It was late morning when she woke again. She listened for sounds of activity. Unfamiliar with the house and its habits, she didn't even know what noises to listen for. Perhaps she could shut herself away in this little room, insulated from the world. Instead, with a great effort of will, she pushed back the duvet and forced her feet to the floor. She pulled on some trousers and a thick jumper and splashed her face with cold water. She risked looking in the mirror. Just as she'd thought. The side of her face was a mottled bluey green. Yellow patches leached into the other colours. She ran a comb through her hair and drew it forward across her cheek.
Downstairs, she hesitated. She had been so tired the previous night; she hadn't taken in George's instructions. She made for a door at the far end of the hallway. A young woman sat at the long pine table reading a magazine. As soon as Grace appeared, she got to her feet. 'Hi. You must be Grace. I'm Chloe.'
'Hello.'
'George said to say sorry. He's got classes all day. He asked me to look after you. Are you hungry?'
'A black coffee would be nice. Strong, please.'
Grace sat down at the table. Deep windows looked out on to a garden. A huge Aga took up most of one wall and several copper saucepans were strung along a cord hanging from the high ceiling. A bowl of fruit and a jug filled with fat pink roses stood in the middle of the table. A pile of books took up most of one end.
Chloe was busy boiling water and spooning coffee into a cafetière. With her dark hair scraped back into bunches and her blue dungarees, she looked like an overgrown child. Grace watched as she reached into the cupboard for a mug. She remembered George mentioning her in his emails, but she hadn't pictured her as so young.
Chloe brought the cafetière and a mug over to the table. 'I hope that's how you like it. I don't drink coffee, so I'm never sure if it will be all right.'
'It will be fine.' Grace pulled the sugar bowl towards her. From the look of the pale liquid she would need something to make it palatable.
'You're so like GP,' Chloe said. Her elbows were on the table, her chin resting in her hands.
'Who's GP?' Grace forced down a mouthful of coffee.
'Georgy Porgy. My nickname for George.' She laughed. 'It's a joke, you see, he's skinny.'
Grace couldn't imagine the brother she knew responding to the name Georgy Porgy.
'It's uncanny.' Chloe's gaze was fixed on Grace's face. 'It's like looking at George's double.'
'Everyone says we look like our mother.'
'But you're nothing like Isabel.'
'Do you paint, Chloe?' Grace hoped for a more neutral conversation.
'Yeah. But nowhere near as well as George. He's brilliant.'
'Do you teach at the art school as well?'
'I take one or two classes.'
'It's hard work, isn't it? I remember when I was teaching English in Naples.' Grace bit her lip. What on earth had she said that for? The last thing she wanted to talk about was Italy.
'George has helped me loads. I don't know what will happen when he leaves. I can't see Mark making a go of it on his own.'
'George is leaving?' Grace hated having to ask, but the question was out before she could stop herself.
'Hasn't he told you?'
'Perhaps he's mentioned it, but I've had a lot on lately.' There was something irritating about Chloe. The proprietorial way she talked about George for a start, as if she was the one who knew him best.
'He's going to Naples. He's fed up with teaching, even though he's so good. He just wants to paint.'
'Why Naples?'
'He feels comfortable in Italy, he says. Plus he'll be nearer you… Are you okay?'
Grace looked up and found that Chloe was staring at her.
'Only you look ever so pale.'
'I'm fine.' She moved her head to let her hair fall forward over her face again. 'What about you? What will you do if George goes?'
Chloe's eyes filled with tears. ''I can't bear the thought of it,' she mumbled. 'I'm in love with him, you see.' She looked directly at Grace. 'Don't tell him, will you?'
When Chloe left to go to an art class, Grace went upstairs to her room. She fished around in her case for writing paper and began a letter to Archie Stansfield:
I'm in England for a while and I was wondering if you'd be willing to meet me. There are still lots of questions I'd like to ask you about my dad. As you've known him so long, I think you might be able to fill in some pieces of the jigsaw. I can get the train up to you, if you'd prefer.
When she'd finished, she had a shower and got changed. She wrote a note for George in case he came back and set off to explore Penzance. She turned left out of the house and found herself at the gates of Penlee Park. Recent rain had left the air fresh. The greenery was verdant. Grace breathed in, relishing the damp sweet scent that was peculiarly English. She wandered along the path, enjoying the sense of freedom. There would be no cries of 'Signora!' No constant calls for decisions at the restaurant. A sign to the right pointed to an open-air theatre. She passed tennis courts, their nets hanging low.
Before long she was through the park and out into a tree-lined street. She turned left and headed down to the sea. She slipped her letter to Archie Stansfield into a post box. When she reached the Promenade, she crossed the road and sat on the low wall which ran the length of the beach. The tide was in and little waves slapped against the wall. She shaded her eyes and looked out to where the horizon met a grey sea. Gulls swooped and squalled. One landed on the wall and perched a few moments before taking off, with a great fluttering of wings. She closed her eyes and behind the lids a picture of an azure sky, sunlight sparkling on sea of the deepest blue, the outline of a castle sprang unbidden. She forced her eyes open again.
She continued her walk along the Promenade, but every step was an effort. All she could think of was Franco. Sometimes he had a siesta between four and five. Was he lying on their bed now? The shutters would be closed. They would often make love when they woke from their short rest, their bodies languorous. Grace could almost taste the slightly salty sensation of Franco's skin on her tongue.
Further along the Promenade, she came across an open-air swimming pool. 'Jubilee Pool,' the sign said. It had been opened in 1935, the year of George V's Silver Jubilee. She watched people splashing in water, which looked remarkably green against the blue terracing and white walls.
The open-air pool that her parents had taken them to as children flashed into Grace's mind. She remembered a magical place, with fountains, chutes, green open spaces and a diving platform. Once, when she was about ten, she'd clambered up the metal steps, determined she was going to jump. She got to the top at last, but she couldn't bring herself to step out on to the diving board.
People began to push past, their wet bodies brushing against hers. She saw her father on the ground, shouting something and gesticulating for her to come down. But the way back was crowded with people. She started to cry and the boy at the top of the steps laughed. 'Cry Baby Bunting!' he jeered. He had pale skin and his shoulders were burned a livid pink. He had red hair and huge freckles spattered his face and arms. She'd hated red hair from that day. At last Rick's face had appeared at the top of the stairway. 'You stupid little girl!' he shouted, but he'd taken her hand, turned her to face the steps and climbed down ahead, his steadying hand at her waist all the way to the ground.
George was home when she arrived back at the house. 'You look done in,' he said as she opened the kitchen door. 'What have you been up to?'
'I went for a walk.'
'Bit of a shock—the bracing sea air—after Ischia.'
She slumped at the table.
'Have you had anything to eat?'
She shook her head.
'I'll fix you cheese on toast. It's my speciality.' George took a blue and white striped apron from a drawer. He eased it over his head and tied the strings round his waist. 'Ecco fatto! I have nothing to declare but my genius!'
Grace watched as George sliced bread, slo
tted it into the toaster and began grating cheese. All his movements were graceful and elegant, feminine, almost. She couldn't help scrutinising him for signs of Henry. Some fleeting expression, a tilt of the head, maybe. She so wanted Archie Stansfield to be wrong. But there was only his hands, she thought, as he placed the food in front of her. Those same short stubby fingers that her father had and which didn't at all fit the rest of George's slim physique.
She picked up her knife and fork and took a mouthful. The cheese was soft and spongy. It melted against her tongue. 'This is good.'
'What else did you expect?' George sat at the table. 'Sorry I had to abandon you today. Mark's covering for me tomorrow, and I'll take you to St Michael's Mount.'
'You don't have to do that,' Grace protested. 'I'll be fine on my own.'
'I don't think you will. I've never seen anyone so in need of love and affection.'
Grace concentrated on her cheese on toast.
'I'm not going to ask what's happened,' George said. 'But I hope the other one came off worse than you.'
Grace didn't dare look up. 'Did you know Deanna's been in hospital again?' she asked.
'Yeah. Eva said something about it last time I rang home. I thought she was on the mend.'
'I don't know if she's going to make it.'
George fiddled with the pepper mill, twirling it round and round. 'She'll pull through. She must be tough to have survived all these years with Ricky Boy.'
'You know he hates to be called that.'
'Why else would I do it?'
Grace sighed. Her brothers' hostility was worse since Henry's death. 'What is it, Sis?'
'Please give up the idea of Dad's piano. Rick will never back down and it will only cause more stress for Deanna.'
'Why should I let that bastard have it? He can't even play the damn thing.'
'He's having lessons.'
'Credit me with some sense, Grace. He might be a wizard with computers, but he's got no chance learning to play the piano.'
Grace chased the last piece of toast around the plate. George had made up his mind. She tried a different tack. 'Chloe said you're thinking of moving to Italy.'
'Chloe's got no business gossiping about my plans.'
'I don't think she meant any harm. Are you?'
'I haven't finalised it yet, but probably.'
'Why?'
'Why not?' George went to the fridge and poured out a can of beer. 'I love the light. The language. I've always felt more at home in Italy.'
Grace felt her heart leap. Did he feel an affinity with Italy because he'd been conceived there? 'Whereabouts are you going?'
George came back to the table. 'Near Naples. Not all that far from Mum's village. Plus, I'll be near you.'
Grace thought she detected something wistful in her brother's face. But it was gone in a flash and his usual smile was back.
'If you're going to Italy,' she said, 'what's the point of having the piano? You'll only have to leave it behind when you go.'
'I'll have it shipped over.'
'Why not buy one over there. New pianos are supposed to be better anyway.' Grace felt excited at the thought of a possible solution. 'You could buy a grand piano. Go to Venice instead. I can see you in some palazzo, music echoing across the Grand Canal.'
'I don't want a grand piano.' George's mouth tightened. It was an expression Grace had seen on her mother's face. 'I don't want a Steinway or a Broadwood or any other piano you care to mention. I want Dad's.'
Grace winced at the word Dad. It would break his heart when he knew the truth.
'That man meant the world to me.' George prodded the table with his forefinger. 'He believed in me when everyone else had written me off as a waste of space and—'
'I didn't mean—'
'I don't want to hear any more pleas for poor Rick.' George got up and poured his beer down the sink. 'I played duets with Dad on that piano for more than thirty years. It belongs to me.'
Grace arranged to go up to London. She had to face her mother and Isabel with the news that she'd left Franco. The morning she was due to leave, a letter arrived from Archie Stansfield. He was sorry it was short notice, he wrote, but he could come to London the following day. Would she be able to meet him, as she'd suggested? He was catching the ten twenty-five train to Euston. It should arrive just before one and he would wait for her by the barriers. If she couldn't make it, his phone number was 01625…
Before she left for London, Grace asked George if she could use his computer. Her email to Isabel was brief:
Sorry I haven't been in touch. I need to talk to you face to face. I'm in England. I've been staying with George, but I'm coming up to London today. I'll stay at a friend's tonight, and tomorrow I've arranged to meet Archie Stansfield. If it's okay with you, I'll come on to you after. We've got to decide how we break the news to Rick and George. This secret has gone on too long as it is.
Love, Grace
Twenty-nine
Isabel studied Rick across the kitchen table. His hair, which he normally wore short, sprouted from his head in an untidy mess. He ran his fingers through it constantly. He had developed a nervous tic and kept screwing up his nose, like a rabbit. His gaze raked the room, back and forth, up and down like a searchlight. The big pine table, which Isabel had insisted on keeping from the old house, took up most of the space. You had to move the rocking chair to reach the cupboard and plates and saucepans were piled on a worktop because there was no room to store them. Most of the time the kitchen didn't seem as small and inconvenient as it had when Isabel first moved here, but now, with Rick's eyes on it, she squirmed in her seat.
'How is Deanna?' she asked.
He blinked furiously. 'Doing great.'
'And the girls?'
'They're good. Flavia's got her last exam next week.'
Isabel wanted to ask about Alicia—the memory of that scene on Christmas Day still haunted her—but the expression on Rick's face silenced her.
He picked up his briefcase from the floor and set it on the table. He clicked the locks open and took out a notebook. 'I've made an inventory of the stuff in Mum's loft. There's a huge amount she'll have to get rid of. There won't be room in the bungalow.' He licked his forefinger, flicking through the pages of his notebook.
'About this bungalow,' Isabel began. She knew the points she wanted to make off by heart, but then she saw Rick's expression change. Don't let yourself be intimidated. The voice in her head spoke sharply. It was the same with Brian. Despite his rough edges, he was a lot like Rick, domineering, irritable, obsessed with work. But she'd changed. She hadn't been through all the doubts and self-questioning, simply to slip back when the first test came. No. She forced herself to ignore the look on Rick's face.
'Rick, did you get my email?'
'What email? Do you know how many I get a day?'
'I've got no idea. But this one was about your mother.'
Rick raised his hands. Isabel flinched. But they moved to his head. He ran first one, then the other through his hair.
'Rick…'
He slammed the notebook into his briefcase. There was a wild look in his eyes that frightened her.
She heard the voice in her head: Do it. Don't give up now. 'Mum's not happy about leaving London.'
'Isn't she?'
'Everything she knows is here.' She swallowed. 'She's lost Dad. She needs to be with all his things around her.'
Rick snapped the locks of his briefcase shut. 'She'll have us up there.'
'But you're busy with work. The girls will be doing their own thing and Deanna needs to concentrate on getting well again. She's not going to want the worry of Mum.'
'Deanna's fine. I told you.'
Isabel made one more attempt. 'You've got to see it from Mum's point of view. She checks through his books and his old records every day, reminiscing. I've seen her do it.'
'She can't dwell in the past. She's got to move on. Get on with her life.'
'But Dad was her life
.'
As she said the words, the thought of the time when that hadn't been the case flitted into Isabel's mind. Once Eva had cared so little for Henry, she had climbed into bed with another man. Become pregnant with his child.
'I'm having work done on the bungalow,' Rick was saying, 'so it's not ready anyway. She can have another few months to get used to the idea and shift some stuff. We'll move her up next spring.'
'And the piano?' Isabel crossed her fingers under the table as the question dropped into the room.
'You know I'm having the piano.'
'I thought you might have reconsidered. It means so much to George.'
Rick pushed his chair back from the table. 'George. George. George. Why is everyone so concerned with him? All his life, he's messed up.'
'He and Dad spent hours playing together on it.'
Rick stood up. 'I'm not wasting time on this any longer. We'll talk to Mum about it tonight over dinner. And you'd better support me, Isabel. She listens to you.'
Isabel sipped her coffee and pulled a sheet of paper from her bag. It was quiet in the coffee shop and she might as well write her shopping list while she waited for Simon. Honeyed chicken, new potatoes and salad for dinner, she decided. She'd have enough to do dodging Rick's potshots without having to worry about complicated food. Rick was impossible. Every exchange resembled a high-powered board meeting, and he had to win the vote at all costs. Poor Deanna—putting up with him all these years.
She checked her watch. Simon had improved his timekeeping, but he was still inclined to arrive after they'd arranged, overflowing with apologies. She tapped her pen against her lip imagining what his excuse would be today. He'd used most of the traditional ones and was now on to the dog ate his homework variety. She hoped he'd get here soon. He would be able to advise her on a nice wine for tonight. She'd wondered about inviting him. He'd be sure to charm her mother and his presence might be a check on Rick. Besides, she was longing to show him off. But she needed to do something about Brian first. She'd already put off the meeting with him twice, and Rose kept asking when they'd all be moving back in together.
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