by Fanny Blake
‘When we get back, I’ll play Greta’s speech for you.’ Charlie ran out of the churchyard after Jock.
Isla stared after her. She was a girl full of surprises.
They found a table outside the Bulls Head and tethered the dogs to it while Morag went inside to buy a round. Isla adjusted the parasol so they were in the shade. Around them, the tables were busy with sun-soaked people topping off their Saturday. Cheeks were flushed, limbs tanned, everyone enjoying themselves. They had only been there for a few minutes when Louise’s bleeper went. She took out her phone to call the surgery, listened and hung up.
‘Sounds like John Barker’s prize dairy cow might have ketosis – selective anorexia and a reduction in milk yield.’ She looked at Morag for her agreement. ‘I’m on call so I’d better go see. I’m sorry to break up the party.’
Morag knocked back her shandy, resigned. ‘I’m used to it. And yes, you’re probably right.’
When they got home, Louise took off in the 4x4, saying they should eat without her. ‘I’ve no idea how long this will take.’
‘When I was working full time as well, we scarcely saw each other,’ said Morag as she and Isla started preparing a vegetable lasagne at the kitchen table.
‘What’s it like being a vet?’ Charlie looked up from chopping the courgettes. Morag had caught her just as she was heading to her room and roped her in.
‘Bloody hard work,’ said Morag. ‘But satisfying. Do you fancy it?’ She passed a couple of aubergines to Isla.
‘Maybe.’ Charlie pulled at a strand of hair, examining it for split ends.
‘Well, you’ve got time to think about what you want to do,’ Morag picked up cheerfully. ‘You should be enjoying yourself now.’
‘I would be if I was at home.’ She looked thoroughly fed up.
‘Charlie!’ Just when things seemed to be going so well.
‘I know what you mean.’ Morag stepped in. ‘I wouldn’t want to be stuck up here with us when I could be celebrating the end of term with my mates. What are they up to?’
‘End of term parties, chilling, you know.’ Charlie glanced downwards, pushing the sliced courgettes into a pile, the knife scraping on the board.
And Isla did know. The draw of being with your tribe, people of the same age with the same likes and dislikes who spoke the same language. That was what had grounded her in a world where she had yet to find her real place. During those shifting sands of adolescence, things changed so quickly. She remembered that too. Even she in her restricted Scottish upbringing where pubs didn’t even open on a Sunday and closed at ten at night, when there was nowhere to go except home and her parents didn’t encourage friends. And during the day - no shopping centre, no Starbucks or Costa, few charity shops, and definitely no make-up for a fourteen-year-old, at least not in front of the parents.
‘Isla!’ She heard her mother’s voice. ‘Wash your face! You’re not going out like that.’
The past was very definitely a different country.
‘Do you remember when you answered that ad in the Evening News to be a model?’ Morag’s question came out of the blue.
‘Did I?’
‘Yes! You must remember.’ She was impatient. ‘You and Bryony were asked along to a hotel room somewhere to be “seen”.’ She gave the word inverted commas with her fingers. ‘You told them you were eighteen.’
Something clicked in Isla’s memory. She pictured the hotel’s dim foyer, the bedroom where they had their photos taken. Just a ‘cameraman’ and a ‘director’ suggesting they undo just one more button. The whole thing had been horribly sleazy but at the same time exciting as a whole new future was dangled in front of them.
‘Oh my God! I’d totally forgotten that. I was so full of it when I went home and Mum was absolutely furious. That’s what made her try to sabotage me going on the school trip to Paris but Dad said I should go.’
‘He was always soft on you.’
‘Paris again,’ said Charlie. ‘It’s a bit of a theme.’
‘She was so down on me after that.’ It was as if Isla’s memory was clearing at last. That had been a turning point in her relationship with her mother. Although thwarted that first time, Isla had determined from that moment to leave home when she could, and May’s attitude towards her had hardened as she put one small obstacle after another in her way. A particular scene clarified in her mind. May was in the living room of Braemore, standing by the fireplace, shouting at their father. They didn’t know Isla was outside the half-open door listening. ‘We’re not going to tell her why. It’s the French in her that makes her think she can do what she wants.’
Then blank. But what did it mean and why was Isla remembering it now? She strained to remember what happened next, but nothing came.
‘Do you remember her saying I had French in me?’
‘You wish!’ Morag laughed. ‘No. Now you’re imagining things.’
And perhaps she was.
‘Where’s that photo album?’ Charlie asked, having finished the job she’d been asked to do.
‘In the living room. Help yourself.’ Morag pointed the way with a wooden spoon before returning it to her white sauce.
Charlie opened the album on the kitchen table. Little square black-and-white photos of the three sisters in the park with their parents, and a small white dog. ‘Is that you?’
Isla went over to take a look. ‘Yes, with Snowy. Snappy little thing that he was. Mum was the only one of us he liked.’
‘Because she fed him.’ Morag put the tray of vegetables in the oven to roast.
Charlie was running a finger round the photos on that page. ‘Is this her?’ She pointed out their mother, sitting with a ramrod straight back. Her hair was wavy, swept back off her still lean face and she was wearing a button-through shirtdress with a wide lapel. ‘Great dress.’
‘Mmm. She took care about how she looked but she never had Aunt Aggie’s pizzazz.’
‘She looks serious.’
‘Dad was the fun one.’
‘You’re making her sound terrible,’ said Morag.
‘Okay, I take it back. She could be funny and loving but I remember the bad times better. That must say something.’
‘About you, maybe. She’d take us to the theatre for special treats that Aggie organised. That’s why you got so stage-struck. That’s why she liked Ian so much. Your grandfather was a real ham and a charmer, Charlie. Mum fell for it completely.’
‘But she had such a short temper if we got things wrong. Dad was much easier.’ Isla nodded as Charlie pointed to a photo of a gentle-looking man with a moustache, his mouth in a contented smile, pipe in hand.
‘You were always his favourite. And that infuriated her.’ Morag took a bottle of wine from the fridge. ‘I think it’s time? You were the oldest of course. Can you pass me the corkscrew from that drawer?’
‘I’d have liked a brother or sister.’ Charlie went to the fridge and helped herself to a can of Coke.
‘That’s only because you haven’t got one. But honestly – being the baby is a breeze because everyone dotes on you.’ She shot a glance at Isla. ‘Being the oldest is too because you’re the boss and get all the privileges first, but if you’re in the middle like me, it’s hard. We fell in and out all the time.’
‘Excuse me while I get my violin,’ Isla mimed playing while the other two laughed.
‘But now – Lorna hasn’t spoken to us for months. She’s as stubborn as they come.’ Morag absolved herself from blame.
‘Gran told me that you were too.’ Charlie opened the can so the Coke foamed over the top.
Morag focused on opening the packet of pasta. ‘Oh, did she?’
‘Don’t start,’ Isla warned, wishing she could throttle Charlie. ‘I was just as bad.’ Except she hadn’t been. Who was the one trying to build bridges?
‘Sorry.’ Charlie took the hint and quickly turned the next page of the album. ‘Is this Sandgreen again?’
Isla went to look over h
er shoulder. ‘Yes. Even Mum relaxed while we were there.’ She pictured her in a swimsuit stretched out in a deck chair, gin and tonic on the little picnic table beside her, with their father wearing his holiday short-sleeved shirt and shorts. Sometimes they’d pore over the crossword together, something they never did at home. Sometimes they played cards. The three of them were probably down on the beach, playing with summer friends, building dams, climbing rocks, shrimping or hunting for shells. ‘That’s Lorna in that red swimsuit. She only wore it once.’
‘Because when she came out of the sea, the top sagged right down.’
‘And Jan’s brother, Tommy, who Lorna liked, saw everything on offer.’
‘She was mortified and couldn’t look at him again.’
Charlie was grinning, either at the story itself or the pleasure the two women had in telling it. ‘How awful. I’d have died.’
‘What about you, Charlie. D’you fancy anyone?’ Morag asked, raising her glass of wine. ‘Someone at school? Was he at the famous party?’ she added, forgetting she was under strict instructions not to mention it.
‘No.’ Charlie looked up sharply. First at Morag in surprise, then at Isla as the truth of her betrayal sank in. She blushed as her eyes filled with tears. ‘Did you have to tell her?’
‘Only because she asked why you came on holiday with me. I couldn’t lie.’
‘Why not?’ She spoke as if it was the most natural thing in the world and she couldn’t understand why Isla wouldn’t. ‘Anyway it’s none of your business.’ Charlie was gripping the album, her knuckles white.
‘Keep your hair on. I only asked.’ Morag reached out to Charlie who snatched her arm away. ‘If you don’t want to talk about it, that’s fine.’
‘For God’s sake, leave me alone.’ She jumped up and ran out of the room. They heard her run upstairs and the slam of her bedroom door.
‘Sorry,’ said Morag, grimacing.
‘I’ll go up.’ Isla reluctantly got to her feet. She had thought her days of negotiating with a recalcitrant teenager were long over and the last thing she wanted to do was to repeat them. At the same time she had some sympathy with Charlie.
‘Don’t.’ Morag poured them both another drink. ‘Let her stew. There was no need for that. She could quite easily have headed me off.’
‘She’s only fourteen, remember.’
‘True. The clothes and the make-up make me forget. You should get her to turn it down.’
‘Not my job.’
Isla’s phone broke into their conversation. Ian’s name came up on her screen, so she took the call. ‘Hello.’
‘No need to sound so wary. It’s only me.’
‘I know it’s you, but why?’ She could see Morag’s interest was piqued although she was disguising it by focusing on her preparations with more energy than before. ‘What do you want?’
‘That’s not very nice. Perhaps I just want to hear your dulcet tones.’
‘Ian…’ A warning note.
Morag looked up, intrigued.
‘Okay. I know you said don’t come but a holiday in Scotland will be like old times.’
‘I don’t know where you’ve got this idea from but we’re not going to holiday in Scotland together.’ There was only one way to deal with him: firmly. ‘We’re going to see each other at Aggie’s. Get the train to Edinburgh and I’ll see you there.’
‘Perhaps I could come up sooner, just to see Charlie.’
‘Ian, no. I told you, I’m putting her on the train on Friday. After that I have plans and I’m afraid there’s no room for you in them. They’re complicated enough as it is. I’ll see you in Edinburgh.’ She knew from experience that if she didn’t firmly nip the idea in the bud, he’d sweet-talk her round.
‘Well, don’t blame me for trying.’ At the same time, defeat was something he took in his stride.
When Isla ended the call, Morag put her hands on her hips. ‘Well done.’
‘He can be so maddening. I’ll never be rid of him. But I don’t want him botching up the holiday too.’
And yet, she wasn’t sure she wanted to be rid of him. She rather liked still being his first port of call in a storm. She felt a deep affection for her ex-husband that would never go away, she knew that now.
20
The breeze brought the musky fragrance of the Rambling Rector rose outside the window into the bedroom. Idling on her iPad, Isla went to check her work emails. Her Oxford home and the job of managing the Fernleith Museum of Childhood had given her the security and happiness she wanted. Thinking of the museum transported her to a happy place, surrounded by reminders of her own and other people’s childhoods when the future was full of hope and possibilities.
As she ran through her emails, there was one from Heather, her deputy manager at the Museum reassuring her that everything was running smoothly.
I’ve had a letter from a woman who’s got two Käthe Kruse dolls she wants to donate. Apparently they need a little repair but they’re from the Twenties. Amazing. I’ve made an appointment for her to see you when you’re back.
Isla felt that same flicker of excitement that always ignited when something particularly special was brought to the museum. She knew the dolls Heather was talking about, first made by a German woman who wanted to create a doll that was as naturalistic as possible instead of the stiff porcelain models that were common then. If they were in reasonable condition, they would definitely add range to their doll collection. That was a meeting to look forward to.
After that, Heather’s email touched on a few minor business matters, nothing that needed Isla’s intervention. As she read on, her phone rang again. Helen. Just two days to go.
‘Hey, Mum. How’s it going?’ She could hear an excitement in Helen’s voice that must mean good news.
‘Good. We…’ She stretched out on her bed, preparing to run through their day, wanting to reassure her daughter there was nothing – at least not much – to worry about. Perhaps she should talk about her worries about the online bullying, even though Charlie hadn’t mentioned it again.
But Helen had other plans for the conversation. ‘I only got the job!’
‘Oh my God! You didn’t? Well done.’ How proud she felt of her.
‘They loved what I’d done and they’ve asked…’ She paused.
Isla could tell she wasn’t going to like what was coming next.
‘They’ve asked me if I’d stay on for another week so that I can meet the team involved in the production. I couldn’t say no.’
And now she could guess what it was.
‘So…’
And she didn’t have to think too hard about her reply.
‘I was just wondering if you could you keep Charlie with you? I know it’s asking a lot…’
Yes, it was.
‘I can’t. I’m sorry, but I’ve got a friend coming up to join me when I put Charlie on the train.’ How much was she looking forward to seeing Tony? She didn’t want anything to spoil their weekend together. Although her journey was beginning to yield its frustrating results, time with him would mean she could switch off and relax, the highlight of her time away.
‘Who?’ Helen was immediately curious.
Isla hesitated. She would prefer not to introduce Tony into their lives over the phone. ‘No one you know. Someone I met recently.’
‘Mum! Not a man?’ She didn’t wait for a reply. ‘Oh my God, how exciting. You never said anything. Who is he? Do you like him?’ This wasn’t the suspicious question of a jealous daughter but one full of hope. Helen had long ago realised that the idiosyncrasies of her father made him such an impossible partner. All she wanted was for Isla to find happiness with someone.
‘Yes, I do.’
‘But do you really like him?’
Isla paused before she answered. ‘Yes. Really.’ But was ‘like’ what she meant?
‘That’s so great. I’m pleased. When can I meet him? You haven’t even told me his name. How long have you known him?’<
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Isla laughed, delighted by her daughter’s enthusiasm. ‘Well, you’d better get back here so you can.’ Then she related the story of their chance meeting in the Ashmolean and what had happened since.
‘He’s staying in your house while you’re away?’ At last a note of doubt crept in. ‘Are you sure that’s wise? After all, you haven’t known him that long.’
Isla smiled as their roles reversed and Helen was the one worrying about her for once. ‘But I do know him,’ she said. ‘Don’t worry. The house is much better with someone in it.’
‘And what about Granny? How’s that going? Have you found out anything?’
‘I feel as though I’m close to something. I’m hoping that Janet, Lorna and Aggie will help more. I know she worked in Paris before she met Dad.’
‘And you think that might be a connection with the picture?’
‘Perhaps. But it doesn’t explain who Céleste is, or even if Mum knew her. And why leave the thing to me? If she was trying to give me a message, it’s a bloody opaque one.’ Then she remembered that flash of memory she had. It’s the French in her. What could that have meant?
‘You’ll get there, I’m sure.’ Isla heard a bell ringing in the background. ‘Look, I’ve got to go. So you will take Charlie?’ It was as if the intervening conversation hadn’t happened.
‘No, I can’t,’ she repeated. ‘You’ll have to ask one of your friends,’ Isla pushed back. Helen shouldn’t expect to get her own way every time.
‘We’ve been through this.’ Helen was more abrupt, her bubble of American excitement burst, her interest in her mother’s love life suspended.
‘Charlie mentioned she could go to Ellie’s.’
‘She said. But when I checked, it was the first her mother had heard of it. And she said they’ve got a friend staying. No one can, or they’re about to go on holiday or they don’t want her, and Mike’s not back from filming till the week after. You know that.’