She heaved her bag into the hall and after her came her beautiful son, Lucas, Stijn’s grandson. He was seven then and today a long-limbed giraffe of a teenager sits outside the window here. He is on one of the loungers, reading Under the Canopy. I tried to warn him that it might not be his cup of tea but he just gave me one of the slow smiles that break his solemn face in two and reminds me so much of Stijn that I often have to turn away too brusquely. I am sure he thinks I’m very odd.
For the last seven years, I have, somewhat inexplicably, built a new life with this new family. I did not deserve the laughter, the shouts, the sound of glasses breaking, the thunderous feet on the stairs, the rows over the television and the squeals of delight. Else will surely continue living in my house in St Albans when I am gone. I wrote a will last year and left the house to her and Lucas. I think you will agree that she needs it more than any of us but she is uncomfortable with this. She says you will think that she deliberately usurped you. She insists on believing this despite having read these letters alongside you.
At first, this proofreading was just another chore I dumped on her. I begged her to do it because I was already worried that my mind might have wandered off while I was writing, without me noticing. But she says she has enjoyed the story. Enjoyed is not quite the right word. She has been gripped by it, by us. But despite this, she is still concerned about how you will react to the news that she and her son have become my family. After everything she has done for me, I think she should speak to you directly now.
So here is Else. She sits beside me at the typewriter, as she has done for weeks, turning my words into a story. I will let her talk and type for herself now. I will ask her to say the words out loud as I do. I like to hear the calm voice that has answered my querulous calls all these long months. She still has a slight accent but after all her years on the flower farm, it is more Kenyan than Dutch. She is blushing now. I should let her speak for herself.
Hello Diane, or Maria if you prefer,
I do not have much to say except to invite you to come and stay with us in St Albans whenever you want. You must bring your children. We would love to see them, Lucas and Lina and I.
I cannot imagine how you will feel to know that I have been living with your mother but please understand that there was no intention on my part to take your place. I did not even know you existed when I arrived. If I had known, maybe I would have stayed away but that is in the past and irrelevant. Lina gave me a refuge when I needed it. I was lost and she let me come into her home and she welcomed me and my son. Now, I hope I am helping her as she crosses into a new place.
When I found out that Lina had a daughter, I was shocked and pained for you and her. I did make judgments. Lina is smiling as I say this. She remembers my questions. They were hard, maybe even harsh. I am a mother too, Diane, and I could not imagine giving up my son. But having read Lina’s story, even typing some of it myself, I have more understanding. I would not say I can forgive what she did. It is not my place to forgive. All I know is that she loves you as much as is possible given the way your lives have been. You do not have to love her back, of course. You do not have to forgive her and you do not need me to tell you that. But as one mother to another on behalf of the woman who has been something of a mother to us both, I do wish you would come and see her and us. If nothing else, we could be friends, sisters of different mothers and different fathers. Lina will be different but then we are all, every day, different. I would like to meet you. I have loved Lina and she has loved me and she has loved you and beyond all else, that means something.
You are welcome whenever you would like.
Are you angry that I asked Else to speak directly to you, Diane? I was torn. I do not want to force you to come and see me but neither do I want my departure to burden you with guilt. If you would like to come, that would be wonderful. If not, know that I suspect I too would have stayed away if the boot were on the other foot. In a sense, I have left it too late anyway. You might wonder what is the point if I am no longer fully present. But I am trying so hard to be selfless here, Diane. You can imagine that it does not come easy to me. I want to do the right thing for you. I don’t want to leave any marks on you when I go. I do believe, fervently, that you will like Else because how could you not? If I can gift you a friend with my passing, I will have done something right at last. I will have given you love, instead of grief, as the price of love.
In the end, and not to be too Pollyanna-like because it goes against my nature, but this death in life is very civilised. One gets a little time to prepare before the lights go out. And while saying goodbye is unbearable, the alternative is not much better. As silver linings go, it is imperfect but comforting nonetheless.
I am struggling a little now. It has been a long day and I am forgetting the things I wanted to tell you. What have I forgotten, Else? Nothing? Yes, I remember. I am writing to Diane. Diane is my daughter. I am Lina. This is France. Else makes me repeat these phrases whenever my mind starts to wander.
I am about to be reborn again. I suppose I should consider myself lucky. I get a reincarnation of sorts in this life. How many can say that? I will still be here, I will still be able to look out this window and enjoy the sparrows flapping and frolicking in the birdbath. I will sit on my chair at the end of the garden and listen to the waves whisper secrets to the sand. Then, when I go home to St Albans, I will wake in the morning and if I do not know quite where I am or who I am, I will pull back the curtains and watch the orange-red sun rise above the rooftops like a promise. To experience these things must surely be to remain human. I can be more than the sum of my memories, I hope.
I must confess I did have a different ending in mind when I first arrived here. I thought I might finally have the courage to join Robert, and my parents, and Penrose and all the others who did not have my luck, if you can call it that. The symmetry appealed to me: I could end it all here where it all began, near the beach where Robert landed and the town where he lost his soul. I imagined I might buy some pills and take a last walk into the countryside, wending my way along the lanes where their ghosts still roam, until I found a place where I too could sit and rest and cross over. I must admit that despite my avowed hatred of euphemistic words, I imagined this as a somewhat painless passing. In the end, you kept me here. You and Else and Lucas. And this story. Or perhaps it is just because I am, as I have always been, a coward. You may persist in that belief but it cannot be the whole truth because surely my continued existence is proof of some degree of courage, even if it is only the courage needed to do nothing? In the end, I have resolved to accept my punishment, to embrace my Fate, Diane.
***
I must sleep soon and then we will see what the morning brings. The dawning of a new era. I was being honest, Diane, when I said I did not need your forgiveness, even if I desire it deeply. It will be of no use to the woman I will be soon. She will not remember why. I did not write this to excuse my behaviour, her behaviour. I wrote it to record what happened so that when you decide you want to know, you will have this account.
So this is my story and your story and I give it to you out of love and with some regrets. There are always regrets. No one believes that French singer. Her name escapes me but you’ll know who I mean.
I hope you’ll always know now what I mean and what I meant. Even when I don’t remember myself. I do regret that I will not be able to answer your questions, if you have any. This was not deliberate. I wasn’t afraid of your judgment, I don’t think. Now I will never know and that too must be accepted even if the thought hurts so much that I long for the coming oblivion because I simply cannot bear this uncertainty any more.
There is a pretty boy standing at the window. Else is waving him in. She whispers that he is Lucas. Of course, I know Lucas. I know Else. Diane is my daughter. I am Lina. This is France. I am staring at a new blank page.
Acknowledgements
My deepest thanks to Tom Chalmers, Lauren Parsons and the team at Legend
Press for believing in me yet again. I am especially grateful to Lauren for her excellent editing and guidance.
As ever, thank you to my parents, Máirtín and Máire, for all their support and love. Thank you to Martina, Gearóidín, Máirtín, Esther, Máirín and Antaine for the craic and the kindness. Thank you to all my extended family and friends for their constant encouragement.
This book is dedicated to Lucy and Rachel, two wonderful young women who inspire me every day. Thank you, girls, for putting up again with a very distracted mother. And to David, without whom none of this would be possible.
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The Reckoning Page 30