by Leah Mercer
But then he tightened his grip around her, she leaned her head on his chest and, through the thin shirt he was wearing, she could make out the solid, even beat of his heart. And she knew she was safe here.
Her mouth dropped open as the taxi left the winding main road and bumped down a little mews lined with squat, narrow houses that looked better suited to fairies than to humans. One side of the road gave way to thick foliage and she wound down the window, breathing in the heady scent of damp earth and flowers, so different from the smell of the sea around Hastings. The taxi stopped and Bertie heaved the suitcase from the boot, then came around to open her door. She loved how he took care of her.
She walked out into the night, hearing leaves rustle in the wind, and she couldn’t help smiling. Even though she was more of a city-centre, hustle-and-bustle kind of girl, this place was like something from a dream. And when Bertie opened the door and ushered her into his house, that feeling only increased. Everything about the place was narrow and crooked, as if it had been uprooted from its moorings and plunked down here, yet it had survived. From the wood panelling to the fireplace to the steepest spiral staircase she’d ever seen, every inch of it was bursting with character . . . and with comfort. A well-loved puffy sofa stood against one wall, with a colourful blanket thrown over the side. A wooden rocking chair and a mismatched armchair completed the room, and books dotted every surface. Towards the front of the cottage was a tiny kitchen with a little table and two chairs.
‘This is an amazing house,’ she breathed, taking it all in.
Bertie was watching her with a look of pride. ‘Isn’t it? My grandfather left me some money a few years ago, after he passed away. Together with my savings, I had just about enough to buy this place. After living in horrific flats for years, sometimes I still can’t believe how lucky I am. I love it here.’
Jude nodded. She knew she would, too.
‘Come on,’ Bertie said, taking her hand. ‘Let me show you where you can unpack. I’ll make some room for you in the wardrobe – I wasn’t expecting to bring someone home with me.’ He shook his head with an incredulous expression, and it struck Jude how quickly life could change; how all it took was just one random turn of direction, and everything would be different.
She thought of her parents and her heart squeezed. This wasn’t the first time she’d experienced life’s vicissitudes, and it probably wouldn’t be the last.
She followed Bertie up the stairs and into the bedroom. A queen-sized bed was tucked under the eaves, and Bertie swung open a window. She could hear the river from here, and her lips curved in a smile once again. Like everything else in the house, this was perfect.
‘Come here.’ She sat down on the bed and grabbed Bertie’s hand, tugging him from where he was rearranging his things. He sat down beside her, taking her hand in his. She looked up into his grey eyes and her heart tightened.
‘I am always with you. I will always be here.’
The words flew from her mouth and filled the small room, and tears sprung to her eyes. She hadn’t said those ten words since she was a child in her mother’s arms. But then, she hadn’t felt so safe – so secure – since then, either. She meant them now as she’d meant them then, with every fibre of her being. No matter where life might try to take her, she would always be here.
Bertie touched her face, then repeated the words back. She let them curl around her, holding them close to her heart. And as she and Bertie fell on to the bed together, Jude knew that coming here was the best thing she’d ever done.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
ELLA
I jerked awake the next morning, blinking at the sun streaming through the window on to my legs. I’d thought the warmth was Dolby for a second, unsure exactly where I was. Then I remembered: I was in a hotel in Edinburgh, and if things went to plan, I’d speak to Bertie, get on the train as soon as I could, and be home by tonight. God, I couldn’t wait.
I yawned and sat up, my mind slowly clicking into gear. First things first: I needed to see how to get to his address – please, God, may it still be his address. I dug out my mobile from my rucksack, grateful for the first time that I had a smartphone. Despite paying for data on my plan (was it even possible to buy a mobile plan without it?), I’d never actually used it. If I ever needed to look up something, I used the computer at work.
But right now, I was only too happy to open up Google and enter the address: 10 Belford Mews. I watched as the little arrow popped up on the map, marking the location. It looked to be a fairly easy thirty-minute walk from here – or, at my usual speedy pace, even less. The few times Carolyn attempted to walk with me, she always laughed and ended up puffing, asking me to please slow down before she collapsed. For me, walking was about getting from A to B as quickly as possible. Luckily, this route didn’t seem too difficult: straight down Princes Street, then turning north. With my phone to guide me, I was sure I’d make it there without trouble.
My heart picked up pace and nerves skittered through me. In just a short time, I was – hopefully – going to come face to face with someone from my mother’s past; someone who’d loved her and wanted her back just as much as I had.
Someone who was still hoping, even now.
Someone whose hopes I would have to break, just like mine had been.
I swallowed, wondering how Bertie would react when I told him my mother had died. He would accept it with time, like I had, but after so many years of hoping it was bound to be a difficult thing to hear. He needed to know, though. Of that I was sure.
I jumped in the shower, turning it up as hot as it could go (not very hot, actually), sluiced shampoo through my hair, then stepped out. I pulled on my jeans and a fresh jumper, ran a brush through my hair, and I was ready to go. Out on the street, the bagpiper had been replaced by an accordion player who seemed to have an affinity for the same three notes, played over and over. The music, if you could call it that, followed me down Princes Street. The sun was so strong it practically blinded me as I hurried down the busy street lined with shopfronts on one side and what looked like a garden on the other. Part of me longed to meander through the trees, away from buses and punters, but I forced my legs faster.
I left the wide pavement and continued down a smaller road, winding past stone houses on one side and a high wall on the other. After stopping many times to consult the map on my phone, eventually I made my way into a lovely little mews, a maze of cobbled streets with colourful garage doors and tiny houses with hanging flowers and trellises. I kept walking until one side of the houses stopped, giving way to trees and bushes. Finally, when I’d almost reached a dead end, I came to number ten.
I paused to wipe my sweaty face. The air was fresh, but the sun was hot, and the backpack had got heavier and heavier as I’d marched on. And now here I was, standing in front of number ten, about to meet the man who’d loved my mother so much he’d written for years.
I closed my eyes and, for a second, an image filled my mind: my mother humming happily as she moseyed up these cobblestones. She loved bright colours, and she’d have adored the greens and blossoms. I may not have known my mother well, but I could imagine she’d have been very happy here. In fact . . . My eyes flew open. This place looked exactly like the house she used to describe in the stories she’d tell me sometimes, where the princess always found love in the end.
Was she talking about this place when she’d told me those tales?
And if she really had found love, then why had she left?
I pushed the questions aside. I wasn’t here to find answers, only to give one. I was here to talk to Bertie, then head home again. I straightened my spine, lifted a hand and knocked.
My heart pounded as I heard footsteps on the other side of the door.
‘Hello. Can I help you?’ A man about my age, with curly dark hair and a stubbly beard, swung open the door. My heart dropped. Whoever this was, it obviously wasn’t Bertie. He was way too young.
‘Hello.’ My voice sounded hoar
se after all my exertions. ‘Um, I’m looking for someone called Bertie? Does he live here?’ Please, God, may I not have come all this way for nothing.
The man’s brow crinkled. ‘Bertie? No, there’s no Bertie here. Sorry.’
My heart dropped. Shit.
‘Do you know who used to live here, maybe? He would have moved within the past couple of years.’ Just my luck that Bertie had lived in the same place for thirty-odd years and then moved on. I bit my lip, thinking about what that might mean. Was he no longer waiting for my mum? Had he given up? My mother wouldn’t have been able to find him if she hadn’t known where he lived now.
The man shook his head. ‘The man who lives here has been at this address for ages.’
My heart plummeted, and my brow furrowed as I tried to puzzle it out. Perhaps Bertie had used this address simply to write from? After all, he hadn’t written to my mother at her address, either. Maybe he lived somewhere else?
‘Okay, thanks.’ The strength of my disappointment surprised me, and I realised just how much I’d been looking forward to meeting this man . . . someone who would understand what I’d been through; someone I could free.
But I’ll find him, I told myself. There had to be a way to track him down. A fierce determination gripped me, surprising me with its force.
‘Can I talk to the man who lives here now?’ If Bertie was using his address, then he might know where I could find him.
The man tilted his head, as if he was debating something with himself. Then he nodded. ‘All right. He’s having a good day, so maybe he can help.’
‘A good day?’ I met the man’s eyes, noticing for the first time how the deep blue of them looked like the sea on a summer’s night.
‘Hugh suffers from Alzheimer’s,’ he said, and my heart fell. ‘Some days he’s okay and others he’s a little muddled up. I’m Angus, by the way. I live next door and I come round to help when I can.’ He stuck out his hand, and I took it in mine. His fingers closed warmly around my cold ones and, for some annoying reason, I felt my cheeks flush.
I pulled my hand away, hoping Angus hadn’t noticed. It had been a long time since I’d touched a man, as pathetic as that sounded. I’d had a few flings with guys in college, but I’d never had a proper relationship – as soon as anyone wanted more, I’d balked. And then, as I’d got older, my circle had shrunk, and I hadn’t made the effort to meet anyone new. My lack of relationships had never bothered me, though.
‘Come on through.’
I followed him inside, loving what I saw. The house couldn’t have been more different than my barren flat, but it was so full of character that you couldn’t help but be drawn in. The back garden was tiny but absolutely bursting with colour. Vines and flowers spilled over stone walls and, like the house inside, almost every inch was covered with potted plants. A tall, thin man with an angular face turned to greet us as we entered the garden. He looked in perfect shape, and he couldn’t have been more than sixty-five. It was hard to believe someone so young suffered from Alzheimer’s, but I’d heard that sometimes it could happen fairly early on.
His eyebrows rose as he spotted us. His gaze locked on me, burning into me as if he could see right into my heart. I blinked under his scrutiny, feeling my cheeks heat up again.
‘Hugh, I’ve got someone here who’d like to talk to you,’ Angus said. ‘She came here looking for a man called Bertie?’
‘Haven’t heard that name for a while.’ The man smiled and shook his head. ‘I’m Bertie.’ My heart sank as he came forward. This was Bertie – this man with Alzheimer’s? How could I tell him my mother was gone if he was clutching those few memories – that hope – close to him?
But then, how could I let him live his last few years in futility?
‘And there’s no need to tell me who you are,’ Bertie said, his gaze unwavering. ‘I know who you must be. I can see her in you, clear as day. You’re Jude’s daughter.’
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
ELLA
I nodded, barely able to breathe. I’d never thought I resembled my mother, yet this stranger had seen her in me straightaway. But he wasn’t a stranger, I realised yet again. He was someone who’d known my mother intimately . . . and someone whose thoughts I knew intimately; someone with whom I’d connected.
Angus put a hand on Bertie’s shoulder. ‘Why don’t we go inside?’ he said. ‘I’ll make you both some tea.’
‘Yes, of course,’ Bertie said. ‘Please forgive my lack of manners. After you—’ He paused. ‘I just realised I don’t know your name.’
‘It’s Ella,’ I said.
‘Ah, Ella. Of course.’ He smiled, but his eyes looked sad. ‘Your mother loved Ella Fitzgerald. “Summertime” was the first song I ever heard her sing.’ He beckoned me forward, and I followed Angus back into the house. Bertie settled into a well-worn chair, motioning me towards the sofa. ‘Have a seat.’
I shrugged off my rucksack and sat down, almost wishing now that I hadn’t come – that I didn’t have to tell this kind man news that would sadden him. But it would help him, too, I reminded myself. If he did only have a little time left before his condition claimed him, then he deserved to live in absolute clarity.
‘Seeing you now, sitting there. . . well, I almost feel like I’m seeing her again.’ Bertie swallowed, and my mind flashed back to one of his letters, where he described how my mum used to throw herself on to the sofa with abandon, then lie there with a smile and sing.
‘But I’m nothing like her.’ I winced. I hadn’t meant to say that. ‘I mean, I don’t look anything like her.’
‘You do,’ Bertie said, his eyes filming over like he was looking at something far away. ‘It’s the shape of your eyes and the set of your mouth; in the way you carry yourself when you move.’
Something shot through me that I couldn’t identify – a mixture of surprise and dismay, perhaps, that she was there in me, after all? Each time I’d gazed in the mirror as I’d grown, I’d reassured myself that I couldn’t look more different. I didn’t want to see her there. It was a reminder that I’d been a part of her and she’d chosen to leave me. And as I got older, the differences seemed greater. I’d wanted her as absent from my body and soul as she was from my life.
Angus set two steaming mugs of tea in front of us, complete with a mismatched saucer of milk and a tiny pot of sugar. The clashing china was charming, and I snuck a look at Angus.
‘Very domesticated, our Angus,’ Bertie said, catching my gaze. ‘As well as being a huge help with all the jobs around this old place and keeping me ticking over. Sometimes I feel like it’s starting to fall down around me as much as my mind is, but I couldn’t leave now. Not yet, anyway.’ He sipped his tea.
‘I’m sorry I almost sent you away,’ Angus said to me now. ‘I’ve known this man for a few years now, but I’d no idea he’d ever gone by the name Bertie!’ He raised an eyebrow at Bertie, and Bertie laughed.
‘Well, I haven’t used that name in a while – over thirty years, in fact.’ He shifted in his chair, his eyes taking on that faraway look again. ‘My full name is Hubert, but your mother wasn’t a fan. She said she’d call me Bertie, and that was that.’ He paused, a small smile lifting his lips. ‘It’s funny how today it’s all so clear and sometimes it’s hardly there.’
I nodded, sipping my own tea.
‘I’ve lived in this place for years – I’d never move,’ Bertie continued. ‘I loved it from the moment I bought it, and the memories I have here are so precious – even more so now. It’d take wild horses to drag me away.
‘So, Ella . . .’ Bertie tilted his head, his dark grey eyes fixed on me. ‘Is there a reason you came to see me? Did she . . . Did she ask you to come?’
I could see the hope in his eyes, and I stared down at the well-worn rug, my heart squeezing. I had to tell him the truth. I couldn’t let him slide into the fog of Alzheimer’s without solidifying the present. He deserved to spend the last few years of his life free from the clutch of hope.
‘No, she didn’t send me to find you.’ I took a deep breath and looked up. ‘I’m really sorry, but my mother’s dead.’ The words sounded so heavy and weighted in the midst of this place where my mother had lived; in the presence of this man she had loved. I could almost see the light in the room fade into grey.
Bertie’s face didn’t change, but his eyes did. They went flat and the corners tightened.
‘I’m very sorry,’ he said gently. ‘I’m sorry that you lost her. She was such an incredible person and so full of life. She made everything brighter for me. Having her here was like turning on the sun.’ He made a face. ‘Which, living in Scotland, sometimes you absolutely need. Not every day is like today.’ He paused. ‘When did she . . . When did she pass away?’
I met his eyes, wondering how much I should say. I’d set him free by telling him that she was gone. I didn’t need to inflict more pain or stir up questions by telling him she’d killed herself. ‘It’s been about thirty years now. I was only five.’
‘Thirty years?’ Bertie’s eyebrows rose, and his head started shaking back and forth, back and forth. ‘No, no. That can’t be right.’
‘What do you mean?’ I shot a worried glance at Angus, wondering if Bertie was sinking into confusion. Perhaps a shock could do that to him.
‘I saw her. I saw your mother, in London, about two years ago now. I’m sure of it.’
It was my turn to shake my head. ‘I’m sorry, Bertie,’ I said, ‘but she’s dead.’ I sighed, thinking I’d better tell him everything, after all. Maybe that would make it more real. ‘She took her own life.’ I tried to make it as palatable as I could. ‘She walked into the sea We never recovered her body, but people saw her in the water that day, and the police found her belongings on the beach. I was raised by my aunt and uncle – my father died before I was born.’