The Long Way Home

by Fanny Blake

  ‘Helen was about ten then so we decided that she and I would stay here while he explored the possibilities. By then I’d changed direction and had a job in a local auction house that I loved much more than acting. The plan was for us to join him when he was ready.’ She ignored Morag’s raised eyebrow in response to what she knew was untrue. ‘But it didn’t work out for him so in the end he came back. By then, we’d grown apart and decided the best thing for all three of us was to stay friends but live separately. I wasn’t an actor anymore and didn’t think that raggle-taggle gypsy life would be the best thing for Helen.’

  ‘And it worked out very well.’ Morag gave her support at last. ‘Look!’ She held out the open album. ‘There they are in Midsummer Night’s Dream.’

  ‘Let me see.’ Charlie stretched out her hand for the book. ‘Wow! Is this really you, Gran?’

  Isla looked at the image of herself, ethereal and pretty, her red hair tamed by a circlet of flowers. ‘I had to buy those wretched flowers from the market every morning and weave that crown myself.’ She enjoyed the memory. In the photo, her hand was extended to Robbie, her Oberon, dark and tousled, his narrowed eyes focused slightly over her shoulder. She remembered that performance precisely. Afterwards they had gone to the pub where she saw him out the back kissing Anton Speight who had played the King. Two beautiful young men who no one had realised were gay. She wondered what had become of them.

  ‘And that’s Ian,’ Morag chimed in, interrupting Isla’s train of thought.

  ‘Let me see?’ Charlie’s finger hovered over the page until it landed on her grandfather, as glorious a youth then as the rest of them, on his knees in front of Isla and Robbie.

  ‘Mustardseed,’ Isla said. ‘Those fairy costumes were terrible. Ian’s tights were so small the crotch was practically at his knees, so he spent half the performance yanking them up.’

  Charlie laughed. ‘And this?’

  She could remember as if it was yesterday. ‘Noel Coward’s Hay Fever in our last year. We’d just taken the curtain call and were leaving the stage when Ian called me back and proposed to me in front of the whole cast. I didn’t even know Mum had this photo.’ Not only had, but put it in an album as if she was proud of her.

  ‘That’s so romantic.’ Louise helped herself to another spoonful of summer pudding. ‘Better than a wine bar after a day of lambing.’ She and Morag exchanged a smile.

  ‘Weren’t you embarrassed?’ Charlie was entranced.

  ‘Mortified. But I was so thrilled too.’ She could still remember that feeling of sick anticipation as Ian dropped to one knee and she realised what was happening. As the whole cast and crew stood waiting for her reply, she dismissed any doubts. She was in love: head over heels with a man who adored her, and continued to until Helen was ten. If he had affairs before Anna Frank, she had simply closed her eyes to what she didn’t want to know, until she couldn’t any longer.

  ‘Here’s the wedding.’ Morag flicked forward a few pages until she found it. Isla realised she was enjoying herself, looking back. She hadn’t seen these photos for years.

  ‘Gran! What are you wearing?’

  ‘That’s very of its time, I’ll have you know. Biba was the cool place to shop.’ She and Bea, her friend and witness, had found the dress, after spending the early part of the day dressed up as Trolls in Olympia, selling kitchen equipment on a job some ad agency had found for them. Ian had been touring with a production of Boeing-Boeing so the two of them had gone home via Kensington High Street. Bea had shepherded her into Biba’s when she admitted she hadn’t thought what she might wear at her own wedding. ‘If this isn’t an excuse to dress up, then nothing is.’ After they’d found the dress, they went to Kensington Market for henna. In the photo, her hair was at its reddest. Ian had dug out a dark green velvet smoking jacket from the company’s wardrobe and looked the most dashing she had ever seen him. They had been so happy that day, celebrating after their registry office wedding with six friends in Camden Lock, collapsing back at their flat that evening where they stayed in bed for the next couple of days, making nothing but coffee, toast and love.

  ‘Are they your mum and dad?’ Charlie pointed at the man and woman standing on either side of them. He was smartly suited, looking at Isla with such pride in his eyes. May wore a small hat like a shell covering her neat chignon so her face, staring straight at the camera, was visible. Her expression suggested she would rather the photos were over.

  ‘Is that real fur?’

  ‘They all wore them then.’ Isla looked at the mink stole her mother wore whenever she could, a trophy for being the wife of the owner of Adairs department store. May had made a big thing of wearing it that day even though the September weather was mild. She had clutched it round her as if it was Harry Potter’s cloak of invisibility, hiding her button-up dress with the full skirt. Isla hadn’t thought about it in that way before. Perhaps May hadn’t been stand-offish and difficult with Mary at all but shy, embarrassed by being on show. Perhaps there was a side to her that Isla had never even tried to understand but that she might at least get to know better now.

  ‘Have you still got your dress?’ Charlie sounded hopeful.

  ‘I gave it to a friend once I’d had Helen and couldn’t fit into it anymore.’

  ‘Grandad’s hair!’ She ran her finger over the photo.

  The dark curls touching his collar made him look very different to the Ian of today.

  ‘Here’s one of you pregnant.’ Morag had flipped forward through time to a photo of Isla, at eight months, doing yoga in the garden of Braemore. That had been a disastrous visit, when May had stayed in her room for much of it so Isla had spent most of her time at Aggie’s flat, wondering how she could make things right with her mother. Her father had reassured her that May had a migraine, that it was nothing personal. But deep down Isla sensed it was more than that. For some reason her mother didn’t want to see her pregnant, happy.

  ‘And look at this of Mum with Helen.’ They were posing stiffly in front of the camera together, May on her knees reaching out for the ball her granddaughter offered her. They were in the garden of Braemore. The look of joy on her mother’s face as she looked at Helen was something Isla had quite forgotten. So it hadn’t always been as consistently difficult as she remembered. She had buried the good memories somewhere beneath the bad.

  ‘That’s enough.’ Isla took the album and snapped it shut. ‘We’ve all got the general idea.’ But she would look at more when she was alone in her bedroom to remind herself of what she had been through to get to where she was. ‘I didn’t even know you had this.’

  ‘We did talk about it when we were at Braemore and agreed I’d keep the albums until either of you wanted them. So I have.’

  ‘What’s this one?’ Charlie had taken the other album and opened it.

  ‘Ancient history,’ said Morag. ‘That’s us in Sandgreen.’ The tiny black and white picture was of three small girls climbing over their laughing mother. You must have been about eight,’ she said to Isla. ‘Oh look, here’s Mum and me.’ She pointed at a photo of May holding a chubby beaming baby.

  ‘What happened to us?’ Isla couldn’t help asking the question again.

  ‘You grew up,’ said Charlie.

  The two sisters laughed.

  ‘We did that all right. Oh, look at us with Lorna.’ They were standing in their elasticated nylon swimsuits beside an enormous sandcastle, every one of its towers decorated with shells and draped with seaweed. Isla and Morag had their spades in the air, triumphant, while Lorna put the last tower in place, grinning manically at the camera.

  ‘And here’s the cottage.’

  ‘You stayed there?’ Charlie stared at the ramshackle wooden hut with a covered verandah. ‘It looks tiny.’

  ‘Big enough. And it was right on the beach. I’m going to stay there next week, just to see how it’s changed.’

  ‘Wish I could come with you,’ said Morag. ‘But duty keeps me here.’

 
‘Talking of which, I’m going to check on Echo. Want to come?’ Louise pushed back her chair.

  ‘I’ll stay here.’ Charlie was on her feet but Isla could see her hand had travelled to her jeans pocket containing her phone. She’d done well this evening. ‘Can I watch Love Island?’

  Isla called for Jock and headed to the back door with Louise, leaving Morag to show Charlie how to work the TV.

  17

  Paris, 1954

  May was fizzing with nerves as she made her way to meet Max at the Brasserie Bleu. She was glad to find there weren’t many people there that night. The mirrors behind the red leatherette banquettes made the room look much bigger. Vases of flowers and chipped figurines decorated the shelf that ran between the mirror and the top of the banquette. Max was already there when she arrived, his back to the centre of the room, a glass of red wine and some crusty bread in front of him.

  His reflection in the mirror was thoughtful. She felt the usual flutter of butterflies in her stomach when she saw him. The contours of his face were as familiar to her now as those of her own. She knew the exact blue of his eyes, the small mole just under his jawline, the scar by his right ear that he earned in a scooter accident. She knew all of him. As she passed the cheese trolley, she raised her hand to her mouth, almost gagging. Usually she loved the smell but tonight it made her sick.

  Not even when she had said her goodbyes to her Aunt Jess at Victoria Station, about to board the boat-train to come to Paris all on her own, had she felt as nervous as she did now. Max turned and watched as she slipped between the tables and slid along the padded seat to sit opposite him, straightening the skirt of her dress so it wouldn’t crease too much.

  ‘You look wonderful tonight. I ordered wine.’ Max looked nervous too, as if he had a premonition of what she was about to tell him.

  A waiter filled her glass on cue.

  ‘Could I have some water?’ The last thing she wanted was the smell or taste of wine.

  He poured some for her, concentrating on the task in hand, giving her time to study the face she had got to know so well, the blond hair swept to either side of his parting, the eyes that would look up at her from under his lashes in a way that made her go weak at the knees. Today they seemed darker than usual, as if they were harbouring something serious.

  ‘We need to talk.’

  ‘We need to talk.’

  After saying the same thing at exactly the same time, they looked surprised then laughed, embarrassed.

  He reached across the white tablecloth and took her hand. ‘I’m sorry.’ He turned her hand over and gently traced the lines on her palm.

  She breathed out. It was going to be all right.

  ‘You first,’ he said with a little squeeze of her fingers.

  ‘No, you. I insist.’ That way, she could pretend nothing had changed for just a little bit longer. She could continue to exist in what was about to be the past. Once she had her turn, everything would be different.

  ‘If you insist, I can’t refuse.’ He almost smiled, before looking down at the table. With his free hand he manoeuvred the breadcrumbs spilled on the white tablecloth into a neat little pile. ‘This is hard. I wasn’t expecting to feel this way.’ He paused.

  Her hopes spiralled upwards. A proposal would solve everything.

  But was that the solution she wanted? A life with him. Yes, it was. She had no doubts on that score. And what choice did she have? She took a sip of water to calm her stomach, as her thoughts spun out of control.

  ‘I’m so glad we met and you know how crazy I am about you.’ He cleared his throat as he put his hand in his jacket pocket.

  Her heart was beating as fast as if she had run from one side of Paris to the other without stopping. Could he not hear it banging against her ribs?

  ‘I’ll never forget the past few months.’

  ‘Nor me.’ She allowed herself the two words, not trusting her voice to stay steady for any more.

  ‘And I don’t want it to end.’ At last he looked up at her, his eyes quite steady as he mastered his feelings. She turned her hand over and clasped his, her heart pounding faster than she thought possible.

  This was the moment.

  Had he chosen the ring himself? What would he have chosen?

  She knew exactly how she would reply.

  He withdrew his hand from his pocket. And with it – a pack of Gauloises. ‘But I’ve been given no choice. After everything I’ve said about staying here, about being a writer here and nowhere else, I know this’ll come as a surprise but… I’m going back home.’

  She felt as if she’d been kicked in the stomach. ‘America?’ The world stuck on her tongue.

  He nodded, unable to look at her now. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said again.

  ‘When?’ she managed. Her thoughts were tumbling over themselves too quickly for her to be able to make sense of them.

  ‘Tomorrow.’

  ‘Tomorrow!’ She gasped and took the cigarette he offered her, knocking another couple out onto the table. She left him to pick them up. ‘But why… I don’t understand.’

  ‘Dad wrote to me a month ago. If I’m not on that flight, he’s cutting off my allowance. I have no choice.’

  ‘You’ve known for all that time and never said anything to me?’ Disbelief, anger and upset raged inside her. ‘Didn’t you think you owed me that?’ Had he known when they were in Brittany? He couldn’t have.

  A couple on the next table turned to see the source of the raised voices. May waved away the waiter who was hovering behind Max with their omelettes and frites.

  ‘I couldn’t.’ He looked straight at her, unrepentant. ‘I’m sorry. There’s a girl I left behind. June’s her name. When I left, I said I’d be back and she and my parents have expectations.’

  ‘What about your writing?’

  He shrugged. ‘That was just a lark. Kids’ stuff. I’ve always known deep down I’d never make it. Sometimes you gotta give up on your dreams.’

  ‘But what about me? I thought you loved me…’ What about her and Max – her dream?

  ‘I do. I did. But everything’s changed. You must be able to see that. We had fun, I know we did. But that’s all it was, wasn’t it. A bit of fun.’ He blew a plume of smoke over her head, giving a smile that was encouraging her to agree.

  ‘But I think I’m pregnant.’ The words rushed out of her.

  For a moment, she watched his face change – not to the concern she had hoped for, but to shock and anger.

  ‘What?!’ He pulled his hand away, ran it through his hair. ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘I haven’t seen a doctor yet but I’m sure as I can be.’ Surely this would change his mind.

  ‘You can’t be. I was very careful.’ He looked at her with an expression she hadn’t seen before: disdain; dislike; fear. ‘If this is a way to trap me into staying, it won’t work.’

  She looked around the brasserie, at the mirrors, the glistening glasses, the white drapery that she so loved then back at him. ‘I could come with…’ She remembered June.

  ‘With me?’ He finished her sentence for her as if astonished she would suggest such a thing. He gave a short laugh. ‘That wouldn’t work in a million years. Like I say, it’s been fun but it’s over now. I’m leaving come what may.’

  ‘And me?’

  ‘That’s up to you, sweetheart.’ He looked down, unable to meet her eye.

  She pushed her chair back, scraping it on the floor tiles. ‘I should go.’ She dug her nails into the palm of her hand, the pain stopping her from crying. She would not let him see how upset she was. She had only one person to think about now. Only one future.

  A glimmer of regret crossed his face. ‘Don’t go.’

  For a second she was tempted to stay where she was. Then everything he had said came roaring back to her and she remembered how she had been duped. ‘What is there to stay for?’ She took a handkerchief from her bag and blew her nose. ‘I’d never have believed you could be so heartless. I thou
ght we loved each other. What a fool I’ve been.’

  He flinched as if she had slapped him. ‘I’ll write.’

  ‘Don’t. I won’t read it.’

  At once, she saw Max for what he was: a spoilt rich American boy with a romantic vision that meant nothing. He was all talk. As soon as his dad crooked his finger, he went running. And he had a girl waiting for him back home in Wisconsin. June. Good luck to her.

  Somehow she found unexpected strength at the heart of the crushing misery that left her almost breathless, otherwise she would never have been able to get home. She walked back to the apartment on auto-pilot, oblivious to her surroundings, trying to make sense of what had just happened. Getting in the family way was her fault. It wasn’t as if she hadn’t been warned. Getting drunk and trusting Max had been her downfall.

  She had no idea what she was going to do about the baby or where she would go for help, but several things were clear to her. Now she had seen Max’s true colours, she did not want him or his money. She was better than that. Equally, she couldn’t go home and face her parents’ disappointment, or the attendant local scandal. She would have to stay in Paris. She would have to find a way of dealing with the baby. She would have to find a way of saving herself because no one else was going to.

  18

  Derbyshire, 2019

  When Charlie eventually surfaced the following morning, she was as disengaged as she had ever been. Phone held in front of her mouth, she was involved in an animated conversation. She lounged against the kitchen units, once or twice catching Isla’s eye then looking away.

  ‘That last coupling. I didn’t think she’d drop him… Yeah. No, he’s fit but she’s…’