And the little bed made up for Diana in the dark outhouse so that Harry didn’t feel crowded, even though the sea wind rattled the shutters right into Diana’s bones. (What a lucky little girl! Most six-year-olds don’t get to have their own house!) Diana took a sip of her drink and laughed, a hollow sound, as she pictured herself lying in the dark, listening to the moaning of the wind and the moaning of her mother, glumly stroking her own flat chest, a little comforted by the soft hiss of the gas heater a friend of her mother’s had insisted she install to keep the poor child from freezing half to death. And then there was Harry – the morning sun himself – laughing by the open door of that shed holding a big glass of pale yellow milk, telling her that this wonderful girl child whom he had named Nubile thought Rimbaud was a scientist. And then her mother and Harry had gone off somewhere, leaving Diana standing in the cold sea with the chauffeur’s freckled arms tight round her middle, his neck red, the light dancing on the water like her mother’s evening laughter.
‘Now kick, Diana,’ he’d told her in his funny accent. ‘Kick and use your arms. Don’t be scared, the water’s your friend.’
‘Liar!’ she’d shouted, laughing, as the unfriendly water licked her chest, far too cold so that she could only cling and shiver as the strong arms swayed her left and right, left and right, letting her swim without having to swim.
‘Have faith, believe you can do it. The water will help you, if you let it. The water is your friend.’ And his strong arms lifted her up and sped her along until she was moving through the water, kicking her legs again and again and again. Diana felt a rush of warmth towards that sweet midget of a man, wondering briefly what had become of him.
She flicked back further, right back to the beginning. Paris, 1923. And so it began . . .
A mess moving into Rue de Lille.
Crates, trunks, impedimenta of every description (including the child).
There had been the large dark hallway with a stone staircase going up and up into blackness, every step a scuffed echo. An open door leading into the bare first-floor rooms that were full of new servants smoking and talking and unpacking their meagre things into thin chests (the thankful comfort of Mette’s fat arms) and a nursery that was like a packing box: bare and brown and all the wrong size.
But upstairs . . . oh upstairs!
It was like being transported into a dream. A marble bathtub big enough to float in without touching the sides, a hole in the wall surrounded by a jade slit for peeping, a bed that was pulled up through the window by ropes, its frightening headboard leaning against the wall covered in carved people doing cruel things (they agreed eventually and it was ceremoniously drowned in the Seine), and room enough for lots of people. (Diana was allowed to jump up and down on it once a week while Hélène changed the sheets, her face coming and going in the large mirror on the wall.) Soft grey carpets and rose-papered walls, Harry rushing past the workmen, getting it all done quicker, better, faster; on his hands and knees hammering tacks into carpets rat-a-tat-tat, raking leaves in the garden, lighting fires in all the grates and unloading the books into the bookshelves. Her mother whirling through the rooms, placing a vast orchid on this table, instructing the raising of a heavy gold chandelier in that hallway, having the door to the drawing room covered with a thick grey silk curtain that moved as though there were someone hiding behind it . . . and down at the end of the hall the staircase to his study, she behind him, watching as the picture of the dead soldier was nailed to the door.
‘We who have known war must never forget war.’
‘We must never forget war,’ her mother had repeated, holding him tight, her cheek pressed to his back.
And Diana, eyes closed in prayer, sitting alone at the little desk in her nursery eating biscuits and trying to drink her watery milk. ‘We must never forget war.’
And then more men came with tools and fed wires into holes that disappeared into the walls, and came back out on the floor below. One buzz for the maids. Two for the cook. Three for the chauffeur. Four for Diana.
God how she’d longed for that buzz. She lifted her chin defiantly and drank.
And then all the animals appeared: two love birds, Tristan and Isolde; two white kittens, Sagesse and Promesse; two terrapins, Cloaca and Sloth; and four goldfish – Sunwarm, Sunnygolden, Sunbeam and Sunbow.
But one by one the animals had to go until only the goldfish remained swimming round and round and round, no company at all; and the days slowed to her and Mette and the cook Louise and the maid Hélène (who slept in a bed together and made soft sounds all night) locked in domestic boredom. Auguste the chauffeur and his fights. Otherwise . . . silence in the empty nursery as she listened to the footsteps that ran day and night up and down and up and down.
But sometimes . . . sometimes . . . those four buzzes and then piling into the car and the mad joy of running Narcisse and Clytoris in the Bois, screaming, lungs empty, being timed to run there and back, there and back, there and . . . where did they go? And the finding of a great iron gate and inside a forgotten cemetery enclosed by blank trees. The muttering of the aged keeper in her black dress as she pointed quiveringly to forgotten names on forgotten stones thick with moss, limping through the overgrown grass, her sleeves becoming snagged on brambles. The air was cold and dank, a red-gold winter sun lowering itself to sleep, and they walked in silence among the dark lines of trees, Harry and her mother, hand in hand; Diana behind, kicking leaves with a vengeance.
Then beneath a broken wall Harry stopped and stared at something only he could see.
‘I could die here.’
Her mother wound herself closer to him, staring up at his profile. ‘If you die, I die,’ she said, as Diana’s blood, hot from running, cooled into something as thick and dreadful as the contents of the pot Louise had been stirring for the boudin noir they were going to eat for dinner that evening . . .
Those dinners.
The pink evenings darkening to a bruise as the endless mob moved up and down the stairs, walking all over one another, up the walls and through the roof. Poets and painters and pederasts and lesbians and divorcees and Christ knows who, all sitting in the garden on great piles of cushions that were always soaked in the morning, drinking champagne from bottles bigger than babies and, much more important, talking for hours, devouring the silence. Then the exodus as they climbed into cars to find more, more of everything, their laughter tearing the darkness into shreds to be swept up by the maids.
But there was always someone who’d gone to the john.
Been left behind.
Forgotten something.
The dreaded, awaited knock on her nursery door.
There was a sharp knock on the door and Diana opened her eyes wide. She glanced towards it, debating quickly whether to pull a sheet over herself. But with a shake of her head she pulled her shoulders back, and called out, ‘Yes?’
Paris, 1924
‘Where’s the child?’
‘Don’t worry about that. Get back in the car, my love, let’s drive all night. I could do with a big drink of dark air. With the bear on our knees we’ll be warm.’
‘No, I need to return home.’
Caresse looked at him searchingly.
‘Well, I need a drink!’ someone else shouted.
‘Caresse, are you coming?’ a man asked, his hand extended.
‘Let Tourbin look after you, Caresse.’ Harry smiled. ‘He’s terribly capable.’
‘Mama?’ Diana leaned forward on her bed, hearing quick steps on the stairs.
The steps stopped outside her room.
The door opened.
‘Your mama’s gone to Deauville with a count.’
Diana looked at him and hung her head.
‘Don’t be down. Your face looks like a friendly little moon when it’s up. Yes, like that. Now, let’s go. I want to go and see a tragic lady, but would like some company for the drive.’
‘Shall I bring my dressing gown?’
‘No ti
me.’
‘Shall I bring my slippers?’
‘They’re only good for one thing.’ He held open the door. ‘Come.’
Along the gutters two rivers of piss were lit lurid green by the lights of the Marais as the huge black car crawled down the street. People moved out of its way, and on the open-topped back seat, miles away from the back of the chauffeur’s head, they lay covered by the dark weight of the bearskin rug.
‘Now sit up, Rat,’ he told her, pulling her onto his lap. ‘These people are your subjects.’ He handed her a soft bag. ‘And you are Selket, daughter of Ra.’ Diana looked out at the smeared faces with a regal stare. ‘Now throw them their pieces of sun!’ he ordered, and she began to pull out the heavy pieces of gold and throw them one by one out of the car, like feeding the ducks in the park with Mette. Faces turned, leered, cursed, but as people saw what was happening a thick crowd gathered, running and yelling as Diana, frightened, threw the pieces faster at the grabbing hands.
‘Look how they want you, little one. Look how they love you!’ he shouted, and as the car picked up speed he grabbed the empty bag and tossed it into the crowd, throwing back his head, laughing. Turning in her seat, she watched the crowd becoming smaller and smaller while the car accelerated into the night.
Alderney, 1993
‘So.’
‘So.’
‘You made it.’
‘Yes.’ Elena nodded, trying not to stare at her mother’s face beneath the short sandy wig. She’d had even more work done, and it was hard not to search the sinking contours for evidence. ‘We made it.’
‘And you’re all here?’ Diana asked.
‘All here. And one still underground.’ Elena indicated her stomach.
‘An invasion.’ Diana sank back on the pillows.
‘A holiday.’
Diana was silent, and Elena could tell her mother was waiting for her to say it.
‘You look well,’ she finally said.
‘Well,’ her mother said with distaste, as though holding the dead word up by its tail. ‘Well, you look exhausted.’
‘I am,’ Elena said simply, forcing herself not to turn towards the mirror for confirmation. She was unable to master the movement of her neck, however, but, turning, saw that a scarf had been clumsily hung over the mirror of the dressing table. ‘I can’t get my head quiet. It’s like trying to sleep in a zoo.’
‘Ah yes.’ Diana smiled. Insomnia was one of her pet subjects. ‘You should take some of these.’ She picked up her pills and gave them a happy rattle. ‘Work wonders with some Amontillado.’
‘You and your pills. They’ll be the death of you.’
‘Correction, Elena: life will be the death of me.’
‘It took me months to wean myself off them.’
‘Don’t ever stop, that’s my motto.’
Elena stood up to go. ‘I need to help James unpack the children’s things.’
‘Is he paying penance?’ Diana smiled knowingly.
‘What do you mean?’ Elena stopped.
‘Has the golden boy been spreading his light a little too freely?’
‘Not in any way.’ Elena spoke with great precision, looking her mother straight in the eye.
‘So sure.’ Diana shook her head, smiling ruefully. ‘I do wonder, darling, when you will cease to be a wilful innocent.’
‘I’m flattered you think of me in that way. I feel as though I was born cynical. Now, I’m going to unpack.’ She stood and stretched, aware of her mother’s gaze on her body. She lowered her arms.
‘How long are you staying?’
‘A month.’
There was a shout from the garden, shortly followed by the thin wail of a child.
Diana pressed her hands against her temples.
‘I’ll tell them to keep it down,’ Elena said. ‘And I’ve already made the beds up. Besides, the boys want to sleep in the garden, so they won’t disturb you too much.’
‘No nanny?’
‘I’ve got you, haven’t I?’ Elena said lightly.
Diana paused for a moment and then laughed, followed by a sharp intake of breath.
‘What is it?’ Elena frowned in concern.
‘Nothing.’ Her mother shook her head. ‘My conscience, probably.’
Against her will, Elena smiled.
‘And now you’re bringing me another.’ Diana glanced down and Elena held her arms out so that she could see.
‘You and James have been busy.’
Elena replaced her arms. ‘Please . . . don’t.’
Her mother laughed. ‘You can’t do it and not talk about it, Elena. That’s called cheating.’
‘It’s the way you say it,’ Elena said quietly.
‘I’ll say nothing at all then.’
Elena looked at the empty space next to her mother and suddenly longed to lie down and go to sleep. But her mother’s sheets had come loose at the corner and piles of books and clothes took up the other half of the bed. A used plate was tucked beneath a blanket and as Elena looked around the room she tried not to grimace at the mess of clothes strewn over chairs and the incongruous size of the silk four-poster dwarfing the space. ‘Wouldn’t you be more comfortable with a smaller bed?’
‘Elena, if you are going to try and get me into some sort of commode I shall stage a violent revolution. I care nothing for this bed. Nor this room. Nor this horrid little island I’ve been wrecked on.’ She stared out the window. ‘Even the windows are ghastly.’
‘Why don’t we open them, at least.’ Elena moved towards them.
‘I will not have you shifting things about, Elena. Let it all be.’ Diana dragged the covers over herself and angled away from the window.
‘Just . . . please . . .’ Elena gently pulled her mother forward and banked up the pillows behind.
‘Ivan Denning is coming for lunch this weekend.’
Elena sat down on the bed and blinked in surprise.
‘I didn’t realise that was still . . .’
‘Of course.’ Diana smiled. ‘He’s sailing from Jersey.’
‘I haven’t seen you smile like that since you met David.’
The smile faded and Diana looked at her daughter for a long moment. ‘Trust you to pierce the ballooning moment.’ Elena looked away. ‘Apart from being a good friend, Ivan is an excellent lawyer. Though I lay the fact that I’m living in this godforsaken place at his door.’
‘Oh, Mum,’ Elena said.
‘Please don’t call me Mum, it’s so fucking awful.’
‘I can call you Diana again, if you want,’ Elena said, her cheeks colouring a delicate red.
‘Call me Mummy, if you must.’
Elena shook her head.
‘What?’ Her mother stared at her, preparing for outrage.
‘I’m not calling you Mummy. It’s absurd.’
‘Why?’
‘Because you’re not that kind of mother. Anyway, you called your mother Caresse . . .’
‘I wasn’t allowed to call her anything else!’
‘. . . and Leonie and I always called you Diana when we were children.’
‘Well, I regret that. I want it to be Mummy now.’
‘You’re being ridiculous. But I’ll go back to calling you Diana if you really want.’
Her mother stared at her. ‘Very gutsy, Elena. All that expensive therapy is clearly paying off,’ she sighed. ‘What with your sister in a convent, and you on the couch – talk about a rock and a hard place.’
Elena stared at her mother as she spoke. Her gaze moved over the familiar face with the hard clarity of morning light. She took in the deep-set eyes so like her own, the skin pulled tight and secured somewhere beneath that dreadful wig. The still-ripe mouth. Elena watched it moving, occasionally glimpsing a flash of her mother’s teeth. The sound of her voice began to shape itself around her, and she forced herself to listen to the words.
‘. . . I’m all for everyone having a good time. But why that means everything has to beco
me so depressing . . . Spain’s appalling now. Everyone staring at motorways from concrete balconies like overripe fruits on plastic chairs.’ Sensing she’d lost her audience, Diana slowed to a stop. ‘I suppose I might as well surrender to the rest.’
‘But you’re not unhappy here?’ Elena said hesitantly, not entirely sure what they were talking about.
‘That comment is so thin I can hardly spread myself an answer.’
‘But I thought you liked being on an island again.’
‘I loathe it,’ Diana said bitterly. ‘Two thousand drunks clinging to a rock.’
‘Two thousand and one,’ Elena said.
Diana threw her head back and laughed. ‘Touché, Elena. I’m glad to see you haven’t entirely lost your sense of humour.’
Elena leaned down to pick up a book that was lying spreadeagled on the floor, trying to conceal her pleased smile.
Diana turned her body slightly towards her daughter, seeming to relax. It was a movement of friendly invitation and Elena felt a familiar panic rush into the unexpected opening. Her head emptied of all thought, and she frowned as she tried to think of words that wouldn’t murder the moment.
‘Do you miss it?’ she eventually asked.
‘Miss what?’
‘Spain.’
‘I miss nothing,’ Diana said with disdain, turning away again.
Elena smoothed her dress over her bump, and was silent.
‘You know I can’t stand your silences, Elena,’ Diana said in a single aggrieved tone.
Elena looked at her mother without speaking.
‘I recognise that dress you’re wearing. Where’s it from?’ The voice was sharp, suspicious.
‘It was Inés’s,’ Elena said levelly.
‘It’s falling to pieces.’
‘So are you,’ Elena shot back, and her mother smiled.
‘My shoulder’s been hurting again.’ The voice became petulant.
‘Have you been doing your exercises?’
‘Of course not.’
Elena stood and took a brown glass bottle from the top of a dresser whose surface was strewn with packets of pills and other bottles of medicine. She wiped the dust from the top of it.
The Heart Is a Burial Ground Page 6