Was I so cold, so unresponsive, so uncaring of him? Am I really this hard, hard person, who’s built a shell around herself so she can’t get hurt? Is he right, have my family screwed me up so much? Should I try and find my dad? Should I confront my mum? Is Cathy right, did I want Granny’s approval too much, did we all? It’s so strange, these events at the same time: Granny’s death, the end of my marriage. It feels like the end of things, and yet as this long, strange evening goes on, and I just sit there and think and think, my bottom sore from the hard floor, my eye keeps falling on the diary, and I sort of have to admit what I haven’t really wanted to since I came home.
Perhaps Arvind is right. Whatever happened that summer in 1963, our family is poisoned, and one of them must know what happened, they were all there. But all I have is ten pages of a diary and that tells me very little. So the question is, what happened to the rest of it?
Just before nine o’clock, I stand up. I make myself a sandwich and drink some water, and then I pick up the phone and dial.
‘Hello?’
I hesitate. Of course she’s still there. ‘Louisa?’
‘Yes. Who is this?’
‘Louisa, it’s – it’s Natasha. Hello.’
The voice softens a little. ‘Natasha! How are you, darling?’ Her voice is comforting, it makes you feel safe. For a second, I wonder if I’m just being stupid. I take a deep breath, feeling light-headed from the wine.
‘I’m OK. OK. I was just ringing to see how Arvind is doing. Is he there?’
‘He’s here, but he’s pretty tired – we were about to go to bed.’ Apparently Louisa does not think this sentence sounds weird. She says loudly, ‘Weren’t we.’
I smile to myself. ‘Fine, I’m sorry. I know it’s a bit late to be calling. I only wanted to say hi. How’s – how’s it all going?’
‘OK, you know,’ Louisa says. ‘Oh, yes. We got a lot done yesterday, and today, we’re really clearing a lot out, and the solicitors have been very efficient too, you know, it’s all going pretty smoothly.’ She clears her throat; she sounds tired. ‘It’s so sad, though.’
I feel a stab of guilt. ‘Why don’t I come down and help you? I feel awful I had to skip off on Wednesday.’
‘Oh, no, it’s absolutely fine, darling,’ Louisa says. ‘To be honest, Natasha, it’s actually easier to just get on with it by myself.’ She pauses. ‘I mean, of course, your mother’s done a lot, so has Archie, but the nitty gritty – you know, I’m an old busybody! I rather like sorting it all out.’ She’s trying to sound light-hearted but I can hear that note in her voice again, and I’m not sure I believe her.
I wish I could go back and search through the house for the rest of the diary. But even my befuddled, tired brain knows it would look highly suspicious if I turned up again, so soon after leaving abruptly, to go through Granny’s things. And that’s not how I want to see Arvind again anyway, or the house. I feel like a criminal. So I say, trying to keep my voice casual, ‘Have you found anything interesting?’
‘Like what?’ she asks. ‘It’s all being properly catalogued, Natasha. There are a lot of items that need to be valued, and Guy’s coming down soon to do it . . .’
‘No, I don’t mean it like that—’
‘With a sinking feeling, I wonder what Mum’s been saying to her. ‘Just interesting things about the family, you know. Photos and all that.’
‘Oh.’ Louisa unbends a little. ‘Well, there are a couple of things. Let me think. Oh – yes! I’ve found some old clothes of Miranda’s. All just bundled up in a cupboard.’
I sit down on the sofa, hugging a cushion against my body. ‘How do you know they’re Miranda’s? I mean, Mum’s?’
‘Well, I remember she bought them with the money her godmother sent her. She’d never really been a clothes horse before, and suddenly she started turning up for dinner in these absolutely amazing dresses and things. And they’re all there, just stuffed into a bag and hidden in the back of a cupboard. I’d forgotten all about them! And there’s an hilari ous picture of Julius and Octavia I found in a kitchen drawer, when they were children down on the beach, covered in sand and wearing buckets on their heads. Ever so funny.’ Louisa laughs heartily, and leaves a pause for me to laugh heartily too which I do, even though my heart is beating so fast it’s painful.
‘Oh, that’s funny,’ I say unconvincingly. ‘Anything else?’
‘No,’ says Louisa. ‘Franty, your grandmother, she was a very organised woman. There’s hardly anything left, really. I think she got rid of a lot . . . a lot of things.’
I think back to my room at Summercove, which used to be my mother’s and Cecily’s, and know Louisa is right. When I think about it, it is rather odd. There is nothing in the wardrobe now – I know it by heart – apart from an old backgammon set, some old books, and a moth-eaten fur that Granny never wore. Certainly no diary. And yet somehow this makes me even more convinced she must have kept the rest of it somewhere. Out of sight. I take a deep breath.
‘What about the studio? I went in, just before I left.’
‘Well, it is strange, having it open again, being able to go in,’ Louisa says. ‘I was never allowed to before. But no,’ she says, ‘nothing there really either. So, you’re OK then?’ She changes the subject. ‘All all right? I was worried about you, Natasha dear.’
When I was thirteen, I was running back towards the house from the beach and my newly long legs betrayed me, and I fell over, dislocating my shoulder in the process. The pain was excruciating, but Louisa took me to the hospital as I wailed and screamed loudly, all pretence at maturity abandoned. She waited with me for a doctor for what seemed like hours, and fed me sweets and read out extracts from her new Jilly Cooper novel to keep me entertained. I’m sure she’s forgotten it, but I never have. I don’t want her to worry about me, but it’s comforting to know she cares. Like I say, she is a comforting person, and I feel really guilty about how mean I’ve been about her, these last few days.
‘Actually – Oli and I have split up. Permanently,’ I say. ‘You and Oli? What?’ Louisa makes a querying sound at the back of her throat, as if she doesn’t understand. ‘When?’
‘Earlier today.’ It seems longer ago than that, this morning. Like a morning from a week ago, a year ago.
‘Oh, Natasha,’ Louisa says, her voice sad. ‘Oh, that’s awful.’
‘It’s OK,’ I say. ‘Really, it is. I mean, it’s not, but – you know.’
‘My dear. Where are you, at home?’
‘Yes,’ I say. ‘On your own?’
‘Yes,’ I say again. ‘That’s not very good. Do you want – should I get Octavia to come round? Keep you company? She’s only in Marylebone, you know.’
Yes, I want to say. Do send Octavia round. Her cheery face and happy modes of passing the time are just what I need. ‘Oh – that’s very kind, but don’t worry. I’m better off on my own.’ This is probably true. I’m on my own, for the first time in years. ‘I need some time by myself.’
‘Have you told your mother, or Jay, or anyone?’
‘No, actually,’ I say. ‘Er – you’re the first person. Sorry, I didn’t mean it to be that way. I was really just ringing to find out how Arvind is and – I don’t want to bother you with it all.’
‘It’s not a bother,’ she says. ‘Darling, it’s no bother at all. You poor thing.’ I have to remind myself that Louisa’s not a fusser, though she so often acts like one. I wish again that I’d known her when she was eighteen, before she became this person who does things for other people all the time, when she was the pretty girl in Cecily’s diary with a new lipstick and a scholarship to Cambridge, dreadfully ambitious and clever. And it occurs to me now that I’ve never heard her mention Cambridge or university or anything like that. Did she not go in the end? Where did she go, that girl? She’s always pretended she loved her Tunbridge Wells life. What if she didn’t? What if that wasn’t the life she’d expected for herself?
‘Look,’ she says, breaking into
my thoughts. ‘Your grand-father’s just about to go to sleep, and he’s going into the home on Monday. I want him as rested as possible before then, it’s going to be strange at first, I’m sure.’
‘It is,’ I say. ‘I mean, I’d love to stay down here longer, but you know, I can’t. I’ve been here for two weeks, and he can’t stay here on his own, it is for the best,’ Louisa says, all in a rush. ‘Frank needs me back at home, too, I don’t like being away from him for too long either.’
I can’t believe she feels guilty about it. ‘Louisa, you’ve been amazing,’ I say, and it’s true. ‘Please! What are you talking about?’
‘Not everyone feels that way,’ she says. ‘I’ve been accused of – well, it doesn’t matter.’
‘Do you mean Mum?’ I say reluctantly, though this could easily apply to me, too.
‘I’m afraid I do,’ Louisa’s voice hardens. I wish I’d never asked. ‘I suppose there’s no need to keep up a pretence at civility, now your grandmother’s dead. She’s made that quite clear, anyway.’
‘Oh, I’m sure she doesn’t mean it,’ I say desperately. ‘She’s very grateful, I’m sure.’
‘Natasha –’ she starts. ‘Your mother—’
‘Yes?’ I say.
‘Well . . . she’s a complicated person. OK?’
‘I know that,’ I say carefully. ‘She always has been.’
‘Yes, but—’ She stops. ‘Never mind. There’s no point.’ Tell Octavia that, I want to say. I know what you’re getting at. It’s too late.
‘Well, I’m very grateful to you, anyway,’ I say instead. ‘I don’t know what we’d do without you.’
‘It’s my pleasure,’ Louisa says simply. ‘I’d have done anything for Franty. She knew that. I loved her very much.’
After I’ve said goodbye to Louisa I feel reassured somehow. At the very least, Arvind is all right. My mother is unpredictable, and I never know how she’s going to react to certain situations. It’s true, often those situations were connected with Summercove or the people there. When we were going, when we were leaving, who was going to be there, how long she’d stay. It’s only now I remember that I said I’d go round for supper with her next week. I don’t quite know what I’ll say to her when I see her. About anything, really.
I make some tea, and I get into bed. It’s cold. I hug the same cushion against me for warmth and comfort, and I take out a pen and write a list.
1. Get a solicitor? – Ask Cathy. File for divorce??
2. Flat. Mortgage? Move out?
3. Trade fair. x3 applications to diff. ones by end of week.
4. Call/visit x10 shops by end of week.
5. Jay: update website?
Fatigue gives me a curious focus and it’s easy to write these things down. Closing my eyes briefly, I think about what else I need to sort out. I write:
6. Mum.
7. Find diary.
But I don’t really know what to do about those two. I put the list by my table, so it’s the first thing I see in the morning, and turn off the light. I sleep. I sleep for ten long hours, a heavy, velvety sleep, where nothing and no one troubles me, no dreams come to me, and when I wake up the next day and blearily blink at the dark room, I realise how tired I’d been. I feel new, different. I pull back the curtains, it’s another grey day in London. But it’s not so bad, maybe.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
It has been such a long winter, it’s sometimes felt as though it’d never end, but finally spring seems to be arriving. That cutting chill in the air that turns your hands red and numb and stings your face has gone, and though it’s still cold there is something in the air, a sense of something new.
It’s a cliché, therefore, to talk about new beginnings, especially as they don’t feel very new, but by the time a couple of weeks have passed and March is well under way, things are already different. Outwardly, nothing much has changed: I am still alone in the flat, not really sure what comes next. But there’s a difference this time. I keep making lists, and it helps. I’ve realised I have to keep myself busy, not just for my sanity, but for my business. As well as checking the post obsessively – no more ignoring letters from the bank – I have a filing system at the studio, where I carefully document every last piece of expenditure, and I like it; I feel virtuous, glad to be in control of this, at the very least.
I haven’t been in the studio much. I’ve been out meeting people, having coffee with PRs for free advice, dropping in on old friends, fellow jewellers, designers and people from round here who can help me, listening out for new shops and new shows that might help me. More green shoots. A company in China has been putting in a few orders with my friends, five-hundred-a-time T-shirts and hairbands, they might do the same for me one day, just with one necklace or bracelet and then I’m off again, and it’ll be all hands on deck. Liberty have been scouting around for some new, edgy designers, so I hear. A couple of shops are looking for different stock, and I’ve been visiting them, leaving my card, dropping back the next day with a stock list and some photos. Even though I’d rather be curled up in bed, or slouched on the sofa in baggy trousers and four jumpers, I always choose my outfits with care, put on heels and blow-dry my hair, press my cardigan and skirt so I look neat and fresh. I’m asking these people to buy into me, as well as the jewellery I make. It’s sometimes hard to have a smile and seem enthusiastic, but I just keep telling myself if I act as though it’s a new start, perhaps it’ll feel like that, after a while.
A week after that fateful morning at Arthur’s, I pop into the studio after walking back from Clerkenwell, where I’ve had a meeting with a woman who sells vintage and new jewel-lery. I’ve been walking everywhere lately, my shoes in a cloth bag in my satchel. I kick off my wet, muddy trainers and lean against the counter, going through my emails. In amongst the spam and the special deals from wholesalers there’s an email from Nigel Whethers, the solicitor Cathy put me in touch with.
Further to our telephone conversation, I would be happy to meet with you to discuss your filing for divorce. I enclose a breakdown of costs. I look forward to hearing from you.
Seeing it written down like that, I realise I’m not quite ready to reply to him, not just yet. I let out a sigh, which sounds like a long plllllllllllffffffffffffffff. A voice outside says, ‘Pllllllllllllllffffffffffff.’
‘Ben?’ I call. I run my hand over my forehead; it’s clammy. ‘Is that you?’
‘No, it’s Ivor the Engine,’ the voice says. ‘Who’s that? Thomas the Tank Engine? Is that you? I love the sound of your piston engine. Can I buy you a drink, handsome?’
‘Har de har,’ I say, as Ben comes in. He shoots me a cautious, quick look, and then as it’s clear I’m not in tears or rocking on the floor, he smiles. ‘You all right, sunshine? What’s up?’
‘Nothing much,’ I say, putting my sheepskin boots on. ‘Just got an email from a divorce lawyer, that’s all. Kind of weird to see it there in black and white on the screen.’
Ben puts two rolls of film down on the counter and leans next to me. ‘Sorry to hear it, Eric,’ he says. ‘That’s awful.’
‘I’m Ernie,’ I say. ‘You were Eric.’ I point at the photo of us as Morecambe and Wise on the board. ‘Remember? You borrowed Tania’s glasses and you couldn’t see a thing?’
‘Yes, yes.’ Ben rubs the bridge of his nose. Tania, like most people in East London, has black-framed glasses, perfect for ‘doing’ Eric Morecambe and other assorted old-school comics. Who knew? He pats me on the back. ‘How are you?’
‘I’m OK,’ I say. ‘I’m keeping busy. Think that’s the most important thing.’
‘Sure is,’ he says. He drums his fingers on the surface. ‘Look, do you fancy going for a drink tonight?’ There’s a pause, and he amends what he’s saying. ‘Not just with me. Er – it’s me, Jamie, Les and Lily – we’re going to the Pride of Spitalfields, do you fancy it?’
‘Oh.’ I don’t know what to say. ‘What about Tania?’
‘She’
s busy. And – well, you know.’
I’d forgotten; she told me that awful day at Arthur’s, that she wasn’t working with him any more. I should have remembered. I just haven’t seen them. I blush. ‘Of course, sorry.’
But I feel awkward, I think because I don’t want to go. The idea of going out and having a good time at the moment is a bit of a step too far for me. It’s hard enough during the day, slapping on a smile and being professional. In the evenings I just want to eat and sleep. ‘Er – no, thanks,’ I say. Partly to avoid another long pause, I add, ‘You won’t miss me. Or Tania, if Jamie’s there. You can flirt with her to your heart’s content.’
Ben narrows his eyes and looks as if he’s going to say something, but he doesn’t. Instead he clears his throat. ‘I don’t have a crush on Jamie, for the fiftieth time.’
‘You do,’ I say. ‘You show her your teeth whenever she hands you the post. And you say, “Oh, thanks! Jamie!” Like she’s just split the atom.’
He pushes me. ‘You’re just jealous I’m spending the evening with Les. He’s promised to tell me all about his blank-verse poem set on the outskirts of Wolverhampton.’
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