Eighteen
Eliza
‘I had great hopes for you, you know, Eliza,’ Uncle Ian said. ‘You were such a bright lively girl.’
It was winter still in Sweden. At home I had left behind flowering cherries and green grass and, in the parts of London where pollution pushed up the temperature by a couple of degrees, even some precocious daffodils. It was different here. Heaps of packed snow still congregated in the shady corners of the courtyard and the grass was yet to green up.
Uncle Ian and I were sitting on the glass veranda drinking coffee; I had got used to Katarina’s bitter black brew boiled on the stove.
‘I remember soon after you were born, your father took me up to where you were lying in your nursery. And there you were, like a bug all tucked up. “A new generation,” he said. “There’s been enough latent talent and unfulfilled promise amongst the women of my family. This little one will be different.” ’
‘All parents think that about their children,’ I said, though the thought of my father showing me off with such pride to his friend made me ache to know this man I could not myself remember.
‘Perhaps that’s so, but as you grew up I began to think that in your case he had been right. Rose was a lovely girl but she was not intellectually or artistically gifted.’
‘Everyone adored her,’ I said. ‘That’s a gift. To be lovable.’
‘Did they? Did they really?’ He sat back, looking pleased.
I nodded emphatically although I’d realised as I spoke that I didn’t remember whether or not Rose had been especially liked. I had loved her, of course. And she’d been close to Portia. And the boys had all liked her. But otherwise maybe admired would have been a better way of describing the way she was regarded, and envied, of course. Because you could not look like Rose and not elicit envy.
‘The thing is, none of us know what she might have achieved,’ I said. And I had to look away because my eyes had started to tear over suddenly, without warning. ‘That’s what I can’t bear, that’s the greatest wrong done to Rose, to those who die young, that they were never afforded the chance to be the best they could.’
We sat side by side, on our chairs, looking out at the garden, at the in-between landscape of yellows and browns and greys that was Sweden in not quite winter and not yet spring. Then I felt his hand take mine. We raised our twinned hands in the manner of two people striding, then lowered them down between our seats before letting go.
‘And you, Eliza. Do you feel you’re the best you could be?’
I looked at him. ‘In the job I’ve chosen, yes, I’m pretty good.’
‘That’s very satisfactory, then.’
Katarina had gone shopping and in the silence of the house I listened to the old man’s breathing: heavy, wheezing. It made me think he must find it tiring just to be alive. It was warm in the room and I thought he might be about to doze off but then he spoke again, asking me about his mother’s stories.
‘You were going to illustrate them, wasn’t that the idea?’
I smiled, thinking about it. ‘All those plans . . . Though I expect she was just being kind.’
‘Nonsense. And God knows she needed someone to sort out all those notes. She only ever published two volumes of her fairy tales. She spent so much of her time travelling around the countryside collecting the stories; that was the thing. Then she died. Awful waste. But you could do it for her, write them out and illustrate them. I’ve got her notes as well as many of the recordings she made.’
‘I’m not good enough to be a professional illustrator.’
‘Says who?’
‘Says me.’
‘Don’t be so defeatist.’
‘You sound like my ex-husband. Anyway, I call it being realistic.’
‘Sometimes the two are one and the same.’
I gave a little laugh. ‘No doubt. But then you can’t build victory/success – whatever you think of as the opposite of defeat – on delusion.’ I thought for a moment. ‘Or perhaps you can. Anyway, I really enjoy the work I’m doing. I’m not looking for anything new.’
‘So tell me then, what is it with mending old pots that you find so fulfilling?’
I frowned at him but he didn’t notice so I tried to explain instead. ‘I like it because so often ceramics, porcelain, are a combination of art and craft, of the decorative and the practical. I like the idea of someone taking the trouble to make something that is essentially a utilitarian workhorse of an object into a thing of joy. I think it’s touching. And it makes me happy to think that instead of that thought and effort being thrown away and lost I can bring it back to usefulness.’
Uncle Ian said he could see the charm in that. He used that word, charm. I thought of the pieces that had passed through my hands; the refined Meissen and rustic Staffordshire, the intricate Willow Patterns and achingly sophisticated Sèvres, the humorous Tobys, the frail Minton, the joyful Wemyss, and I thought yes, charm was a good word.
‘So have you thought some more about my offer?’
I was yanked back into the world outside work. ‘Yes. Yes, I have.’
‘And?’
‘Uncle Ian.’
‘Yes.’
‘At the inquest I said I thought she was following.’
He looked at me, a question in his eyes, and then he nodded, slowly.
‘And that I thought she was just mucking around when she called out.’
‘Yes.’
I sighed and the sigh was so heavy I thought it might drag me with it to the ground. ‘But that might not have been completely right. I might have realised she wasn’t following. I was panicking, in a silly schoolgirl way; giggling and flapping both at once.’ I paused and looked down at my hands, the fingers twisting and untwisting like crazed snakes, then I looked up at him. ‘It’s all such a muddle, but I might have realised.’
There was a long silence. I looked down at my hands again. Keeping my fingers still and flat against my thighs.
‘Might?’
I nodded without looking up. ‘I honestly don’t know for sure. I realise that sounds just terrible because every second of that night should be seared on my mind, but the truth is I can’t be sure.’
‘Eliza. Look at me.’
I kept my head lowered but my gaze sidled towards him.
‘Did you mean for any harm to come to Rose?’
My chin jerked upwards. ‘Of course not. I loved her.’
‘Well, then, that’s all we need to consider, isn’t it?’
‘Is it? I mean, how can it be?’
‘How can it not be? We lost Rose. No one meant for that to happen but it did. I’m quite sure that if you really had thought that Rose was in trouble you would have turned back to help.’
My snake-fingers began their twisting, folding, entwining once more. I looked into his eyes; I couldn’t read his expression. ‘I’m not,’ I whispered. ‘I’m not so sure.’
I was laying the table for dinner. Katarina had pointed me in the direction of the Royal Copenhagen Flora Danica china.
‘We’re using it today again?’
It was the same with the silver cutlery, George Jensen’s Acorn, and the crystal, Orrefors; they used it all for everyday, but it was the china that took my breath away.
‘Your godfather wants to enjoy his beautiful things,’ she told me.
‘How sick is he?’ I asked.
‘He’s sick,’ was all she would say.
As we sat down to dinner Uncle Ian acted no differently from the way he had before our last conversation. I looked at him when I thought he wouldn’t notice, when he was busy helping himself to potatoes from the large Flora Danica bowl and butter from the cut crystal dish. I had laid out my soul on the ground before him and he had stepped daintily across while looking the other way. What was he thinking? Our eyes met for a moment. His were serious, considered. God knows what my own expression was like.
‘Did you know that Flora Danica porcelain was intended to be botanically info
rmative as well as beautiful and useful?’ I heard myself say. I swallowed hard and continued. ‘The imagery on the original set included not just flowers but roots and seed pods too.’
‘I didn’t know that,’ said Katarina.
‘Nor did I,’ said Uncle Ian.
‘You see, the painting of flowers on porcelain was common enough at the end of the eighteenth century but the ornamentation conformed to aesthetic criteria. The decorations on the Flora Danica porcelain, on the other hand, were not chosen for their aesthetics but instead, and in tune with the spirit of the Age of Enlightenment, it was decided to make exact “scientific” copies of the plates of the highly praised book Flora Danica. It was no easy task, however, to transfer the pictures from the engraved plates in the book. They would have been square, whereas the dinner service required oval or round shapes and sometimes compromises had to be made . . .’
Nineteen
Cass and Ben
As she lay dying, Cass Cassidy, the soap actress and runner-up in the last but one series of Singing with the Stars, handed her publicist the Dictaphone that contained the story of what really happened that night a quarter of a century ago.
‘This will do it,’ she said, her voice barely carrying. ‘This will have the bastards fighting over my story.’ She coughed and lay back against the pillows. Once the coughing had subsided she said, ‘But you’ll have to copy it out and add it to the manuscript yourself. I won’t have time.’
Ben Sinclair told her not to say things like that. There would be plenty of time for her to finish her memoir herself.
She grabbed his hand and yanked him down close, surprising him with the strength of her grip. ‘Promise me.’
He freed himself. ‘Of course. All I’m saying . . .’
Her hand gripped his again. ‘Promise.’
He nodded. ‘I promise.’
They both knew her illness was terminal but her sudden decline still took him by surprise. It was only a few weeks ago that they had been having coffee together and then she had looked almost healthy. She had one of those square little bodies that even then had managed to give her a sturdy appearance. Her hair had grown back and was once again coloured her trademark fiery red, and skilfully applied make-up concealed the unhealthy hue of her complexion.
She had gone straight to the point as usual. ‘So, how are we doing? How many offers have we had?’
Ben had stared past her out on to the street, as he replied, ‘These things take time.’
‘Look at me, Ben.’ He turned his reluctant gaze back on her. ‘Time, eh.’ She gave a croaky laugh. ‘Anyway, I told you I don’t care about the money. I mean it’s not as if I’m going to be able to spend it.’
‘Don’t talk like that.’
She sighed. ‘I’m sorry, but shouldn’t I be the one who’s finding the truth difficult to deal with?’ She looked around her. ‘God, I hate this bloody smoking ban.’ She pulled a placebo cigarette from her handbag and sucked on it as it were a tube of oxygen. ‘So who’s the top bidder?’
Ben’s gaze slunk off back towards the window before being called back by a sharp, ‘Ben, I said look at me.’
From inside the small Louis Vuitton holdall on the chair between them Chico gave a shrill bark as if to underline the command. Cass had threatened to leave Ben the damn dog, which was just one of the reasons he prayed she would live a long time yet.
‘OK, OK. There is no bid.’
Her smile dropped and her mouth fell open. ‘What do you mean, no bid? I was asked to do this, remember? They came to me.’
‘It’s the market. No one can remember when it was last this bad.’
‘The market was bad when they asked me to write the damn thing.’
‘Another latte?’
‘No.’
A small child had come up to them and was staring big-eyed at the bag containing Chico. ‘Shhh,’ Cass smiled at the little boy. ‘The doggie is our secret.’
The boy, eyes still fixed on the moving bag, nodded.
‘Now run along back to your mummy,’ Cass said.
The child remained where he was.
Cass sighed and turned to Ben. ‘Anyway, I’ve heard the excuse, now give me the real reason. Is it the writing?’
Ben was able to be entirely truthful as he answered, ‘No. The writing is fine. None of them could believe it wasn’t ghosted.’
‘So what, then?’ As her voice rose she started coughing and he had to fetch a glass of water from the counter for her. As he returned he gave the small child a gentle shove. ‘Do as the lady says now and run along.’
The child tilted to one side but his feet in their sturdy trainers remained planted in front of Chico’s bag. ‘What’s the puppy’s name?’
Cass sipped some water. ‘Chico. Now off you go and bother your mum or carer or whatever like a good little munchkin.’ She turned back to Ben. ‘Spit it out. As we both know I don’t have any time to waste.’
Ben was lucky that he had not had much experience with serious illness, but if he’d thought about it he would have imagined that the close proximity to death would have a softening effect on the sufferer. Meek and mild were two adjectives that would have fitted his expectations. Neither of them was remotely descriptive of Cass Cassidy as she fought her losing battle against oblivion.
‘All right then. I’m afraid the problem is with you.’
‘I don’t understand.’
Ben felt himself blush. He looked up and around him as if a reply might be found written on the walls of the coffee shop. Eventually he told her, ‘You’re not big enough any more. You can get away with a pretty uneventful life if you’re a massive star but if you’re not up there then there needs to be something major in your life to justify your place in the publishing schedules.’ He paused, then he said, ‘I’m truly sorry, Cass. I know how much this book meant to you.’
‘Not meant, means. And it means everything. Everything, do you understand.’ She sipped some more water. ‘I’ll be dead soon. Gone. What will I have to show for my life? I have no husband, no children. What will there be left of me? Of my time in the world? Some old episodes of a television soap.’
‘Everyone loved Beth Howard.’
‘Not enough to spend five quid at Tesco on my autobiography, it seems. So how long have I got?’
Ben shifted on his wooden chair. ‘What have the doctors told you?’
‘Oh that. I’m not talking about that. I mean, how long before they forget me? The public. My fans.’
‘It’s impossible to say.’
‘Five years?’
He assumed a cheerful air. ‘Anything is possible.’
‘So not five?’
He shook his head slowly. ‘I think even Princess Di was struggling a bit at five.’
‘Three?’
Ben sucked in air between his teeth and shook his head.
‘Don’t. You look like a plumber facing a dodgy boiler. Two, then?’
Ben hated what he had to say but he had suddenly realised that the one thing he owed her now was the truth. ‘I would say that anyone remaining in the public eye for more than a year after their . . . their . . .’ He looked at her for help. He was young, and death, his own or anyone else’s, did not become him.
It was her turn to shake her head. ‘For heaven’s sake, Ben, the word is death. My death. You deal in PR every day of the week. It’s what you do. How long before they stop writing about me?’
‘I’d say we’d be lucky to get twelve months.’
‘Twelve months.’ The toughness evident through the months of illness and treatment seemed to abandon her. Her voice fell to a whisper. ‘So you think I might not even get a year before I’m . . .’ she stopped, unable almost to say the word ‘. . . forgotten?’
Ben was more used to considering his own feelings than those of others; in fact, if he thought about it, which he didn’t, he could only imagine the interior lives of others as sparsely furnished as a monk’s cell from the vantage point of his o
wn House & Garden extravaganza. What he did understand about was the hunger to be noticed. To die and for it really to be the end was as impossible to contemplate for him as it appeared to be for her.
‘I have no family,’ the actress said again. ‘And as I’ve realised of late, nor do I have many real friends. I’ve got you, Ben, and,’ she paused and hauled the little dog, tail-end first, out from the bag. ‘And Chico.’ Her pale green eyes filled with tears but she kept her gaze on his. ‘This can’t be it, Ben. It mustn’t be. Do you hear?’
He felt his own gaze flicker. ‘I don’t know what . . .’
Her hand clamped down on his. ‘You must, Ben. You must help me. Promise me you won’t let it end like this.’
He freed himself from her grasp only to clasp her hand again. It felt as light and as thin as an empty glove. And the distance between them even when touching seemed endless. His throat constricted. In his way he was fond of Cass. ‘You’re sure there’s nothing else you can give them?’
At first he thought she hadn’t heard, so he asked again. ‘You’re sure there’s nothing?’
Her short bark of a laugh made him startle. She opened her mouth as if she were about to speak then shut it again. Contenting herself with just a shake of her head. He leant forward and fixed her gaze with his. ‘Look, Cass, if you want to sell this book you need to have something worth selling.’
He glanced at his watch. ‘Got to go, I’m sorry. Let me know if you come up with anything.’
They left the café together. Cass lit a cigarette while she looked around for a cab. Ben walked off to the Tube. He had reached the other side when he heard a scream and the sound of furiously beeping car-horns. It was Chico. The little dog was waddling across the busy road, hell-bent, it seemed, on ending it all. Cass was standing where he had left her, on the pavement outside the café, her bright red mouth open, her handbag and the dog’s carrier on the ground by her feet. He let go of his briefcase and ran out into the road, dodging the traffic to scoop the little dog up in his arms. As he leapt back on to the pavement he knocked into a tall woman carrying a takeaway coffee. Muttering an apology, he looked into a pair of solemn eyes and he thought for a moment he knew her from somewhere. But her smile, as she stopped to fuss over a trembling Chico, held no recognition. Afterwards, when he had handed Chico back to Cass and had seen both of them safely into a cab he realised where he had seen her. The week before he had been at an exhibition of pre-Raphaelite paintings at the Royal Academy. It was in those pictures he had seen the auburn hair and the translucent complexion. It was there those same eyes had gazed back at him from the pale faces of the rows of solemn angels and limp and tragic Ophelias.
Drowning Rose Page 13