Where are we now?
I often wonder that. There is little mystery any more.
Check your updates, and see that we have all become as one.
Now, in the days of our current plague, we have become uneasy, nostalgic for a time when there was still something to find out, perhaps when America was great and Britain was just Britain.
I doubt it was ever like that, but it is nice to dream and imagine a time less dreary, when excitement wasn't contrived and life was just pleasantly surprising from time to time.
I live near the sea now, keeping guard, and prepared for a final escape to one of the last unknowns. It's always good to have an escape plan, even if you can't sail, or don't own a boat.
I had an escape plan once before, twenty years ago, and I got away.
I got away to where I sit today, sipping tea and spirit, surrounded by plants. Lately, though, I've realised that one never really does escape, and so this is the story of why we must learn to fly......
Chapter One
Sunday, 24th June, 2001
I
By midnight, dazed and consumed, Peter Husband had finally passed out on the sofa. He didn't want to sleep in the marital bed tonight. The bed where just this morning, his wife had been. There was a spare room, but that didn't feel right, and anyway, the sofa was nearer the phone, the door, or something. The deserted dregs of an undistinguished vodka stood nearby, testament to a day that had not gone well.
Several hours previously, he'd already been kipping in the lounge. It was a regular script these days. A lunchtime session in the boozer followed by an afternoon nap, then a late Sunday dinner, prepared with cold practicality, by his now, absent wife.
Today was different, and Peter had stirred earlier than usual to a still, empty house. Where was she? He felt irritable. A cluster fly landed on the table. He smacked down hard, the table shook, and a small figurine of a prancing Criollo horse toppled over, snapping off a foreleg. Peter's nostrils flared as the fly, unharmed, alighted on a nearby window. He jabbed out Rita's number....
II
Isabella Lake, by April of 2001, had just celebrated her thirtieth birthday. In the jigsaw puzzle of her life, there were several areas where one could make out clear, blue sky. Indeed, one could say that she probably had three of the four corners filled in, or at least, sense a facet of the greater picture that was to be revealed. It was conceivably more than most, but nonetheless, still incomplete. Some pieces, however, remained difficult to place, and like anybody else who'd completed thirty laps around our little star, she had managed to lose some of them completely.
Now and again, it was possible to encounter an individual who, despite the odds, still owned a childhood possession, that had remained in pristine condition. A feint yellowing, or patina, being the only give away that it had originated from the years of one's youth, and incredibly, survived the journey. But that was the point, for to have made the journey, avoiding clumsy fingers, boisterous friends and spilt milk, it occurred to Isabella that that was a journey without risks. Better to have loved and lost....and all that.......yes, every time. Games were there to be played with, but memories and truly precious things?
She had more reason than most to preserve the past, but then that was her paradox. She understood it well by now, of course. It was a question of forming enough of the picture with the pieces that one had to hand. Lost pieces could never be retrieved, but there were still plenty left, yet to be revealed.
Born in France, to a French mother and English father, Isabella had only known one home. Les Moulins Blancs was neither a mill, nor white. Rather, it was a substantial farm building, formed from several adjoining barns and cottages. The plot amounted to less than half a hectare, set a few miles inland from the coast near the Rance estuary, not so very far away from the picture book, medieval town of Dinan, in Breton France.
Constructed almost entirely from oak and granite, and capped in chunky blue slate, it stood firm and strong against the, sometimes brutal, winter storms. Once inside, one felt protected against all the elements could muster. Isabella learned that its arm length thick walls, also provided cover from the more subtle emotional storms that could prevail over one's life.
The house was inherited as a wreck by her mother, Eleonore. Due to complicated inheritance laws, countless decrepit properties had lain empty for years, falling into disrepair, and by the time she eventually took possession, it was by no means certain that it could be saved.
Isabella's father, Terrence, a young English, drop out architect, had come to France on holiday, and on meeting Eleonore, fell in love, and found his vision into the bargain. Terry felt at odds with his stiff engineering education, and trapped by the career path that it offered. The escape to a unique life in France, afforded a perfect fit in time and space. Eleonore, with a rural background, and artistic leanings, offered him the patience, encouragement and vision, for them to resurrect White Mills (as Terry called it) into a unique domain.
By the early Seventies, now married, and with baby Belle on the scene, Elle and Tel had made steady progress, and had made enough of the building habitable, to live reasonably comfortably. Against this backdrop, Isabella grew up in a near, idyllic lifestyle. Her mother had instilled within her an appreciation of nature, cuisine and art. Her father taught her how to use her hands, and read the things she'd need.
Unusually for the time, her parents believed that she should benefit from everything they knew. It was, they reasoned, as important that she could fix a tractor engine, as it was to create an elegant meal, from ingredients that she knew how to cultivate herself. Her mother's talent at drawing had passed on, and as she grew older, Isabella veered in this direction, eventually expressing a desire to become an artist.
Perfectly bilingual, and coupled with an almost royal flush of skills, she was encouraged to question accepted principles, but despite this arcadian heritage, Eleonore and Terrence eventually decided that one suitable, final piece in this particular jigsaw, would be to encourage their daughter to finalise her education by studying art in Paris. Perhaps they'd concluded that there were some things that they could not teach her themselves. Independence, the big city, artistic diversity, or even romance. Who knows? but for whatever reason, she eventually and reluctantly, agreed to go.
The first term at The Sorbonne for Isabella was, despite all her inbuilt confidence, it has to be said, difficult. Perhaps childhood and adolescence at Les Moulins, was just too perfect. Her homesickness reminded her of one of her father's declarations “In this life, there's a price for everything” and she tried to cheer herself up with this thought, and the fact that her parents would soon be visiting for the half term break. It gave her some confidence that she could tough it out, and ultimately, even grow to enjoy it........Then suddenly, everything changed forever.
On their journey to Paris, Terrence and Eleonore encountered one of the largest motorway pile ups in French history. It took them both, instantly. The two largest pieces in the jigsaw puzzle of the life of Isabella Gina Lake were gone, lost forever, never to fit into her picture again. There was a surreal aspect in the fact that everybody knew. The incident was, of course, national news. Everywhere she looked, T.V, radio and news stands, it was inescapable.
No longer able to countenance Paris, she quit her course, retreated to Les Moulins and its thick, thick walls, bolted the doors, seldom venturing out for almost a year. Eighteen, and now completely alone, Isabella tried, very slowly to make some sense of it all, unable to comprehend the 'price' that she had been forced to pay.
III
Peter barged past Will into the lounge, and carried on through to the dining room and kitchen, desperately looking for any sign, that she might be here. He returned towards the stairs, paused, and looked back towards Rita.
“Go and look if you must, you bloody idiot, I've already told you, she's not here......Will, call the police, for God's sake !”
Peter turned on his heel and without a word fled, the front door still wide open.
“If she's gone and left you, then good.….I hope she has.....It's a wonder she's stuck it all this time..............You don't deserve her, do you....... you loon................ What's wrong with you ?”
Rita wasn't sure he'd heard it all, as he strode down the drive, back to the car, but he had. Oh yes, he'd heard it, and as he snaked away, punching through gears, he knew she was right.
Back at the house, his mind started to race. There had to be someone else. He went to the bedroom, and frantically looked for clues. Nothing had gone. He checked again, clothes, belongings, even her passport was there. He tore out the drawers from the dresser, throwing clothes everywhere. What was he looking for? He didn't know. Jewellery box? Still there.....complete. He threw it at the wall, and as the clatter stopped, the door bell rang.
The next two hours were spent in the incident room with the local constabulary. He'd received a warning. Mr Matthews wasn't going to press charges, but he'd better be careful. Any more of this nonsense and he'd be in the cells. Eventually, some forms got filled in, and the events of the day had been pieced together.
“I'm going to file a missing persons report, okay ? This won't go official for another twenty four hours. Until then, I want you to calm down, be a good boy, and stay at home near the phone. If she does turn up, or gets in touch, then let us know....Got it ?”
He nearly said “Yes Sir” but instead, nodded, and made his way back home.
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