arrived
from his array of informers. Claire paid, and was well-satisfied with Ivan’s
efforts. She was sure he had given professional thought to the problem. She
was sure he was very busy about it. But was Marigold still in Europe? She could
be anywhere, anywhere …
‘She is
in Europe,’ said Ivan decisively.
How did
he know?
He wasn’t
saying. He just knew.
‘I don’t
so much want to know where she is,’ Claire told Cora. ‘I only want to know if
she’s alive.’
‘Or
dead,’ said Cora.
Claire
hadn’t liked to actually give voice to the alternative.
She
suspected that Tom, too, had given up lovers. There seemed to be no women in
his present life, but Claire didn’t attach weight to that aspect of Tom’s
character. It was an extraordinary marriage, and Claire only reflected briefly
on what Marigold had once visited her to say: ‘Why don’t you and Pa separate?
Why don’t you get divorced like other couples in your state?’
Well,
thanks, Marigold. We are closer now than we ever were, Claire mused.
She had
gone to the film festival at Venice with Tom.
The
reporters asked Tom about Marigold: ‘Your daughter. Her disappearance. What
were your relations with Marigold? Not too good I gather.’
‘That
she’s my daughter is one fact,’ Tom replied to one of these enquiries. ‘My
relations with her are another. What I’m looking for is my daughter. You can
keep your nose out of my relations.’
And
Claire told them, ‘We’re doing everything in our power to trace the whereabouts
of Marigold. She is free to go where she likes. But her disappearance is
worrying.’
Tom’s
film, Unfinished Business, was a decided success.
‘But,’
Tom told Dave, ‘I didn’t feel the usual warmth, the camaraderie. You would
think the film people would come up to me and ask about Marigold, wouldn’t you?
Well, at least I must admit, Zeffirelli rang me up. “Tom,” he said, “I read
about Marigold. Don’t give up. Keep your courage. She must be somewhere. If
there’s anything I can do …” You see,’ said Tom, ‘that’s what I call a
friend. Franco Zeffirelli is human and he feels for people. But the British,
the Americans — they’re so suspicious. Do they really think I’ve murdered
Marigold, had her done away with? Is that what they do to their own daughters?’
‘It’s
put in their minds by the newspapers. The diarists drop hints, as you can see.’
‘But
why?’
‘It
seems to me,’ Dave said, ‘that the tone is set by Marigold herself.’
‘She’s
in touch with journalists, you mean?’
‘That I
don’t know. But she could set the tone in a number of ways, Tom. Word of mouth
is the strongest method I know, always has been.’
‘Then
you think my daughter’s still alive.’
‘Alive,’
said Dave, ‘and kicking.’
‘Why
should she want to foul-mouth me?’ Tom said. ‘She doesn’t like you.’ Dave
stated this so much as a matter of fact that Tom wondered if he had some
certain source of knowledge.
‘Dave,’
he said, ‘if you suspect anything. If you could tell me where she is, or even
give an indication…’
But Dave
shook his head.
CHAPTER
TWELVE
Let us go then, you and
I, …
‘You
should write your memoirs.’
‘I
know,’ Tom said. ‘But you wouldn’t believe how many chances of recording my
memories I missed. So many conversations. All forgotten, and so many have died.
John Braine knew a good deal about films, he had a whole lot to say, especially
about films adapted from books. But I can’t remember a single word of it, not
one point that he raised. All I recall of John Braine is that he advised me to
drink Earl Grey tea. Filthy stuff, to my taste. Then there was Mary McCarthy.
She spoke voluminously but I don’t remember a thing, didn’t take a note. What I
remember was how formal and conventional she was. At a cocktail party she
always wore a correct dress, sometimes black, sometimes red, very smart, with a
diamond
from his array of informers. Claire paid, and was well-satisfied with Ivan’s
efforts. She was sure he had given professional thought to the problem. She
was sure he was very busy about it. But was Marigold still in Europe? She could
be anywhere, anywhere …
‘She is
in Europe,’ said Ivan decisively.
How did
he know?
He wasn’t
saying. He just knew.
‘I don’t
so much want to know where she is,’ Claire told Cora. ‘I only want to know if
she’s alive.’
‘Or
dead,’ said Cora.
Claire
hadn’t liked to actually give voice to the alternative.
She
suspected that Tom, too, had given up lovers. There seemed to be no women in
his present life, but Claire didn’t attach weight to that aspect of Tom’s
character. It was an extraordinary marriage, and Claire only reflected briefly
on what Marigold had once visited her to say: ‘Why don’t you and Pa separate?
Why don’t you get divorced like other couples in your state?’
Well,
thanks, Marigold. We are closer now than we ever were, Claire mused.
She had
gone to the film festival at Venice with Tom.
The
reporters asked Tom about Marigold: ‘Your daughter. Her disappearance. What
were your relations with Marigold? Not too good I gather.’
‘That
she’s my daughter is one fact,’ Tom replied to one of these enquiries. ‘My
relations with her are another. What I’m looking for is my daughter. You can
keep your nose out of my relations.’
And
Claire told them, ‘We’re doing everything in our power to trace the whereabouts
of Marigold. She is free to go where she likes. But her disappearance is
worrying.’
Tom’s
film, Unfinished Business, was a decided success.
‘But,’
Tom told Dave, ‘I didn’t feel the usual warmth, the camaraderie. You would
think the film people would come up to me and ask about Marigold, wouldn’t you?
Well, at least I must admit, Zeffirelli rang me up. “Tom,” he said, “I read
about Marigold. Don’t give up. Keep your courage. She must be somewhere. If
there’s anything I can do …” You see,’ said Tom, ‘that’s what I call a
friend. Franco Zeffirelli is human and he feels for people. But the British,
the Americans — they’re so suspicious. Do they really think I’ve murdered
Marigold, had her done away with? Is that what they do to their own daughters?’
‘It’s
put in their minds by the newspapers. The diarists drop hints, as you can see.’
‘But
why?’
‘It
seems to me,’ Dave said, ‘that the tone is set by Marigold herself.’
‘She’s
in touch with journalists, you mean?’
‘That I
don’t know. But she could set the tone in a number of ways, Tom. Word of mouth
is the strongest method I know, always has been.’
‘Then
you think my daughter’s still alive.’
‘Alive,’
said Dave, ‘and kicking.’
‘Why
should she want to foul-mouth me?’ Tom said. ‘She doesn’t like you.’ Dave
stated this so much as a matter of fact that Tom wondered if he had some
certain source of knowledge.
‘Dave,’
he said, ‘if you suspect anything. If you could tell me where she is, or even
give an indication…’
But Dave
shook his head.
CHAPTER
TWELVE
Let us go then, you and
I, …
‘You
should write your memoirs.’
‘I
know,’ Tom said. ‘But you wouldn’t believe how many chances of recording my
memories I missed. So many conversations. All forgotten, and so many have died.
John Braine knew a good deal about films, he had a whole lot to say, especially
about films adapted from books. But I can’t remember a single word of it, not
one point that he raised. All I recall of John Braine is that he advised me to
drink Earl Grey tea. Filthy stuff, to my taste. Then there was Mary McCarthy.
She spoke voluminously but I don’t remember a thing, didn’t take a note. What I
remember was how formal and conventional she was. At a cocktail party she
always wore a correct dress, sometimes black, sometimes red, very smart, with a
diamond
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