Love Always

by Harriet Evans

  ‘I’m not on anyone’s “side”.’ I swallow. ‘It’s just they say that—’

  ‘“They”?’ my mother says, smiling. ‘Who are “they”, please?’

  ‘Well –’ I stutter. ‘Octavia and – Louisa, and – the rest of them.’

  She nods. ‘Exactly.’ Her eyes flash a little as she sees my expression. ‘That’s very nice. And my own daughter believes them.’ She leans back on the counter. ‘Louisa has no evidence, you know. This is a land grab, don’t you see that?’ She raises her eyebrows so they disappear into her tinted fringe. ‘They’re all trying to ruin me, to make themselves feel better, now Mummy’s gone.’

  I shake my head. ‘I don’t think Louisa’s trying to – to do anything, Mum. She just said—’

  Mum’s face is flushed. ‘Oh, if you knew what I know . . .’ She stops. She is almost laughing; her mouth opens without sound. Then she says, ‘What I’ve put up with, since I was a little girl, from all of them. You don’t know what it was like.’

  I find that all my fear of saying these things I’ve never wanted to say has gone. All the thoughts I’ve been bottling up over the past weeks, over the past thirty years. ‘That’s rubbish!’ My voice is loud, harsh. ‘You’re always trying to be horrible about Granny. All she ever tried to do was look after you.’

  Mum gives a weird shriek, something between laughter and hysteria. ‘Her? Look after me! Oh, that’s a joke.’ She shakes her head. ‘Yes, that’s funny.’ She stops. She looks at a nail and cautiously bites the edge of it. Then she mutters something to herself, something I can’t hear.

  ‘Octavia said I should ask Guy,’ I say calmly. ‘She says he knows what happened.’

  My mother is pulling a smooth ribbon of her hair through her long fingers. She stops at this and laughs. ‘Guy again?’ She bites her lip. ‘Oh, he’s everywhere now, isn’t he? He’s really crawled out of the woodwork! Go on, ask away! I’d be interested to see what he has to say for himself.’

  ‘What does that mean?’

  She is speaking so fast she can’t quite get the words out. ‘Listen to me, Nat, darling. In all this, there’s no one I hate more than Guy Leighton.’

  ‘Oh, come on, Mum—’

  Her eyes are burning. ‘He’s full of shit, always has been, and he hides behind some kind of nice-guy liberalism – I sell antiques, I live in Islington, I like Umbria more than fucking Tuscany.’ She is almost spitting, and the red spots on her cheeks are spreading. ‘He’s fake. He’s worse than the Bowler Hat. At least you know the Bowler Hat’s a lazy fucking right-wing lech. Guy’s worse. He’s the biggest hypocrite of the lot.’ Her expression is twisted and her face is ugly. ‘I’m the one in this family that everyone hates and you know why? Because it’s easier to hate me than look any deeper at them. She slipped, the path was slippery, fine, it wasn’t my fault. But I still saw it. I saw her die, and she was my sister, and it ruined my life. No one understands that.’

  I don’t know what to say to her, she’s so full of self-righteous anger. She has that quality that a lot of people like her have in spades: I have to be right. Suddenly I find my courage. ‘Stop feeling sorry for yourself, Mum,’ I say. ‘Start taking responsibility for things.’

  She bares her teeth at me and lifts her head slightly. And she looks at me with such naked contempt I almost step back. This woman is a stranger, I don’t know her. ‘Oh, you were always a self-righteous little prig, Natasha, even when you were little,’ she says clearly, an edge of cold anger in her voice. ‘God, I loathe that about you. All this – it’s just so you can have a go at me, accuse me of being a bad mother and blame me for your own little life going off the rails. Isn’t it?’ And then her eyes fill with tears. ‘It’s been hard for me,’ she says. ‘You don’t know what it’s like. They all hated me.’

  ‘Oh, Mum, they didn’t.’ I am sick of this play-acting. ‘No one hated you. You just . . .’ I trail off, I don’t know what to say. You’re just not very nice? You’re a bad person?

  ‘Mummy hated me, Cecily hated me.’ Her voice is rising, whining like a dog’s, and it’s horrible. She moves towards me and I step back again. ‘I was all on my own, with a baby, for years.’ She wipes a tear away. ‘You do have to accept me for how I am, darling. I’m not some fifty-something housewife with a middle-aged spread and a store card at Marks and Spencer.’ She shakes her hair a little, with some kind of assumed bravado. ‘I’m not that kind of mum. I’m different.’

  It’s only then that I can feel myself losing it. It’s the shake of her hair, the artificial way she’s talking, the character she’s constructed for herself – she claims it’s for survival, and I am sure it’s to cover something up. At any rate, I can feel rage bubbling just underneath me. ‘You’ve never been a mum at all!’ I shout at her. ‘What are you talking about?’

  ‘I tried to do my best by you . . .’ Her voice is like a whimper. ‘And then you went and got married, you totally rejected me . . .’

  I hear my voice screaming at her, as if it’s someone else. ‘Why do you think I got married? I wanted to get away from you!’ I am shaking, adrenalin is pumping through me, and I don’t care any more.

  ‘Oli liked me!’ she hisses, coming closer towards me. I laugh, as though this is the crux of the argument.

  ‘Of course he did,’ I say, smiling an ugly smile, blinking slowly. ‘You’re exactly the same, that’s why. I can’t believe how stupid I was, I married to get away from you and I went and married someone exactly like you.’ I put my hands to my burning cheeks and slide them up so I’m covering my eyes. ‘I can’t believe I’m saying all this. This is not the point. We’re not discussing me, we’re talking about you.’

  ‘About me!’ She laughs, eyes flashing. ‘What, with your cheating husband and this stupid, freezing studio with your necklaces no one wants to buy, just so you can get Granny’s approval?’ She rubs her arms with her hands, her eyes practically popping out of her head; it’s so strange, how I really don’t recognise her any more. I see – for the first time, really? – that she is old. There are wrinkles round her eyes, her neck is saggy. I never really noticed before. ‘I just wanted you to do well for yourself. That’s all I ever wanted, so you didn’t end up like me, penniless, pregnant, abandoned by everyone, with no one to love you.’

  ‘That’s not going to happen!’ I shout at her. ‘I’m not you!’

  ‘Oh, yes, yes. Of course.’ She nods sarcastically. ‘What a relief, you’re not me.’

  ‘I’ve got a proper life, a grown-up life, it’s not perfect, but it’s OK. And I don’t want you in it!’ My cheeks are burning hot. I won’t cry. ‘Stay away from me! I don’t want you in my life any more!’

  We are facing each other, her with her arms folded. She registers no emotion whatsoever: my momentary loss of control is enough for her to assert herself again, and the mask is back in place.

  ‘I know you’re lying, Mum,’ I say softly. ‘I know it must be awful, but I know you did something bad that summer. I know you did.’

  ‘Well, I’m sorry you think that,’ she says, smiling the catlike smile again. ‘I wish there was a way I could persuade you otherwise.’

  ‘Did you know Cecily left a diary?’ I say suddenly. ‘Have you seen it?’

  ‘Well, that’s very interesting,’ she says. ‘Have I seen it? Have I seen it? I could ask you the same question. But I know what I know, you see, and I don’t know if I feel like telling you, now.’

  ‘You have seen it?’ I say. ‘You – Mum, tell me.’ I drum my fingers on the counter, almost wild with desperation. My hands are outstretched. ‘Please, Mum. I have to know. Have you?’

  She looks at me almost brazenly, like the bad girl at school who’s just got away with something. Ignoring the question, she slings her bag over her shoulder. ‘I’d better be off,’ she says, as I blink in astonishment. ‘I’m meeting an old friend for drinks. I don’t want to be late.’ She shakes her head, her hair making a slippery sound, like a stream, as it slides over her sh
oulders again. She walks to the door. ‘Can I say something?’

  ‘Of course,’ I say. ‘Natasha – one day you’ll understand,’ she says. ‘I know you think it doesn’t make sense now. But it will, all of it. One day.’

  And then she’s gone, and I am left staring into space. I look up and out of the window at the street. I see my mother leave, fumble in her bag for something, and then take out a lip gloss and apply it. She walks off, tossing her hair again, as I watch her through the dirty window.

  Chapter Thirty

  I meet Jay at Ealing Broadway station, and we double back one stop, to Ealing Common. It’s Sunday lunchtime, and when we get off the Tube the Uxbridge Road is jammed solid. We walk along the main road in silence, our steps exact. I keep looking up at the sky, expecting it to rain.

  ‘Come for lunch at Mum and Dad’s,’ Jay had said that morning, when I’d answered the phone the third time it rang. ‘Dad asked me to ask you. Mum’s made loads of food.’ Jay has been away for work – he has a big job on in Zurich and had to go there almost straight after the funeral. So this is the first time I’ve seen him.

  It’s five days since my showdown with Mum and we still haven’t spoken, but I bet she’s told Archie everything, she always does. I get the feeling I’m being summoned to Ealing so he can waggle his finger at me and try and do his head-ofthe-family bit. Well, he can try, I told myself as I sat on the Tube. I know all about you, uncle. You can try and act like the big head honcho, but it doesn’t wash with me, not now I know you used to peek at your cousin while she was getting undressed, and your own sister thought you were pretty odd.

  We don’t talk much. There’s a faint drizzle, it’s misty and cold. Jay is silent, grumpy, I think he was out late last night.

  As we turn into Creffield Road, Jay’s stride lengthens and I have to skip to keep up with him. ‘How was Zurich then?’ I ask. ‘I missed you.’

  ‘Yeah, it was good.’ Jay is walking faster, his face set with determination like a mountaineer on the final stretch. ‘Fine. Hard work. Sorry I didn’t call properly.’

  ‘It’s fine,’ I say. ‘Hey. Jay—’ I put my hand on his arm. ‘Stop a second. Stop!’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Before we get to your mum and dad’s, I need to tell you something.’

  ‘What?’ He shoots me a half-look, almost nervous. ‘I split up with Oli. It’s permanent.’ We face each other in the quiet suburban street. I am standing on a cracked paving slab; one side rocks when I put my weight on it. ‘It’s not a big deal. I just wanted you to know.’

  ‘I know,’ Jay says. ‘You know I split up with him?’

  ‘Yeah.’ Jay carries on walking. ‘Oh, right,’ I say. ‘Did – your dad told you then?’

  ‘Yes, course. He spoke to your mum.’ There’s a pause. ‘We’re nearly there,’ he says. ‘I am so hungry, man.’

  We turn into the small driveway of Archie and Sameena’s house. It’s almost silent on their street; it always is. The occasional car rumbles past but otherwise all you can hear is the sound of birds. Jay knocks on the door.

  ‘Aah.’ My uncle opens the door with a flourish. ‘You’re here.’ He kisses his son, then me. ‘Natasha. Glad you could come. Good to see you.’

  He’s in his Sunday relaxing outfit, which is nearly identical to his weekday work outfit: pink striped shirt with navy chinos. In summer they’d be khaki chinos. His hair is perfectly combed, his smile is welcoming, but he reminds me so much of my mother: there’s something behind his eyes that I can’t quite define.

  We walk into the plush hall, with the gold leaf mirror and the enamel card table, hung with beautiful old prints of scenes from the Ramayana. The cream carpet is soft and springy under my feet. Archie takes our coats and hangs them, then he turns to us and rubs his hands together.

  ‘Your mother is making a feast today, Sanjay,’ he says. ‘A feast.’

  He ushers us jovially into the kitchen. Though I used to come here all the time, I haven’t been here for a good few months, and I stare around me, impressed. ‘Is this a new kitchen?’

  Archie nods. ‘Oh, yes. Look at the conservatory.’ We walk through the gleaming, ochre-coloured, marble-topped kitchen and out through the French windows. There is a huge conservatory, with matching wicker furniture, china bowls filled with plants. Archie presses a button. ‘Natasha. Look.’ Automatic blinds slide up and down the glass ceiling. ‘Look,’ he says, pointing again, this time at the terracotta floor. ‘Under-floor heating.’ He smiles. ‘Amazing, isn’t it?’

  ‘It sure is.’ I smile back; his enthusiasm is infectious. Jay is smiling too.

  ‘Dad, you’re such a show-off,’ he says. ‘Nat doesn’t care about the under-floor heating.’

  Archie’s face clouds over. ‘Don’t be rude, Sanjay,’ he says sharply. ‘Here’s your mother. Go and say hello.’

  Sameena makes everything all right, she always has done. She bustles into the kitchen, putting the phone back on its cradle. ‘I am sorry. I was just talking to my brother,’ she says. ‘Hello, my darling children!’ She gives us both a big hug. ‘How are you, Natasha? We are so glad you could come today, on such short notice. There is so much food!’

  We sit in the conservatory. Archie has a gin and tonic and we both stick to Coke. Sameena shouts out questions to her son from the kitchen about his trip, what did you eat, what was the hotel like, was the work worthwhile? Archie tells him about the time he went to Zurich, to negotiate a new fleet of cars for ‘an internationally renowned hotel in the centre of the city’ and Jay nods politely and I watch them all, fascinated.

  Because I haven’t seen them all together for a while, and especially of late, what with the end of my own marriage, and because of my huge, horrible row with Mum on Thursday, they are even more interesting to watch than normal. Except for Bryant Court I probably spent more time here as a child than anywhere, at least one day a week after school, and often I’d stay the night. It was so easy for me to get on the Piccadilly line and come over that when I got to be about ten or so I’d do just that, if I knew Mum was going to be out late and I didn’t want another night in by myself. The house has changed innumerable times over the years, barely a season goes by without Archie having something redecorated at vast expense, but Sameena and Jay have always been there.

  During the school holidays, Sameena would often take me and Jay with her to Southall to meet friends, do the shopping for the week – it isn’t far from Ealing Common on the Tube and the train. Sitting in the conservatory I watch her now in the kitchen as she prepares the food, making a huge feast for us all, handmade potato patties, crisp and sweet onion bhajees, fragrant fish curry, with huge plates of dhal and rice, the bangles on her wrist clinking together as she shakes the rice, humming a song to herself and looking out of the window. There are fresh, fat bunches of parsley and coriander on the gleaming marble counter of the beautiful new kitchen. Delicious spices fill the air – I’m used to them from Brick Lane but here they’re better. Jay used to joke that I moved to Brick Lane so I’d be subconsciously reminded of Sameena’s kitchen, and in some small way it’s not a joké, maybe I did.

  Why do I like it round here? Because often, Archie would be away for work and it’d just be the three of us. That’s a terrible thing to say, but it’s true. Sameena is not like my mum. She is a doctor at a local surgery, the kind of person you’d want in a crisis. She can talk to Arvind about home, tell him about Mumbai, a city he loves. She is an amazing cook, a proud Indian woman, and when I’m with her and Jay I feel Indian. It’s not something I often feel – I’m a quarter Punjabi, and I grew up not really questioning where I’m from, because of not knowing about my dad. Summercove was what I clung to, where I wanted to be from. Watching Sameena now, as she pops a piece of spring onion in her mouth and tastes some sauce in a pan, it strikes me that I’ve always been welcome here.

  ‘How is the business, Natasha?’ Archie hands me a bowl of crisps. ‘I understand you’ve been having some problems, is that true?
’

  I don’t ask how he knows. ‘Yep,’ I say, nodding. ‘It’s been pretty bad. But I hope I’m on the right track now.’

  ‘The bank is involved, yes?’

  ‘Yes,’ I say.

  He frowns. ‘It won’t look good if you don’t respect your relationship with them. Be careful.’

  ‘I am,’ I say. ‘I’ve sorted it out. I hope.’

  I’m in no position to get cross about any of this, but I don’t particularly want to discuss it. For the first time in a long time, I don’t like thinking about work at the weekends, which I take as a good sign. It means I’m working during the week, like someone in an office, someone with a proper, organised job.

  ‘Have you thought of getting Jay to take a look at the website again?’ Archie says. ‘Maybe there’s something there you can do.’ He removes his cufflinks and rolls up his shirtsleeves, sniffing the air hopefully. Something is sizzling, deliciously, in the kitchen.

  ‘I’d be happy to,’ Jay says. ‘It’s changing all the time, the way you reach the customer.’

  ‘Yes, that’s true.’ Archie looks at me. ‘Natasha?’

  ‘That’d be great,’ I answer. ‘Thanks, Jay.’

  ‘And maybe, have you thought of advertising in those free local business newsletters? They have one in Spitalfields.’

  ‘They do,’ I say, in surprise. They stock it in all the local shops and restaurants, it’s about the area, who’s keeping bees, who’s got an art gallery opening, who’s organising a vintage tea party club night – it’s very Shoreditch / Spitalfields. ‘That’s a great idea. Thanks, Archie.’

  He’s a good businessman, and he learned by himself – he certainly didn’t pick it up from his parents. Archie nods, as if he’s agreeing with me about his own greatness, which is probably true. ‘I picked up a newsletter in a restaurant last time I was over in the City, having lunch with an – well, I can’t say who he is. Let’s just say important client.’

  Sameena is standing at the door. She rolls her eyes. ‘Come on, you and your important client,’ she says. ‘Let’s have our lunch.’