Love Always (9 page)

‘What do you mean?’ I say. ‘Your grandmother, she must have kept it for a reason,’ he says, his soft voice urgent. He drops his voice. ‘This family is poisoned.’ He stares at me. ‘They won’t tell you, but they are. Read it. Find the rest of it. But don’t tell anyone, don’t let anyone else see it.’

The door opens, and Louisa is in the room, her loud voice shattering the quiet.

‘I was calling you,’ she says, accusatory. ‘Didn’t you hear?’

‘No,’ I say, lying. ‘I was worried you’d be late for your train—’ She looks at the open bedside table, at the painting at the top, the girl’s smiling face gleaming out. ‘Oh, Arvind,’ she says briskly, closing her eyes. ‘No, that’s all wrong.’ And she shuts the drawer firmly.

I slip the sheet of paper into one of the huge pockets of my black skirt and clench my fingers so she can’t see the ring. ‘Sorry,’ I say. ‘I’m just coming.’ I bend over and kiss my grandfather. ‘Bye,’ I say, kissing his soft, papery cheek. ‘Take care. I’ll see you in a few weeks.’

‘Perhaps,’ he says. ‘And congratulations. I hope that you can enjoy your freedom.’

‘Freedom?’ Louisa makes a tutting sound, and she starts smoothing the duvet out again, tidying the bedside table. ‘It’s not something to congratulate her on, Arvind. She’s left her husband.’

I smile. ‘Freedom,’ he says, ‘comes in many guises.’

My hands are shaking as I leave the room. I walk to the end of the corridor, to the staircase, past my room, which was also Mum and Cecily’s room, down the end, to the alcove that leads to the door of Granny’s studio. I stare at it, walk towards it, push it open, quickly, as if I expect someone to bite me.

It’s all glass, splattered here and there with seagull crap. A step at the end. The faintest smell of something, I don’t know what, tobacco and fabric and turps, still lingers in the air. The moon shines in through one of the great glass windows. The world outside is silver, green and grey, only the sea on view. I have never seen the garden from this viewpoint before, never stood in this part of the house. It is extremely strange. There is a thin layer of dust on the concrete floor, but not as much as I’d have thought. A bay with a window seat, two canvases stacked against the wall and wooden boxes of paints stacked next to it, neatly put away, and right in the centre of the room a solo easel, facing me, with a stool. A stained, rigid rag is on the floor. That’s it. It’s as if she cleared every other trace of herself away, the day she shut the studio up.

I look round the room slowly, breathing in. I can’t feel Granny here at all, though the rest of the house is almost alive with her. This room is a shell.

Shutting the door quietly, trying not to shiver, I go downstairs, feeling the paper curve around my thigh in its pocket. There they are, gathered in the sitting room, the few who are left: my mother on the sofa next to Archie, the two of them sunk in conversation; the Bowler Hat, hands in his blazer, staring round the room as if he wishes he weren’t there and next to him his brother Guy, also silent, so different from him, but looking similarly uncomfortable. On cue, Louisa appears behind me, pushing her fringe out of her face.

‘All OK?’ she says, and I notice how tired she looks and feel a pang of guilt. Poor Louisa.

I should just say, Look what Arvind’s given me. Cecily’s diary. Look at this.

But I don’t, though I should. It stays there, in my pocket, as I look round the room and wonder what Arvind meant.

Chapter Ten

Jay stands in the doorway of the house as Mike waits outside in his large people carrier, engine purring, and Octavia hugs her parents goodbye. ‘I wish you weren’t going,’ he says. ‘Call me tomorrow and let me know how the meeting goes. And everything. Maybe meet up over the weekend? Get some lamb chops?’

‘Sure,’ I say. I can’t see further than the next five minutes at the moment; the weekend seems like an age away, there’s so much to get through before then. ‘Lamb chops would be great, though.’

We are both obsessed, perhaps because of the birthplace of our grandfather, with the Lahore Kebab House, off the Commercial Road. Neither of our parents will eat there – it’s not posh enough for them. But we took Arvind once, when he was in London to receive an honorary degree, and he loved it. It’s huge and opulent, full of lounging young men with gelled hair in leather jackets scoffing food, eyes glued to the huge TV screens showing the cricket. Jay often knows them. ‘Jamal!’ he calls, as we sit down. ‘Ali . . . ! My brother!’ And they all do those young-men hand clasps, hugging firmly, patting the back. They look me up and down. ‘My cousin, Natasha,’ Jay says and they nod respectfully, slumping back down into the chair to eat the food. Oh . . . the food . . . Tender, succulent, chargrilled lamb chops . . . Peshwari naan like you wouldn’t believe, crispy, garlicky, yet fluffy . . . Butter chicken . . . I can’t even talk about the butter chicken. Jay jokes that I moved to Brick Lane so I could be near the Lahore. One week, Oli and I ate there three times. It didn’t even seem weird.

As I stand outside Summercove, the wet Cornish air gusting into my face, the Lahore seems a long way away. ‘It would be great,’ Jay says. ‘I might have to go away for work but sometime soon, yeah? You’re not . . . busy?’

‘No,’ I say. Of course I’m not busy. I don’t do anything much these days. I go to the studio and stare at a wall, then go back home and stare at a TV.

Octavia moves towards me and we stop talking. ‘Are you ready?’ she asks briskly.

‘Yep,’ I say. ‘Bye, Jay.’ I hug him again. ‘Good luck, Nat,’ he says. ‘It’s all going to be OK.’

With Jay I feel calm. I feel that if he says it then it really must be true. It will be OK. This cloak of despair which I seem to wear all the time, it will lift off and disappear. Oli and I will work this out, and come through this stronger. The bank will extend my loan and I will have a means to live. Someone will give me a break.

And then I think about the diary in my bag. I frown. I nearly mention it to him, but I remember what my grandfather said.
Guard it carefully
.

Jay doesn’t see, he doesn’t know, how could he? He kisses me on the cheek, and I climb into the large vehicle. We’re right at the back. It is dark and it’s been raining.

‘Are we ready?’ Mike calls in his soft, comforting voice. ‘Yes,’ Octavia and I say in chorus, and then someone thumps on the window and we both jump.

‘Nat darling, bye.’ My mother is standing in the driveway, her hands pressed against the wet windows of the car, her hair hanging in her face, peering through at us. ‘We’ll speak. Keep me posted.’ She is speaking much too loudly, and I wonder if she’s drunk; she looks a bit hysterical. ‘I’m sorry.’

I have already said goodbye to her, in the sitting room. I press my hand up to the glass so it mirrors hers. ‘Bye, Mum,’ I say. Behind her, Jay comes forward and puts his arm around her.

‘I’m sorry,’ she says again. ‘Take care, darling.’

And the car pulls away as she stands there with Jay, watching us go. I can’t see the house, it’s too dark, and I’m relieved. I realise I’m glad to be getting out of there.

There’s a silence, broken only by the ticking of Mike’s indicator as he waits to turn into the main road.

‘Is your mother OK?’ Octavia asks, smoothing her skirt over her knees.

‘What do you mean?’ I say. ‘She’s been acting strangely all day, even for her.’

I don’t like her tone and I’m not in the mood for Octavia and her ‘my family grievances’ corner. ‘It was her mother’s funeral today,’ I say. ‘I think that’s reason enough.’ And then I add, unwisely, ‘We’re not all robots, you know.’

‘Are you talking about me?’ Octavia says. She is facing forward, doesn’t look at me. ‘Do you mean my family?’

Oh, dear. I am too tired and my head’s whirring with too many thoughts to keep a hold of what I say.

‘We’re all family,’ I tell her. ‘I just mean it’s hard for her today, that’s all. We should cut her some slack.’

At this Octavia turns to me, her long nose twitching. It is dark on the quiet country road, and her face is marbled with moonlight, giving her a ghoulish appearance. I remember suddenly, I don’t know why, that she played a witch in her school play when she was twelve. Jay and I found it hilarious.

‘We’re not family,’ she says. ‘Er –’ I say. ‘We are, Octavia. Sorry about that.’

She smiles. ‘You have such weird ideas, Natasha. We may be related – our mothers are cousins, that’s all. We spend the occasional holiday together. We’re not proper family, I’m thankful to say.’

I stare at her. ‘If you’re not
proper family
,’ I say, ‘how come your mother’s been bossing everyone around and drafting in people to value the house before Granny’s even in the ground? If you’re not family how come she dragged you down here every year to have a lovely holiday? I don’t remember you complaining about it!’ I am laughing. She’s so stupid.

Octavia purses up her lips and sighs, but her eyes are glittering and I know, somehow, I know I’ve walked into a trap.

‘Like I say,’ she says slowly, as if I’m an idiot. ‘We are not family, Natasha. My mother is very fond of – was very fond of her aunt. She—’ She pauses. ‘She loved her. She felt Franty needed someone to look out for her, to take care of her after Cecily died. After all, no one else was.
Your
family certainly wasn’t.’

‘They were –’ I begin, but she holds up a hand. ‘You’re living in a dreamworld, Natasha,’ Octavia says, icily calm. ‘Your grandfather lives in his own head. He doesn’t notice half the stuff that goes on right under his nose. Your uncle pretends everything’s a big joke and waits to see what his sister tells him to do, and as for her, as for your mother . . . Well. Your mother’s the
last
person she’d ask for help.’

I think of Mum’s sad face, pressed up against the glass, of her defeated expression during our conversation about Oli, and I feel protective of her. It’s so easy to paint her as difficult, as a flake, and it’s not fine any more, especially not today. ‘Look, Octavia,’ I say, as patiently as I can. ‘I know my mother’s not like your mother—’

‘You’re telling me!’ she says, with a cruel shout of mirth. ‘Just because she’s different, doesn’t mean she’s – she’s evil.’

Evil. Where have I heard that word recently? Octavia is still smiling with that patronising look on her face and suddenly I get angry. I’m sick of her and her ‘family’, with their smug we’re-so-perfect ways, her boring bored father, her interfering uncle and her eager-beaver mother Louisa, sticking her nose in, trying to show us all up . . . ‘Just because Mum didn’t move to
Tunbridge Wells
,’ I say, as if it’s the most disgusting place in the world. ‘Just because she hasn’t worked in the same office her whole life, just because she doesn’t have a stupid special
compartment
in her sewing box for
name tags
, OK? It doesn’t mean she’s a bad person, Octavia.’

I’m shaking, I’m so angry. ‘You don’t get it, do you?’ she says. ‘I didn’t realise, you have absolutely no idea about your mother. No idea at all!’ She stares at me, faux concern on her face. ‘Oh, Natasha.’

‘What do you mean?’ I say. ‘You all right in the back there?’ Mike calls to us.

We freeze. ‘Oh, yes!’ Octavia says quickly, smilingly, and then she turns to me, lowers her voice, and hisses, ‘
Do you really not know the truth about her?
’

Her face is right next to mine. I shake my head, trying to look unconcerned.

‘Whatever, Octavia. I’m not interested.’

Octavia’s face is pale, so close to mine. I can see her open pores, the down of hair on her cheek, smell her warm breath on my skin. Her voice is sing-songy. She says softly, ‘She killed her sister, Natasha. That summer.’

At first I think I’ve misunderstood what she’s saying, and I listen to the words again in my head. ‘No,’ I say, after a few moments. ‘That’s not true.’

Moonlight flickers into the car through the branches of the trees, as if a light is being turned on and off. I blink.

‘Think about it,’ Octavia says. ‘Haven’t you always known something strange happened?’ And then she’s silent, watching me, as I furiously shake my head. ‘Look, I’m sorry,’ she says, after a pause, as though she knows she’s gone too far. ‘I didn’t mean to—’

‘I knew you were talking rubbish anyway,’ I say, thinking she’s apologising, that she’s made it up to hurt me, but she says, ‘I didn’t mean for you to find out like this. I thought you must know by now.’

This family’s poisoned
. The diary’s in my pocket. ‘I don’t think she planned it out,’ Octavia says. ‘It’s not like she
poisoned
her or anything.’ Her voice is almost pleading, as though she wants me to be OK, as though she feels bad. ‘But – you know, they had a row about something – I don’t know what it was. I don’t think Mum knows. They had a blazing row and Miranda pushed Cecily, and she slipped on the path and broke her neck. That’s what happened. Archie saw them. Ask – ask Guy,’ Octavia says suddenly, wiping her nose with her hand, very unlike her. ‘He knows it all. Your mother tried to seduce him. She tried to seduce my father, too.’

‘Look, this is just so stupid –’ I say. She ignores me. ‘Well, he saw straight through her, they both did. That’s why
no one
likes her.’ She gets out a tissue and blows her nose. ‘That’s what the row was about.’ She sniffs loudly. ‘Everyone knows what your mother did, but they didn’t want to upset your grandmother. They weren’t even allowed to mention Cecily in front of her, were they?’ I nod. We weren’t – it was the only rule at Summercove. ‘But now Great-Aunt Frances is dead, well – things have changed, haven’t they?’

The bubble is burst. It’s cold in the cab and I squeeze my arms to my side. ‘I – I just don’t believe you.’

‘Have you ever thought that explains quite a lot about her?’

‘No,’ I say. ‘Absolutely not. And frankly, Octavia—’

‘Maybe she didn’t plan it, but she killed her all the same. Ask Guy. He was there,’ Octavia says again, flatly.

‘That’s such crap – how the hell do you know that’s what happened?’ I sit up, full of righteous anger. ‘How do they know? Why hasn’t anyone ever said anything to me about it before? Why hasn’t Mum ever said—’

‘She’s not going to, is she?’ Octavia says, genuinely pitying. ‘But your mother – oh, I don’t know what was going on that summer,’ she says. She scratches her forehead. ‘I don’t think Mum knows, even. Just – all I’m saying is, your mother wouldn’t tell anyone what the row was about, and there’s no way of finding out, is there?’

‘No,’ I say, and I think of the diary again, and then remember how thin the outline of it feels between my fingers, how childish. But I don’t touch it again. I don’t want Octavia suspecting anything. I look at her, and think how strange it is that I know her really well, and yet I don’t know her at all. Never been to her house, don’t know any of her friends, or about her romantic life, or her favourite books to read or anything. She’s just always been there. I thought we were family, and it turns out I don’t know her at all either.

She’s right. I’ve been living in a dreamworld. ‘Look,’ she says, as though she’s regretting speaking so hastily. ‘I hope – I’m sorry, perhaps I shouldn’t have said anything.’ She clears her throat. ‘But you had to know. I can’t believe you’ve never heard an inkling of it before.’

There’s a lot I could say to this, but I don’t. I raise my hand. ‘It’s OK. Look, let’s just not talk about it any more.’

We slide into an awkward silence for the rest of the journey, but I’m glad. I don’t know what on earth we’d talk about.