She Sings

It was a quiet night. Still, clear and cold. A light mist hung over the glistening water and beyond, the darkness was intensified by the looming presence of Rangitoto Island. At 2:30am, a patrol car headed west, slowly, along a deserted Tamaki Drive. Constable Kitiona Tuala observed that it was three degrees and falling. She wondered whether it might turn into the first frost. Constable Tom Fenton said “Maybe,” and suggested it would be good to stop for a coffee.

Tuala had just made the turn to take them toward a gas station, when the Duty Officer called. She directed them to a nearby address. They should try to make contact with a Mrs Julie Prentice. Mrs Prentice had called twice, concerning her husband and son, who she claimed were missing. In her second call, Mrs Prentice had been highly distressed. If there was no response to the intercom, they should use the PIN for the gate. Fenton recorded the PIN.

Five minutes later, they pulled up at green, wrought iron gates. Fenton said, “This is that banker – Prentice.” He named the bank but Tuala just shook her head. Fenton tried the intercom, unsuccessfully. He entered the PIN and the gates swung slowly open.

“I think you’re right. It’s bloody cold,” he said, and added, as the car moved along the gravel drive that curved around the edge of a sweeping lawn, “How does a banker go missing?” Incongruously, the ground floor was brightly illuminated and as the car pulled up at the entrance, he said, “Well, someone’s up.”

“Could have been left on.”

“Can you move forward?”

Tuala moved the car another couple of metres so they could see around the pillar under the portico. “Front door’s open,” she said with surprise. “Odd.”

The constables mounted the broad steps to the open front door and then listened to the doorbell echo deep inside. Fenton rapped on the doorjamb. He called, “Mrs Prentice? Police, Mrs Prentice?”

Tuala stepped inside. The heating was on, but the chill night air was already penetrating. Fenton closed the door as his colleague scanned the kitchen off to the right, and then, on the opposite side, a sitting room. She shook her head and gestured to the stairs. On the landing she paused to call, but there was no response. Fenton said, “I’ll go this way.”

Shortly, they met again and Tuala said, “Outside?”

Fenton replied, “It’s a huge place. And empty.”

On the driveway, she nodded to the left, and he set off in the opposite direction. A few minutes later they were back by the car. He clapped his hands together and said, “Nothing that way. Probably took off and forgot the door.”

“Could have…but I don’t think she drove. There’s a car in the garage.”

The beam of Fenton’s torch caught the grass. He touched Tuala’s arm. She saw the dark patches in the dew. Foot-steps marked the wet grass from the kerb, in the direction of a dark wall of trees on the far side.

“There,” he said softly.

Tuala said, “Don’t shine it directly,”

They came close to the tree where it was evident that the pale form huddled against the base of its enormous trunk, was a woman. A youngish woman. Perhaps thirtyish. Her legs were pulled up against her chest. One arm and her blonde hair concealed her face and she did not move. She was naked.

Tuala knelt alongside the woman. “Mrs Prentice? I’m Constable Tuala.” She gently touched the woman’s neck. Then she said urgently, “Get a blanket. I’ll stay here.” She placed her hand on the woman’s shoulder. The skin was very cold but there was a slight movement. “Mrs Prentice? You called about your husband and son?” The woman did not reply. Tuala added, “We really need to get you inside.”

Fenton returned and Tuala began to wrap the blanket around the woman. “Help me lift her…Mrs Prentice…let’s get you into the house. Can you walk?” She put her arm around the woman and they began to move slowly across the lawn. Tuala said to Fenton, “Can you run a bath. Not too hot.”

Shortly, Fenton came down the stairs, and together, they helped the woman to the bathroom. He waited outside.

Tuala removed the blanket and steadied her as she stepped, woodenly, into the bath. It was like guiding a child, just awakened. When she was lying in the warm water, Tuala said, “Are you okay? Mrs Prentice? Is there someone we can call?”

The woman’s eyes were closed and her face seemed strangely peaceful. Tuala continued, “I’ll just be outside a moment.”

She kept the door ajar. Fenton said, “Do we need a doc?”

“Probably a good idea. But she seems stable. Have you called in?”

He nodded. “Pretty odd. Apparently, they’ve talked with her husband. It seems that he says there’s nothing to be concerned about. She’s been a bit depressed, but it’s all under control.” His expression said, ‘Can you believe that?’

“Under control? Where is he?”

“On business, somewhere. And the son’s with friends.”

“Is he coming?”

“I don’t think so. But there’s a housekeeper. A Mrs Harris. She should be here at eight.” He glanced at his watch.

Tuala said, “We’ll have to stay. I’ll get her into bed…see if you can make a hot drink.”

Tuala crouched down alongside the bath. “Mrs Prentice?”

The woman opened her eyes but stared sightlessly. Her expression did not change. It seemed to Tuala to be devoid of any emotion, but a tear rolled down her cheek. In a barely audible whisper, she said, “They’ve destroyed me.” And then, turning her gaze to Tuala, she asked, timorously, “Who are you?”

TWO

“You live a perfectly normal life. A wonderful life. You are lucky. Look at this house. Most people would die to live in such a grand house. You don’t even have to do anything. You have a housekeeper. You have a gardener. You’ve had a nanny for Christopher. And now,” her mother told her, but not in an unkind way – “You’re forty. Well, everyone turns forty. And you’re still very pretty. No-one can expect to be as beautiful as they were when they were twenty. Goodness! You’re one of the luckiest women in the world!”

She told her mother that she never expected to be anything but forty, and she was very aware of how lucky she was. Her mother replied that sometimes, she didn’t seem that happy. Was she unhappy? No, she was not unhappy and she didn’t understand why her mother would think so. Her mother said that was a relief. Most people would die to have the birthday party that Derek, who was a truly wonderful man, was throwing for her. How many got to have a birthday on a yacht like that? Their own yacht. Her mother said that anyone who was unhappy in this circumstance, was a very difficult person to please. Didn’t she agree?

*

She walked into her wardrobe and stood, motionless. Eventually, she reached to touch this fabric and then that. They were all beautiful. Derek had told her, as he always did, to buy anything she liked, but he couldn’t come to help. Did she mind? In any event, he said, he always loved what she chose. She gazed at the wall of garments with a feeling first, of bemusement that gradually became something else. Something more like…weariness. Quite unsettled, she returned to the kitchen and shortly, as she sat drinking the fresh-made coffee on the terrace, she knew she wouldn’t buy anything. Derek would be none the wiser.

She had never attributed great insight or empathy to her mother, but perhaps her mother possessed some deep instinct that told her something wasn’t quite right. Did anyone else detect anything? Why should they? She did what everyone did. She met with friends, or acquaintances, for a coffee in the village and she played a very social game of tennis. She read for the book club, on time, and had always prepared, mentally an earnest review. She attended both a yoga class and the gym, and she jogged. She made sure that she talked to Christopher before he went to school and argued with him, just a bit, as a mother must, to ensure he didn’t begin to think he could take her for granted, though he did anyway. She was always home when her son returned home. She did love the gardens, which were extensive, and she gathered seed and cultivated seedlings in the shade house, because that is what she and her father had done.

It was a normal life. With a devoted husband. It included a full schedule of dinner parties, plays, the orchestra and visits to new art exhibitions. They were booked-up for months ahead. Of course, she was very aware that what her mother meant by ‘normal,’ was not what most people experienced, and it was a far cry from her childhood. Never, now, did she have to think about money. If she had decided, on a whim to re-model the kitchen, which she didn’t; or to buy a large sculpture by a leading artist, which she did, she could do so. They did not take vacations anywhere but in Asia or Europe. Derek played golf with his friends and wives went shopping and sightseeing. They frequented the very best restaurants and were on first names with the chef.

It was not always thus. A small plant nursery was not a source of affluence, but on the other hand, her father had never mentioned money and seemed unconcerned. It was her mother who fretted about how they would pay the bills. And nor had Derek been wealthy when they married – she had simply known he would be an excellent provider, which was different. She knew there would be a comfortable home into which to bring and raise a family. There would be certainty. These were important considerations, at that particular time. A life of luxury had simply happened – because he was so good at what he did. He was very different from the men, or boys she had known. They were boys, she had reflected. Idiots, more-or-less, but in a part of her mind that she did not visit often, she knew that she missed them. Obsessed with rock music, or motorbikes, or extreme anything. They smoked dope and got plastered, often. They broke a leg and laughed. They took temporary jobs so that they had just enough to go careering through the next month or so. They understood almost nothing of the real world. They had no conception of a home, and she wondered why that was so. They’d all come from homes – but nothing seemed to have stuck. They entertained mad dreams of making movies in the mountains, or racing at the Isle of Man. One of her boyfriends who had graduated well, and who her mother had observed showed some promise, had flown a wingsuit into a mountain.

They were pretty clumsy at everything. Including love-making. Except for Jacques. Jacques was ten years older and he devoted himself to sex the way he did to his art. He was meticulous and thoughtful, and greedy. He was wonderful. Unfortunately, he was also petulant. She had left him in Paris. They travelled around Europe for two madly exciting months, but she saw that Jacques’ affections were conditional on her cleaving to the same opinions. She had wondered over the years, whether he had made a success of painting – but she suspected not. She did remember how he was in bed, but love-making was such a transient thing; a momentary high, before one needed to get real. And when her father died, she had known she had to get real. She had known that she must leave behind the music festivals and eating junk food at three in the morning whilst arguing about the meaning of life. Which was amusing, since none of them seemed to have the faintest idea about the meaning of life.

But Derek did. She saw it instantly. She knew instinctively that he saw her as part of the meaning of life. His life. A life that was secure and predictable, and real. It was time. She saw that he was smitten and she was gratified, and indeed, she guessed she was in love.

That was a very long time ago, and something was happening. It was gradual, like the tides in the estuary that had entranced when she was a child. Nothing seemed to change, unless one looked away and then back again – with barely a sound, the water had reached one’s toes. She tried hard to be a good mother and wife. She had, regularly, resisted the advances of other men, including several of her husband’s acquaintances.

Something was happening. She entertained a vague but persistent fear – that she was two people. And both were disappearing like mist before the rays of morning sun.

*

On the morning of her birthday, Christopher gave her a box of chocolates that were entirely too sweet, but she said that she loved them. Christopher was a fine young man. He was polite and intense. He wasn’t athletic but he was quite good looking, with that funny cowlick and his dark blue eyes, and she felt that one day, he would be handsome, like his father. Derek was a little disappointed that his son wasn’t interested in golf or tennis, and he did tend to be overly critical of Christopher’s love of computer games – unless that interest led him to the most important piece of software ever invented – the spreadsheet; although lately, Derek more often extolled the virtues of AI, or artificial intelligence, which, he said, was redefining the future of everything. Consequently, he had taken to encouraging their son to think about a career in AI. Leverage mathematics, Derek said. Christopher was gifted, in his understanding and interest in math, and required special tutoring. Derek observed that with that talent, and the advantages of his father’s business aptitudes, Christopher could find a most lucrative and worthwhile vocation. Derek did not mention any specific aptitudes that may have been contributed by his wife, but she assumed that was only because a deep knowledge of the habits of plants, had no direct bearing on algorithms, data modelling or banking. When he was subject to one of these not infrequent lectures, she observed how her son evinced no reaction whatsoever. His expression was blank and he did not look at either of them.

The day was sunny and Derek pronounced it perfect for the party. He insisted on making her breakfast in bed. Had she bought a new dress? He looked forward to seeing it. The housekeeper wished her a very happy birthday and gave her a pot-plant. She apologised for it being not grand at all, but she hoped it would be nice to have in the studio. Julie hugged her and said it was simply a gorgeous gift and she would love to have it with her as she worked.

At one in the afternoon, she and Derek drove to the yacht. It wasn’t the biggest, he said, but it, or she as he said, was one of the best looking and finished. It was a beautiful boat, with a gleaming white hull, dazzling stainless steel and glass, and rich, burnished teak – for a beautiful woman. It was all of eighty feet and could easily accommodate the hundred guests. He had installed a new bow thruster. He told her the name of the model, which he added with evident satisfaction, could deliver 300kgf. He had decided on the bronze hub, and with proportional control. It would make a big difference to manoeuvring in the marina. Any marina. He said her choice of dress was stunning – as always.

She went to the master cabin and examined herself in the mirror. I’m forty, she thought, and I have everything...

Four guests made obvious passes at her and two were more subtle though unmistakeable. It had long since stopped puzzling her that Derek could observe this behaviour by his friends and find it merely amusing. Even when Paul squeezed her so…conspicuously and kissed her cheek so amorously, and told her that when she tired of old Derek, she knew who to come to. Derek smiled and said Paul would be waiting a long whiles yet. Everyone was radiantly happy, of course. How could they not? Here on this sparkling testament to success, with the most lavish hospitality. Everyone told her how she still looked barely thirty, and wondered how she did it. Everyone told her how lucky Derek was to have her, and she him – for weren’t they the most handsome couple. And then everyone talked about banking, and politics and banking again, and everyone agreed that the government was lurching and that change was well overdue. And then everyone became exceedingly merry and louder, or in some cases, nearly comatose, due to the unending supply of bubbly purveyed by the most attentive and handsome young waiters. Derek joked during his speech, that he had insisted that there be only handsome waiters. Waitresses could be such a temptation, he said, and he didn’t trust half his colleagues, and handsome young waiters would see in the birthday girl, how stunning the more mature woman could be – which remarks occasioned much raucousness.

To cheers and clapping, he presented her with her birthday gift. Every girl on turning forty, deserved no less, he said, as he helped to secure the necklace around her neck. Then he kissed her bare shoulders and whispered, “There’s no-one here holds a candle.”

There was no avoiding a few words. The cries of ‘Speech!’ were loud and long. It was ironic really, she thought, most of her audience was well past being able to comprehend much beyond one or two platitudes. So, she obliged. She thanked them all for coming, and for being so supportive of Derek, and her. She thanked Derek for throwing such a lovely party and for the beautiful gift, and then, when the band began to play, she found a moment by herself and was frightened by the intensity of the sudden pain in her stomach, when she wished she was still a child, holding her father’s hand as they searched in the forest for a particular tree.

Derek asked her if she had had a great time. She said that she had. He apologised that he needed to check a few things for a meeting the following day. So, she went to bed with her book, but paused after only a few pages. She felt confused. Or more than that? She felt, almost, lost. At this, she experienced a quite unpleasant chill. Lost? What did that mean? She stared sightlessly across the huge bedroom in the direction of the enormous artwork on the opposite wall. It may as well have been blank.