The Long Way Home

by Fanny Blake

Madame smiled. ‘You are so good to him, my dear. But you’re sure you’re well enough? You look pale.’

  ‘Really, I’m fine. Thank you.’ Despite the nausea rising in her throat, she managed to get herself back to her room.

  No more was said.

  Confessing to Wendy had made the situation that much more real. How could she have got herself into this position when her mother had warned her about men so often? And just when she was so happy and everything was going so well. She couldn’t go home. She couldn’t tell her parents. They would kick her out. And their anger… she shuddered to think about it.

  ‘You must tell him immediately. He’ll do the right thing.’ Wendy was very sure. ‘He loves you. He and Sam are decent boys. He wouldn’t abandon you to… well, what would happen to you? He knows the implications. When are you seeing him again?’

  ‘Tonight.’ She turned her coffee cup in its saucer. The right thing. Marriage. But Max was not in Paris to find a wife. He was there to fall in love, to be a writer, to experience all the exhilarating romance that Paris had to offer. She was part of that scenario, not there to tie him down with a squalling baby. He wouldn’t want this. In her heart, May knew this was the truth. But if he loved her as much as she loved him, perhaps Wendy was right – she had to cling on to that small hope.

  ‘You must tell him then.’ Wendy was quite definite, certain this was the answer.

  ‘That’s what you’d do, because you want to marry Sam.’

  Wendy tossed her head so her curls bounced. ‘So? Don’t you want to marry Max?’

  Of course she did. ‘Max isn’t Sam. Max loves his freedom. He loves Paris.’

  ‘He loves you.’

  ‘Does he?’ Did he love her enough? She would have to wait and see.

  That night, she waited till Emile had gone to sleep and she was free to go out. She tried to tame the short fringe she had cut recently and put on a little rouge and the orangey red lipstick Max had said he liked. Her peach floral dress was tight-bodiced and full-skirted and her new shoes had a little heel to make her taller. She opened the door to the salon where Madame Dubois was sitting doing her petit-point. She was humming to one of her jazz records on the gramophone. She looked up as May came into the room. ‘Ah, you look adorable. That dress suits you well.’

  ‘Thank you, Madame. I’m going to meet Max at the Brasserie Bleu, near the Café de Flore.’ Being just around the corner from such a literary landmark was as close as Max would allow them to go in the evening, feeling he had to earn his literary spurs first. They would walk slowly past, looking to see if he could spot any of the literary giants who frequented the place. Once he was sure he recognised Jean Paul Sartre and Simone de Beauvoir as they went in to meet friends. He didn’t stop talking about them all night. The Brasserie Bleu was close enough to feel part of the scene without actually being part of it.

  She felt Madame’s X-ray gaze on her. ‘Have you anything you’d like to talk to me about?’

  May froze, put a hand on her stomach. Madame had guessed. She couldn’t have. ‘No,’ she said firmly. ‘Nothing else.’

  Max would know what to do. That was enough. Friends of his must have found themselves in the family way and found a way out. Nobody else need know.

  12

  Derbyshire, 2019

  As they eventually left the motorway and began to climb into the Derbyshire Peaks, Isla’s grip relaxed on the wheel. As they were early, she chose the longer route, that took them up the A515 and then up towards Monyash. Under the big blue sky, the landscape was sublime, stretching away on either side of the road, field after field separated by grey stone walls, punctuated by the very occasional farmhouse and outbuildings, stands of trees and of course grazing animals. She had to admit to herself that she was also putting off the moment of arrival. She was nervous about seeing Morag again, the first time since that night. The village of Monyash was pretty in the sunshine, clustered around its village green but Isla couldn’t help imagining how bleak it must be mid-winter. Then they were through and back in the lush countryside and her spirits lifted. ‘Isn’t this wonderful?’

  But Charlie was sitting as she had been for almost all the journey since their stop, still bent over that tiny screen, thumbs working overtime, humming snatches of music. ‘Mmm?’

  ‘Look out of the window. We’re not on the motorway anymore.’ She rapped her fingers on the steering wheel.

  ‘You sound just like Mum.’ But she did stop what she was doing and looked up for a moment.

  Isla ignored the intended insult. ‘What are you doing?’

  ‘TikTok.’ She laughed at whatever she was watching. ‘Look at these two dancing. They’re wicked.’

  There was a flash of pink phone in the periphery of Isla’s vision.

  ‘I can’t see while I’m driving. What is it?’

  She sighed. ‘Short films. They’re funny.’

  ‘Show me later when we’re out of the car.’ Isla was curious about whatever had such a fierce grip on her granddaughter. ‘We’re nearly there now.’

  ‘Don’t they live in a town?’ Alarm crept into Charlie’s voice.

  ‘No, but not far from one. Don’t judge too soon. You may like it.’ Though she thought it was unlikely.

  ‘Do they have any pets?’ Charlie was scrolling down her screen again. Please don’t let her miss something.

  ‘Dogs, cats, pigs, chickens. You’ll see in a minute.’ She felt Charlie perk up beside her.

  There was a series of pings in quick succession.

  ‘Can’t you turn those off? They’re driving me crazy.’

  This phone addiction was too much. But how she would have hated to be parcelled off with her own grandmother instead of finishing school and hanging out with her mates, Isla corrected herself. But whose fault was that?

  ‘I wonder how Mum’s getting on.’

  The satnav chose that moment to announce they had arrived at their destination. Isla pulled into the turning for a field gate. There wasn’t a house in sight. Jock sat up, anticipating the freedom that came at the end of a journey. On the other side of the fence a couple of cows looked up at them with huge liquid eyes, blinked, then returned to the grass.

  ‘Why are we stopping?’

  ‘This doesn’t look right.’ She couldn’t see any landmarks she recognised. ‘Bloody satnav. Mind you, I came from a different direction last time.’

  ‘Did you put the right postcode in? Mum got it wrong once and we ended up miles from where we were going.’ Despairing of the inadequacies of the older generations, Charlie damned Isla with faint amusement.

  ‘Yes, of course I did.’ Isla was certain she had been quite precise. However, she keyed in the postcode again, checking it against her own phone and the satnav sprang to life. ‘Continue along the…’

  ‘See,’ said Charlie, with a small but smug smile.

  ‘Anyone could have made that mistake.’ Isla defended herself, annoyed that she had.

  Not far from Bakewell, Isla recognised the turning to the house at last. She got Charlie to get out to open the gate to a long straight driveway flanked by trees. The drive dipped over the brow of a hill and swept round to the right. In front of them was a solid sandstone house. They rattled over a cattle grid and turned through a wide gateway into a farmyard. Straight ahead of them was the house and to their left some stables where a couple of horses observed their arrival, ears pricked. On the brick walls of the outhouses opposite were hanging baskets of red geraniums.

  From nowhere, a black-and-white sheepdog rushed at them barking, followed by a less energetic golden retriever.

  ‘There’s your answer,’ said Isla.

  Morag opened the front door, an apron with the words ‘Domestic Goddess’ covering her jeans and loose shirt. She looked as apprehensive as Isla felt. Nonetheless, Isla forced a smile. She could do this.

  Morag raised her hand in greeting as a Jack Russell darted out between her legs.

  As soon as the car door was open, they we
re immediately overwhelmed by the dogs, jumping, sniffing, licking, barking, tails beating against their legs.

  ‘Stay down,’ yelled Morag from where she stood. ‘Come.’

  They immediately ran back towards her.

  Isla let Jock out to join the pack. He hesitated, poked his grizzled nose out of the door, considered the situation for a second, then jumped out. After circling each other and giving a good sniff, the four of them dashed off together, whirling about, barking.

  ‘Journey all right?’ Morag crossed the yard, Birkenstocks slapping against her soles. She and Isla hesitated then hugged.

  ‘Fine.’ Isla felt some of the tension in her drain away. It was going to be all right. ‘It’s good to see you.’

  ‘And you.’ Morag smiled. ‘And you must be Charlie.’

  Charlie was standing on the other side of the car, watching the dogs. She nodded as she lifted her phone for a photo of them. ‘Yes.’ Then a pouting selfie with them in the background. She laughed as the smallest dog turned too tight a circle and fell over.

  ‘That’s Titch, Shep and the other one’s Red. But come inside first and I’ll show you round and you can meet the troops. Lou’s out with the horses – Bonny foaled a couple of days ago – but she’ll be back soon.’

  With a look that amounted to interest, Charlie opened Betty’s back door and pulled their bags from the seat. ‘You’ve got a foal here?’

  ‘Yep. You can see him in a minute.’ Morag took them into the wide flagstoned hall and straight upstairs to a less spartan carpeted landing. Leaving Charlie to get used to her room with instructions to ‘come down in five minutes’, Isla followed her sister to the back of the house to be shown into hers.

  ‘Sorry about the mess. We use it as a bit of a dumping ground although I’ve done my best to tidy it.’

  Isla eyed the teetering pile of cardboard boxes in one corner, the books piled on the dressing table.

  ‘I can hear Mum now. Remember how she was always going on at you and me to tidy our rooms. Lorna’s was always so bloody immaculate. Don’t you think that was weird?

  ‘What was weird?’

  ‘The way she was always different from us. Tidy, organised, all that. Remember when she left all her stuff piled neatly on the beach and…’

  ‘… that dog came and peed on it.’ They laughed at one of their favourite family stories.

  ‘You both look alike though.’ As a child Isla had loved the fact that she looked so different from her sisters.

  ‘Yeah. You lucked out with Dad’s genes. I’d love to have had red hair.’

  ‘Titian, actually!’

  They laughed together again at one of their father’s oldest protests.

  The ice between them was definitely thawing.

  Now she looked, Isla could see scuff marks everywhere, dust on the surfaces. Whatever Morag said, her sisters’ and her own approaches to housekeeping had always been very different. In contrast to Morag, Lorna was indeed obsessively tidy whereas Isla fell somewhere in the middle, falling short of both OCD and total slovenliness. She stepped round a stack of pictures leaning again the wall. ‘It’s lovely here. Who cares about a few boxes when you’ve got that view.’ From the window she could see nothing but fields, cows sheltering in the shade of trees, ducklings in the duck pond. ‘And thanks for being kind to Charlie. It’s all a bit difficult.’

  ‘Who in their right mind would take a teenager on holiday with them?’

  ‘Pressure from Helen – she’s got the chance of a big writing job so had to go to the States.’

  ‘You never could refuse her.’ Morag grinned. ‘Look, I don’t know what your plans are but we thought Charlie might go to the surgery for a day with Lou. Give her something to do, and then we can talk. And we must.’ An urgent note had entered her voice.

  ‘I want to talk. I thought I’d come to accept what Mum did but I really haven’t.’

  ‘I can’t say I’m surprised. I can’t stop thinking about it either.’

  ‘I must get to the bottom of why she left me that picture and nothing else. We must be able to find out more about her. I want to know who she was and what she was going to say in the rest of that note she never finished. Dear Isla, she said…’

  ‘You’ve left it a bit late! You should have had those conversations before she died.’ Morag paused, realising she had been too blunt. ‘Sorry, but I honestly don’t know how I can help…’ She tapped her temple as if a light bulb had gone on. ‘Unless there’s something in that hatbox I took away when I was last there.’

  ‘What hatbox?’ Isla’s interest was immediately piqued.

  Morag looked uncomfortable. ‘After you’d gone, Aggie said I could take some of Mum’s old clothes for our local fête – Louise and I have been given the bloody jumble stall again. I was looking through them and found the hatbox at the back of the wardrobe. It’s full of odd bits and pieces but I thought it looked interesting. I’ve been meaning to go through it, but haven’t got round to it yet.’

  ‘We could do it together.’ Isla was excited. Might it hold a few answers to her many questions? At least it was something.

  ‘Of course we could. I put it in in the loft with all my other rainy day projects that never get done.’

  ‘Could we look now?’ Perhaps something in there might help her.

  Morag shrugged. ‘Sure. Hang on.’ Outside the bedroom, she took a pole hook leaning against the wall and used it to open the loft door so a ladder extended down to them. ‘Just like Jacob’s!’ She laughed as she climbed up it.

  Isla heard her say, ‘Here it is,’ just before she descended, carrying an old-fashioned black-and-white striped hatbox from Adairs, the family store, tied with a wide faded red ribbon. ‘So this is what I’ve got. Let’s take it downstairs. I’ll make us a cup of tea and then we can unpack it.’

  ‘What’s that?’ Charlie came out of her room.

  Isla explained as they went downstairs together. In the living room, they waited for Morag to make the tea.

  ‘Sit down, Gran. You’re like a tiger, pacing up and down like that.’ The pink phone provided enough distraction for Charlie.

  Isla avoided a pile of Horse and Hound before almost tripping over an old saddle that had been left on the floor behind a chair.

  At last Morag returned, put the tray on the fraying ottoman, kicking a pair of trainers underneath it as she did so. Once the mugs were filled and handed round, and Isla was safely sitting down, Morag undid the ribbon that held the lid of the hatbox in place. ‘Here goes.’

  13

  ‘Look at this.’ Isla ran her finger over the lid of the hatbox where something was handwritten in ink that had faded with time. ‘Paris.’ She lifted it off and peered inside. She was confronted by a jumble of things that must have sat in there for years.

  ‘I wish you’d told me you had this.’

  ‘But you haven’t been talking to each other,’ Charlie pointed out. ‘So why would she?’

  ‘Exactly. Thanks, Charlie.’ Morag gave her an appreciative smile. ‘Why would I? And I am now. To be honest, I didn’t think anything looked particularly important.’

  Charlie picked out a small metal model of the Eiffel Tower and held it up. ‘I’ve got one like this. I got it when Mum took me to Paris for a long weekend. We went right to the top. It was awesome.’

  ‘Paris. Did you know she’d been there?’ Morag sat back and let the other two rummage.

  Isla picked out a Walters Palm Toffee tin that rattled as she pulled it out. ‘No, definitely not.’ Charlie was leaning over her as she prised off the lid, breathing down her neck. The tin was full of buttons, some loose and some fixed in sets to cards.

  ‘Wow! These are like really cool vintage buttons.’ Charlie took the tin from her. ‘You could vamp up some of your old stuff by swapping them over.’

  ‘I don’t want to vamp anything up, thanks.’ Isla reclaimed the tin and ran her fingers through its contents. ‘Mark you, these are gorgeous.’ She picked out a s
et of six multi-faceted jet glass buttons that gleamed in the light.

  ‘You could put three each on the shoulders of that black jumper you’ve got. It would make a difference.’

  ‘Maybe.’

  ‘Can I have them if you don’t want them?’ Charlie’s attention was moving on to a small scarred leather box. She clicked open the lid to find it lined with dark blue velvet and containing a pair of tiny scissors with blades fashioned like a bird’s beak on one side, and on the other, three slim implements, two with mother-of-pearl handles. ‘Wow! Are these for sewing?’

  ‘Must be.’ Morag took them from her and held them up to the light. ‘If she mended a tear you could barely see it. And that’s hard. She taught all of us to knit too. Not that I ever got the hang of it.’

  ‘Here’s a menu. Look. Foie de veau Cotelettes Steak frites.’ The card was browning at the edges and had a couple of splotches of food or wine on it. ‘Le Notre Dame,’ she read.

  ‘So she must have been to Paris. By why never mention it?’ Isla’s eye ran down the entire menu. ‘You’d have thought when I went on that school trip there she’d have said something instead of trying to persuade me not to go. Do you remember? She’d go, ‘That nasty French food’ or ‘I’ve heard they can’t make tea at all.’ Dad talked her round and she was furious. I never understood. Once Ian and I asked her to come with us for a long weekend and she refused.’

  ‘I’ve no wish to cross the channel.’ The refusal rang in Isla’s ears.

  ‘And a beret!’ Morag took out a faded black beret and put it on at an angle. ‘Tres chic, non?’

  ‘Definitely non,’ said Isla, reaching out for it. ‘It smells of onions.’

  ‘You’re imagining it.’ Morag waved it under her nose, then passed it over.

  ‘And a string puppet – but the strings are all tangled.’ Charlie pulled it out so it dangled in front of them. ‘Look! Pinocchio.’ She laid it on the table to see if she could straighten it out. ‘Why would she have kept a child’s puppet?’

  ‘And a box made of shells. I remember seeing these in Brittany.’ Isla opened it to find the rolled-up label from a wine bottle. She tried to unfurl it but it was stiff with age.