The Full Legacy (21 page)

She was talking very quietly. I moved closer, so that I could hear more clearly.

She continued...

‘I suppose in the early sixties, in London, at art school, and reckless and chaotic as she could be, it was inevitable that she’d go and get herself pregnant.

The father... I guess I may as well use his name as you know it anyway... Per... was a waster... an armchair anarchist and third-rate poet. He thought that all you had to do was fling words at a page... the cruder the better... and then just sit back while everyone gasped in amazement. He picked Sylvia up when she was heading for one of her manic phases and seduced her in some sleazy Earls Court bedsit with the Beat poets and enough cannabis and alcohol to send her completely off-beam. He was already an alcoholic. He had the shakes when she introduced him to me in London. He couldn’t wait to get to the bar for ‘a hair of the dog’. I guess he just couldn’t face his utter lack of talent sober. I could see that he was already starting to back off too... He had that shiftiness about him that I’d seen so many times in Sylvia’s boyfriends as the full enormity of her condition started to dawn on them.’

She paused and gazed out of the window, towards the sky. The blue light played on her upturned face, dappling and moving down into the whiter pool from the anglepoise.

‘I tried to intervene as soon as I realised what was happening. But it was too late. Sylvia was already pregnant. Per was horrified when she told him. He said he’d pay for an abortion but, as far as he was concerned, that was where his responsibility ended.... And then he did a runner. We couldn’t find him anywhere.

Sylvia was in pieces. However pathetic the man was, she loved him. And she couldn’t bear the idea of terminating the pregnancy.’

‘Which is when you suggested that you and Stephen could adopt the baby?’

She shrugged. ‘It seemed like the perfect solution at the time. We wanted a child so desperately and there didn’t seem much hope anymore of that ever happening naturally for us. I was getting older and more tired, and the miscarriages had taken their toll, emotionally as well as physically. So when Sylvia turned up at our door carrying a child she hadn’t planned and would never be able to properly care for it seemed like heaven had sent us the perfect solution.... But it wasn’t an adoption as such. We were afraid that would take too long. And we didn’t want our parents to know. They would have been embarrassed and ashamed to have their unmarried daughter pregnant. So Sylvia signed up with a private consultant under my name. Turner was born that summer. Sylvia didn’t even need to take time off college. She was sad when she handed Turner over to us, of course she was. But she knew that she would always be a massive part of her life... Her Auntie Sylvia... The two of them would have had such wonderful times together. We never would have deprived either of them of that. Never would have wanted to.’

‘But then she changed her mind?’ I knew that she must have, or things would never have gone so badly wrong.

She nodded. ‘Per changed her mind. Turned up at Sylvia’s door begging forgiveness, asking her to marry him, demanding his daughter back. Maybe Sylvia wanted it too. She
was
so sad when she handed Turner to us.... and I’d been worried when I saw her beginning to spiral down into depression. But we all thought that was just natural – hormonal even – and she’d get over it.

Anyway, she told me the day before the christening. I didn’t believe it at first.
Couldn’t
believe that she would go back on her word and betray us like that. The house was full of guests and I was terrified that someone would hear, so I suggested that we went up to the church to check the flowers for the next day. I thought we could talk properly in the car.... That I would be able to make her see sense. I pleaded with her. But she was so cold. I tried to reason with her. Asked her how she thought she could cope with a baby when she was ill. She said that Per would look after them both, which was just laughable really. All I could see was my precious baby girl starving in some filthy hovel while Per smoked pot and drank himself to oblivion. I knew he wouldn’t let us see her. He’d already cast us as the villains of the piece, using our unearned wealth to buy the child we couldn’t have by rights. I tried to get across to her what it would be like. Told her how distraught Mom and Dad would be. Told her it would break Stephen’s heart. But she just shook her head and said, “I’m sorry Joyce, but she’s
our
kid... mine and Per’s.... And you’ll just have to give her back.” I knew that stubborn stupid look of hers, and I knew she’d made up her mind.

In that instant, I thought I knew what I had to do. I was driving Stephen’s Bentley. I slammed down on the brakes and pretended that I’d hit a rabbit. She always loved animals. Couldn’t bear to see them hurt...’ Her voice wobbled as she remembered....  ‘And when she got out of the car to see if she could do anything, I put my foot on the accelerator and ran over her. Just like that. I remember her face through the windscreen as I hit her, that look of utter terror and disbelief. I regretted it instantly. Almost fell out of the car to help her. But it was too late. Her neck was broken. I held her and I heard myself wailing like a madwoman. Shaking her as if she might just be unconscious and I could wake her up and it would all be okay. One of the local farmers came round the corner on his tractor and found me like that. It’s funny you know, in the end, it was so easy. Just one moment of insanity and it’s done and no amount of praying or tears or remorse can change it.... And all I could think was “This will haunt me all the days of my life”.... I don’t expect you to understand.’

But I did. I pictured her in the dust at the side of the road, cradling her sister in her arms, blood on the pretty summer dress she’d put on so happily that morning. All her hopes, her dreams, her sense of herself as a good person, destroyed. And my heart went out to her.

I wish I’d told her that.

‘Did Turner’s father know what you’d done?’ I asked.

She laughed bitterly. ‘Which one?.... Per was in London. He was too much of a coward to come here and support Sylvia in doing his dirty work. He made a big show of himself at the funeral, but he never attempted to claim paternity once Sylvia was gone.... And Stephen..? Yes, I’m sure he suspected, but he never asked me and I never told him. It was probably because of his family connections here that the police never looked too closely at the car. I told them it was a hit and run. That Sylvia had got out of the car and someone had come too fast round the corner, throwing her against the front of mine and then racing away without stopping. I’m sure if they’d examined our car properly they’d have been suspicious but they were too caught up in the tragedy of it all and too keen to earn brownie points with the local squire to do their jobs properly.’

‘It’s funny,’ I said. ‘I think I saw Per in London last week... blonde guy... big... handsome once...’

‘
You’d
be lucky. He died of organ failure, begging down the Underground, three years ago.’

She laughed bitterly.

Then the shock hit her.

We stared at each other in silence for a long time.

‘Your father
told
me that you were a more powerful medium than he had ever been,’ she said at last. ‘He loved you very much, you know. He loved your mother too, though he always talked about her more like a fond parent than a husband. He kept up to date with the family news via his brother. He was so proud when she became an actress. And he followed everything she did. He wrote about her as if she were a latter-day Ellen Terry, though from what I can see of her career she’s been more of a B-List Barbara Windsor. It broke his heart when she stopped him seeing you.’

‘I’m sure she had her reasons.’

‘Was he not a good father then?’

‘I don’t know.’ I remembered how he would sit with me when the shadows came; talking to me, holding my hand, explaining things and telling me that there was “nothing to fear but fear itself”. It was another of his favourite sayings. I’d never believed that it was strictly true. As far as I could see the world was full of hidden dangers.

‘You’ve inherited a great gift from him,’ she said.

‘I don’t want it!’ I sounded like a sulky kid.

‘Well,’ she snapped. ‘We can’t always have what we want!’

I felt myself flinch and saw the sadness flash across her eyes. ‘There I go again,’ she said. ‘That sharp tongue of mine. It’s so ingrained now. I never used to be this way.’

‘It’s okay. I asked for it.’

‘And I didn’t mean to be rude about your mother.’

‘No worries. You’re only saying what a lot of people think.’

‘Turner has always been out of control,’ she said. ‘Even as a child she was always getting into trouble, reckless, and utterly indifferent to anyone’s opinion of her. It’s a fatal combination with the mood swings. She’s inherited her mother’s condition, you see. It’s not as extreme as Sylvia’s and she does, generally, stick to her medication. But it’s not easy for her. And it’s
certainly
not easy for the people who love her. Do you think you’re up to handling something like that?’

I wondered. I wasn’t sure. Then I found myself thinking about Corinne and her moods – that wildness she had – and the dark times. I wondered, with a slight flash of resentment, if Luke had actually joined the dots years ago and just chosen not to tell me. He probably hadn’t. It’s amazing how much can be covered over within the privacy of a relationship.

‘I don’t know,’ I said. ‘I think so.’

‘Good! Because I think she loves you.’

My heart leapt. ‘No...’ I protested, not daring to hope for that.

‘I think she does. She’s hard to read - doesn’t show her emotions. It’s partly the medication - but it’s mainly because of growing up with me. Give her the benefit of the doubt. And if you can persuade her, she needs to leave this house and all its awful memories behind. We have a villa in France. She’d be happier there. She always was. She should sell this place. When I’m gone, she needn’t feel tied to it anymore.’

I wondered – stupidly – where she was going.

‘She won’t want to stay anyway,’ she added. ‘Not after tonight.’

I thought afterwards that that was the moment when I should have known. But I was still too wrapped up in my own concerns – seeking a get-out clause for my own guilty conscience.

‘There was a phone call to my friend Mary on the night she died,’ I said. ‘I think Turner may have mentioned it to you earlier. Do you know anything that could help me to make sense of it?’

I saw her whole body stiffen. Her face grew taut. Briefly, her left hand flew up to her heart and stayed there a moment, as if she were soothing it. Then she appeared to take a deep breath and reached down to open a drawer to her left on the workbench. It was obviously old and made of solid wood. I heard it judder as she pulled at it.

‘I sometimes despair of my daughter,’ she said. ‘But I
have
always
loved her. I’ve loved her beyond everything. And I would do anything to protect her.’

She took something out of the drawer and laid it on the bench in front of her.

It was a gun.

‘This belonged to my husband’s father,’ she said, flatly. ‘During the “Great” War, he used it single-handedly to defend a wounded comrade against the enemy. He was awarded a medal for his bravery. Stephen was so proud of him. I never met the man, but from everything I heard about him, I can tell you that he was a violent, arrogant bully who systematically ground the spirit out of his son.’

She picked it up and turned it in her hands, as if she were feeling the full weight of its heroic past.

‘I think it reassured Stephen to keep it,’ she said. ‘His fall-back for the day when it was all finally too much.... Of course, he couldn’t do it and the cancer killed him in the end.’

Now she’d made her confession, it occurred to me, finally, that she must be planning on killing herself. I glanced at the sheet of paper on the workbench. A suicide note of course. How could I have been so blind?

‘I’m so... so sorry about your friend,’ she said, her voice shaking. ‘It’s just so tragic. It should never have turned out that way. We tried to stop her.’

Who were the “they”? And who did they try to stop? Mary - or Turner? Somehow, in that moment, I couldn’t bring myself to ask. I stared at the gun and willed her to put it down. I wondered if I should try to keep her talking like they always did in TV dramas. Or maybe I should run and shout for Turner? I had no idea what to do for the best. So I played for time.

‘What happened?’ I asked. ‘Do you know?’

‘No. It was an accident. She can’t have been looking where she was going. She was just in a blind panic... like an animal that’s been spooked. That panic when they just run and run. But I didn’t know... truly. We never could have imagined it could have turned out that way. No-one could have predicted it.’

‘Did you actually see it?’

Or was this just Turner’s version of events?

‘I didn’t see it, I promise you. I didn’t know. I wouldn’t have just left her if I’d known.’

She was turning the gun over and over in her hands.

‘Apparently there’s just one bullet,’ she said. ‘My husband was a perfect marksman. It was in his blood, I guess. He used to love all that stuff. Fishing, hunting, shooting... Chasing across muddy fields on horses on Boxing Day in antiquated outfits when anyone in their right mind is tucked up indoors in front of a roaring fire with a good book and a plateful of those godawful mince pies you Brits are so fond of. I’m a New Yorker, born and raised. I never got any of that enthusiasm for blood sports. Turner never did either. It was one of the few things we had in common.’

‘Well,’ I said gently, remembering the magnificent paintings in Turner’s London flat. ‘That and your love of art.’

She smiled. ‘Yes. There
is
that... though she never could tell one end of a paintbrush from another.’

She looked down at the gun. ‘Just one bullet,’ she said quietly. ‘That’s risky. What if your hand shakes at the last minute? What if you don’t quite hit the target? That could be dreadful, I think’