Flora opened a cupboard. ‘Take your pick,’ she said. ‘I never thought the French were interested in tea, but there are lots of different kinds in the shops.’
Flora had probably spent more time shopping in the last few weeks than she had for years in England, Lou thought. She chose an Earl Grey bag and put it in a mug.
‘How are you, Lou?’ Flora asked.
Lou didn’t answer at once, but as her mother passed her the kettle their fingers brushed against each other, and deep in her chest Lou was conscious of a quiet surge of release.
‘Shall we go outside?’ she said. ‘Is it warm enough?’
The garden was even more beautiful than Lou had surmised from the glimpse she’d had in the dark the previous night.
‘This could be a painting,’ she said, ‘or a stage set. Alice would love it.’
The words came out without her thinking, and in their wake she felt the quickening of grief. The thought of this beautiful garden without Alice in it – of anything beautiful and perfect without Alice in it – was suddenly unbearable.
‘Oh, Lou,’ said Flora. ‘Oh dear, what’s happened? Come and sit – please, come and sit down.’
Lou allowed herself to be led to a little table on the terrace, near a fountain which burbled heedlessly while she held her face in her hands and wept.
‘My darling,’ said Flora, sitting down beside her. ‘I’m so sorry. Is it the baby?’
‘No, the baby’s fine.’
‘Alice, then?’
Lou nodded. ‘Alice has gone home,’ she managed to say – not very audibly, but Flora seemed to understand.
‘To America?’
‘Her mother’s in hospital. She had an accident. But . . .’
Flora’s hand rested on Lou’s shoulder, still and heavy. For a few moments they sat in silence in the gathering heat of the sun.
‘I’m sorry,’ Lou said eventually. ‘I’m sorry. I’m so afraid she won’t come back.’
‘Why?’ Flora asked.
‘I haven’t –’ Lou began. ‘I mean, things have been – complicated. We had a row.’ She stopped again, choking back another lump of emotion. ‘I’m afraid I’ve spoiled everything. I said terrible things, just before she . . . just before the phone call came.’
‘So there wasn’t time to put things right?’
‘No.’
Lou thought again about that last evening, when time and courage had slipped away from her in the face of Alice’s implacable coolness and the imperative of her family tragedy. She thought beyond that too, to the weeks of awkwardness and uncertainty, remembering not just Alice’s remoteness but her own passivity – and that terrible moment on the beach when she’d shrunk from Alice’s touch.
‘Have you spoken to her since she left?’ her mother asked.
‘No,’ said Lou. ‘It’s – her mobile doesn’t work over there, and I assume – they’ll be at the hospital most of the day.’
She couldn’t bear to ring at the wrong time, she meant to say, and hear Alice sounding irritable or cross. But it wasn’t really a question of timing. Presumably Flora knew that too.
Flora said nothing for a few more moments, and then she sighed.
‘I’m out of my depth, I’m afraid,’ she said. ‘My own experience is very limited. Very – specialised.’
Lou felt a spasm in her throat which she recognised as laughter of the darkest kind. Within a moment it had been commuted into sorrow, and a clutch of other emotions. Regret, painfully raw. Chagrin. Frustration. Alice appeared in her mind’s eye then, like an image flashed from a slide projector: Alice naked, marble-white and smooth, the curve of her hips a perfect arc. Alice’s russet hair shining, out of reach.
‘I can’t tell you,’ Flora said, her voice tight, ‘how glad I am that you came here. That you felt you could.’
‘I’m glad too,’ said Lou. ‘I’m glad to be here. We can all . . .’ She turned herself a little, lifting an arm around her mother’s neck.
Flora held her tight, her hair tickling Lou’s shoulder and her breath warm on Lou’s face. Lou could tell she was searching for things to say, and she wanted to tell her it wasn’t necessary, that this was enough – all she could manage for now, anyway. But perhaps Flora understood that. They sat, with Lou squeezing out, now and then, a shuddering sob or sigh, and Flora quite still, quite unlike the bustling, perpetual motion mother of Lou’s childhood.
After a while Lou was conscious of the hum of insects, as though someone was gradually turning up the volume of the background scene, drawing it slowly into focus.
‘It’s so pretty here,’ she said. ‘I can see why you chose to stay. It’s done you good, hasn’t it?’
‘Yes,’ said Flora. ‘Yes, I think it has.’ She stroked the back of Lou’s neck delicately, tenderly. ‘I hope . . .’
Lou’s hand pressed tighter on her mother’s back.
‘What do you want to do today?’ she asked. ‘Have you got something in mind?’
November 1997
On the plane back from Belfast, Flora is in a good mood. Many of her colleagues find examining tedious, but she has always enjoyed it. There were more women than usual among the candidates for Fellowship this time, one or two of them among the best of the batch. Flora finds herself speculating about their futures, wondering how much the world has changed in twenty years, and how far their ambition will carry them.
There is some turbulence over the Irish Sea, and the plane lands a few minutes late at Heathrow. As she waits for her baggage, Flora checks her pager and finds the number for Orchards. She hesitates – her flight has come up on the board above the carousels, but the first bags have yet to appear – then dips across the hall to a payphone. The line is engaged. She lets the answering service pick up and leaves a brief message: Hello, it’s me, the plane’s landed, I should be home in an hour or so.
It’s just after nine when she drives up the lane, and she can see the lights on in the house. But when she pulls into the drive there’s a surprise. It’s not Henry’s car parked in front, but her sister’s, bearing the personalised number plate Derek bought her a few birthdays ago. It’s clear to Flora in an instant that there is no explanation for Jean’s presence which isn’t bad news. During the couple of seconds it takes her to stop the car and wrench the door open, she flounders desperately in search of bad news that might have spared her children – and then (an act of consideration that will temper her view of her sister for ever) Jean opens the front door, flanked by Lou and Kitty.
‘What’s happened?’ Flora demands. ‘My darlings, what’s happened?’
‘It’s all right, Mummy,’ says Lou – the unfamiliar appellation called up for her aunt, Flora realises. ‘Daddy’s had to go out. A friend of his has had an accident.’
Flora’s gaze flicks from Lou to Kitty, who is wearing a nightie Flora has never seen before, and then to Jean. Disapproval has set like wax over her sister’s face.
‘Auntie Jean came to look after us,’ says Kitty. ‘Daddy rang her up.’
‘That’s very kind of her,’ says Flora. She manages a smile. The girls are all right, that’s all that matters. The girls are all right, and she can afford to be nice to Jean. They exchange a look now, and Flora reads the ‘don’t ask’ signs. Her curiosity is piqued, but so are her defences, which were briefly submerged by shock and relief.
‘Let’s get inside,’ she says. ‘It’s chilly out here. Do we all need some hot chocolate?’
‘Kitty has brushed her teeth,’ says Jean.
Flora is ready to overrule her, but Kitty speaks first. ‘I don’t want any hot chocolate,’ she says. ‘Will you put me to bed, Mummy?’
Climbing the stairs with Kitty’s hand in hers, Flora feels a powerful wash of emotion. She can’t, for the moment, sort out the different elements of it – the feelings about Jean, and Henry, and her late return – but the presence of her child beside her, the warmth of those soft fingers, is a comfort beyond the reach of her calm analytical brain. Up in Kit
ty’s room, she lies down on the narrow bed beside her daughter. The smell of shampoo and talcum powder surrounds her, evidence of proper preparation for bedtime. She imagines Jean wrapping Kitty’s head in a towel, rubbing it too vigorously, just like their mother used to.
‘When will Daddy be back?’ Kitty asks.
‘I don’t know, darling,’ says Flora. ‘I don’t know where he’s gone.’
‘I think he’s at a hospital,’ says Kitty. ‘Maybe it’s your hospital, Mummy.’
‘Maybe.’ Flora kisses her on the forehead. ‘I expect he’ll be back in the morning. Go to sleep now, Kitty. Everything’s all right.’
She feels suddenly very tired. It’s been a long day, and she still has to face Jean, and who knows what after that. She’d like to stay longer with Kitty, but she wants to get the next bit over with. She levers herself off the bed and stands for a moment looking down. Kitty is lying with her head right in the middle of the pillow, like a child in a story book. More often than not, when she comes home from a trip, Kitty throws a tantrum. Flora knows this quiescence is an indication that Kitty knows everything is not all right, but she’s grateful, nonetheless.
‘Go to sleep now,’ she says again, as she shuts the door. ‘I love you, Kitty.’
At the bottom of Kitty’s staircase Lou is hovering, waiting for her. Her expression is hard to read, and she doesn’t quite meet Flora’s eyes.
‘OK?’ says Flora.
Lou nods.
Flora hesitates. Better to quiz Lou than Jean, she thinks.
‘How long has Dad been gone?’ she asks.
‘A few hours,’ says Lou. ‘He didn’t say much, but he seemed pretty upset.’
‘I’m sorry I wasn’t here,’ Flora says.
‘It’s OK. We were fine with Jean.’
Flora grins at the dropping of ‘Auntie’, but she knows Jean is down below, that she might be listening. ‘It was very kind of her to come,’ she says, and Lou nods again.
‘I’m going to bed now,’ Lou says, and Flora lifts a hand to touch her cheek. Sometimes, these days, there’s something about Lou that makes Flora feel she doesn’t need mothering anymore – but she knows that’s not true, and that she should resist the temptation to feel either exonerated or pushed away. Lou is only fourteen, after all.
‘Thanks for looking after Kitty,’ she says, and Lou offers her cheek for a kiss.
Down in the kitchen, Jean is standing over the kettle.
‘I didn’t know if you’d have eaten,’ she says.
‘You don’t have to feed me,’ says Flora. ‘You’ve done quite enough.’
‘It was a pleasure,’ says Jean, in a tone that implies it was anything but.
‘I’m very grateful,’ Flora says, hating herself for not managing more. Things haven’t changed between them since they were children. To give her sister proper satisfaction she would have to admit to things her pride won’t allow her to acknowledge: they’ve never been able to agree to differ. ‘The new au pair’s coming next week. It’s typical that –’ she hesitates over the phrasing ‘– something like this should happen right now.’
‘I didn’t ask any questions,’ says Jean. Her implication isn’t lost on Flora: she read the suggestion of impropriety in Jean’s face on the doorstep, and she knows quite well there may be more for Jean to accuse her of than reckless absence. Strangely, she doesn’t resent being lumped together with Henry, or being held to account for his behaviour, whatever it may prove to have been. Given the choice of siding with Jean or with Henry, she has no hesitation in allying herself with her husband. They are, for better or worse, a team. Looking at her sister, she is conscious of all this flowing through her head: a perverse loyalty to Henry and, above all, a wish to get Jean out of her house as fast as possible.
‘Have you eaten?’ she asks.
‘I had something with the children. Macaroni cheese.’
The kettle is boiling now, and Jean has taken a box of tea bags out of a cupboard. That means she intends to stay long enough to drink it, Flora thinks. She’s not hungry, but she feels an impulse to cook herself something homely and comforting, something to disprove Jean’s impression of her as a fly-by-night career woman who pooh-poohs domestic labour. She’s not very good at spontaneous culinary creation, though. She opens the fridge with a sinking expectation of failure. But there’s a packet of smoked salmon and some eggs: Henry’s staples, she thinks, with a rush of affection.
‘I’m going to knock up scrambled egg and smoked salmon,’ she says. ‘Sure you wouldn’t like some?’
Jean frowns, as though such frivolity is surprising even in Flora. Gruel, Flora thinks wickedly, is more the kind of thing Jean would prescribe for her. Poor Jean, whose life has been devoted to making a home for the children who never arrived. She can see things from Jean’s point of view, of course. She can even see that Jean would be a better mother than her, in certain respects. But the longer Jean stays the less she likes her – and the less she likes herself, too. She simply doesn’t have the energy, she tells herself, to engage with her sister.
Before she has finished scrambling the eggs, Jean has given up hope of – whatever she hoped for. Capitulation, Flora thinks. Jean picks up her bag, which has been hanging over the back of a chair, and sighs.
‘I’d better be getting back to Derek,’ she says. ‘It’ll take me the best part of an hour.’
Flora glances at the clock: it’s almost ten now. At the last minute she feels a surge of guilt, and of sisterly warmth.
‘Thank you for coming to hold the fort,’ she says, turning from the hob with a smile. ‘I’m sorry Henry had to call you. I’m sure he wouldn’t have done unless . . .’
‘Well,’ says Jean, slipping an arm into her coat, ‘I hope everything’s all right in the end. Tell him I said so.’
‘I will. We must . . .’ The sentence fades away.
Jean has only been gone five minutes when the lights of Henry’s car sweep across the drive. Thank goodness, Flora thinks – but when Henry comes through the door her heart jolts violently. She has never seen him looking like this before, not even when Nick Comyn died. He’s been crying, and has taken no trouble to conceal it: she imagines him driving with tears streaming down his cheeks. Despite herself, she rushes to console him.
‘Oh, Henry,’ she croons. ‘What’s happened?’
She can see herself, all this time: part of her is watching, surprised and even – yes – a little disapproving. But it’s the memory of Jean’s disapproval that spurs her on; the reminder that she and Henry are on the same side – that they have to be. And Henry doesn’t resist: he takes her in his arms and holds her against him. She can smell whisky on his breath, and tobacco too, for the first time in years.
She doesn’t have to ask him what’s happened. There’s no keeping it in; neither shame nor embarrassment seems to play any part. While the scrambled egg sets hard in the pan, Henry clings to Flora and pours out his heartbreak.
‘It’s Elizabeth,’ he says. ‘She’s dead. A car crash.’
Flora says nothing for a long while. What is there to say? What is there to feel, even? She holds this man in her arms, her husband of almost twenty years, and wonders where her anger has gone.
40
It was hotter than Kitty had expected. She had long ago taken off the skimpy cardigan she’d been wearing over her cotton dress. She was afraid the air conditioning in Flora’s Saab wasn’t going to be much good on the way home: Kitty liked the heat, but she didn’t like sweaty cars, their smell redolent of long, car-sick journeys as a child. Landon would let her sit in the front if she asked, but she was trying not to draw attention to herself. For one thing, it was Lou’s turn to have people thinking about her, and for another, Kitty wasn’t sure she wanted to be noticed today.
They were at a château, not one of the famous ones like Chenonceau or Amboise but a little one not far from St Rémy. Kitty hadn’t been enthusiastic when Flora suggested it: all she’d really wanted was to s
tay at Les Violettes all day. But she was glad they’d come, even if there was something rather surreal about the outing. It reminded her of holidays from her childhood, all those castles and cathedrals Henry had taken them to, but Henry wasn’t here now and Landon was, and she and Lou weren’t children anymore. It was like a where-are-they-now sequel, reassembling the cast of a soap opera years later for a single, oddly unsettling episode – but families, she thought, were soap operas that went on and on whether you liked it or not, and the emotions inside them were always more complicated than you could possibly imagine from the outside.
She had come down that morning to find Lou and Flora sitting together in the garden. Lou had been crying, and Kitty’s first reaction had been relief, because if Flora was occupied with Lou’s misery, she was less likely to notice Kitty’s. But then she’d envied Lou a little – because she had unburdened herself to Flora, but also because her own situation felt so much – messier. After all, Alice would surely come back sooner or later, and at least Lou knew what she felt. She was married and pregnant and had a proper job that everyone knew she was good at: the future was clear to her.
Kitty was completely torn, now, between wanting to explain herself and wanting not to at any price, and the shabby confusion of her feelings, the shame and fury and disappointment, made her feel unworthy of her mother’s consolation. Whenever someone’s glance flicked towards her, her heart would gallop as she wondered whether this was it, whether in a moment she’d have tipped over into telling and wouldn’t be able to stop – and the relief she knew she’d feel then was almost enough to overcome the desperate urge to hold back.
She kicked at the ground with the open toe of her sandal, distracting herself with the dry, cool feel of the grass. They’d been wandering in the gardens for a while, admiring the formal arrangement of little hedges and flowers Landon called a parterre and smelling the herbs in the vegetable garden, and now they were skirting the strip of meadow, filled with long grass and wildflowers, that ran beside the river. They hadn’t been into the house yet – the château. Kitty was impatient now to get out of the heat, and she never felt you got a proper sense of these places, anyway, until you’d been inside and seen what it was like to look out through the windows. As they reached a gravel path that wound back through the formal gardens, Lou halted.
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