Love Always

by Harriet Evans

  But what? Exactly. I look over at my mother and bite my lip. I still haven’t even talked to her about this, and it feels wrong. Not because I usually tell her everything, in fact, I usually tell her nothing, but she’s my mum. I should talk to her first.

  ‘Anyway.’ I change the subject. ‘I was just talking to your uncle. Do you think it’s appropriate he’s here?’

  ‘Why shouldn’t he be here?’ Julius says, unperturbed by my question. ‘He was her nephew, you know. He flew all the way from San Diego for the bloody funeral, damn nice of him, considering.’

  ‘Not your uncle Jeremy,’ I say, annoyed. Julius flusters me. ‘Your other uncle. Guy. Your mother’s brought him down here to – to basically do a valuation on all the stuff in the house. Just think it’s a bit rich.’

  Julius doesn’t even blink. ‘You’ve got to pay for the nursing home your grandfather’s going into,’ he says.

  ‘Come on,’ I say. ‘That’s rubbish. There’s – there’s money. Mum and Archie can sort it out.’

  ‘With what?’ Julius says. ‘With all the money each of them has floating around?’ Jay stiffens and I frown. ‘There’s nothing, they’ve spent it all,’ Julius says flatly. He sticks his thick, rubbery lips out, like a child, and like a child I hate him again. I am sharply reminded of how he would push me against the rocks down on the beach, and laugh, and my back would be grazed with a repeating rash of brown beady scabs, for the duration of our holidays together. In truth I didn’t really know him or Octavia that well, we didn’t see each other for the rest of the year and I wasn’t used to aggressive, boisterous boys like him. He scared me, it wasn’t the picture of Summercove I wanted in my head. I watch him now. He hasn’t changed all that much. ‘You’re bloody lucky my mother’s sorting all your crap out for the lot of you, you know.’

  ‘What business is it of hers anyway, all this—’ I wave my hands round, trying not to get angry. ‘She’s acting like Granny was her mother, like it was her house, she’s organised it all, it’s completely . . .’ I trail off, not wanting to go on, surprised at the force of the rage I’m feeling.

  ‘Who the hell do you think would have done it if it wasn’t for her?’ Julius says, half angry, half laughing, aggressively. You stupid little girl, the tone of his voice says. ‘Your mother? Oh, yeah, sure. There’d be no funeral and your grandfather would be out on the streets, or dead in a couple of weeks after your mother forgets that he can’t actually get up the stairs or buy food himself any more.’ He is working up a head of steam, and he turns to Jay. ‘And hey. At least Guy won’t try and sell the stuff himself and pocket the profit.’

  There is a terrible silence after he says this. What’s worse is Julius doesn’t look at all embarrassed by what he’s just said. As though he knows he’s right. Jay and I stare at each other, then at him. A dark red blush stains Jay’s cheeks.

  ‘Fuck off, Julius,’ he says. ‘You’re really out of order. OK?’ Julius doesn’t look abashed. ‘Come on. They’ve always been like that, the pair of them. Everyone knows it.’

  And he walks over to where Octavia is chatting to an old lady.

  Jay and I are standing there staring at each other. Jay breathes out, whistling slowly. ‘Nice to see Julius again, isn’t it?’

  ‘Yes,’ I say. I put on a faux-serious BBC announcer voice. ‘And it’s a sad day, but it’s lovely to see the family again. All gathered together, reunited once more in the same place.’ I’m trying to sound jokey, but it’s scary. This is what we’re like now Granny’s not here. It’s all changed, and I don’t know how, or why.

  Chapter Eight

  It’s a while before the final cluster of guests starts to leave: old neighbours, a few artists who have retired down here, a magistrate, a well-known writer and her husband – they know each other and aren’t in a hurry to get back anywhere. I stand at the door of the sitting room, watching people disperse, looking around, thinking. A draught of cold air whistles past my back and I shiver, turning to see Jay waving goodbye to Mr and Mrs Neil who live up the lane. They have been there for thirty years and will miss Granny as much as us, I don’t doubt. They saw her every day which is more than I did. Yesterday, as I was trying to sleep, I realised I hadn’t seen her for three months, since November, when she came up to go to an exhibition at the Royal Academy and we had lunch in the café, where other old ladies and gents gather for a cup of coffee before getting their trains back to the Home Counties.

  I wondered, as we sat there, if any of them realised who this still strikingly beautiful old lady was, that she had exhibited here, was in fact an RA, a Royal Academician. That she was sort of famous, in her day, appeared in the Picture Post and Life magazine, the famous bohemian painter and her exotic husband in their house by the sea with their mixed-race children, though everyone was too polite to mention that, of course, and if they did, they said it was terribly interesting. I wonder if they knew, if Granny knew what Mum once told me in an unguarded moment, that before the train left every term, my mother would dash to Boots the chemist in Penzance to buy a pack of disposable razors, to shave the black hair on her dark arms.

  Jay comes towards me. ‘Hey.’ He looks round the empty hallway, the dresser and table littered with paper plates and half-empty champagne flutes, and says cautiously, ‘Thank God, those people are starting to go.’

  We both look at our watches. It’s seven and the sleeper leaves at nine. ‘How are you getting to the station?’ he asks. ‘I’ll drive you.’

  At this exact moment, as if she’s been waiting for this conversation, Octavia appears in the hallway. She strides towards us, her heavy, sensible black shoes loud on the floor. ‘Are you talking about the trains?’ she says. ‘I’m going back tonight actually too. I have a meeting at the MoD tomorrow, just found out.’ She waves her BlackBerry authoritatively, her thick ponytail swinging out behind her head as she nods at us.

  ‘Should you be telling us this information?’ Jay says. ‘Won’t we have to kill you now?’

  ‘Ha,’ says Octavia, ignoring him and turning to me. ‘How are you getting to the station?’

  ‘I’ve booked Mike the taxi,’ I say. ‘He’s coming in an hour.’

  ‘I’ll get a lift with you then,’ Octavia says. She adds, almost under her breath, ‘If that’s all right.’ There is no way I can say, No, it’s not all right, I hate you and your horrible brother! I don’t want you coming back with me! Which is kind of what my eight-year-old self would want me to say to her.

  I nod instead. ‘Of course,’ I say. ‘Have you booked a cabin?’

  ‘Yes, just now,’ she says. ‘Don’t worry, Natasha, I won’t make you share with me like the old days,’ and she runs her hands awkwardly through her fringe and I feel a pang of guilt, for that is exactly what I was thinking.

  ‘Well, that’s great. I’m just going to find Mum then,’ I say, and I touch Jay on the shoulder and dash towards the kitchen. Mum is talking to Guy, the Bowler Hat’s brother. Her hands are on her hips, she is leaning over him as if she’s about to spit at him. They both jump as I stride in.

  ‘There you are,’ Mum says, standing upright. Her jaw is set, her green eyes flinty; she is staring at Guy with something approaching loathing and I know the signs. She’s about to blow. She blinks, rapidly, as if calming herself down, and she says, ‘Nat – darling, my darling, how are you? We need to talk, don’t we?’ She winds some hair round her finger.

  I look suspiciously at Guy. ‘Everything OK?’

  ‘Yes, absolutely,’ Guy says smoothly. ‘It’s fine. I was just asking your mother about the . . . stuff in the house.’

  ‘The stuff in the house,’ I say carefully, because I don’t want to be rude. ‘Look, I said this to your brother already, and please don’t take this the wrong way, but do you really think now’s the time to be poking around valuing things here?’ He is turning red. ‘It’s not great timing.’ I’m surprised to hear my voice shaking. ‘Perhaps you should come back another day.’

  Guy turns t
o my mother, who is staring at her feet. There is a chicken vol-au-vent on the linoleum floor. ‘Why doesn’t she know?’ he says.

  Mum says nothing.

  ‘Know what?’ I ask.

  ‘That’s why it all seems rather abrupt, Natasha. Your grandparents agreed it years ago, that when Frances died something should be established in her name. A charitable foundation, or a gallery. You know, she hasn’t had an exhibition for years. It’s a disgrace, a painter of her stature. But she’s never let them. There was a big show planned for the autumn after Cecily, after she died.’ He stops and collects himself, and I remember he must have known her too, that summer. I hadn’t thought of that before. ‘The country hasn’t seen Frances Seymour’s work, apart from the two in the Tate Modern and a few in America, for well over forty years.’

  I blink, trying to take it in. ‘So?’

  ‘Now she’s dead, the terms of her will say the foundation should be established as soon as possible. Miranda,’ he says crossly. ‘You should have told Natasha. She’s one of the trustees, for God’s sake.’

  ‘Me?’ I say. ‘I don’t know anything about painting. I never saw her paint, anyway.’

  ‘It’s nothing to do with that. She wanted you to be one of the trustees. You, your mother, and me—’ He clears his throat, awkwardly. ‘I – I don’t quite understand what I’ve got to do with it, but—’

  ‘Look,’ says my mother, her throaty voice cutting across Guy’s. ‘I get it, OK? I get the whole thing. All I’m saying is, Archie and I would also like to make sure that the house and furniture are sold in the right way. You know, we have got bills to pay out of all of this. And Arvind’s nursing home.’ She twists the big jade ring she’s wearing, and this seems to give her momentum. ‘You know, Guy, you’ve got a bloody nerve, showing up here, trying to tell us what to do, after all these years. I was going to tell Natasha, but you know it’s been a busy day.’ She shakes her hair, pursing her lips and staring at him in fury, and she does look rather magnificent. ‘After all these years,’ she says, more quietly. ‘You should know that.’

  ‘Fine,’ Guy says. He holds his palms up towards her. ‘I understand. You’re right. We’ll discuss it another day.’ He looks up and chews his little finger. ‘Look, I’m sorry – I didn’t think—’

  ‘It’s fine,’ I say, looking to Mum for confirmation. ‘Thank you, Guy.’ She is staring at me, but I interpret this as tacit approval of my actions. She’s useless at confrontations, though she acts like a diva the whole time.

  ‘Goodbye, Miranda,’ Guy says, turning to her. ‘It’s been a sad day, but it was really lovely to see you again.’

  ‘Well—’ Mum blinks slowly, her long, soot-black eyelashes brushing her smooth skin. There is a crumb of mascara on her cheekbone; I stare at it. ‘It was lovely to see you again. It’s been a long time.’

  He nods, and bows his head at me. ‘Natasha, you too.’ He clears his throat. ‘Once more, I’m sorry if you’ve thought I’ve been inappropriate, or anything like that. Let me—’ He fumbles in his pocket and takes out a card. ‘If you’re ever up this way—’

  Guy Leighton

  Antiques & Rare Books

  Cross Street

  London N1

  ‘I’m sure we’ll be in touch, about the foundation at the very least.’ I take the card. ‘Well, thank you, Guy. Thank you.’ As if I am a dowager duchess whom he will never be fortunate enough to meet again.

  ‘Goodbye, then,’ he says, and shuts the door quietly behind him, with one last apologetic look at my mother.

  The room is silent. ‘Are you OK?’ I say. Mum is blinking back tears.

  ‘I am,’ she says. ‘I’m just rather tired. It’s been a long day. Lots of memories, you know? And I’m worried about you, Natasha.’

  She says it quietly, without tossing her hair or rolling her eyes or trying to get something. She just looks rather beaten, and it hits me in the solar plexus. I put my arm round her. ‘I’m sorry, Mum,’ I tell her. ‘I wanted to explain about me and Oli, but it was . . . too hard. And then Granny died – I couldn’t just drop it into conversation, could I?’

  ‘So what happened?’ she says. ‘Do you want to tell your old mum about it?’

  Mum isn’t very good at being a mum out of an Oxo ad. She’s better when she’s just being a person.

  ‘He’s been sleeping with someone else,’ I say.

  ‘An affair?’ Mum’s eyes are wide open now.

  ‘No.’ I shake my head. ‘A girl at work. It was a couple of months ago. He says it’s nothing. It’s over.’

  ‘Ohh!’ my mother says, her voice high, as if that’s that then. ‘Right.’

  I look at her.

  ‘That’s absolutely awful,’ she adds. ‘You poor thing.’

  I can’t believe I’m having this conversation with her; in fact I remember one of the reasons why I dreaded telling her in the first place. Mum absolutely adores Oli. They get on really well. I often think they’d have a better time without me there. He thinks she’s hilarious, wonderful, and she plays up to it, and they get drunk together and egg each other on, like old boozers in a pub, and I sit there, wearily watching them, feeling like a beige carpet in a Persian rug shop.

  There’s a frown puckering her forehead. I say, ‘I think he wants to come back, but I don’t know what to say if he asks. I just don’t know if I can trust him.’

  ‘Hmm,’ says my mum, one finger on her cheek as if consider ing this point seriously, and I remember the times I’d ask her when she’d be back home from a party or dinner with friends. ‘Hmm . . .’ she’d say, finger on cheek, and after a long pause, ‘not late, darling. Not too late.’ And then, when I’d finally got to sleep, worn out by being terrified by noises inside the flat that I thought were rats or sinister intruders, and of being terrified by noises outside the flat that I knew were masked robbers or deranged psychopaths, in the dark still hours of the early morning I’d hear the creak of the door and the soft tap on the parquet floor as she crept past my room to her bed. ‘Hmm . . . I’m just not sure.’

  ‘I am,’ I say. ‘I can’t trust him. I can’t have him back if I don’t trust him.’

  ‘He’s your husband, and he looks after you, and you don’t have to worry about anything,’ Mum says sharply. ‘I think you need to look at it like that instead, Natasha. I mean, he didn’t kill anyone, you know. He slept with someone. He’s a good husband.’

  ‘What?’ I am momentarily stunned, as though this is a modern-day version of Gigi and I am Leslie Caron and should just put up with it. ‘He pays for our nice life, for my new boots, I should just shut up, right?’

  She stares at me defiantly. ‘Sometimes, darling, I think you just don’t get it at all. I’m just saying it’s hard, being on your own.’

  I can’t answer this, as I know she’s right, but I can’t agree with her without hurting her feelings. ‘I just don’t know, Mum,’ I say. ‘I look at our life together and I—’

  She interrupts me. ‘Relationships aren’t perfect,’ she says. ‘They’re not. You have to work at them. You were the first of your friends to get married, weren’t you?’ This is true, and I’m surprised she’s aware of it. ‘Perhaps you just don’t see your other friends in the same situations as you. And I’ve certainly not been much of a role model in that direction, have I?’ She grimaces, blinking rapidly.

  ‘He slept with someone, Mum. He didn’t forget our anniversary. It’s a bit different.’

  ‘Like I say. People make mistakes.’ She pauses. ‘Your grandparents are a good example. But they got over it.’

  ‘How? What do you mean?’

  ‘I mean –’ Mum begins, and then she stops. Her mouth is open, as though she’s not sure how to continue, and then we hear a noise.

  ‘Hello?’ someone calls from upstairs. ‘Hello? I think your grandfather needs help.’ I push open the swinging kitchen door. An old lady is standing at the top of the stairs, peering out of the dark. ‘I just came up here to use the lavatory and
I heard him . . . he’s calling for someone.’

  I see Louisa breaking away from her husband and Guy and hurrying towards the hall. I step out.

  ‘I’ll go,’ I say suddenly, watching my mother’s face. I can hear Arvind’s voice, growing louder.

  ‘Someone needs to come up here!’ he is squeaking. ‘Immediately!’

  ‘Thanks,’ I say to the old lady, who is waiting at the bend in the staircase. ‘See you later, Mum,’ I say, and I run up the stairs, my hands running along the smooth, dark wood of the banisters.

  ‘I do hope he’s all right,’ the old lady says, looking anxiously towards the closed bedroom door. I push it open and go in.

  Chapter Nine

  ‘Hello, Natasha,’ Arvind says. He is sitting up in bed, small as a child, bald as a baby, his hands wrinkled and lying on the crisp white sheets. The wheelchair is parked neatly in the corner; a metal stand is next to the bed. They don’t go with the room, these metal hospital items. They don’t match.

  I love this room, perhaps more than any other in the house. But here on this dark February evening the heavy brocade curtains are drawn, and it is gloomy, with only the light from a lamp on Arvind’s side of the bed. On Granny’s side the sheets are smooth, and the bedside table is empty except for a blue plastic beaker; there’s still water in it. I wonder how long it would take for it to evaporate all away.

  ‘What’s up, Arvind?’ I say. ‘Are you all right?’

  ‘I was bored,’ he says. ‘I don’t want to sleep. I wanted to put some music on, but I was prevented by your well-meaning relative.’ He nods. His teeth are on the side, in a jar. His voice is muffled.

  ‘Music?’ I say, trying not to smile. ‘I like Charles Trenet, so does your grandmother. When is a better time than at her funeral to play a compact disc of Charles Trenet? But that is not important.’ He taps the sheets with his fingers. They are etiolated and dry, dead twigs scraping the smooth linen. His mind is working away though, looking at me. He screws up his face. ‘Sit down.’