Peter Robinson - Before the poison

We had a good dinner that evening before the storms came, laughed a lot, talked about Christmas memories, then made love. I told her I understood her decision to spend Christmas with her family, that she was right. It was too early in our relationship and too soon after her separation for her to be meeting my family and friends. The only regret she had, she told me with characteristic Heather directness, was that she would miss meeting the famous Melissa Wilde. I said we might be able to arrange something after Christmas, depending on everyone’s exact schedule, and we left it at that. She didn’t stay the night, claiming she wanted to get away before the snow got too deep.

Luckily, Jane and Mohammed and Dave and Melissa all managed to get in OK, though the LA flight was delayed nearly ten hours. They had a few days to relax and get over it before Christmas itself, but the weather grew even colder, and any ice that might have melted during the day froze again at night. Even the hot-water bottles didn’t help. My American guests complained constantly. Except for Mohammed. He had lived in London for a while when he was younger and had got used to the cold. I say ‘younger’, though he was only in his mid-twenties now, an intern at Johns Hopkins with, my daughter Jane assured me, ‘amazing’ prospects.

I have to confess that when I first heard Mohammed’s name, and that he was a doctor, I expected a rather earnest and disapproving young teetotaller, but he turned out to be a Goons fan with a keen, off-the-wall sense of humour, and he was not averse to the occasional glass of wine, or to celebrating Christmas with us heathens, for that matter. He was, however, still a member of the medical profession, and I always feel a bit guilty being around doctors when I’ve had a few drinks. I always imagine that they’re ticking off another year with every sip as they look at me. But Mohammed put on a silly hat and pulled crackers with the rest of us. He also ate everything I put in front of him and didn’t say no when I pulled out the single malt at the end of the meal. Jane helped me with the dinner, and I was glad of both her help and her company in the kitchen. It made me realise how much I missed her. And Laura. She had her mother’s good looks, that was for certain. Jane and Mohammed slept in the big guest bedroom, and neither mentioned anything to me about strange reflections in the mirror.

Mother rang from Graham’s on Christmas Day. She’d had a terrible journey, she said, but she was all right now, except there were too many noisy children around. I reminded her that some of them were her own great-grandchildren, but she went on to complain about not understanding the television programmes because they were all in French. I gave up on conversation then and just listened. My son Martin called later from his in-laws’ home in San Francisco and wished us all a merry Christmas, and the rest of time the phone remained silent.

We didn’t stay in the house all the time, of course. Despite the weather, my guests still insisted on seeing Yorkshire, so I took them to Hawes, Reeth, Castle Bolton and York. I also wanted to show them the Buttertubs Pass between Wensleydale and Swaledale, and drive them up to Tan Hill for a pub lunch, but that was out of the question. The road conditions were too icy and dangerous, with sheep wandering the unfenced tracks and the occasional chasm on one side or the other. The weather also ruled out the coast, but I think everyone had a good time.

Whenever we went out, say to the Shoulder of Mutton for Sunday lunch, I began to feel like an outsider in Yorkshire all over again. Apart from me, they all had American accents, even Mohammed, and I hadn’t so much noticed while I was living over there, but Americans tend to speak rather loudly in public. The whole subject of foreigners abroad is, I know, a contentious one, and in my experience there’s not much worse than the Yorkshireman abroad, where nothing is ever quite as good as it is ‘back ’ome’, except the weather, of course. Still, people would stare at us, and it was hard to ignore their occasional expressions of disapproval, such as when Dave questioned why the Brits couldn’t even deal with a simple snowstorm, as if someone in the group had told an off-colour joke or farted too loudly. I realised that they saw me as part of the offending group. Even my old acquaintances the Wellands smiled thinly and kept their distance.

Melissa certainly put an interesting spin on things, though. Plenty of people had teased Dave when he married her – both had a couple of divorces behind them, and at thirty-five she was quite a few years younger than him – but it was a true love match. In private, Melissa Packer was an intelligent, down-to-earth, funny, slightly clumsy and sensible woman, but most people knew her only as Melissa Wilde, from the action films or the sexy siren roles she played on the big screen. She was also gorgeous, and it was all natural, from the pearly white teeth to the firm breasts, glossy back hair, curves, full lips and long legs. She worked out every day, of course, but there was no surgery involved in Melissa’s beauty. She also did her own stunts and had a black belt in karate. Naturally, a lot of people recognised her in public – some had, of course, recently seen her in Death Knows My Name at the Station, in which she played the femme fatale – and quite a few jaws dropped. One or two people even came to ask for her autograph, which she obligingly gave.

Perhaps our most interesting evening, though, and the one that spun me off in a wholly unforeseen direction on the Grace Fox business, was the evening of our Richmond pub crawl.

‘This woman you’re obsessing on,’ said Dave quietly, while we were wedged into a corner of the tiny snug of the Black Lion, along with what seemed like a team of rugby players. An acoustic folk group was playing in the dining area, and they had charmed Melissa into singing a number with them. She had made a couple of alt. country albums before the movies took over her life, and she hadn’t lost her touch. The audience was rapt. ‘Love Is Teasing’ had never sounded so good. Even the rugby players were listening. Jane and Mohammed had opted for a quiet evening at home, as they hadn’t had much time for themselves lately, and neither was particularly fond of pubs.

I took a long swig of Black Sheep. ‘Grace Fox,’ I said. ‘And I’m not obsessing. I’m just interested, that’s all.’

‘Whatever. Do you think there’s a story in it?’

‘Do I think there’s a story in it? It is a story, Dave. A terrific one. A fantastic tale. I just don’t know the end yet.’

‘But you know what I mean. Is it a movie?’

I did know what he meant. Ever since I had read Grace’s journal and seen the photographs, I had been hearing fragments of music that were beginning to coalesce in my mind – I hadn’t written anything down yet – and I had come to call it ‘Grace’s Theme’. It meant that I was thinking in movie terms, although I knew without even playing it that ‘Grace’s Theme’ was also the missing part of my piano sonata, the part that would give it coherence, dimension and meaning. And if Grace had me thinking about movies, which was totally arse backwards, as I’m usually among the last to get involved, then I should have known that Dave, with his cinematic and narrative instincts, wouldn’t take long to cotton on.

We had already been to the Turf, the Fleece and the Unicorn, and we were slowly making our way towards the market square. Though it was only a few days after Christmas, it was a Thursday night, and the town was jumping, the holiday spirit still in top gear. We left the Black Lion, much to the chagrin of the band, and headed for the Castle Tavern.

‘Jesus,’ said Melissa as we entered the cobbled market square, still strung with Christmas lights. ‘Those girls are hardly wearing anything at all and it’s freezing out here. Look at those heels!’ She glanced at me. ‘Are they hookers, Chris? You never told me Richmond was full of hookers.’