Love Always

by Harriet Evans

  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. ‘Abs
olutely 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.

  Chapter Eleven

  The sleeper train from Penzance has a special platform to itself, outside the main station. I like that; it accords it a proper position. In summer, it can be a trying experience. It is always crowded, frequently extremely hot (the air conditioning is temperamental), and it gets light so early that, as a child, I would wake at three-thirty and never be able to get back to sleep, lying there on the top bunk under the scratchy blue blankets, tossed about by the motion of the train.

  Mum would come down again at the end of the summer to take me back to London, unless Granny was coming up herself, and I always hated it when Mum arrived because I hated leaving Summercove. It was like leaving a fairytale palace behind, a warm, airy, sweet-smelling palace where I was free, where my grandmother was always there so I never got lonely, and where the sun shone and Jay and I were together. Back in London we knew September would be racing to catch us, damp-drenched mornings when the sun rose later and colder, and winter lay just around the corner, putting me and especially my mother into a funk that would last till spring.

  On the train back I would always go over the holiday in my head, committing it all to memory. The walk to Logan’s Rock, and the terrifying winds that threaten to blow you off to the treacherous waters beneath. Sitting outside at the Minack Theatre, an amphitheatre carved into the cliffs, screaming with laughter at A Midsummer Night’s Dream. Jay and I clambering down through the rocks to the beach below the house; the astonishing green and blue of the water, the ginger beer that was sharp and sweet, at the same time, on your tongue. The warmth, the wet, the wildness, the knowledge that being in Cornwall is like being in a different country, and that every mile you draw away from it is like leaving a part of you behind. Yes, I thought it was like something out of a fairytale.

  After we’ve paid Mike and waved him off, Octavia and I stand on the blustery quayside, at the entrance to the station.

  ‘Do you know what carriage you are?’ I ask, my tone almost formal.

  She shakes her head. ‘I have to go and pick my tickets up from the machine.’

  ‘Oh,’ I say. ‘Right.’

  We are silent. I look down at my black boots. I pulled them on this morning, at five-thirty, in the dark. It seems like a lifetime ago.

  ‘So, I’ve already got my ticket,’ I say, waving the orange card at her. ‘I think I’ll—’

  ‘Yes, yes,’ she says, a touch too eagerly. ‘Well, it was . . .’ she trails off. ‘Er, good to see you.’

  Someone hurries past us, dragging a suitcase on wheels. It crackles loudly over the tarmac. ‘Look, Natasha,’ Octavia says, after another silence. ‘I’m sorry. Perhaps I shouldn’t have said it like that.’ She holds her hands up. Don’t blame me. ‘I just thought you’d have heard. You know, everyone’s always . . .’ She trails off again, and crosses her arms defensively. ‘It’s all water under the bridge, I suppose.’

  ‘It’s clearly not though, is it?’ I say. ‘It’s anything but that. It explains a lot, anyway.’ I’m trying not to sound angry. ‘Look, your mum’s always had it in for my mum and I’ve never known why, and now I do. That’s why I’m not surprised.’

  ‘You understand why now.’ Octavia nods, as if to say, Good. She’s finally getting it.

  ‘No, I don’t believe it, Octavia. What I mean is,’ I say, breathing deeply, ‘I understand why you’ve always been so vile to us now. I mean, did your mother tell you this herself?’

  ‘Not in so many words,’ Octavia says. ‘You don’t sit down and explain something like that – we just always knew. Dad, too. And Uncle Jeremy. That’s why he never comes back.’ She shrugs.

  ‘Well, as you like. I don’t believe for a second, a second –’ and I raise my voice so I’m speaking as loudly as possible without shouting, and I can hear myself, high above the clinking masts in the harbour, above the train engine – ‘that my mother killed Cecily, or anyone. I don’t know what happened, but I know that much.’ I sling my bag over my shoulder.

  ‘Hey –’ she begins. ‘That’s just what they say. I’m just saying—’

  ‘No,’ I interrupt. ‘Let’s not go into it again, OK? I think I’m going to get on, now. See you around then. Thanks for—‘ I don’t know what to thank her for, but since I’ve started I think I’d better finish. ‘Er – thanks for sharing the taxi fare with me.’

  Octavia nods back – what else can she do? – and says, ‘No problem.’

  I don’t look back at her as I walk towards the train. I pray I don’t bump into her again, but I’m pretty sure she’ll steer clear of me this time. She thinks she’s done me a favour. That’s what upsets me most of all. Pointed out how stupid I’ve been.

  In the summer the buffet car is always full; people arrive as early as possible to get a seat so they’re not shut into their cabins, which are initially cute but soon become claustrophobic. In winter, the car is nearly empty, and after I have dumped my bag in the single-bed cabin and admired the free set of toiletries, I settle down into one of the single seats by the window, with a table and a lamp, and put my bag in front of me. I look around hastily again, but Octavia hasn’t appeared. The diary pages are still in my pocket. I sit there, and the train pulls slowly away from the station, and I don’t know what to feel.

  There’s a Times on the opposite seat – the guard obviously missed it – and I pick it up. I order some tea and biscuits, even though I’m not hungry, and I start reading the paper. The news absorbs me. I read about a cabinet plot to oust the Prime Minister, the flooding all over the country, the travails of a minor sportsman and his ‘celebrity’ wife, what’s happening in a reality TV show, which MP has tried to claim an antique rug on expenses. I feel as if I’ve been away for a long time, and I am gathering information to piece myself back together, bit by bit.

  I know before I turn the page to the Obituaries section that I will see a photo of my grandmother, scarf in her hair, a broad smile curling over her perfect teeth, brush in hand, a mug of tea and painting paraphernalia – palette, brushes, rags, turps – cluttered around her, in the studio I was standing in over an hour ago. It looks completely different, crammed with canvases, postcards stuck on the walls, pot plants, a gramophone.

  Something c
atches in my throat. She is smiling out at me. It’s like Cecily’s face, shining out of the drawer.

  Frances Seymour

  Highly acclaimed observer of Cornish landscape who never painted after 1963

  Frances Seymour, who has died at the age of eighty-nine, was what one would call a star. Not for her the flamboyance, the tantrums and temperamentality, clichés of the artist: she was universally beloved, charismatic and beautiful, a magnet for men and women alike; her house, the beautiful Summercove near Treen in Cornwall, open to all and a haven for friends and family. She lit up every room she was in and her company was a rare gift.

  Because of her charm and force of personality it is easy to forget, therefore, the gap Seymour created when she abandoned painting after the death of her youngest daughter Cecily, in a tragic accident. Frances never forgave herself for her daughter’s death, and some have speculated this was her form of penance, for the events of that summer in 1963. This is not established. What it is important to establish, however, is the role Frances Seymour played before that in sealing the reputation of British painting in the mid-twentieth century.

  Frances Seymour was not a Cornish painter, or a female painter. She was simply one of the most talented artists of the last century.

  This was my grandmother, I want to shout. I want to wave the paper out of the window, like the Kind Old Gentleman in The Railway Children. Look how clever she was, how brilliant!

  Tears come to my eyes, and I’m crying, I can’t help it. I don’t understand anything any more. I keep hearing Octavia’s voice, and when I close my eyes I can see her large grey eyes, her pointy noise, looming at me in the dark, as she oh-so-carefully stabs my mother in the back, over and over again. I want to hate her, to laugh at her, but I can’t. I ask myself why I can’t.