Love Always

by Harriet Evans

  ‘Every day,’ Mum tells her. She looks so old, suddenly. Tears swim in her eyes. Whether it’s the wind or not, I don’t know. ‘She was lovely, wasn’t she?’

  They give each other a small, half-smile, as the wind buffets us. ‘She was,’ says Louisa. ‘It’s not fair.’

  ‘It’s not,’ Mum says. ‘But like I say, it’s in the past now.’

  I find myself nodding. She’s right. ‘Well, I disagree. I think we should read it too,’ Octavia says.

  ‘Why?’ I ask her. ‘Because we deserve the truth. All our lives, Mum’s the one who’s done everything for your mother and father. She’s got nothing for it, she’s never been thanked or rewarded—’

  ‘What, you want money?’ I ask. ‘Is that what this is about?’

  ‘Octavia! Natasha!’ Louisa hisses. ‘No, of course not.’

  ‘I’m just saying, I’ve grown up with it. I’ve sat there and watched Mum cleaning up, cooking, spending all summer here, her looking after you –’ she points at me – ‘because you –’ she points at Mum – ‘can’t be bothered to come and see your parents. And no one ever says why, do they?’ Octavia laughs. ‘They never say why we can’t rock the boat. We just all pretend it’s all OK.’

  I’ve had enough. ‘Octavia, you don’t know what the hell you’re talking about,’ I say. ‘You’ve got it all wrong! Mum’s not the one who—’

  And then something strange happens. The diary is in Mum’s hand, and it suddenly flies out, eddying away on a huge, arching gust of wind, out over the beach, dropping abruptly like a rock into the sea. Louisa cries out, and Octavia scrambles for the steps, but my mother, with an iron grasp, stops her.

  ‘No. Octavia, don’t. It’s too dangerous.’

  She turns them back towards the house. ‘It’s gone,’ I say, looking out at the tiny red exercise book, floating further out to sea. ‘It’s really gone.’

  ‘Now we’ll never know, I guess,’ Louisa says. She shrugs sadly, and looks up at Mum. ‘Miranda, be honest for once. There wasn’t anything really horrid in it, was there?’

  Mum glances down at her. ‘Absolutely not, Louisa. I promise.’

  ‘Good.’ Louisa nods. I don’t know whether she believes this or not.

  ‘And Louisa, you know, that thing with Archie?’ Mum says. ‘Jeremy used to look at me all the time too. He was just better at not getting caught, that’s all.’

  ‘That’s not true.’

  ‘It really is,’ Mum says. ‘Like I say: just because you didn’t see it doesn’t mean it didn’t happen.’

  ‘Why didn’t you say anything?’ Louisa demands.

  My mother gives a quick, twisted smile. ‘Who’d have believed me?’ She glances down at the shingley path. ‘Please, trust me. Just this once. It was a long, long time ago, all of it. You don’t hate Archie now, do you? I mean, you don’t like him much, but it’s all so long ago. All of it. So why don’t we just call it quits?’

  ‘You’re bloody crazy,’ Octavia says. ‘Yes, I am,’ my mother says. ‘I know it more than most people. Lousia?’ Lousia smiles her sweet smile. ‘Yes,’ she says. ‘Let’s.’ Mum’s eyes shine at her for a second, and then she nods at me. ‘Darling, we should go—’

  She takes my arm. Octavia storms ahead of us, not saying anything. Louisa calls after her. ‘Octavia?’ She shakes her head. ‘Oh, dear,’ she says. ‘She’s – well, a bit unpredictable.’ She smiles. ‘A bit like you, Miranda.’

  ‘Me?’ My mother looks completely horrified at the suggestion that black-suited, clompy-shod Octavia and she are similar, and I chew my lip, trying not to smile. It’s strange, but she’s right.

  The three of us walk back up towards the house in silence. We stand outside on the terrace, and Archie appears.

  ‘About time,’ he says. ‘Come on, girls.’

  ‘Let me just brush my hair,’ my mother says. ‘Mum, we really should hurry –’ I say, looking at my watch. ‘The train leaves in less than an hour.’

  ‘So . . .’ Louisa fiddles with her bag, peering right inside it as if looking for Aztec gold in there. ‘So . . .’

  I lean forward and give her a big hug. ‘Thank you for everything you did today,’ I say. ‘Well, everything. You should come into town some time. Come and see me.’

  She looks taken aback. ‘Oh, Nat darling, lovely. I’m sure that’d be – er . . .’ She trails off.

  ‘I’m very near the Geffrye Museum,’ I say. ‘We could go and look at nice almshouses and English furniture. Maybe wander down Columbia Road, there are some lovely places to have coffee there. And you could see where they’re stocking my jewellery.’ Next to me, Mum looks uncomfortable. ‘I’d love you to see it.’ I feel that if I don’t say it now, I won’t have a reason to see her again. Yes. So I say, ‘I’d love to see you.’

  Louisa suddenly goes a bit pink. ‘I’d love that too.’ She pats my arm. ‘I’m so proud of you, Natasha. Your granny would be too . . .’ She bites her lip and looks away. ‘Goodbye,’ she says, and she grips Mum’s arm too.

  ‘Goodbye, Natasha,’ the Bowler Hat says.

  He kisses my cheek and I stare at him. I don’t feel rage, just cold dislike. I want him to suffer for what he’s done but I realise there’s no point, really. It would only hurt Louisa and that’s not what any of us wants. He’s not worth my time. Hopefully I won’t ever have anything to do with him.

  He doesn’t go near Mum. ‘Bye,’ he says, raising his hand, rather flatly, as if unsure of what comes next.

  ‘Ready?’ Archie says. He opens the car door for his sister, as he always does. ‘I’ll be back soon, Louisa,’ he says. ‘Sort out the rest.’

  ‘Thanks,’ Louisa says, her voice muffled again; and it’s strange, I’ve never noticed it before, but it’s true, there’s an awkwardness between them. Whereas the Bowler Hat gets to stroll around carefree, and what he did that summer was much worse, and half of them – Mum, Archie, Guy – both my grandparents – know it. I sigh. That sums the whole crazy situation up, really. I mean, I know Archie can be annoying, but he’s OK. He’s Jay’s dad, after all. He must have only just got back from dropping Arvind off, and here he is, driving us back to almost exactly where he’s just been.

  ‘Hop in, Natasha.’

  ‘Thanks,’ I say, feeling a rush of gratitude towards him, and I climb into the back. As we drive off I swivel round in my seat, just as I used to when I was small, to catch one last glimpse of the house, its white curves set against the sloping green and the sea in the background. In the front, Archie and Mum are chattering about something together, laughing, as if their spirits have been lifted already by going. I realise that, what with everything, I haven’t said goodbye to the house, goodbye to Summercove for ever.

  Then it occurs to me that actually, I have.

  Chapter Forty-Seven

  Just after seven the next morning, we pull in to Paddington. It is another beautiful spring day. Soft sunshine floods into the old, familiar station as Mum and I get off the train and stand awkwardly on the platform.

  We look blearily at each other as the crowds recede. I swing my bag over my shoulder and she smiles at me, and tucks a lock of hair behind my ear.

  ‘Darling Nat,’ she says. ‘My clever girl.’

  We’re nodding at each other. We’ve made it. We’ve come out the other side. I feel as though I’ve been fighting my way through the darkness for a long time, the whole of the last year. Perhaps longer, when I think about it, as if my life had gone the wrong direction, with no input from me. The way Mum’s did when Cecily died.

  She grips my hand with her long, smooth fingers, so tight she’s almost pinching it. She is sort of wild, her eyes are huge.

  I pat her shoulder. ‘Mum,’ I say. ‘Shall we – do you want to go and get some breakfast? I know a nice place not far from here, by the canal.’

  She’s nodding. ‘We could . . . talk,’ I say, rolling my eyes, hoping she knows I don’t like it much either, but that it’d be nice to chat. ‘Just . . . catch up and st
uff.’

  Mum opens her mouth, smiling at the same time. And then she says, ‘Oh! . . . Yes. I’d – Yes, well, I’d love to, darling, but I can’t.’

  ‘Oh. I thought you were – never mind, it doesn’t matter.’

  ‘Jean-Luc rang me early this morning,’ she says, her eyes wide. ‘His wife’s left him and he’s in a terrible state. He just happens to have a booking for the River Café for lunch! So he’s taking me. I really should get home and make myself presentable.’ Her smile is still bright, optimistic, sunny and a little scary. ‘But it’s a lovely idea, darling.’ She grasps my hand again. ‘Maybe some other time, hm?’

  ‘Yes,’ I say, looking at her, into her clear green eyes so like her own mother’s, so like mine. ‘Some other time.’

  ‘Which way are you . . . ?’ She points towards the main concourse.

  ‘I’m—’ I point behind me, towards the Hammersmith & City line.

  ‘Of course,’ she says. ‘Yes, well, I’m getting the District . . .’ We are still pointing in different directions. ‘Well, I’d better run,’ Mum says. She kisses me on the cheek. ‘Bye, sweetheart,’ she says, and she is dashing off down the platform, and I watch her go, and turn and climb the stairs to the Tube, the same stairs I ran down two months ago to catch this very same train, the one that would take me back to Summercove for Granny’s funeral.

  I sit on the Tube as it rattles gently east, away from the station, away from Mum, towards the centre of London and another day. I don’t know when I’m going to see her again; she has made the parameters very clear, and after everything that’s happened, that she’s been through, I know it’s fine. I see Louisa hurrying off . . . Mum, hurrying off . . . I see myself saying goodbye to Arvind, packing up my marriage. And just as I think I’m alone, pretty much alone, apart from Jay, but without the rest of my family, a thought strikes me.

  I cannot believe I haven’t seen it before.

  I stand up abruptly in the crowded Tube. The doors are opening at King’s Cross. Why didn’t I think of it earlier? Why didn’t I see it? I run through the crowds, the same faceless sea of people hurrying from one place to another, back in to work, vanishing in the distance, like Mum, hurrying towards the exit. I speed up my pace.

  Half an hour later, I am standing outside a door of a house in a pretty Georgian terrace. I knock firmly.

  A girl answers. ‘Hi?’ she says, looking at me. She is mid-twenties, with long, curly, dark brown hair, a touch of red in it. She is holding a half-finished cereal bowl and a spoon.

  ‘Hi,’ I say, slightly out of breath, as I have run all the way from the Tube. ‘Hi. I’m Natasha. Is your – is your dad there?’

  She looks me curiously up and down. And then she nods, and smiles. ‘Um – OK. Sure. Dad!’ she bellows with unexpected ferocity. ‘Someone called Natasha here to see you!’

  ‘Thanks,’ I say. ‘S’OK,’ she says. She smiles. ‘Yeah – so maybe see you later,’ and she drifts off with the cereal bowl, back down the long corridor.

  Guy appears in the hallway. He looks bleary-eyed, grey-faced. He peers, as if to make sure it is me. ‘Natasha?’ he says, shaking his head. ‘When did you get back? What are you doing here?’ It’s not said unkindly.

  ‘I wanted to ask you something,’ I say. I look steadily at him.

  He meets my gaze. And swallows. ‘OK. Fire away.’

  ‘Guy,’ I say. ‘Um—’

  He stares, and his eyes are kind. ‘Go on, Natasha,’ he says. ‘Ask me.’

  I take a deep breath.

  ‘Are – are you my dad?’

  He gives a little jump, and it’s as if some tension within him has been released. He sighs.

  ‘Yes,’ he says. ‘Yes, I am.’ And he smiles, slowly. ‘Oh,’ I say. ‘I’m so sorry,’ he says. ‘I’ve been more than useless. But you’re here. I’m so glad you’re here.’

  I put my hand against the front door to steady myself. ‘Why don’t you come in?’ he says. ‘Come on.’

  ‘Oh,’ I say, thinking of the girl inside, of how tired I am, how I want my breakfast, my bed. ‘Oh . . . well . . .’

  ‘Come on,’ he says again. ‘I’ve been waiting for this for a while, you know. You’re here now. Welcome.’

  And he puts his arm round me and pulls me gently inside, and he shuts the door behind us and the rest of the world.

  Chapter Forty-Eight

  Guy’s basement kitchen is a mess. He ushers me downstairs and sits me at the big wooden kitchen table, which is covered in newspapers and empty coffee mugs. He pushes some papers helplessly out of the way and gestures towards the cooker.

  ‘Do you want some breakfast . . . ?’

  I was starving, but now I have no appetite at all. ‘No, thanks. Can I have a coffee?’ I say.

  ‘Sure, sure.’ He rubs his hands together, as if pleased it’s going well. He fills up the kettle cautiously, and I stare at him.

  This man is my father. This is my dad. Dad. Daddy. Father. Pa. I’ve never said that to anyone before. I used to practise it at night in my room at Bryant Court, especially during the height of my Railway Children obsession. My daddy’s away, I’d told myself. He’ll come back soon. Mum’s just protecting me, like Bobbie’s mum is. Night after night, but he never came, and then I grew out of pretending. I watch Guy as he shuffles round the kitchen, trying to slot everything into place.

  He’s Cecily’s lover. He’s the Bowler Hat’s brother, for God’s sake – oh God, I think to myself. That means the Bowler Hat is my uncle and Octavia and Julius are my actual first cousins, not half distant relatives it didn’t matter that I didn’t like so much. And – he’s my dad. Not much of one so far, I have to say.

  The room is spinning; my head hurts. I get up. ‘I’m sorry, I think I have to go,’ I say. ‘I don’t know if I can do this right now.’

  Guy turns, his face full of alarm. ‘No!’ he says loudly. ‘You can’t go.’ He hears himself and then says, ‘Sorry. I mean, please, please don’t go.’

  ‘I didn’t have any idea . . .’ I say. I shake my head, still standing there. To my surprise tears are flowing down my cheeks. I dash them away, crossly. ‘Sorry. It’s just a shock—’ I sink back into my chair.

  ‘I thought she’d have told you,’ Guy says. ‘That’s why I asked you yesterday, to come and see me. She promised she’d tell you. She really didn’t?’ I shake my head, stifling a sob. He grits his teeth. ‘God, that woman – I’m sorry, I know she’s your mother, but really.’

  There’s a pause while I collect myself. ‘Don’t be mean about Mum,’ I say. ‘Where were you, when she was bringing me up with no money, completely on her own?’

  ‘I didn’t know!’ Guy shouts suddenly, and he looks about ten years younger, not this tired, washed-out old man I don’t recognise from Cecily’s diary.

  ‘You didn’t know?’

  ‘Of course not, Natasha!’ He looks appalled. ‘What do you think I am? I had no idea until she turned up completely out of the blue, two weeks ago, the day after I’d seen you at the shop. Out of the blue! First this diary arrives in the post, and then she arrives, no warning, nothing. At first I thought she’d brought another bloody diary for me to read, but it was this!’ He’s practically shouting. ‘She tells me this, and then she runs off to God knows where, and I’m left – I didn’t know what to do! Do you understand? Next time she comes I’m not letting her in, I tell you.’

  His tone is so outraged, I almost want to laugh, but he’s serious. He lowers his voice a little. ‘Natasha, don’t you think if I’d have known before, I’d have . . .’ He swallows. ‘I know I was awful when you came round last week, and I’m sorry . . .’ He bangs the teaspoon he’s holding impotently against his baggy cords, like a child with a rattle. ‘I’d only just found out I was your father, and Miranda’s nowhere to be seen, I don’t know if she’s told you or not . . . And it was the anniversary of Hannah’s death . . . it’s always a bad day for me. Then you appear and – I’m so sorry.’ He looks so sad. ‘I just �
� I wasn’t ready to talk to you properly. To be the person you needed.’

  ‘Look, Guy,’ I say. ‘I don’t need a dad, I’ve got by all these years without one. It’s fine.’

  The kettle screeches away on the hob and he turns it off. I look round the sunny kitchen again with photos on the walls, poetry magnets on the fridge, cream ceramic jars marked Sugar, Flour, Tea, Coffee. In the corner, a cat stretches out in a basket. Radio 4 is on in the background. It’s messy, but lived-in. Cosy. Upstairs, someone is moving about. When I was younger this was something like the sort of family set-up I dreamed of having.

  ‘Do you believe that I didn’t know?’ Guy says. He comes over and slaps his hands onto the back of one of the chairs. ‘Does it make sense?’

  I blink; it still sounds so strange. ‘You didn’t have any idea? I mean – you knew you’d slept with her, Guy, didn’t you? Are you trying to say she drugged you?’

  He smiles. ‘Yep. I suppose this is when it gets a bit complicated. We’d been . . . well, over the years, after Cecily’s death . . . you could say we sort of saw a lot of each other.’

  ‘You were fuck buddies,’ I say. His eyes open wide. ‘What on earth did you just say?’

  ‘Fuck buddies,’ I say callously. ‘Bootie callers. Friends with benefits.’

  ‘I have absolutely no idea what you’re talking about.’ Guy moves back to the kettle, pours water into the cafetière and brings it over with two mugs, sitting down heavily in front of me. ‘It wasn’t like that.’ He stares into nothing. ‘You have to remember, Natasha. She had a bad time growing up, but in the seventies your mother was . . .’ He shakes his head. ‘She was absolutely devastating.’

  ‘The seventies were terrible for a lot of people, you know,’ Guy says, when we’re sitting more comfortably, I’ve stopped crying, and he’s calmed down. ‘No electricity. Strikes. Mass unemployment. Platform shoes and spotty punks everywhere. But you know, it was your mother’s decade in lots of way.’ He smiles.

  ‘How do you mean?’ I am fascinated, and I’m just enjoying looking at him, staring at his face, his hands holding the coffee mug. I tuck one leg under me.