‘Sort of,’ I say. ‘You train your brain to remember things.’
‘That is almost it,’ he says. He closes his eyes. ‘You build a palace of memories. Each room in Summercove is in my head, filled with things I want to hold on to. I am not in the house any more. It is in me.
‘That’s all I need. My old pupils write to me, I read books – thank God my eyesight is still good. I have my memories.’ He gently closes the photo album. ‘I can picture my bedroom in Lahore. I can see the Shalimar Gardens.’ He is staring out to sea. ‘The boat I took, from India to England, seventy years ago. I can remember my cabin. It had a stripe, painted green, across the wall. I remember the books I had on my trip, can see them on that little shelf, by the porthole – Boethius, John Ruskin and Bertrand Russell you know, excellent fellow. And I remember Cecily. So.’ He puts his hands together. ‘Last time I saw you, I gave you the first pages of my daughter’s diary. Tell me, did you find the rest of it, hm? Did you read it?’
I don’t know how to answer. ‘Yes – yes,’ I say, as if admitting to something shameful. ‘Mum had it.’
He nods. ‘I thought as much. I found the pages in my room, you see, after she’d taken me into the studio.’ He coughs, spluttering a little. ‘I thought she must have spotted it while we were in there. Put it away for herself. Dropped the first pages, not realised.’ He stops. ‘Yes, so she has it.’
‘I’m – sorry about all of it, Arvind.’ I don’t know what to say. ‘It must be awful – awful for you.’
‘I haven’t read it,’ he says simply. I flinch with surprise. ‘What?’
‘I know what’s in it,’ he says. He smiles. ‘Perhaps I don’t want to read it. Sometimes it’s best to shut out the real world, you see.’ He taps his forehead again gently. ‘In the memory palace, I can choose what rooms to go into, you see.’
My mother calls out to us from the doorway. ‘Ready?’ she says, shattering the peace of the room. I turn, and her eyes are red.
‘Ah.’ I push Arvind in his wheelchair towards the door. He waves a polite goodbye to his motionless fellow-residents. ‘The outsiders are outside. And it is written. Time for us to go back to Summercove once more.’
Chapter Forty-Four
Granny loved spring. She said spring made her happy. She hated autumn most of all, couldn’t ever understand why people found it poetic and romantic. She said it was depressing, the sign that life was over. Spring, she always said, was why we stuck around, to see that life had survived during the long winter months. As we turn into the little lane that leads to Summercove and then on to the sea, I can see why. The branches are bursting with bright green new life. White apple blossom blooms in the orchard next to the house.
I think of her, starting another spring here, year after year, and then watching the summer fade away into autumn, the long winter nights, with nothing to do, nothing to occupy her, Arvind in his study, her studio locked away, only memories of what she did, what happened, and I start to understand a little better.
We roll almost silently down the lane in Archie’s gleaming silver and red 4x4, so appropriate for Ealing, so out of place here, where it actually helps on the narrow, sometimes treacherous roads. He turns the engine off and he, Mum and I look nervously up at the house, as if expecting some sign. Arvind is still staring straight ahead.
‘They’ve done a good job, Didier’s gang,’ Archie says to Mum, in the seat next to me. ‘Hope you’ll think so. I think so.’ Why does he always want her approval? She nods.
‘Good. I hope there isn’t too much mess. You told him it goes on the market on Monday, didn’t you? They have to have all their shit cleared out of here by then.’
Archie nods, and I realise how glad they will be to see the back of the place, in some respects. How sad that is. ‘Agent says it’ll go really fast,’ he says. ‘We spoke a lot while you were away. He says the price is absolutely realistic. And we should have some . . . left over.’
‘Really?’ Mum says, as if she’s only vaguely interested, but I see her hands tightening in her lap, clutching the sheaf of notes for her speech.
‘Oh, yeah.’ Archie pulls the keys out of the ignition and turns to his father, as if remembering he’s there. ‘Come on, Father. We’re here now. Let’s go inside.’
It’s Arvind’s bloody house, I want to say to them. He’s still here! Stop acting like that money’s yours. I want to knock their heads together, and then I think, He doesn’t care. He doesn’t care and that’s always been part of the problem.
It is strange to stand outside Summercove, looking up at the windows, with the memory of Cecily’s diary still so clear. It hasn’t changed much in all those years, either, it’s not that kind of house, and so it is easy to imagine her, sitting at our room at the top, peering out of the window, dancing across the lawn towards the gazebo which stands at the edge of the garden, leaning against that wall there to have her picture taken. I clutch my bag, with the diary in it. It is now cloudy and the wind is still vicious, whipping itself against my hands and face.
We go inside, Archie pushing Arvind. The reception starts soonish. There are people already here, chattering, a few out in the garden, looking out to sea, sitting in the gazebo, enjoying the beautiful weather. I can hear Louisa in the kitchen, directing the caterers. We go into the long, bright sitting room, and I breathe in sharply.
It is not Summercove, the home I loved more than any other. That place is gone. It’s as if it never existed.
Everything has changed. Gone are the comfy sofas, worn-out chintz armchairs, the fireguard. Gone are the shelves lined with books on art, travel, photography, the battered old TV in the corner. Gone are the original fifties wooden sideboards, the bright curtains and cushions that were so in vogue when they bought the house which have lasted, most of them, all these years. All gone, the contents of the ground floor either moved upstairs for today or taken away to the local auction house or up to London.
The curtain rail, even, has been unscrewed. The French windows, where Jay and I would sit on rainy days betting on raindrops racing down the glass, are closed and the cushions on the window seats removed. The room is white, devoid of any furniture apart from dining chairs placed strategically around it, and Granny’s paintings.
They line the walls of the big room, fifteen or so, and below some of them are sketches. Above the fireplace is ‘Summercove at Sunset, 1963’, and I stare at it, having never seen it in the flesh before.
‘Where did they find this?’ I ask. ‘It was in her studio,’ Archie replies. ‘She never showed it to anyone. That, and – this was there too.’ He points, and I swivel round. Next to the door, almost hidden in its shadow, is an oil painting of a girl, a girl I know very well now.
‘Cecily Frowning, 1963’
It’s the painting. I wonder whether Arvind still has the sketch. I hope so. She is sitting on a stool, watching the painter, her expression watchful yet slightly cross. She is wearing a pale blue cotton sundress, which sets off her dark hair and skin beautifully. One leg is tucked under the other, one hand holding the heel. She looks rather bored. I stand still and stare at it.
‘My God,’ I say. ‘That’s – it.’
‘I’m going to find Louisa,’ Archie says, looking at his watch, and he strides out. The door bangs behind him. We three are alone in the echoing room.
I turn to look at Mum. ‘She said she hated being painted, didn’t she?’
‘Absolutely.’ Mum nods. She narrows her eyes. ‘It’s rather clever. The way Mummy got that absolutely right.’
We stare at it together, neither acknowledging that we’re talking about the diary.
‘I wondered what happened to that painting,’ I said.
My mother moves closer towards it and peers. ‘Goodness,’ she says. ‘You do look so like her, Natasha.’
‘She does,’ says a voice beside us, and I remember Arvind is here, too.
I do not move; I know that if I say the wrong thing, I could ruin everything. But I kno
w now is the moment. This might be the only chance I get.
‘Can I ask you something?’ I don’t use her name, or call her Mum, but she turns to me, slowly. ‘Why did you take the rest of the diary? Why didn’t you tell anyone about it, about the truth? Why didn’t you tell me?’
She looks at Arvind, then back at me. She folds her arms. ‘Oh, darling, it’s complicated.’
‘I know it is,’ I perservere. I really want her to give me answers. She can’t keep doing this. ‘Just tell me why though.’
She shrugs, and looks at her father again. He nods. ‘Please, Miranda. Enlighten me.’ He gives a little gesture, as if to say, Go ahead.
‘I knew Cec was writing a diary,’ she says, in a rush. Her fingers fiddle with the knotted tassels of her scarf. ‘All that summer. She wouldn’t stop bloody going on about it. “I’m putting you in my diary if you don’t stop being so mean to me,”’ Mum says, in a childish voice.
‘Did you know about her and Guy? Is that why you sent the diary to him?’ I wish it all felt as though it was falling into place, but it doesn’t.
She blushes slowly. ‘I think I always knew, yes.’ She shakes her head. ‘It’s not important, not at the moment. He had to have it though, I had to tell him. Anyway. I knew she’d written the diary so it had to be somewhere. I didn’t think Mummy would throw it away. She wouldn’t have done. Couldn’t do it. So I had to find it. Because I knew – the day she died . . . she’d found out – about what she’d found out about—‘ Her eyes are burning into mine, imploringly. ‘I knew, you see.’
‘I know,’ I said. ‘I’ve read it, Mum.’
‘Well, we went for a walk. She says that. We were both upset – so tired. You have no idea what it was like. We had a row about what to do next. I said we should expose Mummy. Tell Daddy. She said absolutely not.’ She turns suddenly to Arvind. ‘Dad – oh, shit. I shouldn’t have . . .’ She trails off, clamping her lips together. ‘Forget it.’
‘Please,’ Arvind says. ‘Don’t protect me, my dear. I know what happened.’
I must be imagining it, but it seems his tone is softer, kinder, for a moment, and the parent he could have been is apparent for a split second.
‘You do?’ Mum says. She runs her fingers along the mantel-piece, as if checking for dirt. ‘I never knew. Always, I thought I was the only one. And I couldn’t tell. Look, look at us,’ she says, almost hysterically. She waves her arm round the empty white room. ‘Look at the – what this did to us, to our family. I – Damn! Damn her.’
‘Mum—’ I go over to her, put my arm on her shoulder. ‘Don’t.’ Someone drops something in the kitchen, I think it must be metal. It clatters loudly, recalling us to the present. I look at her. ‘What happened? Please tell me.’
Mum glances at Arvind, and at me, and speaks softly, urgently.
‘We fought. Not physically. I mean we shouted at each other. Oh, God. I – oh, she made me so angry! But I would never have hurt her. We were young, you know how sisters fight.
We both had tempers, you know . . . I wanted to tell Dad about Mummy.’ She looks again at Arvind and then carries on. ‘I – I wasn’t getting on with her. I don’t know if I ever did, really. I always felt she didn’t like me.’ She smiles. ‘Always. What a strange thing to say about your mother. Isn’t it?’
‘Yes,’ I say. I look at her and wonder, quite calmly, whether she, my own mother, ever liked me. I don’t know that she did. The sins of the fathers, Arvind said, and perhaps he’s right. He knew.
‘I wanted revenge, I suppose. Wanted to show her I was grown-up now, I could call the shots, all of that rubbish. She was always putting me down. And she had every right to, I wasn’t – I wasn’t—‘ She blinks, and two fat mascara-flecked tears roll slowly down her cheeks. ‘I wasn’t a very nice person, back then. I was horrible to her that day . . .
‘Cecily said we could never tell. She got crosser and crosser. I did too. We were shouting at each other, at least I was shouting at her, she was just standing there at the top of the steps down to the beach, shaking her head. I think she didn’t know what on earth to do. She was so young, you know. Fine time to lose your trust in the people you love most. She said I didn’t know what love is, that I’d never know what it meant. I said she was just a silly little girl. And she smiled.’ Mum nods slowly. ‘I’m an idiot. I know why now. Hah! I know why. I can still see her face. She sort of stepped back, and – and . . .’ Her voice cracks. ‘She just disappeared. She made this strange sound. “Oh!” As if she was surprised. Annoyed. And then – she just . . . she just disappeared . . .’ Her shoulders heave, and she sobs.
‘Oh, Mum,’ I say. ‘I told them all this,’ she says, putting her hands in front of her face. ‘That she just stepped off and slipped, the stairs were dangerous.’ She looks up as though she wants my approval, there is the track of a tear on her cheek. ‘The police believed me. But somehow it never quite stuck with everyone else. I never knew why. Archie appeared immediately after it happened. Thank God. He ran down to the beach – he nearly slipped too.’ She stops and then she says, ‘Dad, someone should have done something about those steps a long time before.’
Arvind says, ‘There, as in many other areas, we were deficient in our care of our children, Miranda.’ His thin old fingers tap his knees, worrying at the creases in his trousers. His face is terrible in its sadness.
She doesn’t say anything immediately, and then she nods. ‘All that time,’ she says. ‘It was so long ago, you know. And it’s like everything’s stood still since then.’
‘I think,’ Arvind says, ‘for your mother, it did.’
I say softly, ‘How could you ever forgive Granny, Arvind? I mean – did you know?’
He is silent, for so long that I think perhaps he hasn’t heard me.
‘She had affairs, you know,’ he says. ‘Many of them. When we were first married, in London, before she had the children, afterwards . . . She found marriage hard. Being a mother hard. We had no money, we were both trying to work as hard as we could. These days, I understand, it is perfectly fine to talk about nothing else. Then you couldn’t, you know. Not a word. You had to be a contented wife and mother and that was that.’
The old, black eyes are unblinking. ‘She was glad when we moved down here at first, she said it was a fresh start, I think she hoped it’d stop her doing this. But she loved the danger . . . I knew that about her. She didn’t. She never really realised, and the risks she took got greater, and then . . .’ his voice cracks. ‘And then Cecily died. And you know, she knew. She found her diary when she was clearing away her possessions. She read what Cecily, her own daughter, had to say about her mother’s affair. She knew.’
At the thought of my grandmother, a few days after Cecily’s death, reading the diary where her own daughter finds out about her infidelity, I feel almost sick with pity, for her, for Cecily, for Arvind, for Mum. . . . For all of them.
‘But I am glad Louisa has never known,’ Arvind says firmly. I look out of the French windows to see Louisa trotting across the lawn. ‘People make mistakes, terrible mistakes,’ he says. ‘But I loved Frances. I loved her. We understood each other. That’s all that matters. That’s why we stayed together, all these years. I understood what she’d done, and how she felt. I wasn’t a perfect husband. A good father. My work always came first. It was easier, to lock yourself away in your own mind, you know?
‘She understood what she’d done. We tried to be better people afterwards.’ He nods. ‘And some things are best left untouched. Left in the past.’
Only if you learn to move on afterwards, I want to say. But you didn’t, did you? None of you. And the ones who weren’t involved spent their whole lives trying to make things better without knowing why, like Louisa, or going as far away from it all as possible and hardly ever coming back, like Jeremy. I look around the room, which is darkening now as the clouds out to sea scud over the sun. I don’t recognise this place any more.
The door opens, and I can hear the murmu
ring chatter that has been building all this time burst in on us, loud like a hive of bees. Louisa comes into the room.
‘Miranda? Ready to take the music soon?’ She looks at us. ‘OK?’
I see Mum taking in her out-of-breath cousin, in her slightly too-sheer white kaftan, red shining face, floral skirt and fluffy blonde hair.
‘Thanks, Louisa,’ Mum says, walking towards her. ‘Yes. I think we’re ready. Aren’t we?’
She looks at me and Arvind. ‘Yes,’ I say. ‘We are.’
Chapter Forty-Five
Louisa has planned it all out, of course. The invited guests have been gathering outside, having coffee in what was the dining room, milling around the gardens, and now they all file into the sitting room until it is full. I identify people from the village, Didier and his wife, a few glamorous-looking men and women with the stamp of New Bond Street on them. Some stop to say hello to Arvind, sitting in his chair by the fireplace, and my mother next to him, flicking through her notes. She is pale, but seems calm. I am worried though.
When everyone is in, Louisa makes a loud ‘Shh’ sound and the room falls silent. My mother steps forward.
‘Thank you for coming today,’ she says. ‘I am Miranda Kapoor, Frances Seymour’s daughter.’ She pauses. ‘One of her daughters.’
Someone shuffles in the crowd; a seagull cries outside. Then it is silent again.
‘We are here to launch the Frances Seymour Foundation, which will support the work of young artists, and promote understanding and interest in all forms of art with young people today. I’ll tell you more about this in a moment, but for now I’d like to talk to you a bit about my mother. Tell you about who she really was.’
She looks down at her notes again and is silent. I bite my lip, nervous.
Love Always Page 40
