by Kathy Shuker
The remark galvanised Angela’s mind. ‘Oh listen to yourself Peter. A few weeks ago no-one could please you, nothing matched your standards, and now this girl can do no wrong. What has she done to you?’
He gave a short, pained laugh. ‘I don’t know what you mean.’
‘It’s as if she’s put a spell on you. You’ve become more and more obsessed with her. And you’ve changed - yes you have, don’t shake your head at me – you’ve changed since she’s been here.’
‘I have not. Well, maybe I have a little. Yes...she’s made me think.’ He took a deep breath, exhaling slowly. ‘It’s as I said to you before, Angela. I’ve made mistakes. Josie...’
‘Josephine was not your fault,’ Angela said quickly. ‘You shouldn’t blame yourself.’
‘You know it’s not that black and white, Angela.’ He stared lugubriously at the papers before him with a distant air, as if a long-buried scene was playing out in his mind.
‘Peter?’
‘Mm?’ He raised his eyes, focussed on her face. ‘Josie might have run away, you know; she might have had a child.’
‘No, Peter, no. I can’t believe you’re letting Celia play mind games with you.’
‘You didn’t know Madeleine,’ he said firmly. ‘Terri is like her...in many ways. And the girl doesn’t know anything about her mother.’ He held Angela’s gaze. ‘It is just possible, Angela. We have to consider the possibility.’
‘Why? Because there’s a vague similarity about the eyes?’ She stared at him, her face distorting with disbelief. ‘It’s all in your imagination, Peter. You just want to believe she’s Josephine’s daughter. It can’t be true. You know it can’t be true.’
‘Well, I don’t want to turn my back on her if there’s a chance. Of course we could arrange a DNA test but I’ve been looking into it and I understand that with only one grandparent to check, the result is likely to be inconclusive.’
‘Do you realise that you talk more about Terri these days than you do about your own daughter? Lindsey is being pushed out.’
‘Nonsense. I was talking to Lindsey only this morning. She’s thinking of going back to her music. I hadn’t realised before how much it meant to her. She wants to go to music college. It’ll be tough for her to get in but I’m sure she could do it if she applies herself. I promised I’d back her. Whatever it takes, hm? We want her to be happy, don’t we?’
‘And what about Terri?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘I mean what do you intend to do about her?’
‘I don’t intend to do anything about her...yet. I’m keeping an open mind. Maybe she’ll...’
‘You’re being duped Peter,’ she said across him. ‘I can’t believe it. And you want to be duped, that’s what’s so hurtful.’
‘Hurtful?’ He looked genuinely puzzled. ‘It doesn’t affect the way I feel about you, Angela, or your position in this house, or Lindsey’s. But if Terri is Josie’s daughter, she has rights and I have obligations. She is not responsible for...for what happened, after all.’
‘I don’t want you to pursue this, Peter.’ Angela fixed him with her green gaze. ‘She’s written the catalogue; she’s collected the paintings and worked out most of the exhibition for you, hasn’t she? So I think you should terminate her employment now. Luc or...or...or the gallery could help you finish off what needs to be done. That’s what I want you to do. If you care for me Peter...’ She left the unfinished sentence hanging there, the threat unvoiced.
Peter’s frown returned. ‘I’m afraid I can’t do that.’
‘It’s either her or me,’ she said rashly.
‘Don’t push me into taking sides, Angela,’ he replied, his tone and expression quickly darkening. ‘Don’t make me do that. I’ve seen you with another man. I know I’ve not always valued you as I should and I am truly sorry for that, but I’ve never cheated on you. I’ve had temptations, believe me, but I wouldn’t do that. You are not in a position to give me an ultimatum.’
‘I don’t know what you’re talking about. What other man? Where?’
‘I don’t wish to discuss the matter any further...now or in the future.’ Peter replaced the glasses on his nose and picked up the top sheet of paper again.
Angela stood up, lifting her chin proudly, ready to argue. But he’d taken the ground from beneath her and she hesitated, unsure what to say. On the wall beyond, she caught sight of the portrait of Madeleine. Angrily, she turned and walked out, the tea forgotten.
*
Terri’s flat in London felt dark and cramped after the brightness of the southern French sun. Travelling had played its usual trick on her mind. The light and the bleached stones of Provence, its perfumes, colours and sounds still seemed to be imprinted in her senses. London, despite its bright lights and lively bustle, felt dreary by comparison. She wished she’d not been so quick to reject Luc’s offer to accompany her. But part of her wondered if the fairy tale would have continued here anyway. Perhaps their romance was born of the sunshine and the light and the fertile earth of the Luberon and would disappear to nothing in the hard-edged noise and shadow of the city. She could not yet dare to believe in it.
The apartment brought back memories of Oliver, some good times, mostly the bad, and it occurred to her that perhaps she should consider selling the place and making a fresh start - whatever happened with Luc. Sophie had told her that she’d seen Oliver a couple of times with another woman – a young actress. It was welcome news but Terri felt desperate for the girl. Even so, she still watched for him, found herself checking corners and looking behind her and only slowly allowed herself to accept that it was finally over.
Over the next few days, she was easily occupied. She caught up with a couple of old work colleagues and had dinner with Sophie and Stuart; she went shopping and did some cleaning; she paid bills and washed clothes. It was Wednesday morning before she finally retrieved the squat cardboard box containing her father’s things from under her bed, dumping it on the floor in front of the sofa. Even then she looked at it distrustfully, as if it threatened her in some way. In an effort to lighten her mood, she put her favourite album on and turned the volume up.
Sitting down, she still stared at the box but did nothing. Her feelings about her father were so contradictory. Since his death she’d been surprised by how often she thought of things she’d like to ask or tell him; a chance memory had often brought her close to tears. She missed him and yet couldn’t understand why because when he was alive she had rarely seen him. And yet she had carried the book on Indian painting back with her from France as if, by keeping it close, she could stop him from slipping away from her again.
‘Oh come on Terri,’ she muttered, ‘get a grip.’
She ripped off the sticky tape sealing the box, opened the flaps back and peered inside. On the top lay a battered shoe-box containing a couple of quality biros, a fountain pen, a magnifying glass, a pocket calculator and a pair of scratched reading glasses. There were two leather-strapped watches. She remembered her father wearing the older of the two when she was a child. As a teenager she’d told him it looked old-fashioned. ‘I don’t care,’ he’d responded briskly. ‘It’s a proper watch with a proper mechanism, not like the modern rubbish.’ Yet the other watch was precisely the sort he’d been complaining about. Had the old one finally broken or had he given in to pressure from Lizzie to buy a new one?
She knew nothing, really, of the detail of his life over these last years. Luc hadn’t been so far from the mark when he’d described them as estranged. Even his contentious article had not brought them closer together; Terri had been only distantly aware of her father’s distress – a remark made on the phone, quickly passed over; cigarettes smoked nervously in quick succession the next time she saw him; a reluctance to talk about it again. If she were honest her anger at Luc had come as much from her own feeling of guilt as anything else.
She frowned, put the watches aside, and pulled out a small torch, a key fob, then a small si
lver charm of an artist’s palette. This was her father’s ‘lucky charm’, though why and where it came from she had no idea. Was it French? Had her mother given it to him? Highly unlikely he would have kept it then as a charm. As Terri had told Peter: her parents didn’t get on. The realisation had come to her slowly over these last weeks. Looking back now, she was amazed it hadn’t occurred to her years ago. It was why her father had been so withdrawn, so miserable, so bitter: he’d married a woman he couldn’t love and then she’d walked out and left him with a tiny child.
In the main box she found a photograph album containing a few casual wedding photographs, and a succession of family pictures. There were two missing, presumably the ones her father had given her. Using the magnifying glass, she studied her mother’s features closely but the quality was too poor to make them out. They were snaps anyway, taken by another family member or a friend. There were pictures of her childish self – a couple, small and equally unclear, with her mother - and some of her father and her paternal grandparents. The album was no help and, snapping it shut, she dropped it to the floor.
At the bottom of the box was a cardboard folder containing a sheaf of official-looking papers. She picked through them meticulously, looking for something relating to her mother: a passport, an identity card or even a birth certificate, but there was nothing. They were all her father’s: certificates, licences, prescriptions and a pile of receipts and guarantees.
The box was now empty and Terri sat back, frustrated. There was no clue to the identity of her mother: no letters or cards, no documents which showed her handwriting or suggested that she had changed her name. But for a handful of photographs, it was as if her mother had never existed at all. And there were no relatives to ask. She vaguely remembered being told that her mother came from Gloucestershire but that might have been a story created to hide the truth, and, even if it were true, there was no trail to follow.
She made herself a mug of tea and drank it slowly, staring unfocussed at the box, her thoughts flitting over any possible lead but failing to come up with anything constructive. There was the art college connection: both her mother and Josie Stedding had apparently attended art college in London. The same one? Were they one and the same person? But Josie had never thought to put the name of the college in her diary and Terri had no idea about her mother. In any case, what college would trawl through its old records on the basis of such a far-fetched story? She had reached a dead end. Her only possible hope now – and that a tenuous one - was Josie’s last diary.
She replaced everything in the box. Reaching for the photograph album, she noticed some leaflets and cuttings which had slipped to the floor beneath. They must have been tucked in the back of the album and had fallen out when she dropped it. Two were programmes for exhibitions which she herself had curated; the others were newspaper and magazine reviews of her work.
She sat back on her heels, staring at them, confounded. Her father had never asked her about her work - he’d never shown the slightest interest in it - and yet he had collected all these. Had he been to the exhibitions? He had never said.
She picked up one of the exhibition catalogues. The top corner of one of the pages had been folded down and creased, marking it. Her father used to do that. She opened it at the marked page. Beside the photograph of a painting by Holbein the Younger, her father had scrawled: ‘Ask Terri.’
She stared at the writing. Ask Terri what? He never had asked her anything about it. Tears rolled silently down her cheeks.
Chapter 19
Terri returned to Le Chant du Mistral the following Sunday evening and immediately felt the chill wind of change in the house. Angela met her in the hallway as soon as she arrived, frostily informed her that there were a number of house guests staying and asked her to avoid the kitchen wherever possible. As if to emphasise the point, raised voices and laughter spilled out from the salon. ‘If you’re still seeing Luc,’ Angela added crisply, ‘perhaps you could spend more time at the bergerie. I asked Corinne to put some sandwiches in your room for tonight.’
When Terri opened the door to her rooms, the sweet scent of lavender met her; evidently Corinne had recently cleaned too. She made herself a mug of tea and had a long shower to wash the journey out of her system. Later, putting away the clothes from her case, it quickly became clear that someone had been through the drawers of the chest while she’d been away. A prickle of misgiving ran up her spine and she immediately checked throughout the room; small changes suggested the whole place had been searched. Given the conversation she had overheard between Angela and Celia, she felt sure Angela had been looking for the diaries. Fortunately, Terri had taken them with her to London as a precaution. Now, doubtful that the place would be searched again, she replaced them in one of the drawers under a pile of T-shirts.
Ironically, it was a relief the next morning to get down to the studio and the sanctuary of her office. After checking for messages, she went across to Peter who stood in front of his easel, drawing up the cartoon for a painting.
‘Good trip?’ Peter rested the charcoal down as she approached.
‘Yes, thanks.’
He nodded. ‘So-o...just four weeks on Friday then. Not long to go now.’
‘No. And there’s good news.’ She waved a piece of paper. ‘I found this on my desk, from Nicole. She took a message from the conservator: the paintings will be ready for collection by the end of the week.’
‘Really? No-one ever tells me anything,’ he muttered.
‘No-one dares,’ she retaliated automatically.
He looked up at her and they simultaneously smiled. There was a brief, awkward silence. Peter appeared about to ask something but turned away and picked up his charcoal again.
‘Good to have you back,’ he said gruffly to the drawing.
Terri raised her eyebrows, smiled ruefully, and went back to her office. Within the hour she had received a phone call from the art courier company telling her the lost painting had been found in a depot in Milan. At last everything was falling into place.
Terri closed the call but sat, staring into space. Her contract expired once the exhibition was up and running and she would leave. If she didn’t get back into the attic soon and find that last diary, she never would.
*
Over the following days, Terri was too busy with work to have the time or energy to think about much else. She drove to Stéphanie Lebrun’s studio and collected the newly restored canvases. Back in the barn she painstakingly examined each of the paintings for the exhibition, looking at the frames and the canvases, checking labels or applying new ones. The carrier fixed a date for transporting the paintings to Nice. She packed the smaller ones into the carrier’s crates, ready for transit, and wrapped the larger ones. She drew up a rough guide to where each painting might hang, numbered their positions on wall maps and numbered the paintings accordingly, allowing leeway for last minute adjustments. In the week before the exhibition, it was arranged that she would go to Nice to take charge of the hanging. She sent out invitations to the Private View, made phone calls and fretted over what she’d forgotten.
In their free time, she and Luc took up where they’d left off before her trip to London and, though work was intense, still it was a quiet season. Happy with Luc, excited at the way the exhibition was shaping up, Terri gradually began to wonder if all the searching and probing about Josephine should be forgotten after all, left in the past to settle with dust again. People who go looking for things usually find out something they don’t want to know. Maybe her grandmother was right after all. Let it lie.
By the middle of September the peak of the heat had past; the cicadas fell silent. The last of the guests left and the house was still again. Luc went away on the Friday afternoon for the weekend - he was flying up to Paris to see his mother who hadn’t been well - and promised to be back by late afternoon on the Sunday so they could spend the evening together.
On the Saturday Terri idled round town, lunched at a ca
fé-bar and arrived back at Le Chant mid-afternoon to find Lindsey swimming languidly in the pool, a rare sight. Lindsey, too, had changed. When she saw Terri, she raised a hand and called out. By the time Terri reached the poolside, Lindsey had pushed herself out and was sitting on the edge, her feet still dangling in the water.
‘Haven’t seen you for ages,’ she said accusingly.
‘I’ve been busy.’
‘I thought you’d been avoiding me.’
‘Nope.’ Terri kicked off her sandals, sat down and dropped her feet into the water. ‘I just haven’t been in the house much. Are you OK?’
‘Yeah. Sure.’
They sat silently, both staring at the soft swirl of their feet in the water.
‘Mama’s really cross with you.’
Terri flicked her a sideways glance. ‘What’s she been saying?’
‘Oh...you know...that you’re trying to prove Madeleine’s daughter didn’t kill herself, that she was pregnant and you’re her daughter.’
Terri frowned. ‘I thought you didn’t know anything about Josephine. She said she didn’t want you to know.’
‘Well I know now; she told me all about it while you were away. She was warning me off helping you in any way. Said you were just after father’s money.’
‘I’m not,’ said Terri quickly, flicking her an earnest look. ‘Really, I’m not.’
Lindsey considered Terri thoughtfully. ‘Do you really think you might be Josephine’s daughter?’
‘No...I don’t know, but it’s not likely, is it?’ She shrugged. ‘Does it really matter?’
‘Yes. You’d be sort of like a sister. OK, so more complicated than that, but still it would be cool. Mama’s just over-protective of me. You shouldn’t let her put you off finding out.’
‘No, I suppose not.’ Terri kicked her feet in the water, making light-edged drops splash up, shimmer and fall. ‘Is she entertaining tonight?’