‘Yes, I know that.’
‘Of course you do.’ Sarah tutted, and sounded a little flustered. ‘I left my course mid second year, and that was the last time I came home. Came there. Went there. Home,’ she flapped. ‘So, about twenty years ago, give or take.’
‘But you grew up here.’
‘Yes.’
‘I know you had one of the turret bedrooms.’
‘Yes, the one on the back-left corner. I loved it. I had the best view of the lake. I used to spend a lot of time sitting on the landing. When the sun hit the window in the right way, the stained glass would make shapes on the carpet. They fascinated me. I used to sit there in a warm spot like a sun-puddling cat and read.’
‘I do that too.’ It felt nice to have the connection, no matter how weird it was to hear Sarah talking about the house so familiar to them both, and yet they had never lived together. She also loved listening to her voice, a bit similar to Prim’s, a bit like her own – strange how a thing like a voice could be inherited, passed down. It wasn’t something she had ever considered.
‘When I was little, there was a ghastly wallpapered celling in the hallway. And Granny Cutter’s plates were all over the walls.’
‘It’s still like that!’ They both laughed a little. It made the breath catch in her throat. To hear Sarah refer to her own great-grandma was a strange and wonderful thing. For the first time, she considered running into her mother’s arms and holding her tight. Thought about saying goodnight on the landing each night, but to Sarah, not to Prim:
Night night, Mum.
Night night, darling.
All the things she had missed . . .
‘Mum never did like change. Don’t tell me the garden room still has the old potting tables in, and the steamer chairs?’
‘It actually does!’ Victoria beamed.
It was the oddest sensation; despite their estrangement, tiny threads joined them: memories of the same experiences. Prim was unwittingly their glue, and this in itself was tough, as she was also the woman who had kept them apart.
‘You know, Mum and Dad didn’t think they could have children and I arrived a little late in their life, a surprise, I think – or actually a shock would be more accurate. Mum was in her forties when she had me, which was quite uncommon back then. I have often wondered if that was why she was so strict, as if she was overly keen not to mess up the thing she had to wait for. I spent my whole life feeling like my wings were clipped and I couldn’t wait to leave and fly.’
Victoria settled back on to her pillows, quite unable to recognise the woman Sarah described.
‘Strict? She was never strict with me. She was . . .’ She wondered what the best word might be. ‘Really cool.’
Sarah snorted her disbelief. ‘Really?’
‘Yes.’
‘I guess she learned to do things differently with you. Or maybe you were easier to handle.’ Sarah let this hang. ‘I found her quite hard to live with. We clashed. She wanted to mould me into a specific type of person and I was adamant about not being moulded. She loved me, but could be overbearing and judgemental, and in response I rebelled in just about every way possible. I felt like someone had tied my hands behind my back and all I wanted to do was climb and run. It wasn’t great. But my dad’ – Sarah made a clicking noise with her mouth – ‘oh, he was wonderful. Kind, sporty, funny, and he would always shout, “Yes, dear!” to Mum’s many requests and then wink at me as if to say he had no intention of doing what she asked. He was a great joker, smart too, and was always finding new ways to make me laugh.’
Victoria tried to picture her grandpa in this way and failed. As much as she had loved him, he was to her the old man who would slowly tend his roses, come rain or shine, stepping out at dusk if a hard frost was forecast to wrap the delicate, blousy heads in plastic bags tied with nimble fingers. The stooped man who wheezed when he got to the top of the stairs and would mop tears from his eyes if he looked at her in a certain light, as if she reminded him of someone else, someone he loved and missed very much. She now considered how the loss of his daughter, or rather the loss of contact with his daughter, had changed him, and she more than understood, thinking for the first time what it might have been like for him to have to live with that deceit.
‘I feel closer to them by being able to talk to you; it’s lovely for me.’ Sarah sniffed.
Victoria realised in that moment that she was not an orphan, not alone and not the last surviving member of the Cutter-Rotherstone family. It was almost overwhelming.
‘Dad just wanted me to get my degree, that was all he focused on. Marcus, too, was very keen on me finishing my education.’
‘He was an addict too, wasn’t he?’ she asked softly, aware this time that they were talking about her deceased father. Marcus Jackson was no longer just a name.
‘Yes, but oh! He was so much more than that! He was a poet, a musician, a linguist and the kindest, kindest soul on the earth. And very handsome. So very handsome. You have his hair.’
Victoria ran her hand over her springy curls.
‘Mum and Dad always blamed him for giving me drugs; they wouldn’t believe that I was already using when I met him, but that’s the truth, I was. We met in a dealer’s flat. It was a horrible, dark world and one we were trapped in. But out of the dark, dark place we found something incredibly beautiful; we found a wonderful love that has shaped my whole life, shaped the way I look at the world. He taught me a lot, and of course we had you!’
Victoria felt tears slip down her cheeks. It was a new and wonderful thought in recent times to feel so wanted and not like a thing abandoned. It was hard to explain how in that moment she missed her daddy, a man whose face she could not picture but who had the same hair as her. These thoughts of Marcus again skewered her with a simmering coldness towards Prim – how, how could she not see that to be with her mum and dad was the very best thing for her?
‘You loved him then, my dad?’
‘Very much.’ She spoke softly. ‘It was the kind of love that hits you in the chest and fills you up, and it doesn’t ever really go away, not ever.’
‘But you didn’t actually marry him?’ She thought of the letter and had so many questions, all queued up on her tongue.
‘No, I have only been married once, to Jens – my husband, Jens. I never married Marcus, but only because we never got the chance.’
‘What does Jens do for a living?’
‘A lawyer too.’
‘Does he know about me?’ Victoria wondered where else pockets of dishonesty might lie. She steeled herself for more deceit.
‘Oh yes! He knows all about you, every little thing I could think of.’
‘And Jens knows all about Marcus?’
‘I forget how young you are. Yes, yes, he does.’ Sarah paused. ‘There are many ways to love many different people, and it’s only life that teaches you that.’
Victoria felt her cheeks flame as if admonished and with this came the flicker of anger, as if this woman, in truth a stranger, had no right to make her feel this way.
‘I’ve been reading the letters you sent.’
‘I wondered if you had. What’s that like? Hard, I bet?’
‘Yes, it’s so sad and, as you said, raw. I have to remind myself that I am the baby you are discussing. It’s weird.’ She paused at the understatement. ‘I’m about halfway through, and you talk about how much . . . how much you love me, or the idea of me.’ It was harder to say than she thought. ‘And so I still don’t understand why you thought it best to tell me you had died?’ She bit the inside of her cheek.
‘It was . . . it was . . . Oh God, it was . . .’ Sarah paused, as if deciding how to phrase something tricky.
‘It was what?’ she pressed.
‘This is too much to talk about briefly over the phone. I need to give you the background, the full story.’
‘I was thinking of coming to Oslo for the weekend—’
‘Yes! Yes, oh my goodness, yes, c
ome to Oslo,’ Sarah interrupted with childlike gasps of excitement. ‘That would be . . . that would be . . .’ Emotion trapped her next words in her mouth.
Victoria closed her eyes; this pose somehow made it easier to say. ‘I don’t . . . I don’t want you to be so excited. It makes it feel like a big deal and that brings even more pressure to an already strange situation.’ She spoke bluntly, her words coated with the dust of anger, of hurt. But Daksha was right: enough already.
‘You don’t want me to be so excited?’ Sarah laughed, ‘I have waited my whole life for this call, waited for this chance to—’
‘Sarah!’ Victoria cut her off again mid-sentence. ‘This is exactly what I am talking about. I don’t want you to think everything is going to be rosy because it just might not be!’ she reminded her.
‘I understand.’
‘I know you say that, but when you speak to me or hear from me, it’s as if you’ve won a prize and are about to go running off the deep end. I need things to go slowly. I really do.’
‘I will go slowly; I promise I will try, but it’s exactly like I have won a prize. You making contact with me, us chatting like this before bedtime, is the best thing in the whole wide world . . .’
Victoria closed her eyes, and again let her head fall to her chest.
Switching on her phone, she watched as it located a new service provider: Telenor Mobil.
She had a new message, from Daksha of course.
You got this! Enjoy – and don’t be an arsehole! See you soon D x
The flight had been a doddle. Just over a couple of hours from Heathrow, and here she was, walking towards the gate where Sarah would, she knew, be waiting on the other side. Her stomach lurched at the thought and her palms felt clammy, although it was possibly now a bit late in the day to be having second thoughts about the trip.
Daksha had agreed to house sit with her sister, Ananya, for the weekend and they were under strict instructions to water Prim’s plants, make Gerald a cup of tea if and when he pitched up to look after the tomato plants and orchids, and not, under any circumstances, to have a party. In the days since the whole debacle, she thought occasionally of Flynn, the little turd. She felt flashes of hatred towards him, angry at herself that she had not only offered up her body but also her story: precious facts he had no right to. She was also irritatingly curious as to what he had been trying to talk to her about when he’d been calling out her name before Gerald ushered him from the party. The question nagged at her, but it also bothered her that she cared even a little bit.
‘Hurry home!’ Her friend had waved her off. ‘We have to plan for your birthday – I am thinking a triple-stack chocolate birthday cake, with sprinkles!’ Daksha had clapped.
Victoria was, in truth, dreading her birthday, which loomed, her first without Prim. ‘I’m not planning on celebrating, not really. Plus, I think there is more to birthdays than cake.’
‘There is? Who knew!’ Daksha pulled a face.
And now, here she was, with a gut full of nerves and a head full of confusion, walking through the white shiny terminal of Oslo Airport, which seemed to have coffee shops, bookshops and tall and beautiful people in abundance. She pushed her dark, curly hair behind her ears and, not for the first time, wished she weren’t so pale. The sliding doors opened and the first person she saw in the crowd was Sarah.
She felt conflicted by the thoughts that bubbled to the surface, still trying to get her head around the basic and yet almost incomprehensible fact that someone she had believed to be dead was in fact alive and that she had been fed this lie by her own family, while a small part of her wanted to rejoice!
My mum . . . that’s my mum . . . right there, not dead, not at all. Here she is!
Sarah lifted her joined palms under her chin, as if subconsciously offering thanks, and watched intently as she walked towards her. Victoria stared at her, capturing her profile, the curve of her neck, the shape of her nose, building her in her mind, storing her away piece by piece. Will I look like you when I’m older? Did Prim look like you when she was younger? You are it, Sarah . . . the missing link.
‘Here you are!’
Victoria watched as Sarah stretched out her hand, placing it lightly on her forearm, as if this was the closest to a hug she figured she was allowed, whilst at the same time confirming she was real. Victoria had on countless occasions wished to feel her mother’s touch and had certainly missed the feel of Prim taking her in her arms. Yet, in that moment, she felt unable to react, stifled by all she didn’t know, still hungry to understand how her mum could have let her go, and with a throb of loss and longing beating out its rhythm in her chest.
‘Here I am,’ Victoria confirmed.
‘You look absolutely wonderful!’ Sarah beamed.
‘Thanks.’
‘Can I take your bag?’ Sarah eyed the large carpetbag on her shoulder. Victoria resisted the desire to point out that the offer of a bag-carry, a pair of warm gloves, a bedtime story or a piggyback across a puddle were almost a couple of decades too late.
‘I’ve got it, thanks, I can manage.’
‘Of course.’ Sarah fidgeted, smoothing her hair, nervous. ‘How was your journey?’
‘Easy.’ The banality of their conversation as they walked slowly across the concourse gave no clue to the unique and mind-blowing, nerve-shredding situation in which they found themselves.
‘I thought we could get the train, if that’s okay with you? The terminal is right here in the airport.’ Sarah pointed ahead and Victoria could see the up and down escalators in the distance and the sign: Gardermoen Stasjon. ‘Then we can chat and you can see a bit of the countryside – what do you think? Jens wanted to drive, but I thought this might be nicer.’
Victoria could tell she was nervous too and felt a flicker of understanding. Thinking for the first time how it might be just as hard for Sarah to come back from the dead as it was for her to accept it.
‘I think whatever you think. This is your city. Do you live in Oslo itself?’
‘Yes, we’re very lucky. We have one of the new apartments on the edge of the fjord in Aker Brygge. It’s a whole new development of warehouses and restaurants on the waterfront and we are right where the ferries come in and out, taking commuters and tourists out to the inner fjord islands like Hovedøya and Gressholmen. It’s beautiful. The apartment is small, but what more do we need? In the warm weather we are out and about and when it’s cold it’s less to heat.’
Sarah’s Norwegian accent was impressive. And Victoria was pleased to note that her extreme excitement, which could at times feel a bit like hysteria, seemed to be a little more under control now: her voice a little calmer, cheeks less flushed and her hands still.
‘So, do you speak Norwegian?’ she asked, realising in that moment how utterly crazy it was that this woman had given birth to her, was her mother and yet Victoria didn’t know the first thing about her now: what languages did she speak? Did she play sport? How did she vote? Did she prefer tea or coffee?
‘Ja, litt.’ Sarah nodded.
Victoria smiled at the brief and easy moment of connection, finding it reassuring. ‘It’s nice to have a small apartment, cosy. I think Rosebank is too big, really. A lot to heat in all weathers. Prim used to like real fires in the drawing room.’
‘She did.’ Sarah nodded. ‘The fireplace in the dining room never worked. I think someone said Grandpa put a board halfway across the chimney somewhere and no one was sure how to get it out. I don’t think anyone was sure how he got it in!’ She gave a nervous, dry laugh, reminding Victoria of someone who had been told off and wasn’t sure it was appropriate to laugh. It made her feel awkward. She didn’t want Sarah to feel that way, preferring the ease of earlier.
‘Exactly.’ She wasn’t sure she would ever get used to this woman, a stranger coming in with snippets and shared facts about her home, her family, already known to Victoria. It made her feel conflicted; it brought a joyous flare of shared intimacy, but at the same t
ime it was odd. ‘But I don’t know why we need all that space – don’t know why I need all that space,’ she corrected.
‘You think you might sell it?’ Sarah asked casually, as if it were of no consequence to her either way. Victoria kept her voice steady, remembering both the vicar and Gerald’s warning that she was potentially, as ‘a woman of means’, a target.
‘I literally find it hard to think till the end of a day, let alone any further ahead than that.’ She shrugged. ‘I think I just need to let everything settle. As Gerald said, I’ve been through a lot.’
The way Sarah’s face fell again suggested this felt like a personal dig. She didn’t assuage her.
‘Who’s Gerald?’
Sarah might know all about the history of Rosebank and their family stories, but on recent events she was a little behind. It was a strange mental juggling act as the past and present collided with huge gaps in the understanding of them both.
‘Gerald – he spoke at the funeral?’
‘Yes, of course!’ Sarah shook her head, as if she was embarrassed to have not made the connection.
‘He was Prim’s friend, companion – whatever you want to call it; her beau. They went to the theatre together and out for supper. He’s been very kind to me.’
Sarah’s eyes widened. ‘God, that’s so weird for me to hear.’ She placed her hand over her mouth, as if shocked.
‘That Gerald has been kind to me?’ She felt a flare of anger – for what, she didn’t know, but it seemed any negativity from Sarah was akin to putting a match to the defensive kindling that lay bunched in her stomach and ready to flare.
Sarah shook her head. ‘No, no.’ She bit her bottom lip. ‘I know it’s ridiculous, but I can only ever think of my mum with my dad.’
‘Bernard didn’t mention Gerald?’
Sarah stared at her. ‘No, he didn’t. It was only ever short cards saying things like you had passed ten GCSEs or how you had got really good at the piano. Snippets, as if he was a bit reluctant to go into detail. He loved Mum and was loyal to her. I am grateful to him, still.’
The Day She Came Back Page 21