Julia Chapter 17 / 18

. I’m in luck and cutting the address panel from the original I paste it onto the fresh one so that it looks like a printed label.  Fixing a stamp to it I leave for the local postbox.  I am working on the basis that no one ever looks at the post mark when they get a letter and hopefully she won’t even think about the monogram that led me to open the first envelope.  This one will travel from the Island over to Portsmouth and then back again, with any luck by the following morning.  My deception complete I return to the house. 

In the confusion surrounding Geoffrey’s disappearance Valerie had forgotten to get in touch with the hairdresser and cancel her appointment and so it was a surprise when the doorbell went and she was standing there attached to her drier.  The rain is falling in sheets and the wind demands to be let into the hall so Valerie ushers her in. 

‘Oh, I’d forgotten you were coming’ said Valerie. The hairdresser smiles and walks in as if everything is normal, which to her it is. ‘Never mind Mrs Mitchell it happens to us all.  The older I get the more I realize how little I can remember.’  She bustles into the kitchen, oblivious of the distressed look on Valerie’s face.

‘What a night!’ says the hairdresser referring to the storms, which have raged since early evening the night before. ‘And this morning is no better.  I thought the car was going to be blown off the road down by the river.  I put it down to this global warming. It’s the Chinese, all those factories and people wanting to buy luxury goods like we have in the West.  You can’t blame them, but I think they could consider what they are doing don’t you.  After all they’ve lived without luxuries for so long why do they need them now?’ Valerie can’t answer the question because it’s not sensible enough to answer.  The hairdresser is a victim of tabloid journalism. If she read the Telegraph she would know for a start that there’s no such thing as global warming.  Valerie wants to terminate the appointment but her hair is looking sad and she hasn’t the energy to send the hairdresser away, so she grits her teeth and tells herself that within the hour she will be gone.

‘What are we doing today?’ she asks. The question relates to Valerie’s hair but invokes a list of things that she is actually scheduled to do.  An appointment with the police, another with the bank, and a third with Geoffrey’s ex-partner at ……………

‘Cut and blow dry? Or do you want highlights as well?’ Valerie chooses the quickest option. The drier is parked, the hairdressers objects are scattered on the table, and Valerie made ready for the sink.  ‘I was looking at my old diaries today and realized I have been doing you for five years now! Five years, you wouldn’t have thought it would you. It was when your youngest was ill and you couldn’t get out to the salon. I thought it would be temporary but we seem to have settled into a comfortable routine now don’t we?’   Comfortable was not a word she would have used that day, routine possibly. Routine in the sense everything was done for her, she didn’t have to go anywhere, didn’t have to park the car, didn’t have to wait in line, but annoying because she had to get the kitchen back together once the hairdresser left. Soon though she might not even be able to afford the hairdresser’s regular visits, she might not be able to afford anything.

Once her hair was washed she was sitting at the table being investigated by the hairdressers enquiring hands.  ‘It always surprises me how your hair grows more on this side than the other’ she says, holding out strands from either side.

‘Still we are all different’ she smiles in what is meant to be a comforting way.

‘How is your husband?’  Valerie finds herself tightening around the chest at the question.   ‘He’s away at the moment.  Dallas, Texas’ she replies.

‘Oh, Texas, all those oil barons and cowboys.  Men, money and muscle what more could you want?’ the hairdresser is joking, but in Valerie’s mind the word cowboy always conjures an image of Broke Back Mountain and Geoffrey who found ‘the whole thing disgusting.’ When Valerie had mentioned that John Wayne’s actual name was Marion and it was rumored he might have been a closet gay, he flew at her.  Geoffrey was of an age where cowboys were beyond reproach, they did not have ‘same sex relationships’ even on a long cattle drive.

‘I’m afraid I found America, or rather it’s inhabitants, rather uncomfortable.  Too much ‘fast food’ that loitered once it was eat. Valerie reflected on their visits to the States in the past.  ‘Pardon?’ ‘They tend to eat too much of the wrong thing which gives them a problem with obesity’ explained Valerie.  ‘Oh yes, but I don’t think the Rodeo riders do, they always look very fit.  They must get back problems though.  I mean riding steers and bucking bronco’s must play havoc with your back and your ……..personal parts.’ Valerie had never thought about a cowboy’s ‘personal parts’ but agreed that Osteopaths probably made a good living in Texas. 

‘What does your husband do when he goes abroad?’ asked the hairdresser.  ‘Runs away’ thought Valerie, but she didn’t say it.  ‘Meetings, you know the usual things businessmen do’ she replied.  ‘Men say we like to talk, but put them in a room around a table, and they can spend hours talking.’  ‘Yes, I suppose so’ she replied.

‘Did you read the book?’ asked the hairdresser. Valerie scanned the edges of her mind to recollect what she might be talking about. It took several moments then she clicked.  ‘Yes I did thank you.’  ‘It was good wasn’t it?’  Valerie wasn’t sure whether any self-help book was good. As far as she could tell they all seemed to say the same thing. They reminded her of people who had posters around their houses with soft reassuring sayings and ‘Post It’ notes telling them that tomorrow was the first day of the rest of their lives. When it came down to a husband who had defrauded his clients and possibly murdered her stepfather, the advice seemed remarkably limp.

‘I am sure it helps people to look at things differently’ replied Valerie trying to find something positive to say. ‘I must remember to give it back to you before you leave.’

It was one of the longest hours Valerie could remember, an endless stream of drivel that she could not avoid.  She put up with it in order to avoid any further discussion of Geoffrey and his work. Anything but Geoffrey!  Eventually the hairdresser left, perhaps for the last time, and Valerie cleaned up after her.  By this time Valerie was smoking a packet of cigarettes a day and not even concealing the fact.  The house reeked of stale smoke but she didn’t notice, it was only in the mornings when her tongue had a layer of residue and she coughed getting out of bed that she gave a thought to her newly formed habit. She didn’t care that she was damaging herself, it didn’t matter when she compared it to the disaster she faced now that Geoffrey was gone.

The day took its course. Of all the meetings, the one with the police was the most difficult. The room in which the interview took place was sparse and needed a coat of paint. The walls were supposedly ‘Duck egg’ blue but she thought the constabulary must have bought a job lot of reject paint, it was nearer green than blue, as if it couldn’t quite make its mind up whether to become one or the other. The radiators were those thick cast iron types that you could handcuff someone to and know they couldn’t pull them off the walls.  The surface on them was so over painted and thick that the caste image of the manufacturers name was almost obscured.  She’d time to examine all of these things because they’d left her waiting so long, sitting at the melamine table that had burn marks on it from neglected cigarettes.  That showed how old it was she thought. Eventually when the officers arrived she was told they expected her to co-operate but that a spouse could not be made to testify against their partner in court. Valerie made it plain she’d quite willingly testify against Geoffrey, given the things he had done to her and her family, but she didn’t know anything.

‘Did you know your husband was on the Isle of Wight the day of the murder?’

The officer looked her straight in the eye, she felt he was watching for obvious signs of deceit.  ‘No I didn’t’ she replied.

‘Even though he stayed at your mother’s house?’  Valerie’s faced creased as if she had smelt something bad.  ‘No I didn’t know that.’  Why didn’t she know it?  She could see the question she was asking herself was the same one playing on the officer’s mind.   ‘Did you notice the damage to your husband’s car?’ Again she had to admit she hadn’t. ‘But you signed the repair note when it was returned.’ ‘Did I?’ The officer passed a photocopy across the table. Sure enough there was her signature.

‘I did sign this yes, but I didn’t know what I was signing. I was in a state of confusion what with Geoffrey missing and everything that’s been going on.’

‘I suppose you know nothing about the business partnership between your husband and the deceased then?’  Valerie felt a pang of uncertainty dive into her deepest being and in that moment decided she had to tell the truth about the papers.

‘So you found the papers amongst his clothes?’  ‘Yes.’  ‘And did you report the matter to anyone?’ The officer had shifted forward slightly as if listening intently but Valerie thought his posture intimidating.  ‘I was going to tackle Geoffrey about it when I next saw him but of course he had disappeared in the meantime.’   ‘You didn’t stand to gain from the transaction then?’ Valerie sat back in her seat.  She was shocked anyone might consider such a thing. ‘No of course not.’

‘Even though your mother changed her will, which had been in your favour, to that of the deceased’  She felt her head swimming, and her heart begin to race. Mother had changed her will?   ‘Can I have a glass of water?’ The officer looked up at another officer standing by the door and without a word enough was said for him to leave the room to fetch a glass.   ‘If you were no longer in your mother’s will, then the purchase of her house at a much reduced value by your husbands firm would have benefited you wouldn’t it?’   ‘I can see what you are saying but I knew nothing of either of these things.’  At this point Valerie began to realize rather too late that a ‘chat’ about her husband had turned into an interview in which she was being grilled. 

‘I’m not going to say anymore without legal representation’ she said assertively. The officer sat back.  ‘That’s your right of course, but we are just having an informal discussion Mrs Mitchell’  ‘I want my representative with me if you are going to ask any more intimidating questions.’ The meeting ended soon after but it stayed with Valerie for several hours as she tried to come to terms with yet another bitter twist in the tale. She knew Julia had been written out of the will, but she hadn’t realized the same was true of her self. That bitch, her mother, had used her, giving her the impression she was going to inherit when all the time that she was looking after her she had written Valerie off like some disposable employee.         

That evening for the first time in her life Valerie felt like killing herself.  Everything had gone, brought down like a house of cards by that bastard of a husband.  If it wasn’t for the children she would have taken the car to the nearest bridge and driven it through the safety barriers.  She poured herself a large Gin, lit a cigarette and slumped on the settee. Something beneath her made her uncomfortable, she sat up and reached behind, it was the self help book she’d forgotten to return. 

Chapter 19       I've begun to sketch mother. I’ve decided my study will be called ‘Julia’s mother watching TV.’ Why not stick to the obvious? As agreed, I don't bring my ‘smelly oils’ into her room. I’m sketching her with pastels to begin with, just as I would in court. In my mind I’ve yet to decide whether she is the accused or victim, and to me this has become a very interesting question.  Is this why I decided to paint her?  Was something deep down inside me leading me to do this for that very reason, to judge exactly who I see when I look at her?  I realize, in the months since Brian’s departure and his subsequent demise that I am looking at someone else, someone slightly withered. The words of condemnation still emanate from her mouth but they lack the power they once had.  Is that her, or is it me? I need to know this and I need to know it before she dies. If I do not understand this, then the possibility is I will go fishing again once she is dead, and I know I will eventually drown. Despite rumours put about by charlatans you cannot communicate with the dead.  She is the perfect subject.  She does not want to talk, she does not move except to cough or unwrap a sweet, and she does not even know I am there, as the mind sapping drivel of the TV set continues unabated.  What did Whistlers mother think about whilst she was sitting, or Rembrant when he painted himself as an old man, eyes watering, jowls dropped; something purposeful no doubt, something real, not faux flowers, escaping to the country, or baking competitions.            There is a point where life becomes pointless.  It goes on and things happen but its scope becomes so limited that it seems to me that it has no real purpose. If when turning off a million TV’s you also turned off those watching them, would the world be any the less? I wonder. All of this TV has warped my mind, I am becoming a mass murderer, I need to watch these thoughts!  My plaster has begun to itch interminably and I am using a paintbrush to delve into it to relieve the irritation when she turns and looks at me.  ‘You’ll only make it worse’ she says ‘leave it alone.’  ‘It itches.’ I reply.   ‘You always were one to complain about the slightest thing.’ Under normal circumstances I would have dismissed the comment as her usual goading but I’ve resolved to find out who she is and how I feel about her so I ask what she means.

‘When you were a child you went on and on if you were ill. I remember when you had whooping cough you complained all the time.’  I have never had whooping cough, but Valerie did.  She is confusing us both. I could correct her but don’t. ‘Whooping cough is a serious disease, doesn’t a child have a right to complain?’   

‘I watched my sister die, and she never complained once. Not once.’  ‘Who died? Auntie Pauline is still alive in Australia’ I reply.  ‘Not Pauline, Emily my youngest sister, she died of tuberculosis.’ At first I think she has dementia coming on and is imagining things, then I am flabbergasted. I’ve never heard of Emily. ‘When?’ I ask.  ‘When she was six.’  ‘But I didn’t know about her?’ She turns to look at me. ‘There are lots of things you don’t know Julia.’ Her comment makes me feel an outsider in our own family. ‘Why didn’t anyone say anything about her? Did father know?’  ‘Of course he knew of her.  My mother, your grandmother was never the same after she died.  In those days they used to put their beds outside in the cold, they thought it would cure them.  The day before she died I saw her, blue as a bruise, on the balcony at the TB hospital, but she didn’t complain.  It was a different world then.’  I see a child as clear as day lying out on a metal framed bed on a chilly morning just as though mother has transferred a mental image to me and then the child disappears and with her so does mother. She has turned back to the TV and is staring at it as if she had never spoken.  

Mother’s revelation about her lost sister has shaken me.  She’s revealed a part of her life of which I was unaware and suddenly has become someone different, a mother with two sisters and not one.  Are there any more missing relatives?  Any further revelations that will change the woman I am sketching into someone else? As Valerie so aptly remarked about Geoffrey, you never really know anyone, even those close to you, but I feel I need to glean as much as I can in order to better understand this woman who has had such an impact on my life.  Perhaps I can find something that enables me to forgive and forget, but there’s also this mounting suspicion that I am looking at the wrong person. Perhaps I should be looking at myself.  All of my focus has been on mother’s contempt of me, but how much do I feel I deserve it?