Precious Things (35 page)

‘From you too, Katie. Go on, Lola – are you up for it? Make an honest woman out of my daughter. Go on, I dare you.'

‘Jesus, scare her off for good, why don't you?' Kate scolded. She cast a sidelong glance at Lola.

‘I'm not going anywhere,' Lola smiled, rubbing Kate's hand. ‘Though you may have to wait for quite some time for those grandkids, Jean.'

Maggie looked at them all then and felt so much was at stake: not only did she have Tim and Pearl and Stella by her side, but wonderful plans for a new life ahead. She also had an extended family to spend time with and cherish – what she'd always wanted – even if it wasn't her own. Now, if only she could get past this bump in the road – telling Jean what she'd come here to say – maybe, just maybe, she could still hold on to it all. Maggie sucked in a quick, nervous breath, and dared to hope.

The house was quiet the following morning when Maggie awoke, the blinds in their room just starting to glow with the weak light of dawn. Letting herself out of the small room without waking Tim, she padded in thick woolly socks past the spare bedroom Stella and Pearl were sharing, and downstairs to the kitchen. She was surprised to find Jean standing in front of the Aga, lifting off the boiling kettle.

‘I thought I was the first up,' she exclaimed, glad to find Jean alone.
Now is perfect
, she told herself.
Before things go any further.

‘Ah, never before me, I'm afraid. I don't sleep much these days. Been up since four. Tea?'

Maggie nodded, perching herself on one of the sturdy wooden stools and pulling down the sleeves of her cardigan. Something bubbled on the stove, making thick popping sounds. ‘Porridge,' Jean told her. At the memory of Jean's pinwheel porridge, Maggie's mouth watered. It was the proper Scottish kind, seasoned with salt and sugar and cream.

‘So, pet, what happened? Where did you disappear to all those years ago?' asked Jean quietly, her back still turned to Maggie as she scrubbed at a pot left over in the sink.

Maggie reddened, suddenly stuck for words. This was it: the conversation she'd been dreading, the one she'd come all this way to have. She bent her head, searching for the words, grateful that Jean was still turned away from her – she wasn't sure she'd have been brave enough with those calm, assessing eyes on her.

‘I . . . I can never thank you enough for what you did for me, you know that, don't you?' Maggie started.

Jean stood staring into the sink. ‘Don and I loved you like you were ours, you know,' she said quietly. ‘We would have seen you through anything. If you'd asked.'

‘I'm so sorry, Jean,' said Maggie softly, a shiver running down her spine. ‘I didn't see how I could keep seeing you after Kate left for college.' The words felt like stones in her mouth. ‘And I couldn't bear it, after what I did . . .'

‘The locket, you mean?' asked Jean, turning around. Her voice was steady and calm. ‘You stole it.'

Maggie felt her face contort with pain as she struggled to find the right words. Why on earth had she stolen it from the people who loved her the most? Why had she betrayed them, when they had made her feel so welcome in their home?

Jean kept talking, but never took her eyes from Maggie's face. ‘Katie was convinced it was because of her, and her sexuality. She felt awful about it, but I told her about what happened with Don. I didn't tell her about the locket, though – she never would have forgiven you.'

Reeling from the shock of Jean's words, Maggie stuttered out a response, ‘You knew about . . . what happened?'

‘Of course I did. Don told me everything. Said he found you hiding away, crying like your life was over, but you were so unsure of yourself and mistook his affection for something more . . . It wasn't anything else though, you know? Don wasn't like that.'

Maggie's face flushed in shame. ‘I know! I was so embarrassed . . . I found it so hard to be around all of you after that. Especially Kate.'

‘But why did you take the locket?'

‘It wasn't to sell, Jean! Nothing like that. And I wear it still, all the time . . .' Maggie exclaimed in a rush, tears in her eyes. ‘It was . . . please, let me explain . . .' She wrung her hands as she tried untangling the clamouring thoughts in her head. ‘What I needed was . . . a piece of you. I wanted so badly to be part of your family. But I thought, with Kate gone, why would you want to see me on my own, especially after
what had happened with Don. So I needed . . . a memento. Something I could cherish. You meant so much to me, all of you . . .
mean
so much,' Maggie said, correcting herself. She brushed away the tears. ‘Does that make sense to you? I swear, I'm not a thief.'

Jean shook her head with a frown. ‘If you'd asked, I would have given it to you. It was precious to me, that locket, it was my grandmother's, as you know, but I would have given it to you. You were very dear to me.'

Maggie felt a lurch of desperation. Last night had been so warm and loving – everything she'd wanted out of life, all she'd ever wanted, and now it was shattered. Gone. Perhaps she shouldn't have said anything, but Jean knew. She'd known all along.

Maggie stood up. ‘I'm so sorry,' she said, her voice cracking. ‘Your life – your family – has been a sort of compass for me. I wanted a piece of it somehow. To hold on to you all.'

Pulling at the old gold locket beneath her jumper, Maggie twisted the chain for the latch and unhooked it. Maggie moved out from behind the bench and handed it to Jean.

‘I'm so sorry, I feel terrible. I hope you can forgive me. We'll leave after breakfast.'

Jean didn't move. Maggie heard the clock tick as Jean held out her hands. Maggie passed the locket to her with shaking hands, misunderstanding.

‘I don't care about that,' frowned Jean, throwing the locket on the counter. She pulled Maggie into a rough hug. ‘Of course I forgive you, silly thing,' she said into Maggie's shoulder. Maggie couldn't help herself; she let out a small, shaky sob.

Taking Maggie's face in her hands, Jean pulled back. She looked into her eyes closely for a moment, then picked up the locket and placed it back over Maggie's head. She tucked it back inside Maggie's jumper and patted her chest. Maggie felt its heavy coolness fall, once again, over her heart, and felt a sense of rightness.

‘You were always such a nervous thing. So flighty and scared, like a little bird. It was as though you were always afraid someone was going to take everything away. But now look at you . . . Look what you've
achieved – lovely husband, family of your own. Those girls are gorgeous, because of you. You're obviously a good mother to them. And I think of you as a daughter, Maggie. You know that, don't you? I always did.'

Jean hugged her again, and Maggie felt hot salty tears course down her face. Her awful secret, the terrible, sickening shame of it, which she'd kept for so long – she didn't have to live with it any longer. A huge weight felt lifted from her shoulders. And Jean didn't hate her; that was the most amazing thing. The minutes slipped past as they embraced in the middle of the kitchen. Eventually Jean released her, and both women wiped at their faces.

‘I'm so proud of you, Maggie,' Jean said then, smiling warmly.

Maggie felt a lump in her throat and nodded. Jean's words meant more than she could express.
But you haven't seen me in so long
. . .
and I almost stuffed everything up royally.
She succeeded in quieting the negative voice inside her head – the voice of her mother, the one she always heard first – and forced herself to accept the truth of Jean's words for a moment.

‘By the way, I wanted to ask, but I didn't think you'd want to discuss it in front of everyone last night. How's your mother doing these days?' asked Jean, carefully watching Maggie for her reaction.

‘Oh, Jean,' Maggie said, letting out a shaky sigh. She thought back to when she was very small and her mother had sung gentle lullabies, stroking Maggie's face with the side of her hand. It was hard to reconcile the image with the woman she'd seen recently, who had proved there wasn't so very much left between them.

‘Worse, unfortunately . . . Dad finally left. Not long ago, so things are still raw, but perhaps she'll seek help now, or even meet somebody . . . I don't know. I hope things improve. But for the moment, I don't think she wants my help. She's just so angry and self-absorbed . . . She doesn't seem to care about anyone other than him.'

‘I'm sorry to hear that, pet,' clucked Jean, shaking her head.

Acceptance, rather than wanting everything to be different from reality. Treasuring what you had, not wanting what you didn't have . . .
That's the key
, Maggie thought. She felt a lot better about the
past than she'd felt in ages, and better equipped to face the future. Her mother had helped her with that, at least.

They sat quietly for a moment with their own thoughts, hearing the porridge pop gently away on the stove. Just then there was a small noise from the doorway. Maggie turned to see Lola standing there, resplendent in a vivid yellow silk kimono with a print of cherry blossoms and cranes, her curly hair wild and tangled.

‘Her Majesty would kill for a cup of tea, apparently,' said Lola. ‘Not interrupting anything, am I?'

‘No, no,' said Jean. ‘Tea's almost ready, come in, my dear, come in.'

Maggie rubbed at her eyes, wondering what she must look like, and moved over to perch at the counter while Jean turned to fuss over the porridge.

A few minutes later Kate padded into the room in her pyjamas. ‘Just like the old days, Mum, isn't it?' she said, smiling. ‘With Maggie being here.'

‘It is,' said Jean, smiling at the three of them.

In that moment Maggie felt the familiar low-level anxiety that she'd been carrying for so many years, like a too-tight belt around her waist, simply fall away.

Just then Pearl ran into the kitchen, closely followed by Tim.

‘Mummy!' Pearl cried, taking a running jump into her arms and almost bowling her over. Tim smiled and kissed her on the cheek. ‘Hello,' he said. ‘All right?'

Maggie smiled in response.
Yes
, she thought to herself.
All right indeed.

She looked about her then, trying to soak up all the joy – good friends and family, whom she loved so very much. Maggie felt a spark of wild happiness flare within her, filling her with a dizzying warmth. It was almost like basking in a patch of sunshine. It was everything she had always longed for. And more.

AIMÉE: Quebec, 1941

When we came upon the Canada coast it was almost dark, and blowing a gale on deck. With Newfoundland in our sights, and feeling the chill, I asked Jacques for my big wool coat, the one with the fur collar. My faithful companion, he went immediately below deck to fetch it. He's a good man. I don't know what I'd do without him. Europe proved too much for us after the darkness fell. We fled for safety. And so here we are. Just Jacques and me. Starting again.

My distant cousins emigrated to Quebec in the twenties and thrived. It's the only link the de la Coursignons of Normandy have to this place, but it will have to be enough. When the army requisitioned Father's estate there wasn't any real reason to hold on. I'd no claim to it anyway, French law being what it is. And it had fallen into ruins long before.

Who knows who will inherit my ancestral home when – or if – the dust ever settles? I have all that I need with me. My mother's books and my memories. Everything else is scattered now. Gone, like a silly girl's dreams.

Bernard and I went back to the estate after Father died. It was strange wandering around that empty, echoing château, largely stripped of all its precious things. The rooms whispered to me. All those memories. Of Father and Nounou, Faustine . . . Gaston. Maman. All dead and buried. All long gone. At my age I've learned to let go of most things. I live for today, and I am never afraid. Not of death, even.

Bernard always said France would turn on itself. I'm glad he didn't live to see it. He went in the night, a long time ago. Peaceful and dignified, it was just like him to make his exit so calmly. Several
decades spent entwined with another human being . . . It takes some practice to learn how to live again, after that. But Jacques keeps me steady. He was with me and Bernard for so long, taking care of us, he's almost like a son to me now, and I'm like his parent.

Funny, my marriage to Bernard never did save the estate. In the East they say marriage comes first, love later. So it was with Bernard and me. I don't know why I was so scared, assuming that he would hurt me, or stifle me, and keep me locked up in a prison. Like my father had done.

It all came out after the wedding, the truth. My father had held in his pocket all of the gendarmes in the region, so his crime went unpunished for many years. Until the money leached away . . . then it was over. He couldn't hide his lies any more, and Amandine's ghost came for him. If Father had meant to kill Maman when he struck, I'll never know. He was found, the day after the wedding that didn't go ahead, in his study, his desk piled with bills and credit notes. He'd used a gun. I couldn't mourn him.

Ah, Gaston. I still burn with shame to remember that morning in his room . . .

After I awoke from my faint, I said goodbye to Faustine and gave her that wretched collar, telling her to do with it as she would. Faustine was so kind to me, in the end, and bade me good luck – I think she was afraid of Father, too. But I wanted her to have something. I didn't think I'd need it, if I threw myself from a bridge, which was what I had intended. I was desperate, and thinking of desperate things. But Bernard came to claim me, taking me away from the château and Father, just as he'd promised, until we were properly married. A quiet affair, unlike our first attempt. As he scooped me up in his arms I realised, for the first time, what it could be like to be cared for. I couldn't help but stare at him. Into those kind eyes. Still as an alpine lake, Bernard's surface belied such depths beneath!

That first night away from home, he told me how much he loved me. Strange, intense, awkward me. He had from the very first moment he saw me – he said it was like a thunderbolt. Dazed, I accepted the
strangeness, the unforeseen nature of it, but I admit it took me a while to realise how much he desired me. Even now, the memory of his fingers – stubby, calloused and confident – against my skin raises a shiver on my flesh. He was my breath and my longing.

After we married, I asked him to take me with him on his journeys across the oceans. It took little convincing – he couldn't stay in one place, but couldn't bear being away from me. So we sailed the briny deep together, on our boat. Only months into our marriage, Bernard took me to Cairo. Oh, what a place! The spice markets, the food, the mysterious and unknowable pyramids. I fell madly in love, with the place and with him. Egypt was just the beginning. We went everywhere; Italy, Germany, England . . . even to Australia once on a year-long journey, crossing the desert by horse and train. He gave me the world, my husband. And all I had to give him was me.

There was nothing that I loved more than to be standing on the deck of a ship, wind blowing in my hair, watching for the sight of land, as his strong arms wrapped around my waist. And those dreamy, becalmed afternoons in the tropics, when we would lie together, almost naked, on the deck. I couldn't resist licking the salt from his skin, I loved the taste of him.

I couldn't have been happier. A prison for some, maybe, but the institution of marriage set me free. He loved me well. We didn't have children but that suited us – we wouldn't have travelled if we'd been tied down by children and their needs.

Sometimes I wonder what happened to my wedding dress and that beautiful choking collar. Did Faustine keep it, or did she sell it for a pittance? Or to someone, perhaps, who saw it for what it was? Who knows . . . It was all so many moons ago. Has my precious made her own passage in time, singing her siren song? Has she been worn ever since? Or did Faustine simply throw her away? Was she burned up in hungry flames, reduced to ashes like much of my country?

Eat Me, Drink Me, Love Me.
The words that I stitched inside the collar, from my beloved Rossetti. Yes, I wanted to be possessed, consumed. Utterly and entirely. And so I was. But now I think about it, those words
must also mean love and sacrifice – forgoing temptation to save a loved one, and save them from themselves.

Bernard stood by me when the trouble broke out – the stories of Father's money troubles, and what he had hidden. It all came out in the end. How foolish to think his crime would be forgotten. But how foolish of Maman too, to underestimate him. When she fell in love with Terence, her groom, she sealed her fate. I feel sorry for the both of them. When Father went mad, my fears went with him.

What do I think of love now, and its twisting turns? Its uncertain geography?

Well, I doubt that there's one true path to it. The heart can lead, but it can also betray. Sometimes it infects us with insidious longing – for something less like love than a mirror could hope to be. We listen to its beat and go down strange alleys, doubling back, often many times, before we find our true north. Find our peace in the tangible, the true, the real.

Love. It's a mystery to me, always will be.

But what an adventure.