by Lily Graham
My cousin Tim was the only one who looked smug. That is, until Father cleared his throat and said, ‘You too, Tim.’
Rose and I shared a short-lived moment of sibling triumph, before she went back to ignoring my existence as usual.
Later that afternoon, while Tim left with Father to see about some matter on the estate, I visited Rose’s room to find out what she thought about the rule. She was sitting at her dressing table when I asked. She rolled her eyes at me in the mirror then went back to adjusting her riding hat against her bright curls. ‘Why do you even care? It’s some fellow soldier that he feels sorry for – that’s what Mother said.’
‘A soldier,’ I repeated. ‘When did Mother tell you that?’
She sighed. ‘When I asked. Perhaps as I’m older they tell me things.’
I pursed my lips at the barb, but Rose just shrugged. ‘Just forget about it. Whoever it is just wants to be left alone – so stay out of it.’
Chapter Fifteen
Present day
Old houses have their quirks, and Seafall Cottage was no exception.
While there weren’t as many foundation issues as one might expect, the amount of structural ones more than made up for that, according to Jack Abrams. Which meant that my initial estimate of moving in by the end of the year was most likely a gross underestimation. On some level, I had harboured visions of doing up the house alongside the builders, like Diane Lane in the fictionalised version of Frances Hayes’ memoir Under the Tuscan Sun. Though an English countryside version, of course. In the summer there would be berries picked straight off the hedges, elderflower cordial, and lunch (I’d miraculously turn into a superb cook) eaten al fresco in the restored kitchen garden on a table constructed out of one of the doors that had been left outside, yet had somehow developed a beautiful patina with age… But alas, all those romantic imaginings were dashed with two words from Will, Jack the builder’s son.
‘Got rot,’ he said, poking at the kitchen wall, where the smell of damp was indeed overwhelming, as a large piece of plaster and wall came tumbling down. Will’s eyes were of the bulbous variety, like two pickled onions in a beetroot face, and they seemed to magnify the problem. ‘Worst case I ever saw,’ he added, as if somehow I should feel a sense of pride about that.
He popped his headphones back into his ears and got back to ripping up the kitchen.
Most of the wooden floors were affected too and would need to be replaced along with a large portion of the roof and the stairs.
Then there was the matter of not having any running water or electricity. Plumbers could be called for the former, but wiring a house that had never had electricity was a sizeable job.
‘Yep,’ agreed Jack, rocking on his heels at the bottom of the stairs a few minutes later. ‘This is going to be a big job.’
Which Angie told me later was a slightly worrying sign, as builders often underestimate how big a project is, or how long it will take.
‘Here, have the last slice of pecan pie, your need is greater,’ she said in consolation.
What I needed was word that our London house was sold. I had some money left from my royalties, but not a lot, and there was no way I was going to go to my mother, AKA The Terrorist, for a loan. My brother Stuart and I had named her as such when we were children, and like the US government we had a pact to never negotiate with her – mostly because we would lose every time. Our strategy was simple: when she called one of us, often on some pretence, and tried to sniff out information, we denied everything. It was an effective plan, most of the time.
Since I’d left London and walked out of my marriage, I’d been avoiding her calls like the coward I was. I was planning on telling her about the new direction my life had taken – some time. Preferably when I had enough liquor in my system to float a small island.
Avoiding Mum, however, is like trying to dam a river with a finger. Even if you try to convince yourself that you can’t feel the pressure building up, sooner or later it will burst.
My mother has never been on more than the loosest terms with the idea of subtlety and when she phoned early the following week, it was no exception. ‘Have you gone insane?’ she demanded.
‘Well, hello to you too, Mum,’ I said, feeling the need to sit. I put my coffee cup down, turning my attention away from the family of ducklings that were swimming past my narrowboat, and took a seat at the sofa. It was covered in stacks of notes from deciphering Tilly’s diary, along with the two novels I was simultaneously reading in my new pursuit of leisure time.
‘I didn’t think it was possible,’ she continued, ‘but you’ve actually made Stuart seem like the sensible one in the family.’
I sighed. ‘That’s because he is sensible, Mum.’ Apart from his exotic jam fetishes, that is.
She snorted. ‘Your brother is not the point of my call. What I want to know is when were you going to tell me?’
‘About what?’ I asked, feigning innocence, and deciding that Stuart was in big trouble.
‘Are you serious? About everything!’
That was the trouble; so much had happened in the past few weeks I didn’t quite know where to start – or just how much Stuart had spilled. ‘Mum, look, it’s been a rough start to the year, I’ve been really busy, then things with Mark—’
‘But not too busy to buy a house!’
‘Ah,’ I said. ‘Well…’ I swallowed, chickened out again. ‘It’s a long story, and you were in China, so I didn’t want to bother you—’
‘I wasn’t in China!’
‘Oh? Well, I know you had a trip. In Asia somewhere?’
‘Bangor – it’s in Maine,’ she explained, snorting. ‘And that was weeks ago and you could still speak to me. That’s what mobiles were invented for, Victoria. Why haven’t you returned my calls? Stuart said that you and Mark—’
I was going to kill Stuart. ‘Sorry, Mum. Like I said, I’ve been swamped. I’m sorry I didn’t tell you about the house, but I’m actually in a meeting at the moment, so can I phone you back?’
‘Nice try, Victoria. Open the door.’
I frowned. ‘What? Mum, I’m not in London—’
‘Yes, I know. Not that you had the grace to tell me you were leaving or actually moving cities.’
‘Mum, I’m sorry. Look, I’m coming up to London next week for a meeting, maybe we can catch up then? I can tell you all about the house?’
There was a second’s silence, during which I enjoyed a short-lived moment of relief.
‘Maybe you can tell me after you open the door?’
My heart skipped a beat. I looked up, my eyes scanning the living room, then widening in horror as it took in the porthole window – she was standing on the gangplank outside.
‘Oh God!’
‘Indeed.’
My mother held onto her blue leather Hermès bag with both hands as she stepped inside. Her helmet of bobbed, pencil-straight, iron-hued hair didn’t move, and neither did her mouth, which remained in a fixed grimace.
She raised an eyebrow at the surroundings, her eyes raking me in the process. I found myself smoothing down my T-shirt, wishing I’d run a comb through my long, untidy curls.
‘Did you actually sign a lease for this?’
I resisted the urge to move my abandoned coffee cup and tidy up the overflowing table and sofa. I hated that she had this effect on me.
‘Look, Mum, if you’re here simply to be insulting or cruel then I suggest you go.’
She set her bag down on the table. ‘Cruel? That’s a bit rich, don’t you think? I haven’t heard from you in weeks. I’ve only now recovered from what happened to your brother, and then I find out that you’ve decided to run away from your life and that you never even thought to let me, or your father, know about it. I mean,’ she said, looking around with distaste, ‘what exactly were you thinking?’
I loved my father, but he hardly ever phoned me, relying on getting any family news from my mother. The last time he’d called was to ask me to
bring the spare keys round as he’d left his at his office. That was almost a year ago. It wasn’t that he wasn’t a good father – he was. He just wasn’t the best communicator. Maybe it was an inherited trait.
Before I could retort, she held up her hand. ‘I’m not here to fight.’
‘You’re not? Well!’
‘No, I’m not. I love you, and I’m worried about you.’ She sat down and gave me a searching look. ‘I just want to understand.’
How did she do that? Go from being the most frustrating human being I knew to the person I most wanted to speak to all in the space of a minute?
‘I know you and Mark have had problems – I’ve been worried about you both for a while. It hasn’t been the happiest time.’
I sat down and sighed. ‘How much did Stuart tell you?’
‘Not everything, but I gather it’s a permanent separation this time?’
I nodded. ‘Divorce.’
She took my hand. ‘I’m so sorry.’
I squeezed her fingers.
‘I didn’t realise it had got that bad.’
I gave a sad laugh. ‘Neither had I. After Stuart’s accident, I came home thinking that I understood what was important, that nine years of marriage was worth fighting for. Turns out he’d been doing some thinking too – just not about me.’
She closed her eyes. ‘So there was someone else.’
Mum had heard a while back that I’d suspected Mark was cheating. But of course he’d denied it then.
‘Yeah.’
‘God, he’s an arse! I mean, he was always a pompous sort, you know, but this?’
‘Yeah, well. Look, I’m not defending him or anything, but he had a point… I haven’t spent almost any time at home in the past eighteen months – if I haven’t been on site doing research, I’ve been on tour. It hasn’t been easy on us.’
She shook her head. ‘You know, Victoria, he played that card a lot, but there was nothing stopping him from coming with you, especially when he wasn’t that busy himself. It’s not like you had children, or he worked in an office and couldn’t get away. He didn’t need to be at home. Most of the hotels would have accommodated him as well while you were working. I mean, when you first got together, in the beginning, you used to do it for him. You rather enjoyed it, too. You got to travel, see the world.’
She was right, of course. Mark and I had met shortly after I’d gotten my first book contract, at a Christmas party thrown by our publisher. Back then he was the most encouraging person I’d ever met.
I’d been attracted to the confident, intelligent man who wrote biographies on some of history’s most prominent war leaders. In the beginning of our relationship, I found it exciting to tag along to book tours, visit exotic locations and dream of one day having him come along to some of my own.
And he was supportive, in the beginning. He joined me for my first tour in America. He wrote the foreword to my second biography. And on our first wedding anniversary he suggested we go to India so that I could get primary research for my book featuring the love story that surrounded the Taj Mahal.
Things started to change for us when the recession hit. There were fewer people buying books about war generals, and it was the first real setback in his career. My books, however, held more of a general interest and had an enduring appeal. I didn’t know why that was. I wrote and researched what I cared about. To me, that was the important thing. It wasn’t about how much money I could make. But then it’s easy to think that way when you’re doing well.
Mark didn’t start off a bitter man, but somehow, in the last five years, that’s what he’d become. I don’t think he liked it any more than I did.
I didn’t know what I thought about the whole situation any more. All I knew was that I was tired of feeling like we were on opposing sides, tired of feeling guilty, tired of always underselling myself, dimming a light that perhaps he hadn’t really wanted me to dim in the first place.
‘I don’t think it was that he was resentful of my success so much as he was resentful of his own failures. By tagging along with me, I think he saw it as admitting defeat.’
‘But couldn’t it have just been a show of support?’ Mum asked.
‘I don’t know, Mum. Maybe. He tried, but I don’t think he could let it go. They say you can’t have two cooks in the kitchen, maybe it’s the same thing.’
‘I don’t know if that’s true.’ She shook her head. ‘There are lots of famous artist couples.’
‘Maybe it depends on the person.’
She sighed. ‘Maybe, but don’t you think that he could have just sucked it up? Haven’t women being doing that for years?’
I laughed. Typical Mum! She ran a business that supported female entrepreneurship and was all about equal rights, but sometimes she could be rather sexist herself and didn’t realise that it was a two-way thing.
‘He tried to do it, you know.’
‘Tried what?’
‘To put his own ambitions aside.’
‘Did you ask him to do that?’
‘No.’
She shrugged. ‘Well, just because you were achieving some level of success—’
‘Look, Mum, it wasn’t just about success or failure or our careers. It was that once you took that out of the picture, we didn’t have very much. You know, Ivy said something to me a while back that has haunted me ever since.’
‘Ivy?’
‘Your daughter-in-law?’
‘Yes, I know who she is. What did she say?’
‘Well, she said that love should feel good. Actually, she said that Oprah had said it, but you know what I mean.’
‘Love should feel good?’ she repeated. ‘What does that mean? Typical bloody hippie!’
I laughed. If it wasn’t quantifiable or on a spreadsheet that she could scrutinise, my mother didn’t have time for it.
‘It means that if you love someone, and they love you, for the most part it should feel good. Obviously you can’t have it that way every day, and there’s bound to be tough times, but on the whole that’s how it should be.’
She looked at me. ‘And your marriage… didn’t?’
I shook my head. ‘Not for a very long time.’
The expression in her eyes was sad. ‘I’m sorry. But,’ she said, looking around, moving her linen pants away from my stack of papers, ‘did you really need to come here, of all places? I mean, whose boat is this anyway? And what’s this about buying a house – did you really? This isn’t like you, you know.’
As if I didn’t know. I was her daughter, wasn’t I? Other mothers teach their children ‘Mind your manners’ and ‘If you don’t have anything nice to say, don’t say anything at all’. Mine taught me the difference between long- and short-term investments, and why cost and worth are two separate issues, long before the age of ten.
‘You should have come to us. You didn’t need to come and live here, for goodness’ sake!’
As if ‘here’ was a drug-infested housing estate instead of a pretty marina in a picturesque part of western Cornwall. I rolled my eyes. Apparently, Mum’s sympathy was only good for ten minutes.
‘Mum, I like it here – a lot actually. It’s small but—’
‘That’s an understatement!’
I ignored that. ‘It’s temporary. I’ve signed a lease for a few months and I’ve taken a break for a while. It’s doing me good while I get on with the work on the house.’
She shook her head. ‘So you did buy a house?’
I nodded. ‘Mark and I are selling our London home – it’s on the market now.’
‘I know.’
‘Oh?’
‘And how do you think I found out? I drove past and saw the bloody sign!’
‘I thought maybe Stuart told you?’
‘He did eventually. I tried to call you, then I tried Mark, and finally Stuart.’
I sighed. She’d no doubt bullied it out of him.
‘Well, I could have a chat with this leaseholder of yours
– clearly you weren’t in the right frame of mind. And the house…’
‘No, Mum.’
She raised an eyebrow.
‘I appreciate it,’ I said, putting my hand on hers. In a weird way I really did appreciate how hard she fought for all of us. ‘But I’m a grown woman. I like it here, I’ve bought a house that I’m going to fix up – it’ll be good for me.’
‘Good for you?’
‘Yeah, who knows?’
She seemed to be fighting some sort of internal struggle, probably the need to go on the warpath versus the need to still have children who spoke to her.
She half laughed, half smiled. ‘Okay, I will be supportive. If that’s what you need.’
I nodded. ‘It is. And if you’re really good I’ll show you all my rot…’
‘Good God!’ she balked.
Later that afternoon, after Mum left, I phoned Stuart.
‘Hello, Judas,’ I said.
‘Ah, Smudge, I’m sorry.’
‘And you gave her my address! I’m tempted to come past and inflict a few new injuries. Couldn’t you have even warned me?’
‘I did!’
I checked my phone and saw that I had one new message. It read, ‘Terrorist attack alert, descending on your doorstep as we speak.’
‘Ah.’
‘I thought it gave you an hour at least to make a run for it...’
‘Sadly not.’
Chapter Sixteen
To make it up to me, Stuart and Ivy came past a few days later, along with my little niece, Holly, and a houseboat-warming gift – a set of herbs in containers and a rather impressive supply of homemade vegetable beer from his Sea Cottage label.
The idea of vegetable beer didn’t sound all that appealing, though I was thrilled to see Holly, who had grown so much in the past few weeks.
I showed them the boat while I held onto my niece, loving how she gurgled up at me.
‘Love the portholes!’ Ivy exclaimed, looking at the one in the living room.
‘Yeah, they’re the best,’ I agreed, showing her the cushion curtains.
‘What’s this?’ asked Stuart, eyeing the small posy that I had taken from the upstairs room at the cottage, tied with the sea-green ribbon. It was sitting on top of the diary.
