A Place for Us

by Harriet Evans

  Florence glared at her, and then her expression softened, and she said sadly, “Nothing. It doesn’t matter.”

  The younger Florence had delighted Martha, because in so many ways she was not her creation; she was like an exotic creature come to stay in the house, to be cared for, looked after. And in all other ways she was a mini-David, with her lanky limbs, her big smile, her sweetness, her earnestness. She knew the names of Persian queens and obscure butterflies, of symphonies on the radio and the different types of Greek columns. And here she was now, a stranger.

  Martha’s mind, starved of sleep, of emotion, was blank. She couldn’t seem to see things clearly anymore. The thought she kept hold of was:

  I have to carry on like this.

  Florence rolled the edges of her folder over and over again, eyes fixed to the table. Martha wondered why she had a folder—what was in it?—and suddenly, without warning, Florence pushed her chair out and stood up.

  “I have to go now,” she said. “I’m needed in London. I don’t know when I’ll be back here. If that’s all. Natalie, will you need me again?”

  “No.” Natalie clasped her files to her body, obviously uncomfortable. “That’s all. Thank you all.”

  “I have to fetch something upstairs before I go,” Florence said loudly. “Something I want. I won’t be long. I’ll say my good-byes now.”

  “Are you going into the bathroom?” Martha asked, perfectly politely.

  “What?”

  “The bathroom. Can you check in the cabinet and see if there’s another tube of your father’s eczema cream? I might buy some more if not.”

  Florence shook her head. “I don’t know what’s wrong with you, Ma. Honestly I don’t. Thank you, Natalie. Good-bye, Bill.”

  Bill didn’t even look up as Florence stalked out of the room. Less than a minute later they heard her feet on the upstairs corridor, heard her rummaging around in the bathroom, opening cabinet doors, shutting them again.

  “What the hell is she looking for?” Bill muttered. “I’m so sorry,” he said, turning to Natalie. “She’s—upset. We all are. I shouldn’t have been so unkind to her, but she . . . oh, never mind.” He sat down again, his hands covering his face.

  “Of course,” Natalie replied awkwardly, as Florence thundered downstairs. Martha waited in silence. Surely she would come in, tell her? But the door slammed shut without another word. A minute later the car roared off down the drive.

  A hazy, fuzzy sort of buzzing sounded in Martha’s head. As though the edges of some soundproofing were coming unstuck and the sound was leaking out of them. She clasped her hands over her ears, trying to shut it out.

  “Right, then,” Natalie said after a brief pause. “Florence asked about the body. I’ll be in touch with the coroner’s office. We will have to apply for a burial order and permission for your daughter’s reburial or—or cremation, whichever you choose.”

  The buzzing grew louder. If they all knew about Daisy, then it had happened. He was gone, and she would never hear him chuckling over the TV, or listen to his soft, kind voice talking to someone on the phone, or look up from a book to see his soft brown eyes resting on her, late in the evening when the two of them sat up alone in the cozy drawing room. She would never turn to him as evening fell and smile and say, “Another day, David darling.”

  She would never take his still-warm pen in her hand and do his work for him, never have him lean on her, never ever walk into a room and know he was there waiting for her. Never hold him close in her arms at night when the dreams seized him and he screamed and cried aloud in his sleep, calling out hoarsely, waking up sobbing, sweating so much his pajamas were soaked, when only she could tell him it was all right. Her boy, her man, her darling husband.

  The sound was really loud now. Like the wasps in Florence’s room. Martha could feel a ball pushing against her throat, pain welling up in her heart. She imagined the curtains weren’t closed, and pictured the garden. She counted the blossoms that would be on the trees behind Natalie’s head.

  “Ah—they may say no—given the circumstances. But once we have cleared that up and you’ve completed the procedure, that’ll be that.”

  “That’ll be what?” Bill asked.

  “Well, she’ll be reburied or the ashes interred, and the case will be closed,” Natalie said, moving toward the door as if she felt the poison in the air of this house, didn’t want to stay here another minute. “You can all get on with your lives.”

  Bill and Martha looked around the empty table, then at each other, and nodded. “Fine,” said Bill. Martha watched him, wishing she could see. But suddenly all she could see was blackness. She sat still, hoping it would pass.

  Lucy

  “THE INDIA CLUB. The Strand. It’s just before Waterloo Bridge. After the Courtauld.”

  Lucy listened to the message again, and stared around her, bewildered. Buses and taxis shot past at an alarming speed, and pedestrians crossing from the Strand to Lancaster Place pushed past her, buffeting her. The first days of warm weather had foxed her, as they seemed to every year—she was in a navy wool-mix long-sleeved dress, and it clung to her back, now slick with sweat. “I can’t bloody see it,” she muttered, standing back and staring up at the shops in front of her. “Arrgh,” she said, letting out a low groan. “Oh, Florence.”

  “Florence?” An amiable-looking middle-aged man standing in a doorway stepped forward. “Are you—I’m sorry to interrupt. Must seem a bit odd. You’re Lucy, aren’t you? I’m Jim Buxton. I—I know your aunt.”

  He held out his hand, and Lucy shook it uncertainly. “Good day,” she said crisply, thinking if she sounded like a heroine from a BBC war drama she might somehow deter this strange man from mugging or murdering her, if that was indeed his intent. “I’m looking for the India Club. I’m supposed to be meeting—”

  “I’ve just left her here. It’s upstairs,” Jim said with a smile. He pushed his phone into his pocket, and opened a scuffed black door. “I’ll show you.”

  • • •

  Two floors up, Lucy found Florence in the small restaurant, which had murky yellow walls and was almost empty. She was seated at a large table, papers strewn everywhere, scribbling furiously, an uneaten dosa at her side.

  “Hi, Aunt Flo,” Lucy said loudly. She wasn’t sure if Florence would hear her or not.

  “Florence,” Jim called. “It’s your niece. I found her on the street.” He said tentatively, “It’s . . . Lucy.”

  Florence looked up then, pushed her glasses up her nose, and broke into a smile. “Hello, darling.” She enveloped Lucy in a big, messy hug. Pieces of paper flew to the floor. “So you know Jim?” she said, slightly confused, scrambling to pick them up.

  “No, Florence,” said Jim patiently. “I bumped into her outside.” He pulled at the arm of his glasses, slightly like Eric Morecambe, and then hugged the Daunt Books cloth bag he was carrying closer to his chest. “I forgot to ask. Are you in for supper?”

  “No, Thomas wants me for a conference call with the lawyers.”

  “Well, Jesus wants me for a sunbeam.”

  “Bully for you,” said Florence, shoveling papadum into her mouth. Jim slung the bag over his shoulder.

  “I’ll leave you some casserole out, that suit?”

  “That’d be marvelous. I left the LRB review on the kitchen table, by the way. Do look. Utterly wrong about Gombrich, but it’s a good piece.”

  Lucy, not understanding a word of this conversation, sat down, glancing longingly at the dosa.

  “Is Amna back tonight, by the way?”

  “No, she’s not,” Jim said. Something in his tone made Lucy glance up, curious. “She’s gone till May, I’m sure I told you that, didn’t I?”

  “The lawyers need to talk to her.” Florence slid the menu over. “Pick something, Lucy, it’s all wonderful.”

  “What do the
y want to talk to her about?” Jim asked.

  “Oh, it’s rubbish. Peter’s lot are saying you and I are having an affair. That you’re not a credible expert witness. Et cetera.” Florence rolled her eyes. “Bloody idiot. I think it makes him sound pretty desperate, I must say.”

  Jim pulled at his tufty gray hair. “I see. Florence—maybe we should discuss this all later.”

  “Of course,” Florence said heartily. “I am living with you, it must look rather odd. But we need to be clear on the matter. I hoped Amna could clarify or provide some kind of statement. . . .” She shuffled through some papers. “It’s here somewhere. Ah. Now, I’d forgotten about this passage.” She pulled out a cracked Biro and started writing furiously.

  “Good-bye. Nope, she can’t hear me.” Jim smiled at Lucy. He put his hand on Florence’s shoulder gently, then turned to Lucy. “Good-bye. It’s very nice to meet you. Very nice to meet any of Florence’s family, in fact. I was starting to think she was a water-baby or something. Have the ­pakora, it’s jolly good.”

  “Oh—” Lucy began, but he’d gone. Florence waved vaguely at his back and carried on, her huge, looping handwriting covering the paper.

  “Just a moment.” She scribbled one more line, and put down her pen. “Sorry, Lucy. Thank you for coming.”

  “My pleasure. It’s so good to see—” Lucy began tentatively.

  Florence interrupted. “I wanted to ask you something.”

  Lucy glanced at her aunt curiously. Florence wasn’t the kind of aunt who took you to the ballet, or to tea at Fortnum’s. She was the kind of aunt who’d spend hours playing battles or making up stupid songs with you. But she didn’t generally confide, or expect you to confide in her.

  There was something else, too. Something that, since that awful day, had been pushed to the back of Lucy’s mind. The evening Southpaw died. Bursting into his study to fetch her for supper, Lucy had found Florence sitting in Southpaw’s chair, a glass of wine next to her and a postcard of a painting in her hand.

  She was sobbing her heart out. When Lucy moved in the doorway and Florence saw her, she wiped her nose and gave a great, huge, galloping sigh.

  “It’s true,” she’d said, staring right through Lucy, her swollen eyes glazed, and she’d pushed away a piece of paper lying on the blotter, crumpling it up. “Oh, no.” Her face collapsed again. “Oh, no. It’s really true.”

  Lucy had reached to her across the desk. “Oh, Flo. What’s true?”

  “Nothing.” She’d wiped her nose. “Absolutely nothing. I’m coming now,” she’d said, folding the postcard and putting it into one of her capacious pockets, but she didn’t move, didn’t move at all, until Gran went in and got her out.

  Now she said carefully, “What’s up, then?”

  “Why don’t you order,” her aunt said. “Then I’ll tell you.”

  • • •

  When Lucy’s pakora arrived—and it was delicious—she ate in silence for a few moments. She was ravenous. Lately, all she seemed to want to do was eat.

  “You’re in Hackney, aren’t you?” Florence said. “Not that far from Jim and Amna.”

  “Of course.”

  “Jim’s a clever fellow. Very astute. Known him since Oxford, we rub along nicely together.”

  “He seems lovely.” Lucy looked at her watch.

  “You should come over one evening. It’s a great place. Stuffed with books. Jim is—”

  “Flo, what’s this about?” Lucy interrupted. “I don’t want to be rude. It’s just I have to be back by two.” Her aunt looked startled, and Lucy said hurriedly, “Work’s horrible at the moment. I can’t be away too long.”

  Florence picked at the uneaten dosa. “Oh. Why’s it horrible?”

  “I’m not right for it. And my boss is gunning for me.” Especially now Southpaw’s dead, she wanted to say, but couldn’t. The article about Daisy was of course not possible now. There was no talk of promotion, and last week Lara had left to join Vogue and Deborah had looked at Lucy and said, “Not to be brutal, but it’d be a waste of your time. I don’t want to sound negative, though, Lucy. I’m just being honest. Okay?”

  Lucy told Florence this.

  “Oh dear. What would you like to do instead?”

  The question caught Lucy unawares. It hadn’t occurred to her that she could do something else. She squirmed on her chair. “Oh. Well, I’d like to be a writer.”

  Florence didn’t laugh, or look amazed, or cough in embarrassment. She said, “Good idea. Pleased to hear it. You can help me out, you know.” Lucy looked blank, and Florence waved her hands. “Luce, it’s a good idea. You can write. Remember those funny stories you used to tell Cat? What are you doing about it?”

  “Oh. Nothing.” Lucy laughed self-consciously. “Well . . . I write down bits and bobs.” Lately she had taken to writing at all hours, on her laptop, late at night. About Dad, and Karen, about Gran and Southpaw. “I had an idea, about us—it’s . . .” She clamped her suddenly sweating armpits into her sides, before remembering that Flo simply didn’t care about things like that, and relaxed. “Don’t ask me yet. I don’t think I’m quite there.”

  “No time like the present,” Florence said grimly. “What do you want to write?”

  “Stories,” Lucy said vaguely. Now that it was out there, now she’d said to someone, I want to be a writer, she wished she could pick up the string of words floating on the air between them and cram them back in like a jack out of its box. She shrugged and said brightly, “I’ll get round to it, one day. So—um, how long have you been in London, then?”

  “Oh, over a month,” Florence said abruptly. “Had to go home—to Winterfold for the night last week. But I’m staying with Jim till June, I think. Have you heard about this court case I’m involved with?”

  “Of course.”

  “It opens next week,” said Florence. “I’m suing Peter for a share of the royalties of his book and a coauthor credit.”

  “Golly. Is he the TV bloke? Didn’t you once—”

  Florence interrupted. “Oh, yes. I’ve been a total idiot. And I didn’t want it to get this far.” She gave a grim smile. “I’m a bit afraid about what they’ll drag out, actually.” She laughed nervously, and pushed her glasses up her nose. “Embarrassing stuff.”

  “Like what?”

  Florence said quietly, “Oh, Luce. I’m a solitary person. I’ve spent a lot of time in my own head, all these years. You get used to it in there. It’s rather nice.”

  “I know what you mean.”

  “You do, don’t you? One gets these ideas about things. . . . Anyway, I made a fool of myself over him.” Florence swallowed. “When I think about it for any length of time, I feel quite sick. And I feel quite al—alone.” She stumbled over the word.

  “You’re not alone.” Lucy put her hand over her aunt’s, then pulled it away.

  “I am. Believe me. Now that Pa’s gone and the rest of it—” She bit her lip, and put her hands in front of her face.

  “You don’t have to go through with it,” Lucy said. “You could always pull out, couldn’t you?”

  A change came over Florence’s face. She sat up straight and put her hands together. Her expression was determined, her chin stuck out. “All I have is my reputation, Lucy. Middle-aged men are seen as being in the prime of life. Middle-aged women are dispensable, my darling girl. Just wait, you’ll see.” She paused, and Lucy thought she was trying to convince herself as much as anyone else. “Look. I wanted to ask your help.”

  “What do you need my help for?”

  “Can you write an article? For your paper? A little bit of, I suppose one would call it persuasive PR on my side, would do me a world of good.” Florence leaned forward, brushing her hair in some chutney. “I don’t—want to look ridiculous. A nice piece about how respected I am—your—your paper would do that, wouldn’t they?”


  “Oh.” Lucy put her fork down and dabbed her mouth with a napkin, buying some time. She caught Florence’s hair in her hand, brushing a blob of chutney off.

  “Um. I’m your niece, Flo. That would look a bit ridiculous. ‘Why Florence Winter Is Great,’ by Lucy Winter (No Relation). They’d buy something on our family history—they wanted to do a piece on Daisy and Southpaw, but I couldn’t bring myself to, and then—everything else happened.”

  “Well, can’t you now? With me in it?”

  Lucy stared at her aunt rather helplessly. “Well, no. You can’t just write articles about your relatives without some sort of angle. That’s why I wouldn’t do it before.”

  “What sort of angle did they want?”

  “Oh, Southpaw’s sad early life, Daisy the missing daughter . . . et cetera. But it was too hard, and now, obviously, I’m not going to do it.”

  Florence reached over and took a piece of Lucy’s chicken. “What if I could give you something else?”

  Lucy looked at her aunt’s hands. They were shaking.

  “What?” Lucy said, not really believing her.

  Florence whispered, “I—well. Come on, Flo, come on,” she added under her breath. “Look, Lucy. I’m—I’m not your aunt.”

  “You’re not—what?”

  Florence’s heart-shaped face was gray with misery. “Oh dear.”

  “Flo—what do you mean?”

  “I’m adopted. That’s what I mean.”

  Something stuck in the back of Lucy’s mouth. She coughed. “Adopted? Oh, no, you can’t be.”

  “I am, I’m afraid.” Florence gave a twisted smile. “Daisy told me, when I was younger. I didn’t believe her, I thought it was one of her little games, but at the same time you never knew with Daisy.” She swallowed. “In fact, she was right. It’s true. I . . .” She stopped, and looked down at the congealing food on her plate. “I found my birth certificate. The night Southpaw died.”