ He sounded defeated.