by Daisy Wood
Now, they shared a companionable silence, looking out of the window. A man sat in a wheelchair smoking a cigarette with his lower leg, encased in plaster, stuck out before him like a battering ram. A station wagon drew up and four people climbed out: a man in a sheepskin jacket, a harassed-looking woman carrying a large Tupperware container, and two girls aged about six or seven, wearing identical green dresses embroidered with Celtic designs, white socks and old-fashioned black lace-up shoes. Their small heads were bent under the weight of curly nylon wigs, cascading from thick white hairbands that might have been bandages – as though they had recently undergone some strange form of surgery.
‘Ah, the Infant Phenomena,’ Alice remarked. ‘Granddaughters of Mrs Curran, along the corridor. They’ll be giving a display of Irish dancing after we’ve had lunch. I’m holding myself in readiness.’
Ellie couldn’t help smiling, if a little sadly. There would be no grandchildren visiting her mother: Ellie was her only living relative in the States. Alice had a half-sister in England, Gillian, but she never mentioned her and they hadn’t been in touch for years; the round robin letters Gillian used to send them at Christmas, describing her children’s many and varied achievements, had dried up since her divorce.
‘Tell me about your childhood, Mom,’ Ellie said. ‘Were you happy?’
‘Not particularly.’ Alice shifted in her chair. ‘I don’t understand this current obsession with happiness. When I was growing up, nobody expected to be happy – you just had to get on with things and make the best of them. We’d come through the war, you see. We were grateful to be alive. Or at least, everyone told us we should have been. One could never complain, no matter how hard life was.’ She took a sip of water, her hand trembling a little. ‘People are always whining about something or other these days.’
Alice had always been different. Ellie had adored her mom when she was tiny – Alice would spend hours reading to her and made up such wonderful bedtime stories – but as she grew older, her mother’s singularity became embarrassing. Her classmates’ moms had elaborate perms and wore velour tracksuits with sparkly white trainers. Alice favoured the flowing skirts and kaftans that had been popular when she was in her twenties. Bracelets jangled on her arms, she outlined her eyes with kohl and smelt of patchouli; her hair – dark then – was long and resolutely straight, unlike Ellie’s unruly curls. Teenage Ellie wanted a mother who blended in with the pack, but Alice stood out in all sorts of ways. She had kept her English accent, for one thing, which sometimes made her sound condescending and snobbish. Even worse, she was a good ten or fifteen years older than the other women dropping off their kids at school. Ellie’s teacher had once mistaken Alice for her grandmother; Ellie had been mortified, though her mother had only laughed.
‘All the doctors said I’d never fall pregnant,’ she used to recall, even in front of strangers. ‘When my periods stopped, I thought the menopause had come early.’
Ellie wished the earth would swallow her up at times like these, like Rumpelstiltskin in the fairy story Alice used to tell, who stamped his foot so hard that he made a hole in the ground and fell into it. And then she would catch sight of her mother sitting by herself in the stands at a basketball game, or struggling uncomfortably to make small talk, and feel the fiercest rush of protective love. Her mom always made the effort, no matter what. She turned up to every match Ellie played and every concert she ever sang in, made tray bakes and pot-luck dishes whenever required, bought too much candy for trick-or-treating and sat up half the night sewing Hallowe’en costumes. Alice tried too hard, that was the trouble, and the results were usually wrong in some indefinable way: the dishes too elaborate, the outfits too fancy, the jokes somehow off. Ellie couldn’t help wishing her mom would stay at home, give her a break from this constant burden of guilt. And then, overcome with remorse, she would hate herself even more.
She never worried the same way about her dad. Jeff was older, too, but so were a couple of her friends’ fathers who’d divorced and married again. He was the kind of guy who could fit in anywhere, with an easy-going charm that made everyone want to be his friend. So many people came to his funeral that the service was relayed through loudspeakers set up outside the church. It must be coming up for twenty years since he died, Ellie realised. She was thirty-eight and had lived more than half her life without him. She went over to her mother’s bedside table to gaze at the photograph Alice always kept close, taken on one of their family hikes in the Poconos. Ellie must have been about ten. She and her dad were walking ahead along the trail, his arm resting on her shoulder, the sun behind them so they were silhouetted against the dazzling light. Alice must have called out to make them turn around for the shot. What had they been talking about? Ellie wondered, looking at her absorbed, intent face. She should have paid more attention. Her overriding memory when she thought of her father was one of general, uncomplicated happiness.
A selection of Alice’s other treasures had been arranged within easy reach: a triangular crystal for healing and tranquillity, a lavender bag that smelt only of dust, an embroidered handkerchief. Lying among them was one thing Ellie hadn’t seen before: a round gold watch with a ring at the top, designed to wear on a chain. Its glass face was crazed with a spider’s web of cracks; beneath them, tiny diamond chips glinted at the Roman numerals marking the hours XII, III, VI and IX.
‘Where did this come from?’ Ellie picked it up for closer inspection. ‘It’s beautiful.’
‘I didn’t steal it, if that’s what you’re implying,’ Alice said haughtily. ‘It was my mother’s. My father gave it to her. She was wearing it when she died.’
The watch said five past nine, although the time was actually midday. Ellie turned it over. The initials ES had been engraved on the back: Eleanor Spelman, her maternal grandmother, and the woman after whom she had been named. She had been killed in the Blitz when Alice was a baby.
‘I thought your father was German?’ Ellie asked idly, replacing the watch. ‘Spelman sounds like an English name.’
‘His parents were German but they moved to England before he was born. The family was originally called Spielmann, I think. They anglicised the name to fit in, like so many people did at the time. My father was Arthur Spelman, and as English as they come.’ She lifted her head towards the door, scenting the air. ‘Something smells good. Will you be staying for lunch, darling?’
‘I’m going to the Scardinos for Thanksgiving. I told you, Mom.’ Ellie tried not to sound impatient. ‘Are you sure you won’t come too? They’d be so happy to have you.’
Beth Scardino was Ellie’s best friend, and her mother Kathleen had been almost as close to Alice; the two women had met when their daughters were babies and stayed in touch ever since. Kathleen was the only close friend Alice had. The pair of them still lived not far from each other in the town where they’d raised their families, although Alice had moved into a smaller house and then an even smaller apartment after Jeff had died.
‘No, thank you, darling,’ Alice replied. ‘I’m not up to being sociable yet. And I’ve never been much of a one for Thanksgiving. Send Kathleen my love, though. I haven’t seen her for months.’
‘I thought she dropped by last week?’
‘Whatever gave you that idea?’ Alice asked. ‘Honestly, it’s hard enough to keep track of the days without you trying to confuse me.’
‘Sorry,’ Ellie said quickly. ‘I must have got it wrong.’
It had started to rain. Alice watched an elderly man struggling to open an umbrella for the short walk to his car, then repeat the battle to close it when he got there. She snorted. ‘Well, that wasn’t worth the bother.’
They sat quietly for a while, Alice stroking the fringes of her shawl. ‘I had the strangest dream last night,’ she said eventually. ‘I was waiting for my mother at a railway station – a proper one, like we used to have, with flowers in tubs and a uniformed guard, and a fire in the waiting room. She was arriving on one train and taking me away
with her on another, and she’d promised to bring a picnic. Cucumber sandwiches with the crusts cut off, those little cheese triangles wrapped in silver foil and packets of crisps with the salt in a screw of blue paper. The train came in and a woman got off. She stood at the far end of the platform so I ran to meet her, but as I got closer, I realised it wasn’t my mother after all. This person was far too old and plain. My mother was beautiful, everyone said so.’
‘Do you have any photographs?’ Ellie wondered why she’d never thought to ask before.
‘I seem to remember seeing some once, but who knows where they are now.’ That anxious look crossed Alice’s face. ‘They were in a hatbox, I think, on top of the mahogany wardrobe. My stepmother threw a lot of things away. She was jealous, you see, because Nell was my father’s great love. Mavis was second-best all along and she knew it. She was a butcher’s daughter and rather coarse, despite her airs and graces. And no great shakes in the looks department, either.’
This was a familiar theme; Alice and her stepmother had never got on. Ellie surreptitiously checked the time on her phone.
‘Am I boring you?’ her mother asked.
‘Of course not,’ Ellie replied guiltily. ‘I don’t want to be late for lunch, that’s all.’
‘I’m glad you’re going to the Scardinos. Kathleen will look after you.’ Alice smiled. ‘And Beth is such a lovely girl. She’s getting married soon, isn’t she?’
‘That was a while ago, Mom. She has a baby now, remember? A little girl, Morgan.’
‘What strange names children have these days,’ Alice said crossly. ‘They might as well have called the poor thing Bentley, or Morris Minor.’ That frightened, lost look had come back into her eyes.
Ellie took her mother’s hands between hers, smoothing her papery skin. ‘Tell me about your father, Mom. What was he like?’
‘Why do you want to know?’
‘Because he’s a part of our family.’ And when you’ve gone, she added to herself, those memories will be lost forever. For months, if not years, she had been refusing to look ahead, unable to contemplate the world without her mother’s prickly, loving presence. Now, perhaps, it was time to face reality.
‘He was very sad,’ Alice said after a while, ‘and that could make him difficult. Losing his wife in the war must have affected him deeply, although I didn’t understand that at the time. All I wanted was to leave home and start leading my own life.’
‘And you never went back? Not even after I was born?’
Alice shook her head. ‘We were so happy, Jeff and I. We’d even managed to accept not having children – and then when you came along, it seemed like a miracle. My life was perfect and you were so precious; I couldn’t see any good in taking you back to England. Mavis was a bitter, discontented woman – the bad fairy leaning over the baby’s cradle.’ Alice gave Ellie a searching look. ‘I might have made a mistake. I should have told you about your heritage, but I know so little myself. My father was a talented man. The Spielmanns had been clock- and watchmakers for generations in Germany, and he carried on the tradition. I think he looked after Big Ben during the war. You know, the famous clock at the Houses of Parliament?’
‘Really? That’s amazing!’
Alice frowned. ‘I might have got that wrong.’
‘And what about your mother?’
‘A mystery.’ Alice shook her head. ‘Her name was Eleanor but people called her Nell, apparently she was beautiful, for what that’s worth, and she was killed in the Blitz when I was a baby. My father couldn’t bear to talk about her and now it’s too late to find out. There’s no one left to ask.’
‘What about Gillian?’
Alice snorted. ‘Gillian’s a dead loss. She was born years after my mother died and anyway, I wouldn’t trust a word she said. Remember those ridiculous letters she used to send?’
‘She’s family, too, though.’
‘And?’ said Alice, raising her eyebrows.
‘And I might try to get in touch.’ The words fell out of Ellie’s mouth before she’d thought about them. ‘She’s gone back to her maiden name, hasn’t she? There can’t be too many Gillian Spelmans living in London. She might have some photographs she could send us – of your dad, if not your mom. That would be better than nothing. And I’ll have a look in your apartment for that hatbox you mentioned.’
‘Hatbox? I don’t need a hat, I’m not going out.’ Alice rubbed her thumb and forefinger together: a habit Ellie had recently noticed. Thankfully, they were interrupted just then by the dinner lady – as Alice insisted on calling her – bringing a tray bearing a plate of soup, a roll with a pat of butter and a bowl covered by a saucer. She put it down on the table and said, ‘Here you are, Your Ladyship. Lunch is served.’ In a friendly voice, though.
Alice lifted up the saucer to peek underneath. ‘Apple pie!’ she announced. ‘Marvellous.’ She turned to Ellie. ‘But what will you have to eat? Shall I ask the girl to bring you a sandwich?’
‘Thanks, but I have to go.’ Ellie kissed the top of her mother’s head. ‘I’m having lunch with the Scardinos.’
‘Oh, yes, you told me,’ Alice said vaguely. ‘I’m sorry, my memory’s not what it was.’
‘Don’t worry about it.’ Ellie adjusted the scarf which had slipped at a rakish angle over Alice’s eye, to reveal strands of silvery hair.
‘Stop fussing.’ Her mother batted away her hand. ‘I’m not a baby.’
Ellie put her arms around Alice and hugged her tight, resting her head for a moment in the hollow of her mother’s bony shoulder. ‘Love you, Mom. Everything will be all right, I promise.’
Chapter Five
Westchester County, November 2021
‘Here she is! The guest of honour.’ John Scardino swept Ellie up into a whisky-scented hug, pressing his stubbly cheek against her cold one. ‘Hey, you’re freezing! Come through to the kitchen and thaw out. Kathleen’s having hysterics but that’s nothing new. Down, Bailey!’
The crazy spaniel was leaping against Ellie’s legs, whining with excitement. A familiar smell wafted down the hall: drifts of cinnamon and cloves, turkey roasting under a blanket of bacon, caramelizing sweet potatoes, cranberries simmering in orange juice.
Ellie let out her breath in a rush, the tension leaving her shoulders. She didn’t need to feel guilty; Alice had been invited to the feast but she was happier in her own company at the moment, and there was nothing wrong with that.
‘Ellie, darling!’ Kathleen grabbed a saucepan from the stove and jammed it down on the worktop, sending a bowl of potato chips skittering over the floor. ‘Oh, hell,’ she said, stooping to retrieve the bowl. ‘Never mind, Bailey will clean up the mess.’
Wiping her hands down the front of her checked apron, she advanced, holding out her arms. Her cheeks were flushed from the heat of the stove and her short dark hair, threaded with grey, stood in spikes; Ellie could picture her dashing it away from her forehead with the back of her hand as she stirred too many saucepans and sliced too many vegetables they would struggle to eat. ‘Honey, you look tired,’ she said, hugging Ellie tight. ‘How’s Alice? I visited last week and we had a long talk about the good old days.’
‘Give the poor girl a break.’ John was already easing the cork from a bottle of wine. ‘She hasn’t even had time to take off her coat.’
‘Mom’s OK,’ Ellie said, wriggling out of her jacket and dumping it on a chair. ‘She sends all of you her love.’ She fished around in her backpack for the present she’d brought. ‘Here, this is for you.’
Kathleen unwrapped the green plastic contraption and held it aloft. ‘Goodness! Now whatever is this for? Taking the stones out of horses’ hooves?’
‘It’s an avocado tool. You cut the avocado open with this so it doesn’t discolour,’ and she unfolded a white plastic blade from the handle, ‘then you take out the pit with this gizmo in the middle—’ she pressed the saw-toothed circle down on an imaginary avocado stone, ‘and you scoop out the flesh with this
paddle thing.’
‘Well, isn’t that ingenious,’ Kathleen said doubtfully. ‘Thanks, honey. I’m sure I’ll wonder how I ever managed without it.’
‘There have to be some perks to running a kitchen-ware store.’ Ellie wondered fleetingly how many of the gadgets she sold lay unused in drawers until their owners forgot what they were for and threw them away. She looked around. ‘Where is everyone?’
‘Dan and Lisa can’t make it,’ John said. ‘There’s been some crisis at the hospital so Lisa had to work and Dan’s dealing with the builders. At Thanksgiving! The Sistine Chapel was painted with less drama than their kitchen. But Beth’s in the den with Morgan. Why don’t you go on through?’ He pressed a glass of red wine into her hand. ‘She can’t wait to see you.’
Ellie walked down the familiar corridor, feeling the warmth seep back into her bones. This house had been a constant presence in her life as far back as she could remember, and had become even more important once her own childhood home had been sold after her father died. It hardly seemed a minute since she and Beth had been getting ready for parties and prom nights together in the bedroom upstairs, or hatching plans to sneak into bars with fake IDs. No one had asked to see Ellie’s ID for about fifteen years though, and now here was Beth with a baby of her own. How was that possible?