by Lulu Taylor
This cold weather made her remember Charcombe as it had been in the worst days: freezing, leaking and horribly uncomfortable. There had been glorious summers, though, when the park, a haze of grass and meadow flowers, buzzed with insects and tiny fluttering white flags of butterfly wings. Life was so much easier when it was warm, with long days, brightness and bounties of fruit and vegetables from the garden. Mama’s spirits had lifted then too, as she drifted about collecting armfuls of the flowers she loved most, and it was possible to forget for a while the horrible injury that had been done to her. It was worst in winter, when the cold came and Mama would sink into misery, crying for Papa and remembering, in some part of her muddled brain, what had been done to her and the life she had lost.
I can’t think about that.
She settled down in front of the television. Half an hour later, Agnieska looked in.
‘I go now,’ she said briefly. ‘You need shopping?’
‘No, thank you, dear. But I do have a doctor’s appointment on Friday if you can take me to that.’
‘Doctor?’ Agnieska nodded; she knew the routine for medical appointments. ‘Sure. Yes.’
The front door closed behind her and a moment later Xenia heard the car engine as Agnieska drove away. Petrova climbed onto her lap, purring, and she changed the channel to a programme about life for people who moved abroad, which was almost as good as the countryside one.
She was absorbed in the story of a couple opening a restaurant in Spain, when a sudden instinct made her turn around and she saw, to her horror, a young man standing in the doorway looking straight at her. She opened her mouth to scream as panic surged through her, but he spoke before she had time to draw breath.
‘Princess Xenia? Princess Arkadyoff? Please don’t be frightened, I rang the doorbell but there was no answer, and then I saw the door was on the latch . . .’
Stupid Agnieska! She left the door open! It will be her fault when I’m found stabbed to death! She stifled the scream but shouted instead. ‘The bell doesn’t work, you should have knocked! Who are you? What are you doing in my house? Get out, get out!’
Petrova woke up, stiffened with the noise and pattered away. The young man looked instantly fearful and put up his hands in a gesture of peace and goodwill. ‘I’m not going to hurt you – I’m so sorry if I’ve frightened you. You know me.’
‘I certainly do not. I’ve never seen you before in my life.’ As she said those words, his face seemed to resolve into a different, more familiar one, and she suddenly felt that perhaps she had seen him somewhere before after all, but when and where she could not say.
‘Yes – you once knew me quite well.’ He smiled at her, his eyes beseeching; she noticed that he had warm brown eyes and thick, chestnut brown hair. ‘My name is Gawain Ashley.’
She stared at him, her mouth open, astonished.
‘Do you remember me? I’m Luke and Gwen’s son.’
A flash of memory illuminated in her mind: a small boy running around the stable yard in shorts and a T-shirt, with bright auburn hair, waving a sword around.
‘Yes . . . I remember you,’ she said slowly. But it was hard to reconcile that small boy with the huge man standing in front of her. Then she remembered that she had also seen him as a gawky youth, when he’d come with his father after Mama’s death to deliver the carved cross that stood at her grave. He’d looked more like this man then, but she still would not have recognised him. ‘What are you doing here?’
‘I’ve come back,’ he said simply. ‘I’ve wanted to for years, just to see if it was the same as I remembered it. I was last here as a sulky teenager, and didn’t take much notice of the place. Then Dad died and it gave me the jolt I needed to actually do it. So here I am.’
‘How did you find me?’
‘I went up the big house first, and the lady there told me you still lived here. I wanted to come and pay my respects, if that’s all right.’ He looked a little sheepish. ‘I am terribly sorry about barging in. I should have phoned ahead. It never occurred to me that I might give you a fright, turning up unannounced.’
‘You certainly should have thought about that, a great man like you walking into an old lady’s home,’ she grumbled. ‘Very thoughtless.’ She felt calmer now. ‘Well, never mind. You’re here, and what’s done is done.’ Petrova jumped back up the sofa beside her; she stroked the soft fur and the cat settled down and closed her eyes. ‘You’d better come in and sit down.’
She made them both tea and Gawain took off his jacket and settled in an armchair, looking enormous in her small sitting room.
‘I’m sorry to hear about your father’s death,’ Xenia said when they were settled again, the tea tray on the small table between them.
‘Thank you. It was quite recent. I wondered whether you might have seen his obituary in the papers. Mum went quite a while ago. She was already ill when we left Charcombe and then she developed motor neurone disease. Dad looked after her to the end.’
‘My condolences,’ Xenia murmured, and thought of Luke thirty years before, sitting at the round table he’d built, working on new designs. He wore sloppy jeans and a torn shirt, his brow furrowed in concentration as he drew. He had a sloping chin that virtually disappeared when his jaw went slack as he worked. Behind one ear was a spare pencil and a pocket knife for sharpening was tucked into his belt, and his hair was grey and haphazard where he rubbed his scalp while thinking. Gwen would be in her studio, surrounded by brushes and palettes crusted with wild swoops of colour, as she bent over a tiny canvas or square of wood or ceramic to paint a tiny but perfect flower. A twisted turban kept the hair out of her face and she wore flowing kaftans in riotous ethnic designs, always with her favourite apricot lipstick, a curious, garden-party kind of choice. ‘I remember them fondly. They were kind to me.’
‘They were both good people. Honest. They were always searching for integrity in the modern world, trying to find a way to stay true to art and to morals. I try to follow their example, though it’s not always easy.’
Xenia was quiet for a moment, remembering. When she thought of Luke and Gwen, it was always in the brightness of summer, the house alive with their students, ringing with talk and laughter. In the evenings, bottles of homemade wine and kegs of local beer came out, and they would sit late into the night, deep in conversation or singing songs with the accompaniment of whatever instruments were played by community members. At first, Xenia had found it unbearably intrusive, but Mama was drawn to the music like an enchanted child, creeping closer to be part of the magic circle. Somehow, the two of them became part of it: not singing, but accepted, sitting with everyone else, listening to the rhythms and harmonies of folk songs and old-time favourites she had never heard before: Bob Dylan, Joni Mitchell, the Beatles, the Stones . . . Harry loved those the best. He loved to sing. She said wistfully, ‘The time you lived at the house was a happy time for me and my mother. I wasn’t very welcoming at first, I know that. Your parents were so patient, very understanding about Mama. In the end, they helped me. I’ll always be grateful for that.’
Gawain looked at her sympathetically. His hands were spread out on each armrest and he had crossed his legs so that one foot stuck out into the room. He seemed incredibly vital, a buzz of energy in her usually quiet sitting room. ‘It’s twenty years since she died, isn’t it? I remember my mother showing me some of the notices and features in the papers at the time. I hadn’t realised until then what she meant to people – too young to understand, I suppose. They weren’t going to let someone like her pass without comment, were they? I was proud to have known her.’
‘She was a great star,’ Xenia said simply. ‘I only wish you could have seen her in the glory years, before . . . before she changed.’
‘I’m sure she was amazing.’
Xenia inclined her head in agreement and sunk her fingertips into the soft fur at Petrova’s neck, rubbing until the little cat pushed back her head with pleasure, purring. ‘But I don’t understand why you
’ve come here. The house is owned by new people. You wouldn’t recognise it – it’s quite different, they’ve put a lot of money into making it beautiful again, the way it used to be long before you lived there. Not that it will make the slightest difference, regardless of how much money they spend on it. As far as I’m concerned, it will always be a place of misery and suffering.’
Gawain raised his eyebrows. ‘That’s interesting. Why do you say that?’
Petrova’s purr filled the room for a moment before Xenia spoke. Gawain waited patiently until she was ready.
‘The man who sold the house to us had suffered awful misfortune, and from the start I felt that was a bad omen. And, in fact, my mother never wanted the house at all, but she accepted it because Papa wanted it so much. I loved it because it was our home, but there was something about it that never felt right, not comfortable, like a shoe or glove that doesn’t quite fit.’ She smiled at Gawain with a trace of awkwardness. ‘The only time I was happy there was when you and your family lived with us. Just think, in all those years, that was the only truly happy time.’
‘I’m sorry to hear that. Surely there were other occasions . . .’
Xenia shook her head. ‘Not really. Nothing that lasted. From the moment we arrived, things worsened for us. The house was always a burden. The cost of running it was part of what forced Mama back to work when she was in no way capable of such a thing, and that in turn sent her spiralling into the very worst of her disease. And that brought about the ruin of everything.’ She leaned towards Gawain and said very clearly, ‘You see, my dear boy, the place is cursed. It always has been and it always will be.’
Chapter Thirty-Three
1953
After the scandal of Mama’s behaviour on the set, she stayed at home for a week in a darkened room, seeing no one. She was permitted back to the studio to film what remained of her scenes. Luckily most of the picture was complete but there were some reshoots needed; since the blonde actress refused to be in the same room as Mama, they were filmed separately and the film edited to make it seem as if they were together. Everyone else was remarkably forgiving and kind; they knew Mama was ill and they all remembered the marvellous, entrancing Delilah, and loved her still.
Once the final few shots were finished, Mama went back to the house and collapsed completely, unable to do anything but lie in bed, weeping, occasionally falling into a frenzy and calling wildly for Papa, before sinking into a grim and miserable torpor that nothing could lift her out of. This pattern went on ceaselessly for three days, with Mama refusing all food and only drinking water.
‘I don’t know what to do, Papa!’ Xenia cried, over a crackly line to England. She had barely slept herself, trapped in a nightmare of Mama’s despair, living every moment of it with her until she felt she was going mad herself. ‘You have to help us.’
‘Poor Xenia.’ Papa sounded desperately worried but was obviously trying to control it. ‘We need to get her home as soon as possible. Do you have a doctor there?’
‘Yes, the studio sent a doctor and a nurse. They keep sedating her, but she’s only calm for a while, then it all starts again!’ She started to weep, longing for home and Papa. ‘I can’t do it any more.’
‘You’ve been so brave and strong, only a little while longer now. I’ve made arrangements for you to come home. Are you listening, Xenia? Pay attention, it’s most important. You’re coming home.’
The next day, a new nurse came to the house and, once Mama was dressed for travel, injected her with a powerful sedative. Zombie-like, Mama allowed herself to be put in the car to the airport and then onto the plane. The nurse came with them, and topped up the sedative when needed through the long flight home. All the way back, Mama remained in her absent state, not sleeping or awake, but a living shell of her former self. Xenia, exhausted and glad of the presence of the nurse, slept at last.
Papa, looking grim and sad, was there on the tarmac as they disembarked in London, accompanied by two men in suits. He hugged Xenia but only looked at Mama. ‘Oh, Natalie. Oh, my poor dear.’
She appeared hardly to notice him and made no protest as the men stepped forward and escorted her to where a private ambulance waited near the terminal. Obediently, she climbed into the back and the doors were shut.
‘Where are they taking her?’ cried Xenia, agitated. ‘Where’s she going? I thought we were going home!’
‘Somewhere they can help her,’ Papa said, holding her tight.
‘Where?’ Her eyes filled with tears and she pressed her cheek against the scratchy wool of his jacket.
‘A hospital.’
‘She’ll hate it, she won’t be able to stand being away from us.’ The tears began to flow and she sobbed. ‘When will she come home?’
‘My dear, I can’t say. When she’s better. We can’t help her any more, you must see that. Come along, let’s go.’
Charcombe Park felt empty, only half alive without Mama, but it was also peaceful, the strain of her illness mercifully absent. Xenia, exhausted by everything she had been through in America, slept and slept. She dreamed of Anderson all the time, wondering if perhaps he might try to contact her, and took long walks so that she could fantasise about him coming to England to find her. There was no one to mind her now, for Gunter had retired while Xenia was in America, moving to a little cottage by the sea, and Xenia could live in a haze of daydreams with no one to interrupt her. One day, in the village shop, she saw an old film magazine from America that had an article about him, so she bought it and cut out the pictures to stick on the wall by her bed. She talked to him at night before she fell asleep. There was also a big feature on the blonde actress, adorned with pictures of her in a swimsuit, sitting in a giant martini glass while looking astonished, and in a tight white dress on a long pink sofa, posing happily with a fluffy white cat the same colour as her hair. Those photographs made Xenia feel sick; she didn’t see the candyfloss sweetness, the smile and the pout, but the scarlet mark on the girl’s face where Mama had slapped her, her look of horror, the screech of outrage. She ripped them up and burned them in the grate.
It was late summer when Mama returned, a thin shadow of her former self, with a defeated air but quiet and calm. She was muted, and oddly sweet like a scolded child determined to be good again. She spent long hours sitting outside in the sunshine, as if soaking warmth into her bones and blood, coming back to life like a butterfly fresh from the chrysalis.
‘Look!’ Xenia said, showing her the newspaper. ‘The film is a success. This critic says your performance is a work of great artistry.’
Mama looked at the article with only a flicker of interest and said, ‘How nice’, as though she barely remembered making the picture at all.
‘Listen to this.’ Xenia read from the piece. ‘ “Miss Natalie Rowe returns to a form we’ve not seen since Delilah. She captures perfectly the spirit of desperation and the force of forbidden passion in her portrayal of Rhonda.” ’ She smiled at Mama. ‘Isn’t that wonderful?’
‘Wonderful,’ Mama agreed, but she didn’t seem to care at all, even though she was nominated for awards, and won several, brought to the house by friends and colleagues and received by her with the same lack of interest. They made her happy in a vague way, as if they were part of a life long forgotten that meant nothing to her.
The truth is, Xenia thought, I doubt she will ever act again. Perhaps that’s a blessing, considering what it does to her.
‘What was the hospital like?’ she asked once, when Mama was sitting as usual in the sunshine in the garden, watching the birds flutter about the lawn and the shrubbery.
‘Horrible!’ Mama shuddered. ‘They locked me away as if I were insane. I had no say in anything. They gave me ice baths and medicine and fed me on the most disgusting things I’ve ever eaten in my life. I didn’t know how to tell them that I was perfectly fine, and quite as sane as they were. The more I told them that, the more ice baths they gave me. So I stopped saying anything and just smiled like
an idiot. Then they decided to stop the baths and give me normal food again. Isn’t that silly?’
‘And being ill . . . ?’ ventured Xenia. ‘What is that like?’
A shadow passed over her face. ‘Imagine the worst nightmare there could be, knowing that you’re trapped in it and you can’t wake up. The harder you try to escape it, the worse the horror and fear become until you’d rather die than carry on.’ She looked tired and scared just talking about it. ‘But when that feeling goes away, something else happens. I’m filled with an energy like nothing else, a sense that anything is possible and I can do it all, and I’m full of light and sparkle, bigger than the world and immensely powerful. Darling, it’s a marvellous feeling!’ She laughed but it quickly faded and she looked bleak again. ‘But it isn’t worth the horror.’ She reached out for Xenia’s hand. ‘I’d do anything to be better again. Anything.’
To Xenia, it seemed that Mama was not merely happy to be home, but grateful. She was adoring around Papa, who treated her kindly while maintaining his distance, as though she were someone he’d once known well but could only vaguely remember. He spent more time away from her, reading in the library, out walking, taking trips alone to London on business. When he was at home, Mama was clingy and affectionate, pulling his hand to her cheek, kissing his fingertips, calling him to her whenever she could. When she tried to embrace him, he stiffened a little before accepting her arms around him.
‘Do you love me still, Paul?’ she would ask him, holding out her hands beseechingly.
‘Of course, dear,’ he’d reply politely, but almost at once, he’d ask her: ‘Are you better, Natalie? Are you well?’