Free The Girl in the Polka Dot Dress by Beryl Bainbridge Page A

was just a kid, no more than six years of age, but he apparently brought a dead wild-cat back to life, which ever after howled at the moon. It was claimed he was possessed by the devil. Ignorance, of course. The state took him away and his sisters became prostitutes.’
    â€˜I need to see it,’ Rose said.
    â€˜Those days,’ Mirabella declared, ‘tragedy was in the air one breathed.’
    â€˜It is now,’ Rose said. ‘Nothing’s changed.’
    A meal was served when Harold woke up. It was pink lamb, not properly roasted, accompanied by a lot of green things. Harold said, ‘Jesse rang you, I guess,’ at which Mirabella nodded. The talk that followed was mostly about the Shaefers and how well Jesse and George were managing their lives, apart from the problem of their only child who was obviously heading for trouble.
    â€˜He stays out all night,’ Mirabella said.
    Harold said, ‘You can hardly blame him.’
    An hour passed before Rose felt able to bring up Dr. Wheeler’s letter again, by which time Harold had stumbled back to the sofa. Soon, judging by the snuffling noises emerging from the velvet cushions, he sank into the land of dreams.
    â€˜I’m sorry to be a nuisance,’ Rose said, ‘but I have to see that letter.’
    It was very brief, merely an address in a town called Malibu to be given to Rose, and a polite hope that Mirabella was keeping well. He spelt Rose’s name without a capital R.
    â€˜We had such good times in the old days,’ Mirabella said. ‘We all went to Paris once, at Fred’s expense. Jesse . . . Bob Maitland . . . me.’
    â€˜When did Dr. Wheeler leave?’ Rose asked.
    â€˜Leave?’ Mirabella looked puzzled.
    â€˜He said he’d be here,’ Rose said. ‘That’s why I’ve come. I got a letter in Washington.’
    Mirabella was forking the remains of lettuce leaves into a paper bag; one of her fingers was bound with sticking plaster. ‘Why would he be here?’ she queried. ‘He’s on the Kennedy campaign trail . . . somewhere in Oregon.’
    â€˜But he’s dead,’ said Rose.
    Mirabella giggled. ‘Not that one,’ she corrected. ‘His brother.’
    It was evening when Harold woke. He scratched at his beard like a man infected with creepy crawlies and said he needed a walk. When Rose asked if she could come too, he flatly refused. ‘You’re not to go out,’ he ordered.
    â€˜You’ll be pleased with the rose bush,’ Mirabella said. ‘It’s rambling towards heaven.’
    She handed him a torch, in case it grew dark. Before he left he apologised for leaving her alone with Rose. ‘You’re to keep her inside,’ he said. She said he was not to worry, message understood. Rose thought they were both rude.
    When he’d gone, Mirabella asked how she and Harold had become acquainted. It was obvious from the gleam in her eyes that she took them to be more than just friends.
    â€˜We met through people I know . . . Polly and Bernard . . . a year or so ago. Bernard does business with a lot of Americans. I don’t believe that Harold understands me, not really . . . we’re not on the same wavelength . . . but he’s been very kind and he paid for my aeroplane ticket. I don’t have very much money myself, and it’s lucky that he wants to find Dr. Wheeler as much as I do. They go back a long way.’
    â€˜They do indeed,’ Mirabella replied. She went to the stove and hovered there, fiddling with a jar of coffee. She was half smiling, as if remembering some joke.
    â€˜I knew Dr. Wheeler when I was a child,’ Rose said. ‘He took an interest in me.’
    â€˜That’s unique,’ said Mirabella. ‘Fred couldn’t stand children.’
    â€˜He always told me that if ever I needed him, he’d be waiting.’
    â€˜But not this time,’ said Mirabella.
    â€˜I had a