Precious Things (33 page)

‘Let's just say we're not very good for each other. But look, Stella, no one's perfect. I made loads of mistakes when I was your age. I know your dad and I must seem old and deadly boring to you . . . But when it comes to finding someone to be with – male or female, that's up to you – maybe you should take a moment before rushing into things.' Maggie paused, trying to find the right words again. She wondered if she was overstepping the mark. ‘You know, Stella, so many people are going to fall head over heels in love with you because you're beautiful, and intelligent, and a whole heap of fun when you want to be . . . You're going to drive them wild. Really.'

Stella squirmed, but gave Maggie a shy smile.

‘But there's time,' Maggie told her. Michael's handsome face flashed before her eyes, and she pushed it firmly away. ‘There's time for all of it. I know it doesn't feel that way at the moment, but it's true. Trust me on that.'

Stella reached up to circle her arms around Maggie's neck. ‘Thank you,' she whispered in her ear, hugging Maggie to her, and Maggie felt weak with relief and love. She still didn't know if she could forgive herself for her part in tonight, but if something positive could come out of this, it might just be a new understanding between her and Stella. And Tim, once Maggie had the chance to sort things out with him.

Maggie and Stella stayed like that for several minutes, gently rocking from side to side, before they both drew away, smiling at each other shyly.

Just then, Maggie heard her name being called from downstairs.

‘Maggie? Maggie! Where are you?' It was Tim, calling out from the hall. He sounded frantic.

‘Up here,' she called. ‘In Stella's room.' They looked at each other, smiles playing at the edges of their mouths. Maggie felt it again – that warmth – and wished she
was
Stella's mother. Maybe she could give it a good go.

‘It's the police,' Tim shouted. ‘They're calling from the auction house . . . It's been robbed.'

LILY: Interview transcripts from the BBC documentary
Conversations with Holocaust Survivors
, aired in 1974 (the comments below were expunged from the final cut)

I lost them all – mother, father, brothers, child. Husband.

Lost. Makes it sound like I misplaced them, doesn't it? Cast them off casually, like a snake shedding its skin. In fact they were stolen, and the thieves took something else. Me. For I am dust, wind, air . . . The spaces left behind.

No more than the ash of solid things razed by fire, though I surround myself with precious things.

Saturday is stall day. Leaving our tiny council flat, I push the bundles of what I've found to my spot on Portobello Road, just near the bridge. It's a good thing, my shopping trolley – an easy form of transport for an old lady like me. Even with its broken wheel, which squeals like a stuck animal. Doesn't matter, though; the market's not very far away. Last week was spent scavenging for anything I could sell or trade, I'm good at striking bargains. I've always been able to seduce the uncertain soul with my liquid black eyes – it's in my blood. Romany, Anatolia, Iberia . . . from there and nowhere. I talk them into it, I tell them a story. Tell everyone stories.

Today I have quality boots which, like me, have seen better days, but still have some life in them yet. Mismatched china, some glass bowls for biscuits or sweets. Very pretty. Crocheted bedspreads and
wooden cigar boxes. A hand-painted tincture bottle and a silver snuff tin, engraved.
Buy it darling, for novelty's sake, who knows where it's been?
I will tell them. Regulation-blue scarves and a dog-eared copy of
Madame Bovary
, translated into English. Dog leashes and feather hats and fancy oddments.
Worth the money, special price, just a few pounds, just for you . . . Only today.

And I'm carrying this one piece I've kept for a while now. Too long, possibly. You can tell it was pretty once, this beaded old thing. I keep it because it reminds me of the day I got married. It's like the half-hat I wore, stitched to a headband of Arctic fox when I was a doe-eyed newlywed. That's why I've decided to get rid of it. I don't like it. It makes me nervous. And I don't like the man I got it from. There was something about him. Cold. Clammy hands. Ach, I have enough memories in my head – I don't need more of them crowding my home. Useless memories, I lug them around like old junk.

Just one more street, you see. We're almost at the stall.

My brother Uli may have been selling when they took him. He liked the corner where two grand boulevards met. There were whispers he was captured there, from the elderly couple who ran the fishmonger's stall. Likely he was hawking his black-market wares. They were quivering in the corner when their son informed me, but he was always a little touched in the head. I wasn't sure whether to believe him.

At least I know what happened to my parents and my other three brothers. They were working in the factory. ‘Your papers,' they were asked, then marched to the station when a search failed to produce them. The factory owner was taken, too, for ‘questionable sympathies'. Even I could have told the bastards: it was pure economics, we come cheap.

Husband and child? Now that's harder to say. Radovan was a soldier. He had been gone two long years by the time they caught up to me. All I had left by then was a faded photograph from the seashore: Radovan looking so strong and tall, and our little girl – sausage-fat and wispy-haired at eight and a half months, her eyes were bright blue
buttons in her round, chubby face. She loved to play with a toy that Uli had made; a little ballerina, of elastic and wood, watching her fall with a giggle. She was so delicious, it was all I could do not to eat her up. My precious girl.

They called us untouchables.
Adsincani.
But why? Radovan made us respectable. I was a nurse. Our child had papers. None of it mattered, in the end. My baby, my heart, she was only four years old.

Hello darling, you like? That frame? Gold leaf. That's the best I can do, darling. It's a steal. Yes, you have a think about it. I'll be here.

I have arrangements with many people. Unclaimed lost and found from the university, a bag for seventy pence. And people who sell me things. It's amazing what ends up here, washing up on my stall. I also ply my trade along the tube routes, until I'm moved on by police. Mostly they're kind. Many don't want the bother. Still, one hit me with a truncheon once, gave my head a fine bruise. See? There's a lump . . . Have a feel. So many people don't realise their riches, what luxuries they're discarding. Cashmere cardigans, leather-bound diaries, fine umbrellas with ivory and tortoiseshell handles. How they misplace such treasures is beyond me. Like so many others these days, maybe they're caught up in the business of forgetting.

I know my accent's hard to understand. Thick, that's what they tell me. Guttural. But I speak six languages. Do you?

How did I survive? I ask myself the same question, every day. We were wasted away, worked to the bone, barely breathing in Sajmište, I tell you. I know it's hard to believe, but I was beautiful once. Don't let my fat and my missing teeth fool you. These layers of clothing can't keep me warm – the cold's embedded in my bones. The shawls and the skirts and the scarf on my head help obscure the ravages of time. And the numbers tattooed on my wrist.

Back then, my hair was black and lustrous. But after we were shorn I had only a few short curls left at the base of my neck. One guard took a liking to me. Asked me for short moments of pleasure, and in return I got, well, certain favours. An extra piece of stale bread here. Another helping of watery gruel there. Whoring was easy, overall.

I've blacked out the memory. It's simply gone. One moment my daughter was moaning in my arms, weak and listless from hunger and the miserable, piercing cold. We were on the train. We'd travelled two, maybe three days, shunted along the track.
Stop-start, stop-start
, though I couldn't be sure I fathomed time correctly – filthy and delirious as we were. The next moment I was being ‘processed' and my child was somewhere else, gone. All I had left was the wooden ballerina, in my palm, which they'd somehow missed. Then, deloused and denuded, I was naked, raw, alone. There were scratches all up and down my arms, and bruises. I didn't know how they'd got there. I fell to the floor when I realised. How I howled, how I kicked. But the big bitch with yellow braids gave me what for.

There were only two choices: give up or survive. I chose the latter. Or life chose me. We do that, you know. We gypsies. Generations of extermination, cast out from society. And yet still, somehow, we persist. We live. We thrive.

It's a good one, darling. Great for storing all your jewellery and knick-knacks. Came from a countess . . . Joking? Maybe. I'll knock a bit off the price if you buy the matching one.

England's soldiers released us from the camp, so this is where I came. And they helped me piece together a life . . . Sort of.

‘Those with children, over here.' The strapping young lad took pity on me, delivering me to Leicester Square himself.

When the film from the liberated camps started rolling in the theatre, I was shocked by the numbers. The sheer scale of the thing. We didn't realise until then, you see. Told, yes, but how could the mind grasp it? Thousands upon thousands of children panned across my vision until my eyes blurred. So many orphans. Endless reels of emaciated foundlings with shaved heads and eyes as big as saucers, you could scarcely tell if they were boys or girls. But I was seeking only one in that carnival of horrors – one face. The small hand that would curl around my fingers. I could still feel them . . . Hope is a seductive thing.

After what seemed like an age, the theatre lights came on. I'd given up, almost, and made ready to leave. A woman beside me was sobbing uncontrollably.
Breathe
, I told myself. But the film kept rolling. I thought we were at the end, for sure, but there were nine more, then six, then three. And suddenly there she was. My child. Blue eyes in a hollowed face. Shaved head . . . It seemed impossible to even contemplate. For a long moment I wondered: could she have survived? My heart skipped a beat. ‘Mine!' I cried, pointing at the screen. ‘I'm sure!' The sobbing woman heard me and grimaced, desperate envy etched across her features. It had been three years. But I was certain. Children change a lot, especially between the ages of four and seven, but it had to be my girl.

Time to go. Time's up. I'm all out of time, and I'm all out of stories. I feel lighter, somehow.

The people you meet doing this . . . There was that girl today. She took me by surprise. Thank you for helping me. I thought maybe I had buried my feelings deep, that nothing could touch me again, not ever. But something about that young girl's eyes made me think she was . . . Ach, I know I made a fool of myself. More tears. But there, I'm an old fool. And why do I need a daughter now, when I have my son?

He's a locked box. Thirty-six but never married. He's gentle, quiet. Doesn't like talking. Grows his hair long and wears it over his collar, as the men do nowadays. It's his small vanity. I don't mind really. How could such a thing bother me? He doesn't give me any trouble, but of course I worry about him. My dear one has a haunted look about the eyes – the legacy of our shared sadness.

Those deep-set eyes which are, truth be told, much less blue than light grey. Like flint. Like fog. Not my eyes, or Radovan's. Much as I wanted them to be in Leicester Square. But I tell myself,
Some things you see, can't be unseen.
When I open the door to our flat, my feet and hands are cold, my back aches. ‘Oskar, my darling, are you here?' I call out, and there's always food on the table, waiting for
me. He knows I'll be hungry when I get back. He's a good boy. And now I take care of him, and he takes care of me. Two broken people, leaning on each other. A bit of love, a bit of care.

And that's enough, isn't it? Enough to make a family.

The old Daimler rolled down the motorway, flying past lush green hedges and flickering fields of sunny yellow rape flowers. Spotting the sign to Bibury, Maggie pressed on her indicator, slowing down. She'd had the car for a few weeks now but was still getting used to it – even something as innocuous as the low mellow ticking of the turning signal made her hum with pleasure. Contented, she slid her hand over its camel leather steering wheel and let out a small sigh.

The second-hand Daimler wasn't quite the old Jag she'd been dreaming of for so long, but somehow it was perfect. Presenting her with a jangling set of keys on their tenth wedding anniversary, Tim had shot her a wry smile and said, ‘Happiest years of my life.' Maggie had accepted the keys with a racing heart, rendered speechless by the thoroughly unexpected – and entirely wonderful – gift.

‘Tim, how on earth . . .?' she'd asked, incredulous. He'd hugged her close and whispered in her ear, ‘Annual bonus. We did well this year. And it wasn't too expensive because of its vintage – but you like antiques, don't you?' She'd laughed and kissed him.

‘Will they have stables?' asked Stella from the wide back seat of the Daimler. ‘And horses?' She was trying to keep her teenage cool, but Maggie could see she was excited at the prospect of visiting the farm. Pearl was cuddled up next to her on the leather bench seat in a nest of tartan blankets – it had been chilly when Maggie had bundled them up inside the beautiful old car early that morning. When the girls had spotted the signs and begged her to drive on to Sudeley Castle for a walk, Maggie had thought,
Why not?
and
called Kate to let her know they'd be arriving after lunch. That was the beauty of going part-time for a spell: you could be more spontaneous. There were other benefits as well. Maggie still wasn't used to the change of pace, but she'd come to relish her days at home more and more lately. The girls seemed to like having her around a bit more, too.

‘I don't think they keep horses,' Maggie said, replying to Stella's question. ‘Kate says it's not very big. But they'll probably have chickens.'

‘Chickens!' said Pearl, sitting up. ‘Where?'

‘Not here, silly,' said Stella, giving Pearl's head a gentle tousle. ‘At the farm. Does that mean there won't be room for us to stay?'

‘I meant the property's not very big . . . it's only a hobby farm. But I'm sure there'll be enough room in the house. Jean will make sure there's space, anyway. She's good at making people feel welcome.'

‘And why's she having us again?' asked Stella.

‘Kate's mum – and her dad, Don – were sort of my adopted family when I was growing up . . .' Maggie trailed off.

‘What do you mean, your adopted family?' asked Stella.

Maggie caught Stella's eye in the rear-view mirror and shook her head slightly. ‘I used to spend a lot of time with them when I was your age. Their house was a bit of a . . . refuge for me.'

Stella glanced down at Pearl, understanding, and Maggie felt herself relax; it was just too early to explain things further . . . it was all so complicated. When Pearl was ready to start asking questions, Maggie was determined she would be honest and ready with answers. But not today.

‘Hopefully we'll be seeing more of Kate's family from now on,' Maggie told the girls, her heart skipping a beat. She touched the golden locket hanging in its regular spot inside her shirt, and felt nervous. Stella smiled at her in the rear-vision mirror, and Maggie thought how good it was to see her like this. Stella's eyes were sparkling, and for once she looked like the teenager she was – not like a young woman in her twenties, trying desperately to grow up. Face free of makeup, Stella's choppy dyed hair had faded to a more natural, flattering shade; it suited her. Maggie
couldn't help but marvel at how far she'd travelled from the angry, unhappy young girl who'd moved in with them a little over a year ago.

Maggie thought back to the last time she'd been in the country – not so long ago, with Tim and the girls – after the debacle of his fortieth birthday party. An event that would be remembered in the Walsh-Mason household as the worst night in recent history.

When Maggie and Tim had finally talked about everything that had gone on, in bed one night after the girls were asleep, it felt as though it was the first time they'd had a chance to really, properly talk in months.

‘I knew I felt a bit weird about that bloke, Maggie. But it wasn't just Stella who had a thing for him, was it – am I wrong in thinking that?'

‘No,' whispered Maggie, full of shame. ‘You're not.'

The pain that passed over Tim's face then truly broke her heart.

‘But nothing happened,' Maggie said, putting out her hand to brush the side of his stubbled cheek, tears running down her face. ‘I promise. I thought about it, but . . . honestly, I must have been out of my mind.'

Tim had lain there quietly, listening, and appeared to take some of the responsibility. ‘Look, I know I haven't been paying that much attention to things lately . . . or you. Work's been ridiculously busy, and I felt like you weren't that . . . attracted to me any more. I know I put on quite a bit of weight, I don't blame you—'

‘No, God no – I can't believe you think that!' Maggie interjected, appalled. ‘I don't care. Honestly, Tim, you still look great to me. You always have. I just kind of . . . forgot how good we are together, for a bit. It was
me
who wasn't paying enough attention to
you.
Or thanking you for all the work you put in with the girls when I haven't been around . . . I've been remiss on all fronts, this year – I honestly feel like I'm failing at everything.'

‘Not everything,' he said, with a smile, and Maggie knew she was forgiven. As Tim hooked a finger over the edge of her knickers and pulled, Maggie rolled over onto him, and felt more grateful for her life than she thought was humanly possible.

Afterwards, while Tim was sleeping, Maggie snuck out of bed and went downstairs to get a glass of water. Filling the glass from the tap, she saw the coronet sitting on the counter where she'd hastily shoved it during her clean-up. She picked it up. It was still beautiful. Glittering and enticing, it made her wonder . . .

Maggie knew her experience with Francesca might be clouding her judgement, but the piece seemed to weigh heavily in her hands. Even heavier than she remembered. It didn't feel right, wearing it again. Perhaps Ulrika was on to something, maybe the piece
was
bad luck. Maggie took it back upstairs and hid it in one of her linen drawers.

‘I think this is it,' Maggie said now, flicking the Daimler's indicator again as they slowed down beside a wooden mailbox. The car crunched up the short gravel drive and, within moments, Maggie was pulling up outside a long, trellis-covered cottage. The house had an aged grandeur about it, as though it was ever so slightly crumbling about the edges. Her gaze wandered over the ivy running rampant across the brickwork and grey shingled roof, and smiled with delight and recognition. Jean and Don had always appreciated the beauty in old things. The house was perfect, just the way it was, and for a moment, Maggie's breath caught in her throat with the realisation Don was gone. He'd been such a presence in her youth, and yet had caused her so much anguish . . .

Maggie felt her stomach tighten at the prospect of seeing Jean again after all these years; she was fighting excitement and nerves at the same time. Her stomach churned and her mind, which had been quietened by the meandering drive down, started to fill with questions. Opening the heavy car door, she slowly got out, feeling the air pleasantly warm on her skin.

Noting the alpacas in the fields, she realised Jean must have been breeding them for their wool. It hadn't occurred to Maggie before but it dawned on her now with sudden clarity: it had been thanks to Kate's mother that she'd first fallen for the seductive, tactile pleasures of textiles. Jean and Don had always been bohemian, Maggie thought to herself, long before it became fashionable. It was at their house that
she had learned not just about knitting and tie-dyeing, but where she'd first tasted things like croissants and avocados, and had her first glass of French champagne. They'd never had much money, but they had always known how to spend it well. The memory brought with it a realisation for Maggie: just how important they'd been, all along. Her eyes pricked with tears.

Which is why I can't chicken out . . . and need to finish what I've come here to do
, she thought, steeling herself.

With a creak, the side gate opened and Kate appeared. ‘You made it,' she waved, crunching towards them in a pair of dirt-caked wellies, holding a bucket of vegetable scraps. Kate leaned in to give Maggie a kiss. ‘Look at me, I've gone all country. How was the drive? Hi Stella, you're looking good, and good afternoon to you too, Miss Pearl. Come help me feed the ladies.' She led them over to the little henhouse tucked behind the main cottage. The sound of clucking reached fever-pitch as they drew near, the birds pecking the ground in anticipation.

‘You're just in time,' Lola called, coming through the farmhouse's main door. ‘Jean's in the kitchen, getting dinner ready. I hope you're hungry!' She gave Maggie a light kiss before bending down to rub noses with Pearl. ‘How, brave squaw.' Holding Stella at arm's length, Lola then gave her a hug. ‘Let me look at you, young woman, don't you look delightful.' Maggie saw Stella glow with pleasure, and thought again how lucky she'd been to reconnect with Kate.

Her chest filled with warmth. How much they'd changed recently, she thought – all of them. It was quite amazing to behold.

After the party, Tim – still emotional – had at first been insistent that they send Stella back up north. Back to Louisa and the watchful eyes of Stella's grandparents. But Maggie, who knew the truth behind Stella's reasons for leaving, had been sure that was the worst possible solution.

‘I know the guy's a creep, but I also know it wasn't completely his fault. I just can't see it working with Stella . . . I hate to see what she's doing to us. And herself,' Tim had said, his face tight with disappointment and frustration. ‘I don't think we can make a difference – she won't let us. She's totally out of control.'

Maggie saw with a pang how much it had shaken him to realise that Stella was almost a woman now – and one who had grown up rather too fast for his liking.

Maggie closed the door to their room and decided not to say anything about Louisa – not just yet. Things were difficult enough as it was for one evening.

‘I disagree,' Maggie said firmly. ‘She's better off here, Tim. I want her to stay.'

Tim swung around, surprised. ‘Really? I thought you've always found her difficult . . .'

‘I know. She has been. And if you'd asked me a few months ago, I might have agreed with you. But things have changed. Let's give her another chance.'

Despite everything, thought Maggie, she and Tim had to be better guardians for a teenage girl in need of stability and security. Mother trumped stepmother, that was certain (how would she feel if someone other than her cared for Pearl? Maggie knew it would almost kill her), but she and Tim would be there, with open arms and open hearts, whenever the girls messed up or needed them. That's what Jean and Don had done for her, after all.

And Maggie had been right. In the months since the party, Stella had seemed to bring herself back from the brink of whatever disaster she'd been hellbent on hurtling towards, and the change in her was astonishing to witness. Taking to school with renewed focus, Stella's grades picked up, and she was no longer sneaking out or skipping classes. She'd even made herself a new group of friends at the dance studio where she'd been taking hip-hop classes. It was thrilling for Maggie to see the long-limbed Stella throw herself around with so much fearlessness and grace.

Unfortunately, things hadn't turned out quite so well for Rachel. Days after Tim's fortieth, she and John had announced their separation. When Maggie had asked whether the other bloke was still on the scene, Rachel had shaken her head and given her a sad smile.

‘God no, that's over,' Rachel said. ‘He freaked out when I told him what had happened. I don't think he'd planned on us turning into anything serious.'

But her friend seemed pretty well, considering – much better than Maggie would have thought. She'd always sensed that Rachel and John weren't quite right together, despite their fairytale wedding, and Rachel did indeed seem better off being single.

Pulling out their overnight bags from the Daimler's capacious boot, Maggie raised her voice over the frenzied clucking and Pearl's squeals, and headed towards the house.

‘I'm just going in to say hi,' she called, voice quavering a little. Maggie braced herself. Gathering up every last bit of her strength, she touched the locket under her shirt for courage, as though it were a precious relic.

After the dazzling sunlight outside, the dark cool of the farmhouse's interior blinded her for a moment. But as her eyes adjusted, Maggie saw the staircase rising up in front of her, and doors off to each side. The one on her right opened to a small sitting room. It all felt suddenly familiar – Maggie looked up at the staircase, noticing the family photos arranged in a cluster of mismatched sizes and frames along the wall.

There was Kate and her older brother, David, sitting around a camp table, smiling toothily at the camera. One with Jean, Don and Kate outside their old house in Basingstoke. Kate, as she received an award of some sort, and Kate and Lola mugging for the camera. Maggie even noticed, with a tiny shock, that there was one of her up there, mounted in a simple mother-of-pearl frame. A surprised warmth spread through her, and she went up the stairs to take a closer look.