Kurtiz considered this. She wanted more. ‘Did you leave England immediately? Why didn’t you write us a note? Even Marguerite eventually wrote home.’
‘Who’s Marguerite?’
Kurtiz shook her head. She was getting everything muddled. ‘Why did you never call to let us know you were safe and that we could stop breaking our hearts, that we no longer needed to turn our guts inside out, we could sleep in peace? Oliver would’ve cut back on the booze. I could’ve returned to work. I could’ve …’ She sighed at all the could-haves. Better not to go there. ‘Did Pascal never express a desire to meet the parents of the girl he was about to abscond with?’
The oil splashed and sizzled noisily as Lizzie threw in two thinly sliced tomatoes, then wafered another, as though she was murdering it.
‘Why, Lizzie? Please try to explain to me why you just disappeared and broke our hearts.’
‘Mum, I’m really sorry for the pain I caused you both, honestly I am, but … please, can we leave all this for now and discuss it another time? Please?’
‘I think you have no idea.’
Lizzie lifted a hand and took her mother’s arm. There were smudges of black mascara beneath her eyes. ‘Mum, we can talk about it, all of it, in minute detail if you really want to, I promise, but not now. Let’s just … You know, Dad’s dead.’
Kurtiz opened her mouth, like an expiring fish, then closed it. She nodded grudgingly, glancing about her, unlocking and shutting cupboard doors until she slid down a trio of plain white IKEA dinner plates from one of the shelves. ‘Knives and forks?’
‘In that top drawer there next to the fridge. No, the next one along. Yes, there. Mum?’
‘Yes?’
‘I’m glad you’re here. And, more than anything in the world, I wish Dad was here too, that … that I’d had a chance to say goodbye to him. There were things he and I needed to clear up, but I can’t talk about the past, not yet. It’s like a knot inside me. Can you understand that?’
Could she understand it? She lifted forks and knives onto the plates. ‘Not really, Lizzie, no, I can’t, but I’ll try not to ask. I just don’t … no, I feel … lost. I’ll get on with this.’
Kurtiz carried the cutlery and plates through to the main room, grabbing salt and pepper pots as she went, breathing deeply as she laid the small pine table for three. Laurence was still on the outstretched sofa. He was humming softly, deep in conversation with a lurid green crocodile. It had yellow eyes and immense off-white woollen teeth, dirtied by wear and tear. ‘Are you hungry, Laurence?’ Kurtiz tossed the question to him with a natural intimacy, as though she was in the habit of speaking regularly to her grandson. Grandson. She would get used to this. Yes, she was already relishing their future together.
‘Of course,’ he replied, without turning to her. ‘Tick-Tock is hungry too, but he wants another chunk of Captain Hook.’
All at once, a flood of memories rushed at her and froze her to the spot. Young Oliver at the foot of Lizzie’s bed only a short while after they had bought the house in Tufnell Park. Lizzie had been allocated her own room for the first time. Her own shelf of books to discover. Pop-up books, novels, illustrated compendiums of fairy tales. Oliver, reading to her from Peter Pan, acting out the characters with booming melodramatic delight, the sword fights, Wendy’s flight through the night skies to Neverland, the terrifying Captain Hook shadowed by Tick-Tock, both of whom had caused Lizzie to giggle and scream and wriggle dementedly beneath the bedclothes for fear the crocodile would come and snap off her fingers, begging Daddy to save her. Great bear hugs from Daddy. Laughter and happiness exuding from Mummy until Wendy and the boys had been safely tucked into their beds.
She would take the Tufnell Park house off the market. Lizzie, Laurence and she could decorate it, install themselves there, begin a new London life together. Her mind threw up an image of Alex, and for one moment she felt the familiar grab on her heart. She had learned to be without him for so long now … Lizzie and Laurence must take priority. She couldn’t leave them here to struggle. She must help them. Or was she jumping the gun?
‘Mum, are you laying the table or not? The pasta’s almost ready.’
‘When all this is over, Lizzie, when we’ve got Dad home and … and the funeral’s behind us, I’ll help you find an excellent school for Laurence. We can share Tufnell Park. I haven’t been living there for a while, but we can do it up together, divide it into two flats. Or if you prefer I’ll stay in my studio in Covent Garden and you can have the house …’
Lizzie was standing at the door to the kitchen, clutching a steaming bowl of spaghetti with two big wooden spoons sticking out of it. Her hair was damp and awry, her cheeks pink and glistening with perspiration. There were blotches of oil or cooking ingredients on her pale blue T-shirt. She looked shocked.
‘What? What is it, Lizzie?’
‘Mum, please don’t start getting ideas.’
‘Ideas?’
‘I’m not coming home. This is my home.’
Kurtiz frowned. ‘But, Lizzie, it’s not very comfortable here. All those flights of stairs to manage with a small child … I want to give you the opportunity to –’
‘This isn’t about what you want. This is about Laurence and me and Pascal. Jesus, Mum.’ Both women glanced surreptitiously towards the boy, who was tussling with the crocodile now wrapped in bedding. ‘Laurence’s dad is here, and I love him and France. I’m at home here. Okay, I’m not crazy about this flat, I know it’s grotty, but when we can we’ll sort something better out.’
‘We’ll sell the house and you can have –’
‘Mum, we’re fine and we’re happy … and I don’t have to listen to screaming rows every five minutes.’
‘Oh, God, Lizzie, I’m so sorry.’
‘Don’t be. It’s the past.’
‘Is that why you left?’
‘I’ve just asked that we don’t discuss any of this now. There’s too much to say and I cannot face a row. Not now. Let’s eat. Laurence, viens, mon petit.’ She had crossed to the table and laid the bowl down at its clothed centre and seated herself in front of it, spooning a giant helping onto her son’s plate while Kurtiz, chastened, stood over her, mortified by how clumsy, how clodhopping and thoughtless, she had been.
After lunch, Lizzie at the wheel of a dull-silver VW Polo that surely would not pass its MOT in England, so shabby was it, they lurched away from the kerbside.
They drove on in silence to the mortuary. There, on her own while her daughter and grandson waited outside in the parked car, Kurtiz officially identified Oliver. Life had rarely felt bleaker. She would get the necessary paperwork behind her, organize the repatriation of Oliver’s body to the UK and take the earliest available Eurostar to London. She needed time. Her entire life had been turned on its head over one weekend. But what was to be done about her daughter and grandson? She couldn’t just abandon them to the life they were leading.
Resettled in the passenger seat, she begged one more favour of Lizzie. To stop at a florist, then drive her to rue de Charonne where her luggage was still stored with Marguerite, whose house number she could no longer recall. She would recognize the building and the doorbell when she arrived. Lizzie acquiesced, though the mood between them had grown sombre, monosyllabic. Laurence, oblivious to the darkening atmosphere, chuntered happily to himself on the rear seat or sat bolt upright and demanded answers to unlikely questions.
‘Mummy, has your mummy arrived by stork like Auntie Fatima’s two new babies? Or is she too big for the stork to carry in his mouth?’
He was the saving grace of the day, and Kurtiz could not deny that he gave every indication of being a well-balanced happy child and that Lizzie was a thoughtful, caring mother. She was trying so hard to refrain from begging Lizzie to return to London with her. She wanted more than anything in the world for them all to be together. Was this so unrealistic? Was she being selfish? Now that she had found Lizzie, the prospect of being so far from her, across the Channel,
wrenched at her.
It cut her deeply to realize that she and Oliver had driven their daughter away. That she had not been present when Lizzie needed her. Was she being hard on herself? In the early years of her marriage she had been a devoted mother, had sacrificed her own career for Lizzie and Lizzie’s upbringing. As she would do today, if she had the time over again.
If she had those years over again …
Rue de Charonne was, of course, closed off, its heart still in tatters, bits of debris not yet hauled away. She had almost forgotten where this hellish long weekend had begun. Lizzie pulled up in a narrow street off Bastille. ‘You’ll have to walk it from here, I’m afraid.’
‘That’s fine.’ Kurtiz managed a smile but made no move to open the car door. The scarlet amaryllis she had bought for Marguerite was perched on her lap.
‘Mummy, I want to wee.’
‘We’ll find you somewhere in a minute, Laurence.’
‘Will I see you again before I leave?’ Kurtiz asked, a catch in her throat.
‘Sure, why wouldn’t you?’
‘That night when you asked me not to leave, not to …’
Lizzie lifted her hand off the steering wheel, pulled off her gloves, wiped her cheek, tears, and reached across to her mother’s arm. ‘We both have regrets, Mum. I’m sorry too, sorry I’ll never make it up to Dad, never hold him tight again … The last time I saw him … you were gone, working somewhere or other … I begged you not to go. I was pregnant and getting pretty freaked and Dad was … was …’
‘Was what?’
‘I yelled at him that I hated him. I screamed and screamed at him. It was the morning of the day I left, the last time I ever saw him.’ Lizzie slapped at the steering wheel with her gloves.
‘Mummy, I need to wee now.’
‘We’re going, Laurence. Hold on tight for a few more minutes.’
‘Why were you screaming at him? Because I wasn’t there for you to vent your anger?’
‘Partly that.’
‘Because he was having an affair with Angie’s mum?’
‘You knew?’
‘Not till later. Much later. I don’t blame him.’
‘I’d like you to meet Pascal.’
‘Tick-Tock needs to wee too. He says he can’t hold on a few more minutes.’
‘Right, let’s find a loo for Tick-Tock.’
Kurtiz began to smile. ‘Why don’t you come up? I’m sure the old lady won’t mind. She’s a sweet soul. Rather lonely, I think. I’d like to meet Pascal. Let’s do that soon.’
‘WEE, PLEASE.’
It was beginning to spit rain. Lizzie locked the car, pulled up the hood on Laurence’s two-sizes-too-large duffel coat, which swamped his face.
‘I can’t see! Tick-Tock can’t see.’
‘Give me Tick-Tock.’
‘No.’
The three of them set off together, walking side by side the short distance to 71 rue de Charonne. Laurence took Kurtiz’s hand as though it were the most natural act in the world. The other arm was clutching his toy. Marguerite answered the intercom, which was a relief because Kurtiz had not taken a phone number from her and it had only now occurred to her that the guardian of her cases might be out.
‘Second floor, remember?’
‘I’ve got my daughter and – and my handsome grandson with me, if that’s not a problem?’
‘Your daughter! How splendid. I’ll put the kettle on.’
When the lift reached the second floor, Marguerite was waiting at the open door, smiling her irresistible smile, all dolled up and looking as though she was about to step out on stage. She accepted the potted plant with the grace of a leading lady receiving an opening-night bouquet. Laurence, with his dog-eared woollen croc, bolted from between their legs and barged into the apartment, yelling, ‘Pipi!’ Marguerite followed him swiftly and manoeuvred him, hopping, to the bathroom.
‘Laurence, take your hood down and let’s get your coat off.’ Lizzie scooted fast on the tail of her son, closing the door behind them, leaving Kurtiz and Marguerite alone.
‘You found her? I’ve very pleased. I’ve been concerned. How’s your husband?’ She placed the plant on the sideboard.
Kurtiz lowered her head and knocked her boot against the edge of a chair.
‘I’m so …’ Marguerite nodded gravely. ‘I know the depth of that loss.’
‘We’d been separated for a while … but still …’
‘Oh, I see. I hadn’t understood.’
‘No, I … wasn’t very forthcoming.’
Lizzie stepped from the bathroom, clutching Laurence’s coat. ‘Sorry about that.’ She held out a hand to introduce herself to their hostess. ‘I’m a great admirer of your work, Madame Courtenay,’ she said.
Marguerite clasped both her hands in front of her and squeezed in her shoulders, like a child who had been awarded a top prize.
Kurtiz was taken aback at the discovery of Lizzie’s acquaintance with the actress’s work.
Lizzie sat in one of the chairs. A kettle in the kitchen was hissing. ‘Oh, what have you seen?’ begged Marguerite, ignoring the boiling water.
‘When I first arrived in Paris about four years ago, you were playing at the Odéon Theatre. The Nurse in …’
‘Roméo et Juliette. Mais, oui, that’s right. You saw that?’
‘I thought you were wonderful. I’ve been a fan ever since. Afterwards, I looked out for your earlier films. I found a couple on DVD and bought them. I particularly remember a cameo role from the fifties. You were awesome.’
‘Death in the City?’
‘Yes, that’s the one. You played the wicked blonde.’
Marguerite swung triumphantly towards Kurtiz. ‘That’s the film I made just after Charlie died. It opened up many opportunities for me.’
‘My father’s also an … he was … an actor. I love the theatre.’ The mention of Oliver broke the upbeat mood, reminding them why they were all there.
‘And what do you do, Lizzie? Are you also connected to the arts?’
Lizzie shook her head. ‘No, I work in a shop but I’m doing a course in aromatherapy.’
‘How fascinating.’
‘I love plants, nature.’
Already Marguerite had learned more than Kurtiz had.
Laurence had entered the room and slid himself coyly behind his grandmother, burying his face in the warm curve of her thighs. Tick-Tock was his camouflage. ‘Shall I make the tea?’ suggested Kurtiz.
‘I would have bought a cake, had I known,’ replied Marguerite, clearly delighted by the new arrivals.
Kurtiz swung about to release her grandson and present him to their hostess. ‘Come on, Laurence, come and say hello. Don’t be shy.’
Marguerite, whose attention was caught up with Lizzie, revelling in the compliments, held out a hand to the child. ‘Bonjour, Laurence, comment vas-tu?’ then turned her head to take him in for the first time. She frowned. And fell silent.
Kurtiz looked from one to the other. ‘Are you unwell, Marguerite?’
The old woman appeared to be in a daze, fixated on Laurence, who began wriggling with embarrassment. She was staring at him as though she was in the presence of a ghost.
Laurence watched her mistrustfully, quizzically.
She cupped both hands over her mouth. ‘I need a large whisky,’ she muttered.
La Côte d’Azur, Spring 2016
Marguerite and Kurtiz had left the blue Mercedes in the parking beneath the old port in Cannes. It was just a few steps to the town hall.
‘I still remember the way.’ Marguerite giggled, striding with the vigour of one half her age. ‘Here,’ she called. Kurtiz, who had been at the wheel all the way from Paris, was bringing up the rear. Marguerite, arm outstretched, was pointing triumphantly. ‘Here, right here, this is the spot where the photograph was taken. Oh, a lifetime ago.’
She lifted the picture and studied it. Kurtiz, at her side now, was peering over her shoulder. Two young people standin
g before the town hall in Cannes, flanked by towering palm trees and a couple of carelessly parked post-war Nimbus motorbikes. The man, much taller than his young bride, was laughing. His face was tanned, full of joy, of victory, of optimism. He was a man in love. His left arm was wrapped round the shoulders of the nineteen-year-old Marguerite, hugging her tightly towards him, pulling her into the bow of his torso while her body language suggested shyness, a certain reticence.
Charlie Gilliard, newly married man, was wearing a striped suit with wide lapels and a tie with a large knot, shoes polished to a spit, smartly attired for this auspicious occasion. His hair was combed neat and flat with a side parting. It was an image of its time. Late forties. A black-and-white photograph, tightly posed for the camera. Kurtiz stared at it. ‘May I?’
Her travelling companion handed it to her. She flipped it over and read: Our wedding day, Cannes, March 1948. Kurtiz’s mother, Roberta, would have been a month off five years old when this photograph was taken in 1948, when this upbeat ceremony had taken place. Roberta, the daughter of Doris Sprigley and Robert Lord. Kurtiz recalled her dear nan’s voice, and her kindness when she was pregnant with Lizzie. The fifty-pound gift, and ‘bring her to see her great-grandma as soon as you can’.
‘You can surely see why Laurence reminds me of him? He’s Charlie’s spitting image.’ Marguerite was tottering, on heels, backwards, taking in the town, the changes, calling up a world of memories. ‘Of course, you can’t get a real sense of his profile from this angle, and the photograph lacks colour. Even so, you can see how the land had coloured his skin. The white of his teeth, the gleam in his eye. He was very handsome, was my Charlie.’
What were the chances? Kurtiz had been asking herself that question for months now, eyes fixed on the stranger caught in a moment of time, a moment in another’s life. His life, long before hers had been conceived. The man whom Doris had never stopped loving, just as Marguerite had held him in her heart.
Marguerite leaned in and took hold of the photo, repossessing it, gazing into it, studying it, as though her whole life had been captured in that moment.
The Lost Girl Page 33
