Chapter 8: Mary & Peter Schormann

Llamroth, evening: Wednesday, September 17th

‘Perhaps I shouldn’t have told Richard about Victoria?’ Mary Schormann replaced the telephone receiver but left her hand resting on it.

‘What did he say?’ Her husband touched the head of the large Alsatian dog that leaned against him, whining. ‘Quiet, Gelert.’

‘Not a lot – only for us not to worry, she’ll be back.’ Her forehead crinkled. ‘He said it had been a long day. It sounded as though he’d had a difficult journey.’ Always reluctant to speak on the telephone because of his hearing, her son had sounded even more strained than usual. ‘I hope he’s all right; it’s only a few weeks since his last operation.’

‘A small operation, Mary. And as you say, it is the last. And the university would not wait much longer; his interview has been deferred already. He is lucky they understood.’

‘Well, quite right they did!’

A thought came to her, something she didn’t want to acknowledge but knew she must; the twins had always been close. ‘You don’t think he knows … knew what she was going to do, do you, Peter?’ Would he have deceived them as well?

‘Nein. No. I am sure not.’ Her husband shook his head. ‘Richard is sensible, Mary—’

‘Unlike Victoria?’ She couldn’t stop the bitterness spilling out.

‘Victoria has always been the unpredictable one. We know that, meine Liebe.’

‘She’s hard work.’ Mary frowned, having a sudden memory of her daughter’s stubborn face that morning, her expression rebellious yet somehow nervous. ‘At least now we know why she wouldn’t come with us to see Richard off.’ She looked down at the note in her hand. The message was short, written in her daughter’s large, careless handwriting. ‘What does she mean? “Need to find myself”? And this, “My spirit is crushed in this place”? “My spirit needs to fly”?’ Her anxiety once again merged with irritation. ‘All this claptrap!’

Peter Schormann took the paper and re-read it. ‘I do not know.’ An old frustrated fear churned inside him. All the years he’d protected his family as best he could, and now this. This was totally out of his control. He breathed slowly against the sudden rapid beat of his heart, forcing himself to stand still, stay strong in front of Mary. ‘I will go to the police,’ he decided. ‘They will have to do something, she is under age. I will make sure we will find her. I promise you.’

But Mary heard the bewilderment under his words and it frightened her. Throughout the years they’d been married he’d been the strong one. At first, against the contempt and hatred of people who didn’t know them, and later in his determination to regain his status and be respected for the doctor he was. Now it seemed he was as frightened as she was for their daughter.

She moved restlessly around the room, folding the flowered curtains back into tidy pleats before refastening the tasselled tieback, lifting the cushions into place on the new brown leather settee, touching the spines of the books on the shelves. She stopped to study the photographs on the wall above the bookcase.

One of them showed Richard standing at the entrance to St David’s Cathedral. What you couldn’t see, unless you knew where to look, was Victoria, in a green cardigan, hiding behind one of doors. She was sulking because she couldn’t have an ice-cream. Earlier she’d chosen to have sweets. It had been that or an ice-cream. Typical of her daughter, Mary thought resentfully, she’d wanted both in the end. So, when they were leaving, she’d refused to have her picture taken.

Her eyes shifted to the next photo. It showed the twins with her sister, Ellen, and her husband, Ted, and their children. Ellen was holding Victoria’s hand. Mary closed her eyes, an upsurge of distress making her light-headed. She’d always known her daughter took after her sister. Both strong-willed; both determined to do just what they wanted. Now Victoria had proved how right she’d been. She held her finger and thumb over her eyes. The dog plodded across to her and pushed his head against her. Absently, she stroked him.

She was grateful when Peter reached for her hand, his warm fingers wrapped around hers, his thumb stroking her palm. But even that small gesture failed, for once, to comfort her. As though he understood it, her husband pulled her gently to him, held her close.

He smelled differently these days since he’d given up smoking his pipe, but his arms around her were still strong, the curve between jawline and throat still the familiar place for her to burrow her face.

Her tears were hot on his neck.

‘Why has she done this? It makes no sense.’ She wept. ‘Where has she gone, Peter?’

‘It will be fine, Liebling. We will find her.’

She pulled back from him, searched his face. ‘But will it, Peter? Will we?’ Mary shivered; it felt as if ice was running through her veins. ‘She must have planned to go; she waited until this morning, until we were out. Did she catch a bus? Was she somewhere on the station when we were?’ Her voice broke. ‘Did we miss her? Has she gone off with someone? Oh, Peter, who knows where she is right now?’