What Happens in France Read online

  ‘You finished?’

  ‘Tomorrow. I’ve got one last class and then that’s me done until September. Which brings me onto the reason for dropping around. I want help with an application for a game show.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘It might be a way to help me find Hannah.’

  ‘Have you been sniffing whiteboard markers again?’ said Melinda. ‘How on earth are you going to manage to do that?’

  ‘It’s the first show of its kind and will attract thousands of viewers. You must have seen adverts for it on television – What Happens in…’

  ‘It’s that show! They’ve been showing those ads every night. It’s all very mysterious. “The ultimate challenge and adventure,”’ she said in a deep voice, quoting one of the voiceovers.

  ‘That’s the one. You know I told you Hannah was bonkers about game shows, well, I think she might watch it and I want to be on it. The trouble is I’ve left it a bit late and today’s the last day for applications. I started to fill in the form online and got stuck. Can you help me?’

  ‘You downloaded the application?’

  Bryony rummaged in her bag and brought out a few sheets of A4. ‘I spent ages last night staring at the screen trying to think of ways to make myself sound interesting enough for the producers to invite me along for audition but I couldn’t, so I’ve printed off what I’ve written so far for you to check.’

  ‘Hand it over.’ Melinda took the form and read the title. ‘“Contestant Application for What Happens in…” It sounds exciting already. They give any clues what the show’s actually going to be about?’

  ‘It’s all hush-hush. I only know it’s an exciting new game show, unlike any other, for people who really want a challenge and to make a name for themselves.’

  ‘That’s pretty much the same as they say on the adverts for it. What have you put so far? Name, address – yadda-yadda-yadda. Ah, here we are. “Tell us some interesting facts about yourself?” And you’ve answered… I run an annual quiz at a private school. Are you for real?’

  ‘What’s wrong with that? The school quiz is my baby. This is a game show. I thought they’d like to know I enjoy quizzes.’

  ‘Hell-lo!’ Melinda put on an American accent. ‘You can do far better than that. Give me that pen.’

  ‘What are you writing?’

  ‘That you dived with sharks, abseiled down the Shard dressed as a monkey, and sat in a tub of cold baked beans wearing only a bikini, for charity.’

  ‘You think they’ll be interested in that?’

  ‘More than in you running a school quiz, yes. “Why do you think you’d be a good contestant?’ Easy. “I am a quizzer and love anything that is game related. My best friend thinks I’d be perfect for the show as she says people will underestimate me and not realize I actually live up to my nickname of Miss Masterbrain.” I reckon that’ll get them curious about you.’

  ‘Melinda, I can’t write that. I sound like a complete show-off.’

  ‘No, you don’t. That’s why I put “My best friend says…” You need to stand out from all the other thousands of applicants if you want to be on this show, so do as I suggest.’

  ‘I can’t.’

  ‘Okay, I’ll complete the online application for you.’

  ‘No, don’t do that.’

  ‘Well, either you write word for word what I put down here, or I will. You know I will. In fact, I’m going to stand over your shoulder while you type it out. You can use my computer.’ She pursed her lips and put her fists on her hips, reminding Bryony of the fierce little girl she’d once been. She grinned at her friend.

  ‘Okay. You win.’

  ‘Good. Now, what about this question, “Why do you want to be on the new gameshow What Happens in…?”’

  ‘I struggled to answer that. Do you think I should tell them the truth?’

  ‘Absolutely. You need a good story to get on it; something that will resonate with the producers and the public, like candidates on the X-Factor or similar who have sad stories to tell. You have to be truthful.’

  ‘I thought something along the lines of, “I’ve been searching for my long-lost sister, Hannah, for many years. Last month our father had a serious stroke and is desperate to see her. I hope that, like me, Hannah still has a passion for quiz and gameshows and watches What Happens in… Being on the show might also give me a chance to make a nationwide appeal to the public and ask her to come home before it’s too late.” What do you think?’

  ‘We’ll rephrase it but yes. I think you need to be upfront about this. After all, it’s the actual reason you’re applying for the show.’

  ‘I really don’t know how best to phrase everything, even though I’m an English teacher. I need to get on this show and don’t want to fall at the first hurdle. I don’t want to screw up the application.’

  ‘Don’t worry. We’ll make you sound like the most amazing, interesting contestant ever. So much so, they’ll be desperate to have you audition. You told your folks about it?’

  ‘I’ve only told you. I don’t want to jinx it. There’s no point in saying anything unless I make audition or more importantly, the actual show.’

  ‘Fair enough. We’ll keep it between ourselves for now. Right, let’s big you up some more. Can’t have you sounding the slightest bit dull.’

  Bryony threw her friend a warm smile. ‘Thanks, Melinda.’

  ‘It’s nothing. That’s what friends are for.’

  Bryony raised her glass. ‘To friendship,’ she said.

  ‘To friendship, success, and lots and lots of wine,’ replied Melinda, draining her glass.

  CHAPTER TWO

  THURSDAY, 6 JULY – AFTERNOON

  Bryony extracted the key from her handbag, unlocked the familiar front door and called out.

  ‘In here,’ came the reply. Geraldine Masters had once been a tall, elegant lady with golden-blonde hair swept back in a perfectly coiled bun. Time and events had taken their toll. Her mother’s hair was now white and wispy. The bun was no longer neat and some errant strands had escaped to hang limply down her drawn face. Bryony noted her mother was becoming more wizened each time she visited. Fresh wrinkles had appeared on her once unblemished forehead and her eyes were bloodshot.

  She stood in the kitchen, stirring a large pot of chicken soup. Steam curled above her head, bringing with it delicious aromas of lemon and tarragon that filled the room. Gurgling from her stomach reminded Bryony she had not eaten since breakfast, and had drunk nothing other than the wine at Melinda’s. She placed the cake on the worktop.

  ‘Melinda’s baked a cake for you.’

  ‘She’s a sweet lady. Thank her for me. Her little boy is such a charmer, isn’t he? He’s growing up fast. I saw her in Derby the other day. They were shopping for new wellington boots for Freddie. You want some soup, love?’ asked her mother, ever the carer; ever the strong woman who carried her husband through tough times.

  ‘Later. I’ll go and see how he is first.’

  Her mother’s eyes were red-rimmed with blue-grey smudges under them. Her face was drawn, worn out by fatigue. Bryony’s heart ached. Her mother did not need any more sorrow in her life. She had suffered enough. ‘How are you?’ she asked gently.

  ‘You know. Okay. The same. You know,’ came the reply. Her mother emptied the soup into a cream-coloured bowl adorned with tulips, the pattern faded over years of use. Bryony looked about the familiar kitchen and her heart sank. It was also looking dated. The walls were in desperate need of a fresh coat of paint and the scrubbed worktops required updating, yet it only seemed a few years since they had all moved into the cottage in an attempt to start anew. Time was a cruel thief, robbing each of them of their youth and even their home of its energy and appeal.

  Bryony held out her hands. ‘Let me take it to him.’

  Her mother handed her the bowl. ‘He was awake all night. He was crying. I didn’t know what to say to him.’

  Silence filled the room; unspoken words flew
between them then Bryony set the bowl down on the kitchen table and held her mother, who was choking back tears. After a few moments, her mother pulled away and dabbed at her swollen eyes. ‘Thank you. It’s hard to stay strong some days.’

  ‘You’re amazing,’ said Bryony. ‘You’ve always managed to support and look after us in spite of everything. This’ll get easier. He’ll get better. And I’ll help you both.’

  ‘There’s only one person who can truly help him and I don’t believe she is here any more. If she were, surely she would have been in touch by now. All these years. All these long years,’ she said, wiping her eyes with the edge of her yellow gingham-checked apron – a gift from Bryony. ‘Why wouldn’t she try and get in contact?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ said Bryony with a pang. Her mother was right. It was heartless to have made them all suffer like that. Another voice in her head whispered that Hannah had good reason not to find her way home. ‘I’m still hopeful I’ll be able to find her. I’ll track her down. Don’t give up hope, Mum. Sometimes, it’s all we have.’

  Her mother regarded her with soft, dove-grey eyes. ‘No, I have more than hope. I have you.’

  Bryony kissed her gently on the cheek and took the soup to her father. He was slumped in his usual chair, eyes open but unseeing, lost in a tangle of memories. His face twitched on hearing the door open and he turned his head towards the sound. Expectation flitted across his face, and in a reedy voice he asked, ‘Hannah? Is it you?’

  Bryony felt a familiar pain in her chest. She took a deep breath and in as normal a voice as she could muster replied kindly, ‘No, Dad. Hannah isn’t here. It’s Bryony.’

  The light in his eyes extinguished. He nodded dumbly and dewy-eyed, accepting his bowl of soup.

  * * *

  As her father dozed in the lounge, Bryony sat with her mother in the kitchen. A frail figure, pale veined hands cupping her teacup, she poured out her concerns to her daughter.

  ‘The speech therapist worked with him again this morning but he’s still slurring his words so badly, I can barely understand him. He gets frustrated when no one can comprehend what he’s saying and then angry. I don’t know how to handle it when he’s like that. I’m scared it’ll bring on another stroke and this time it’ll be a fatal one. I want him to get better so much. Oh, Bryony, what if he doesn’t?’

  ‘He’ll make it, Mum,’ said Bryony softly. ‘You’ve both been through bad stuff before and survived.’

  ‘He’s not as strong as he used to be, and he’s become so confused. You can see that. He talks endlessly about her. He asks when she’s going to visit. I don’t know whether to tell him Hannah left years ago.’

  ‘Maybe it would be best not to. At least give me some more time to see if I can find her. I’ve got my blog for her and the page on Facebook. I keep hoping somebody who knows her will see them, or she will and get in touch.’

  ‘I don’t understand how that works. I know what these sites are but I can’t see how it might get Hannah back.’

  ‘It’s along the idea of putting up a lost and found poster but you do it on social media rather than actually putting up posters. It worked for a friend of a friend’s dog. Hector was stolen from her front garden but the police couldn’t do anything. His owner – Lexi – set up a page and asked her clients to share it. By the end of the first day it had been shared by hundreds of people, including some England rugby players and Ant and Dec, who tweeted about it to their thousands of followers. The newspapers got hold of the story and so did GMTV, who invited Lexi onto the show to share her story and to ask viewers to look out for Hector. A couple of days later, two people turned up at Lexi’s house with her dog. The thought was that whoever had taken Hector had been frightened off by all the publicity and abandoned him. It’s surprising who knows who on social media, and once something like that gathers sufficient momentum, it really attracts the attention of the press.’

  ‘The press was involved before and it made no difference.’

  ‘That was the local press. I’m aiming for national press and maybe even coverage on nationwide television. If the right person gets involved in this, then it’ll work.’

  ‘I’m sorry, love, but I don’t think you’re right. I don’t want to hurt your feelings but you’re being naïve or probably placing too much trust in this approach. I can’t imagine an old forgotten case of a sixteen-year-old who ran away thirty years ago, would cause a sensation. It didn’t attract sufficient attention when we tried to find her even back then because lots of young girls and boys run away – too many. Some don’t even leave goodbye notes like Hannah did. She wasn’t forced to leave, or kidnapped or—’ Her mother stopped, anger making her voice rise. She continued, resignation softening her words, ‘She upped and left and hasn’t contacted us since and although for many, many years I hoped she would, I now think she might not even be alive. I appreciate you want to help your father but you’ve set yourself an impossible task.’ She sighed, a sound filled with heartache and sorrow. ‘I drove her away. I should have been there for her when she needed me. I believed she was a normal teenager with moods and quirky behaviour and I didn’t spot the signs she was unhappy. She never hinted there was any real problem. I failed her, Bryony. She obviously couldn’t talk to me, and for that I blame myself. I was far too wrapped up in work and your father’s career. I was so intent on supporting him, I failed my daughter.’ She stopped again. This time the tears trickled down her face, down the creases that had recently appeared.

  Bryony had borne witness to her mother’s suffering and her father’s decline over the years. At first, both of them had believed Hannah would walk back into their lives. Derek Masters had kept up the appearance required of an important headmaster at a large school. He taught his sixth form classes and ran his school like a tight ship, but as time passed and it became increasingly unlikely that Hannah would return home, cracks in his demeanour appeared.

  The police had written Hannah off as a runaway. After all, she had left a note saying she was leaving and had taken some personal belongings with her, and they did not consider the possibility that she might have been abducted. Her parents were less convinced and had hired two detectives at different times to track down Hannah. Neither detective found evidence she was alive. Hannah had simply vanished.

  Both her mother and father eventually began to fear the worst – that their daughter was dead. Her father could no longer maintain his front. The responsibility of looking after 400 children, ensuring their well-being and education when he could not look after his own daughter, was too much to bear. Worry ate away at him and eventually he had the breakdown that saw what was left of their fractured family move to a village outside of Derby and where he was confined to the house for many months with Geraldine caring for him.

  Once he began to mend, Hannah’s name was mentioned less often. Gradually, her mother’s tears dried up and she took employment in a local hospice where she helped care for those who were terminally ill by reading to them or visiting and chatting with them.

  Bryony too erased the painful memories that followed her sister’s departure, although on occasion, she would stop dead in the street, convinced she had spotted her sister – another woman with blonde hair and grey eyes – and scurry after them only to recognize at the last moment that she had made a mistake.

  Bryony buried her self-reproach deep within herself. She studied hard. She went to university, made some new friends and lived a life without her sister. Each time the memories rose to the surface she drove them back, although sometimes she would shed a tear with Melinda. The year before, she’d suddenly decided to look once more for Hannah. She’d begun the quest, set up the blog and hoped, but then in March, her father had suffered a serious stroke and suddenly it became imperative to find her sister.

  Bryony held her mother’s hand and squeezed gently. She felt the acrid taste in her mouth as guilt stirred in her stomach. Her mother wasn’t at fault. Nor was her dominating, demanding father. She kne
w there was only one person to blame for Hannah’s leaving, and that was Bryony.

  CHAPTER THREE

  THURSDAY, 6 JULY – EVENING

  ‘Searching for Hannah’

  Dear Hannah,

  Today I finished work at lunchtime. I only had one group of children to teach. Because I mostly teach examination-year classes, I find myself free quite often this time of year. The GCSE and A-level students have left school and it feels odd without them. One pupil who shall remain anonymous here, a tricky individual renowned for disrupting classes, completed William Golding’s Lord of the Flies and actually enjoyed it. He stayed behind after class to tell me it was the first book he had liked and asked if I thought there were any more books like that he could try. Little achievements such as this make my job as a teacher worthwhile. I can see why our parents loved teaching so much. I borrowed a copy of Albert Camus’ L’Étranger from the French department to read. I haven’t tried any of his works before. I wonder if you have kept up your French and still speak it. Sometimes, when I shut my eyes, I imagine I am listening to your sweet voice singing ‘Frère Jacques’ as you did when you sang me to sleep some nights when I was frightened. After school, I visited my good friend, Melinda, whose suggestion it was that I write this blog. She wondered if you’d ever try to search for me or look me up, and pointed out that one of the most obvious ways in this age of technology would be to Google my name, in which case you’d find this blog and the Facebook page I’ve set up for you. Since then, I’ve tried hunting for you on various social media sites and used numerous search engines, but only drawn blanks. You don’t seem to have any online presence, at least not as Hannah Masters. Anyway, Melinda is planning a murder mystery dinner party for the weekend. I’m to play the character of Tilly Poole, an unmarried twenty-nine-year-old kitchen hand who works in a top restaurant. I’ll have to borrow one of mum’s aprons and wear a dark skirt. I hope I don’t have to cook. That’s something I’m no good at. Melinda helped me with something this afternoon which I hope will lead me to you. It’s a crazy idea I came up with, but if I manage to pull it off, it might bring you back to us. I’ll tell you more about it if it comes to fruition. Dad continues to make progress but it’s frustrating for him and he asks for you repeatedly. If only you would read this blog and understand how much you mean to us all, Hannah. Mum and I aren’t sure if he will make a continued recovery and are anxious he’ll suffer another even more serious stroke. He needs to see you, Hannah. He needs to see you soon. I fervently hope you read this and contact me. Hannah, I love you and miss you every day. Please come home.