‘I brought the urn, Hal,’ she gasped, crossing the room to pick up the blue leather bag and clasping it to her chest. ‘Beth’s … remains … I thought I wanted them near but I can’t look at them a day longer and I didn’t know what … or where … and so then I had this idea that we could drive out together and pick a spot on the beach – you and me – a quiet place where we could, you know, cast them into the sea, like people do … Hal?’ Diane could feel her chest pumping against the bag. She took a step nearer the wheelchair. ‘Hal, it’s not too much to ask, is it? People do it all the time. Ashes into water.’ Whispering the last words, she drew the urn out of the bag. It was ceramic, a smooth dark blue. The man at the funeral home had helped her choose it from a catalogue. The lid was snug and good.
‘Jesus, Diane, it’s my fucking birthday.’
‘I know, Hal.’ She stroked the smooth clay, loving its cool. ‘I know and I’m sorry. I would have saved this for another visit, but I didn’t know when that would be. It’s hard for me to get out, these days, Hal. I can’t manage the drive and car-hire is costly and I tire so easily …’
Her brother’s head had sunk deeper into his thick neck, like a tortoise trying to retreat into its shell. He was shaking his head, shielding his eyes with his hands. ‘I’m not sure I’m ready for this …’
Diane could see the time had come to be stern. Why was he making it so hard? She had lost a daughter, for Christ’s sake. All he had lost was a niece, a niece with whom he had never got along anyway; a niece who, in his own words, had ‘disgraced the family’ and whom Diane had obligingly spent a lifetime not forcing down his throat. If anyone had suffered emotionally over their rift, it was her.
‘Hal, I’m the one trying to hold it together here,’ she pointed out, her voice brittle. She cradled the urn to her chest. ‘Bethan – Beth,’ she corrected herself, remembering how much the full name had been hated, ‘was my daughter, remember? And literally the only thing that’s been helping me through these past months is the fact of how ill she was before she died. She had been drinking again, Hal – they’re certain that’s why the fire got the better of her. And she was back on one of her starvation kicks – her wrists were like sticks.’ Diane snapped her mouth shut. Her nose was running badly. She dabbed at it with the back of her hand, digging deep for composure. ‘Her marriage had folded,’ she continued more smoothly. ‘She was a mess. In fact, I think a part of her probably wanted to die. And though I miss her, I keep reminding myself of that.’ Calm now, liking how this sounded, Diane was disappointed to see her brother’s face do the white, hard thing it did when he was going to say something hurtful.
‘I fathered that child, Diane.’
She took a step back but he said it again, leaning towards her, gripping the arms of his wheelchair as if preparing to launch himself out of it. ‘Beth’s child,’ he hissed, ‘the one that made her so sick when it was removed. Not that boy we blamed. Me. You know it. You’ve always known. You just won’t say it. You never would. But I’m going to die soon, Diane, and I need to confront it … to atone. The padre has been helping me.’
The girl in the white uniform came in with a tray but Diane did not see her. She moved towards her brother but forgot the urn. It slipped from her hands and rolled across the carpet. She had thought she was safe with Hal, of all people. Everyone needed someone and she had always had Hal. He had been her protection, against penury, against pain, against herself, against the truth. The disgusting truth. She flew at him, teeth, nails, spitting. The tea girl rang a bell and other people came into the room, all trying to pull her away.
Diane fought on, smacking at his wide, bald head, snapping her nails as she tore at his clothes. And she wept. She wept and would not stop – howls that swelled her lips and wore the skin off her throat; so heart-rending that the padre, summoned to help restore calm, confided later to a fellow pastor that it was as if the devil himself was pouring out of the woman’s soul, ripping her entrails as it went.
24
18 December
Dear William,
Thank you so much for your Christmas card and letter. It was very thoughtful of you to write.
You had so much good news. I am happy for you. You deserve contentment, William, I always thought that. That you could not find it with Beth is not something I want you ever to beat yourself up about. She had coped with many difficulties – some you know of and others, happily, you have no need of knowing – and I’m afraid that in the end they all caught up with her.
I am so glad you have found someone else. You didn’t say who she was or how you met, but I am certain Beth – wherever she is! – must be happy for you too. She loved you so much, William, and when you love someone all you want is for them to be happy, isn’t that right?
It has been a very difficult year for me. I fell sick in the summer and then my brother, Hal, passed away in the fall. But he was a wealthy man and as his only surviving relative I have been able to move into a luxurious gated residence in the Keys. There are views of the sea on both sides, a private pool and beautifully maintained gardens. I am lucky enough to have my own live-in housekeeper – a dear, Mexican girl – who takes care of my every need. And Dido’s too, of course! Thank you for the offer of shipping her to the UK, but she is a much happier cat since we left the condo. She can take or leave me (she always could), but she adores Bienvenida – and I am doing my best to win her round!
When I say ill, I mean I had something of a breakdown. I see a therapist now and that helps. For, as I am discovering, one is never too old to start to try and make sense of life. And having someone to talk to – someone who won’t judge – is such a comfort, especially if, like me, you are short on friends and have made a darn mess of so many things.
You might be interested to know that I finally got around to laying Beth’s remains under the brightest of the bougainvillaea in the gardens here. I didn’t make a fuss of it – just tipped them out and watered them in – not even the landscaper knows! But it makes me happy to have her nearby.
Say well done to Harry for me. They are such great kids, William, I am sure they must make you very proud.
It goes without saying that you should all visit if ever you find yourselves coming this way. Maybe you are planning a house swap in Florida with your new girlfriend?!
Warmest wishes and Happy Holidays!
Diane
Acknowledgements
One of the pleasures of writing this book was that it took me across the Atlantic by way of research. So a huge thank-you, first, to my husband, Mark, for our very enjoyable spring trip to soak up the sights of New York; and second, to my dear friend and ‘co-researcher’ Gilly, who helped me explore Connecticut the following November. What made that second visit so invaluable was the kindness of my old friends Monica and Simon Gill, who showed us round the area and their beautiful Darien home, not minding my notebook and endless lists of questions. The plot took several swerves as a result of their crucial input.
Back home I sought further ‘American’ advice via the always welcoming and wise conduit of ex-Connecticut resident Greg Barron and his sister-in-law Eve Sundelson Barron – both of whom compiled wonderfully detailed and informative emails on any subject I cared to raise. Greg, a fellow novelist, also performed the generous favour of proof-reading the manuscript to weed out any howlers vis-à-vis my American places and people.
For ‘musical’ advice, I must thank Richard Mayo, who gave me all the facts I needed to hammer out the career path of Andrew Chapman, while Sara Westcott stepped in – as always – to offer help on matters medical.
Finally, I want to use this page to express my debt of gratitude to Field House at St Edward’s School and its incomparable housemaster Richard Murray. A champion of literature and most excellent friend and custodian to the children in his care – to work with such peace of mind as a parent was a luxury indeed.
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Before I Knew You Page 35
