‘What?’
Catherine could see Sylvia then, the Outsider in her beautiful dress, holding the key, standing outside the chapel, buffeted by the wind, her face utterly blank.
‘I locked them in. Do you see? I locked them in. I saw it was then or never. But I – I made a mistake.’
Catherine leaned forward. She felt dizzy, slightly sick.
‘You locked them in, that day? It was you?’
‘Yes. Yes. But I got it wrong.’
‘Joss was in there, Sylvia.’
Sylvia blew her fringe away from her forehead and poured more schnapps. She stared thoughtfully at the floor, cradling the glass between her fingers. ‘I thought he was Giles. So – well, that is something I still carry. The guilt of it. I didn’t care about Giles. I wanted him to die. I wanted Kitty to see that I could protect her.’ Her voice grew smaller. ‘As for the other two, I didn’t care by then. They didn’t care about me. He certainly didn’t.’
Her eyes, staring into the middle distance, flashed fire.
‘But there was so much chaos, and then I turned round, and – and – there was Giles. Standing there, laughing with one of the rivals. And I saw what I’d done. I opened the door. A minute later would have been too late for Joss: it was too late for the others.’ She turned towards Catherine, her childlike face solemn. ‘I wouldn’t try to kill Joss, you know,’ she said, matter-of-factly. ‘But Charles was different – I think I woke up that day, you see. I woke up when the bees turned, when they started attacking. It was very strange. I realised I couldn’t do it any more. You rescued me really.’
‘No –’ Catherine put the glass down. ‘Oh my God, Sylvia, I didn’t rescue anyone. I – I left Kitty. I should have found her. I shouldn’t have gone.’
‘Kitty was very strong-willed, little one.’ She reached across the flickering fire and patted Catherine’s leg. ‘She wanted to get away. To have some control over her life. She used you. I used you, to give me the courage to do what I wanted that day.’
She said it so matter-of-factly.
‘Really?’
‘Of course. Your father tried so hard to stop it. He saw what was coming, the disaster my marrying Charles would be. And I cut him out. I was groomed, that’s what we’d say now, though it’s all bollocks, really, I’m sure.’ Catherine shifted uncomfortably in her seat. ‘Still though . . .’ She chewed her lip thoughtfully. ‘You know, your father came to see me, the month before he died. Did you know that?’
Catherine shook her head. ‘No. Where was I?’
‘You were on a school field trip. Dorset, if memory serves. And Simon drove down here. He’d come on a mission. He wanted to make me see what Charles had done to me. How he’d found him having sex with me in the sitting room when he came back one weekend. Charles wouldn’t ever go into my bedroom, he said it wasn’t right. So he’d make me – on the sofa.’ She looked up, her expression utterly blank, and poured them both another drink. From outside came the sound of the wind, tearing restlessly through the tangled trees.
‘I was an orphan, and I had money, you know, from my mother, and her possessions, and the sale of her house. Charles took it all. He took my youth, and my money, and he took me – my identity. That’s the thing. He’d been hanging around so long, pestering me, and I really just wanted to be left alone. After Mummy and Daddy died and I was living in Wellington Square with your dad, he started telephoning, bringing me presents, waiting till the lodgers were all out and especially after Simon – your father moved away for the job – oh, then Charles was there all the time. I told myself it was nice, having someone to look out for me. For once. I was very angry with your father, for moving away.
‘Charles . . . he’d take me for drinks and put his hand up my skirt or kiss me . . . He’d say he was only trying to be nice, and I was naughty for letting him do it.’
‘How old were you, Sylvia?’ Catherine said, softly.
‘I was fourteen. Maybe thirteen. Do you understand, now?’
Catherine could only nod. She closed her eyes, breathing in deeply.
‘He told me I should be grateful, and I told myself I was . . . I hated it, I hated it when he did it to me. I just wanted someone to make it all go away, and he said he could . . . he was the problem, and he made himself the solution.’ She looked up, and her eyes were swimming with tears, and she blinked until they were gone, then she swallowed.
‘And your father was cross about me spending time with Charles, and that was fatal. He wanted me to finish college, to be what I could be. He wanted me to live like a nun, and of course I was still furious with him – I was so angry, darling, I missed Mummy so much. So Charles got his way in the end. He got what he wanted. He always did, until the day he died. He really bloody did.’
She hung her head, and there was silence, broken only by the sound of another large engine moving outside.
Daddy had come here, the month before he killed himself. He had seen for himself what Sylvia was living with, how she was trapped in this beautiful prison, cooking, cleaning, servicing Charles to stop him from moving on his own daughter. How the atmosphere was poisonous, the family dynamic all wrong, and he had taken the blame for it himself, when it wasn’t his fault.
It wasn’t his fault.
‘And so after that, your father married Miss Inglis, I think on a whim. I think he thought he had to marry someone, and she was there, and they did get on, they liked jazz, and she adored him but she didn’t hero-worship him – people tended to with your dad and it was fatal.’ Sylvia blew her fringe out again. ‘Gosh, I always forget she’s your mother. Isn’t it curious?’
Catherine shook her head. ‘Not really. She forgot she was my mother for most of my life, to be fair.’ She cleared her throat. ‘Sylvia, I didn’t know. I didn’t know any of it.’
‘I know, darling. I told Kitty, the day it all happened. She didn’t take it very well. She – she had had her trouble with Giles. I handled it all wrong, you see . . . I live with that for ever.’ Her voice was low, breaking at the end of words. ‘I let her down, Janey. So when I could, when I saw how I could take my revenge, for me, for her, I took it. But he’s still free. His life is unaffected by what he did.’
Catherine nodded. She said, gently: ‘I understand.’ What else could she say?
‘That’s enough,’ said Sylvia, suddenly. ‘Let’s not talk about it.’
‘I went to your retrospective, you know.’ Catherine held her gaze. ‘The one at the Fashion Museum. It was wonderful. I was so – I was so proud of you.’
‘Why?’ Sylvia said, quite sharply.
‘Because I know how talented Daddy thought you were. And to see all your designs and drawings lined up, what you’d accomplished, despite everything, and that’s just your work, not even the stuff you do under a different name. It’s a complete body of work, Sylvia. It’s amazing. I look at the catalogue all the time.’
Sylvia was staring out at the dark night. ‘I went up to see it, incognito, you know. I stayed with Merry in her peculiar flat. I was homesick for my own little hive, right here. You see, all I felt when I stood there and looked at them all lined up was . . . sadness. Sadness for me and what I might have been.’
Catherine nodded. She didn’t know what to say.
‘Charles, he stripped all my me-ness back. All those years, being someone else. Feeling utterly alone.’ And Sylvia threw back the remains of the schnapps, swallowing hard.
The vehicles rumbling outside grew louder and louder, but neither of them moved. Eventually Catherine said carefully: ‘I am so sorry, Sylvia. I know Daddy loved you. He loved your mother and he loved you.’
Sylvia put her head slightly on one side. ‘I know he did. I think that’s what made me suddenly wake up. Seeing you, marching next to Kitty. The two of you, being set up for the same kind of . . . it’s not failure, it’s a sort of tidying away of women so they won’t cause trouble.’ She laughed, slapping her hands to her cheeks. ‘Oh, I had such high hopes for Joss when he wa
s younger, Janey – I’m sorry, Catherine. You know, he liked Bowie, and he wore velvet waistcoats, and smoked hash – I thought, this boy of mine’s the rebel I wasn’t allowed to be. But he just went the other way. I don’t mind about respectability. I mind about community. This idea you’re better than everyone, that you and your family have to come first. It’s disgusting. It’s not how we should live. It’s not . . . British, despite what Charles and Ros thought.’
‘What is that noise?’ Catherine said.
‘That?’ Sylvia looked out of the window, at the source of the commotion going on outside. ‘It’ll get louder later. No, I’ve failed Joss, and I’ve failed Merry. Merry knew something was wrong about that day. I think she suspects it was me, but the police were utterly hopeless. I’d complain about them if I wasn’t an interested party.’ She shook her head, outraged, seemingly unaware of the irony. ‘But mostly Merry’s horrified by me. Like Joss. It’s quite something, to know your own children are repulsed by you. Their mother who grows her own veg, doesn’t buy any new clothes, and whom they have to keep asking for money for their weddings or building works or expensive holidays. They don’t know what on earth to do with me.’ A wide grin split her heart-shaped face, and she took a deep breath. ‘It’s rather funny.’
‘Yes,’ said Catherine, slowly understanding. ‘This is you, isn’t it?’
‘Darling it is.’ She cleared her throat. ‘I really do like this life. Have done for thirty years or so. I can do my work, do my thing. I stay up till three if I want, I sleep in till noon if I want. No one to cook for, no one to organise. I don’t have to sit and listen to ghastly people my own age complaining about immigrants or the Labour Party or young people taking drugs. It’s just me.’
‘Do you like it? Don’t you get lonely?’
‘I picked up men a couple of times, but I stopped after a while. It wasn’t my scene. It’s fine just being me. Great, actually. All those years when I couldn’t. I wake up and wallow in it.’ She smiled again, blinking. ‘You can see why Merry and Joss are horrified, can’t you? They think I should be polishing the candlesticks and the handbells and doing the flowers and helping Joss and generally being the dowager Lady Hunter. Well, the bees didn’t want to carry on with it and neither did I. They’d had enough. Balls to that, Janey. Bloody balls to it.’
Catherine saw that Sylvia was one of those people who lived by themselves who, when you got them going, wouldn’t stop talking. ‘I was in London last month with Extinction Rebellion,’ Sylvia went on, proudly. ‘I glued myself to some railings. The wrong railings, actually. Some Russian oligarch in Great Portland Street, but he was rather nice about it. His housekeeper gave me a biscuit.’ She gave a wide, mirthless grin, and for a split second Catherine saw the Kitty who kept appearing to her: the wide teeth, the manic eyes, and she shivered. She closed her eyes. She locked them in, she told herself.
‘Where did you stay? In London?’
‘Oh, coach there, coach back. I wouldn’t bother Merry. Imagine turning up on her doorstep after two days sleeping rough and covered in glue!’ She began to chuckle. ‘You haven’t seen her, have you? You have. Oh, well, you’ll know what I mean.’
Catherine raised her eyebrows. ‘I do. Better than you can imagine.’ She couldn’t help feeling sorry for Merry. ‘It was nice to see her though . . . I’m sorry, Sylvia, that noise isn’t right. What can it be?’ Catherine stood up and went to the window. The white light, flashing again. As if it was trained on her. A huge vehicle was lumbering down the driveway, the digger mechanism rocking violently as the flashing lights threw beams into the woods. She could hear shouting.
‘Best ignore it,’ said Sylvia. ‘It’s some nonsense of Joss’s, and you’re well out of it. He thinks I don’t know, but I’m not stupid. Now, Catherine. Come and sit down again.’ She beckoned. ‘Why don’t I get you some food, something to eat? I’ve got a curry in the fridge. I’ve had mine already.’
Catherine shook her head. ‘I’m not hungry. Thank you, though.’
‘Are you sure?’ Suddenly she was the old Sylvia. ‘How did you get down here? Where will you go now?’
Catherine put her hands out. ‘I’m not really sure. I – I don’t know.’
Sylvia didn’t say anything for a moment, just stared at Catherine, chewing her lip. Then she said: ‘You have to go back to your children, darling. After some rest. And some food. You do know that, don’t you?’
Catherine nodded.
‘You will, won’t you?’
‘I – want to.’ Her throat was closing up. ‘I promised I would. But I keep thinking I can’t.’
‘You can’t?’
‘That I shouldn’t.’ Catherine shook her head. There was no point trying to explain a truth as fundamental as this, and she couldn’t rid herself of it. You don’t understand. They really are better off without me. I’m so scared. I think it’s true.
‘Is your husband nice?’ Catherine smiled. ‘I know it’s a silly-sounding question. But lots of people aren’t. Is he nice?’
‘He’s very nice. I miss him.’
‘That’s lovely.’ The older woman smiled. ‘Ah, I’m happy to hear that. You never belonged here, you know. You can go back, any time, darling.’ Sylvia’s lined, beautiful face fixed her with an intense stare. ‘Your father was nice. He was nice to everyone. And he loved you so much. None of this is your fault, Janey.’
‘That’s absolutely not true. Quite a lot of this is my fault. I’ve lied, I’ve run away, I’ve done some despicable things.’
Sylvia shrugged, in her quick birdlike way. ‘I don’t think they’re so bad. But don’t you think you owe it to yourself – to him – to be happy? To have a shot at it, anyway? You’re allowed to.’
It hurt to speak. ‘I shouldn’t have left Kitty. Who knows what happened to her? She – she should have had a wonderful life.’
Sylvia smiled. ‘How do we know she didn’t?’
‘Didn’t what?’
‘Have a wonderful life? How do you know what happened after you left?’
Catherine gaped at her. ‘Have you seen her?’ Outside, she could hear men calling, and an engine, louder than ever now. She moved closer, shivering in the small, crowded room. Sylvia said nothing. ‘Sylvia? What do you mean?’
‘I see her all the time. All the time.’ Sylvia shrugged. ‘And I think she’s happy.’
‘You – see her? What do you mean? Is she – alive?’
Sylvia touched her hands to her cheeks. Very quietly, she said: ‘To me she is. Don’t tell anyone.’
Catherine narrowed her eyes. ‘Sylvia, really? What happened, then?’
Sylvia shook her head. ‘You don’t need to worry about her. Or me. She’s fine. And she’s exactly the same.’
Catherine said: ‘I don’t know . . .’
‘You’re a lawyer, dear girl. Filleting the evidence, trying to get to the truth, it becomes an obsession. Sometimes there’s no one truth. I’m saying that to me Kitty is still here. And that she brings me great comfort. And that if you love someone, that never goes away. I have had my darkest moments in this place.’ She waved her arms around. ‘But if you question why you were brought into this world, just consider this: we all have a purpose in life. Perhaps your purpose was to bring happiness to your father. You made him very, very happy. He gave you so much. You were so beloved and you are so like him, my darling. The tragedy was in the end he couldn’t shut out what he’d seen, how he thought he’d failed. I won’t talk to you about how you have an obligation as a mother or any of that. They break us that way, all of us, when they hand us the baby, and they don’t ever do it to the men. But, Janey – Catherine, I’m sorry. Don’t you owe it to Simon, to yourself, to be happy? And don’t you owe it to Kitty, too? Look at what she gave you. She gave you what you wanted. She forced you to take that degree, she got you away from your mother, she pushed you onwards, into a different life. And it’s the life you were supposed to have, it seems to me. Just with a slightly different name. I thin
k it’s easier to hide away than face up to it, sometimes.’
Air seemed to rush into Catherine’s chest. ‘Yes. It’s just I wouldn’t know where to start.’
‘With some therapy, I’d imagine,’ said Sylvia gravely, and she smiled. ‘It’s all there. You have to take the decision to do it. To walk down that path. That boy you were defending in that picture, what was he called?’
‘Grant. Grant Doyle.’ She chewed at her nail. ‘I utterly failed him. He reminded me too much of other people. I failed as a lawyer. I think that was part of what led . . .’ She spread her arms wide, encompassing the rucksack, the bare feet, the grubby clothing. ‘. . . to this.’
‘Perhaps he won’t ever be able to live with what he’s done. But he killed a man, you didn’t. You were his lawyer, not his counsellor, not his mother. You had a great deal to bear over the years, Catherine. I did too. I took my revenge. I can live with it. What you did is OK.’
‘It isn’t OK.’
‘No. We will have our own ceremony, here and now,’ said Sylvia. She stood up, walked over to Catherine and tapped her on the shoulder. ‘I release you from it. You’re free.’ Catherine nodded, looking up at her with a faint smile. ‘Listen,’ said Sylvia, gripping her hands. ‘This is really important. You can only do as much as you can. And sometimes it won’t be enough. Sometimes it will be.’
They stared at each other, fingers entwined. Then Sylvia turned, bent down. With a flourish, she pointed to the spot beside her armchair, next to the fire, and moved a flowing scarf and tall pile of books out of the way. ‘It hasn’t worn well, so I cover it up. They didn’t coat it properly. It’s an old wallpaper I did, years ago. They printed up a sample roll, but they decided not to go with it in the end. Said it wasn’t very cosy. What do you think of that?’
The Beloved Girls Page 45