by Susan Sallis
Gussie asked idly, ‘What do you wear? Jeans and a T-shirt?’
‘You must be joking, honey! I work in the nude. Hasn’t that got into British mag land yet?’
‘Mag land?’
‘The society magazines, as they used to be called. I have goals. The society magazines are one. Dealers are another.’ She cupped Gussie’s face. ‘Don’t look shocked, darling. Of course I still sleep around. It doesn’t mean a lot. Not really.’ She looked suddenly sad. ‘I live in the modern world, Gus. Self-promotion is everything. I started making enquiries about my father’s work a long time ago using a fake name. I posed as a collector. I actually bought several of Daddy’s paintings – as they were mine anyway it was no skin off my nose. But I reinvented his reputation. His work would have died by now. I have made him a “must-have” for corporations, municipal buildings. And people who live in mansions and palaces and have a lot of wall space!’ She laughed again, patted Gussie’s cheek and went to the fire. ‘And then Grace Elphinstone died. What do you think of that for a pseudonym? Grace Elphinstone.’ She rolled it around her tongue. ‘It was a pity she had to go, but she served her purpose well. How could she have been a serious art collector with any other name? Anyway, she disappeared. And suddenly Zannah Scaife, who painted after her father, surfaced in France, of all places. And people came to see her. Some of them just stayed to watch her painting!’ She looked over her shoulder mischievously. ‘I wonder why that was, Gus Briscoe? Well may you look disapproving now!’
It was no good, Gussie had to laugh. Zannah was delighted.
‘At last! You have always had a solemn streak, my darling, but I was starting to wonder whether that dreadful business in New York had eliminated any trace of Scaife!’ And then she too threw back her head and laughed helplessly. ‘That was an almost-poem, Gus! A trace of Scaife!’
When they had sobered, Gussie said, ‘You succeeded in relaunching Grampa’s work. I think Uncle Rory will do well out of his collection.’
‘Oh, Rory. He came over here in such a state.’
‘He said the same about you, actually.’ Gus glanced down at her mother, who was sprawled elegantly on the hearth rug. The roots of her hair were grey. Unexpectedly Gussie felt a clutch at her heart.
‘Well, he was right there. I couldn’t really believe in a world that did not contain Mark. I needed to see you, Gus. You are living confirmation that he was here.’ She rolled round so that she could see her daughter. ‘Thank you for coming over. I couldn’t face St Ives again, darling. That’s where it all happened. When my mother died having me, I became immediately an almost-daughter. Then I saw Mark and loved him and became an almost-wife. I had you and I was an almost-mother.’ She saw Gussie’s expression and made a dismissive gesture. ‘It’s better than nothing, my darling. Don’t worry about it. I have had such fun – Mark was such fun. When we danced underwater it was … perfect. Nothing “almost” about that.’ She reached up and took Gussie’s hand. ‘Since then I’ve been an almost-wine grower and now an almost-painter! That’s the best of all because it’s working so well.’ She started to laugh as she shook Gussie’s hand gently. ‘You see, I am the complete and perfect confidence trickster! That’s why I can do all these things – almost – so bloody well!’ She waited until Gussie managed a laugh, then she released her and scrambled to her feet to put another log on the fire. ‘I created a market, Gus. And then filled it.’ She turned, glinting a smile. ‘Nothing “almost” about that, is there?’
‘Oh, Zannah …’ Gussie felt helpless. ‘I remember … I remember …’
‘Go on. Say it. Just say it, darling. It might hurt but I need you to be honest.’
‘I remember when you were around, it was like the sun coming out.’
Zannah was holding the high mantelpiece and looking into the fire. She was silent. When she turned she was smiling much too brightly.
‘That is the best, most wonderful thing anyone has ever said to me, darling.’
Her mascara was only slightly smudged. Gussie was certain – almost certain – that her mother was completely sincere.
Another day, and Gussie knew she was back to full health. It was just as well because Zannah was bored with being a nurse. She brought up croissants and coffee as usual and then hovered uncertainly by the door.
‘Is it worth lighting a fire in here, sweetie? You can come down to the kitchen and sit by the range, can’t you? Don’t be too long because the bloody thing goes out if you don’t keep feeding it with wood.’
‘I feel fine. I’ll be down when I’ve finished this.’
‘Take it easy. I’ll see you at lunchtime. I’ve got about a hundred tins of wonderful game soup in the larder. We could have some of it. What d’you think?’
‘Sounds great. Where will you be?’
‘Studio. I’m painting the ravine. Very like Daddy – your grandfather. The water splitting the land. Terribly sexual.’ She was already letting the door close behind her. ‘I’ve already got a buyer – he wants to see how it’s going.’
Gussie stared at the door. This was how it was, of course. Zannah’s attention span was less than an eight-year-old’s.
The coffee was delicious, the croissants just warm enough and there was honey too. Gussie relished it all, smiling slightly. What a blessing in disguise her cold had been. Somehow or other mother and daughter had bridged an enormous gap. Zannah had not changed, so Gussie knew she must have done. Well, obviously she had, fifteen years old and still swinging on the lich-gate … was it really all that time ago – half her life ago? Her father would have pressed for another visit during her agricultural course, surely? And she had been very much in touch with Zannah during the ‘vineyard days’ – didn’t she visit then? She frowned, licking her finger and gathering up the flaky crumbs from her plate. Of course. It was then that she had met Andrew. Andrew had changed her. Andrew had changed everything. She had retreated into herself, gone back to smaller projects. Run to Zion Cottage whenever she could.
She squeezed her eyes shut, physically refusing to let those memories run on. She had always intended to tell Mark and Kate; make it sound absurd and melodramatic. And now she couldn’t.
She cleaned the plate one last time, licked her finger and got up.
She had no idea where Zannah’s studio was – in fact, she knew very little about the layout of the farmhouse. Certainly the kitchen, next to the big living room where she had stayed most of yesterday, was the warmest spot at the moment. The range was very like the traditional Cornish variety, and she stoked it generously then explored some of the cupboards and the walk-in larder next to the window. Zannah had exaggerated about the soups, of course, but there were at least two dozen tins there; Gussie was amused to see they were all from a well-known British firm. She could imagine her mother entertaining a few carefully chosen guests with a big tureen of ‘local game’ soup, ‘home-made’ bread and a truckle of help-yourself cheese. And why not? It was good food, after all, made special by Zannah’s sense of the romantic. Gussie found the utility area, a besom broom behind the door. She began to sweep the enormous flagstones in the kitchen, wash the surfaces, put some fruit in a bowl and place it in the centre of the table … She was enjoying herself. The sun came through the small windows and lit the room. There were copper pans hanging from one of the beams and they glowed orange. It was beautiful.
An hour later she had laid the table with thick pottery soup bowls and enormous heavy plates, fed the stove again, discovered the percolator and was sniffing suspiciously at a pitcher of milk in the larder. Satisfied, she went in search of her mother.
There was a big porch over the outside door full of boots, raincoats, fishermen’s gear, cricket bats, hats of all descriptions and other various muddles. She stood outside and gazed around her. The apron of grass and the parked cars and mopeds were to her left. In front, the land dropped quickly into woods and beyond that must be the sea. Or the vineyards? There was a barn on her right. That had to be the studio; it was high e
nough to accommodate the enormous work Zannah was trying to do; besides which, a tinny sound was coming from it. Edith Piaf telling someone that she had no regrets. It could have been written for Zannah.
Smiling wryly, Gus walked across to the postern set in the enormous double doors at the front of the barn. She opened a crack and called, ‘It’s me. Gussie.’ Then went in.
The scaffolding was set up along the left-hand side of the building, which appeared to be almost as big as the nave of Truro Cathedral. A narrow walkway of planks was laid near the top, and at various intervals Zannah had hooked a paint pot over the uprights, each with its own brush protruding. She was standing in the middle of the construction, her arm fully extended as she brought a swathe of black paint from the top edge of the canvas to her feet.
‘Can’t stop in mid-flow, sweetie!’ she called. ‘Give me a sec.’
The brush swept upwards and then down again. She straightened and put a hand in the small of her back. ‘Wow! That’s the seaward edge of the ravine. A sheer drop. I had to go with it.’ She leaned on one of the uprights and looked down. ‘What are you grinning at? It’s meant to be a work of art and works of art must not provoke a grin!’
‘I’m grinning because you’re fully clothed! Daddy would have known instantly that you were fibbing when you told me you painted in the nude!’
‘Gus! It’s winter, for God’s sake! And I paint like that for others who need to be impressed, and there are no others around! Thank the Lord I don’t have to impress you with my obvious genius.’ She was laughing, hanging on to the scaffolding pole, putting the paintbrush back in the pot, wiping her hands. She was neat-fingered, methodical. She wore an old shirt over her jeans and sweater, and Gussie could not see one spot of paint on it.
‘I’ve made coffee – d’you want some?’
‘I always have a break at this time – how did you know?’ She was clambering down now. She could have been sixteen rather than sixty.
Gussie looked innocent. ‘What time is that?’
Zannah looked up, caught her eye and laughed. ‘Obviously it’s coffee time! You are definitely better, aren’t you?’
‘I often have these sort of colds. Twenty-four hours at the most.’ Zannah hooked her hand through Gussie’s arm and they went through the postern sideways. ‘Matter of fact, I was just getting over one of them when the Twin Towers went down. Lying on the sofa – you know – in the parlour. Ned and Jannie had gone to Truro for the autumn sales and heard people talking about it on the train and came straight back.’ She held her mother’s hand tightly into her side. ‘I thought it might be something to do with my cold – delirium or even a terrible dream. Then they switched on the television and there it was.’
Zannah made a sound but said nothing. She brought her other hand round and held on Gussie’s arm with both hands.
‘It was like a nightmare. Did I tell you that Jannie actually saw them jump?’
Zannah cleared her throat. ‘No.’
‘Sorry. Of course not. This is the first time we’ve spoken …’ she tried to laugh, ‘… and I have to get one of my colds!’
‘Perhaps … it might have been good – then – to have a cold. Helped you to talk it through. You are always so buttoned up, Gus. This is the first time you have mentioned the – the disaster.’
‘Nine Eleven. They’re calling it Nine Eleven over there.’
‘I know, darling. I know.’ They went into the kitchen and the warmth wrapped them like a comfort blanket. Zannah put Gussie into a chair and hooked another to her with her foot then sat in it, still entwined into Gussie’s arm.
‘Did Jannie really see Mark?’
‘She saw them both. They jumped together. She identified Dad because he had already thrown out his legs.’
‘Oh dear God …’
‘I know. We couldn’t believe it – we refused to believe it – until then. And then we knew. We might have pretended once or twice but really, we knew.’
Zannah put her forehead on Gussie’s shoulder and pressed hard. Gussie waited for what seemed like ages, then she said, ‘Come on, Zannah. Let me pour the coffee. I can hear it perking away like mad.’
Zannah lifted her head. She looked every bit her sixty years now; her face was ravaged. She whispered, ‘I know this sounds horribly dramatic, but, darling, I would have given everything to be by his side then. Kate was … lucky.’
Gussie took the shoulders in her hands, registering how thin they were. She said, ‘We know. All of us know that. Dad and Mum knew. They didn’t sound panicky, just sort of regretful, but that was for us, not for themselves.’
Zannah dropped her gaze, and the tears continued to flow. She whispered, ‘They phoned you? You should have told me that, Gus. You really should have told me that.’
‘We didn’t know ourselves until we got over there. Mack – Mr McKinnon, who is the new chairman of the Trustees – he was in hospital at the time, but his wife was at home when the phone went. She let it run so that the message was recorded. They had copies made and gave us one when we were there.’
Zannah’s head went down between Gussie’s hands. She sobbed. Gussie took her in her arms and held her close. She rocked gently.
‘I’ve brought a copy with me, darling. You can listen if you like. It’s not really personal. It might help you. It’s helped us because it’s so … ordinary. We wondered if we should hear screaming – explosions, perhaps. Nothing like that. As Ned said, he half expected his mother to tell us that there’s a casserole in the freezer for our supper.’
Very gradually Zannah’s sobs hiccuped into long trembling breaths. At last she was still. She whispered into Gussie’s sweater. Gussie only just heard it.
‘You really loved her, Gus. Didn’t you?’
‘Yes.’ Gussie’s voice was firm; there must never be any doubt about that. ‘You’ll understand why when you listen to the tape.’
‘That … that would be … nice.’
Gussie lifted her mother and smiled. ‘Yes. It would be nice. Now dry your eyes and let’s drink coffee and discuss what I can get for tonight’s meal. You can go on with your painting for the important client. And I can cook dinner.’
She propped Zannah into the back of the chair and stood up, and Zannah watched her wonderingly as she poured coffee into the pottery mugs and put them on the table. Gussie caught her eye and smiled.
‘You know, I feel better for talking about it. Didn’t think I’d ever say that!’
Zannah got up slowly and pushed the two chairs forward. She nodded and sat down again. She said, ‘Oh, Gus …’
‘I know. It’s because of the cold. And yes, we did talk about it before – the night after it happened, actually. After that cold.’ She handed a mug to her mother and picked up her own. ‘And since we’re being so frank, why are you calling me Gus? You know I’m always Gussie.’
Zannah sighed deeply, recognizing the need to be ‘ordinary’. ‘You’re not Gussie any longer, darling. Gussie was a little girl. One of three children. Gus is the head of that family now. Suits you better.’
‘That makes me sound out there on my own. And I’m not. There’s three in our particular boat.’ She grinned at Zannah. ‘There’s room for a fourth if you want to join us.’
It was too much to expect of Zannah. She bumped her coffee mug down so that half the contents bounced out. Then she lifted her head to the ancient beamed ceiling and howled like a dog.
Gus sighed. ‘Oh, Ma … for goodness’ sake.’ At which point Zannah redoubled her efforts and Gussie enfolded her just as she had always enfolded Jannie.
Eleven
SOME TIME DURING the following two weeks, it became obvious to both women that their roles had reversed. Gussie was now the mother, Zannah the child. Gussie simply could not imagine calling her mother anything but Zannah and she accepted that she herself was no longer ‘Gussie’. Jannie had been right: Gus had a more authoritative ring to it. Zannah had used it from the moment she arrived, as if she, too, reco
gnized the changeover.
So it was Gus who prepared meals and Zannah who played with her paint pots in the barn, yet was careful not to bring any mess into the pristine house. And when Zannah got excited about her ‘dealer-man’, Gus smiled indulgently and told her not to count her chickens until they were well and truly hatched.
They were easy roles for both of them; Zannah, in spite of wanting her glorious isolation, had never been really alone at the farmhouse. There were the paying guests in the gîtes, of course, and often there were ‘boyfriends’ who stayed in the house and advised her about her work and wanted to see the paintings her father had left her. Gus was under no illusion about them. Zannah confessed to what she called ‘occasional flings’.
‘Keeps me on my toes, sweetie,’ she said as she swirled her hair into a ridiculous minaret.
Gus shook her head resignedly. Zannah was so like a schoolgirl; no wonder people came again and again to stay in the small converted cottages and help her out with chores. She rewarded them by sharing her vivacity, her sheer joie de vivre.
In the evenings they would talk. Gussie lit the fire in the living room during the afternoon and laid a kitchen trolley with tea things. Zannah would lie on the rug in front of the flames and talk about the nineteen sixties when she had come home from boarding school for good and ‘discovered’ Mark. She spoke often of their swimming escapades. ‘We were in the water oftener than on dry land.’
She tilted her head so that she could look at her daughter upside down. ‘I was the one who pushed the wheelchair off the end of Smeaton’s Pier at high tide. Grandma Briscoe never forgave me. I told her that he had asked me to do it. You’ve heard all about it, I expect.’
Gussie had, and still could not repress the shudder of sheer terror each time she heard it.
‘Sweetie pie! It wasn’t like that – I knew he’d be all right but I dived in anyway and we swam into the harbour together and then went under the arches and laughed our heads off!’ She sighed, remembering things she could not tell her daughter. Then she added, ‘The bloody chair was all right too. Just sat in the sand until low tide, then Grandma Briscoe came and pulled it out.’