‘Well, you can afford to do whatever you want now.’
Juliet took a deep breath. ‘That’s partly what I wanted to discuss. I want to give away most of the money.’ Zeina’s mouth dropped open and she froze, teapot in hand. ‘I said most of it, Zee, I’m not crazy. I want some for the house, and to live on, but I need to get rid of the rest before I get used to the idea. I don’t want the children to be millionaires for no reason. It feels wrong, after what my family lost. That’s not what the house is about. I had an idea for something and I wanted you to help me.’
‘How much are you talking about?’ Zeina reached for her lined pad and pen.
‘I’m going to keep four million. Two hundred and fifty thousand in trust for each of the children, to help them buy somewhere, get them on their feet, they can’t access it till they’re twenty-one though. Can you do that? Another two hundred and fifty thousand in case we have to adapt parts of the house for Sandy or pay for physio or something.’
‘Sure.’ Zeina scribbled it down.
‘Two million for me.’ Juliet tried to make it sound casual, sitting in this kitchen talking about millions here and trusts there like it was normal. ‘That house leaks money. A million for a new roof and kitchen and to keep me in new curtains and bulbs and fuel for the Aga, and so I’ve got a wodge of cash in case something bad happens.’
‘Right. And the rest? You’ll have a clear six or seven million if your mate Sam Ham is telling the truth.’
Juliet cleared her throat. ‘I want to set up a trust for teaching art history in school. And fund school trips to art galleries and after that, further afield, to fund residential stays all over the UK to visit stately homes, the Yorkshire Sculpture Park, art galleries.’ She tried not to sound nervous. She remembered what Sam had told her: Everyone’s bluffing. I got my job by bluffing. Just say what you want to do, you’ll be amazed how many people listen to you. ‘So every child in this country has seen how beautiful a painting or a sculpture or a house can be. Not just children of National Trust members or people who take their kids to museums themselves, or can afford to go anywhere they want. Everyone has the right to have their mind enriched.’
‘They should have the right to regular meals and not to have to go with Mum to a food bank every week, they should have parents who are paid a proper wage who aren’t on a zero-hours contract,’ said Zeina grimly.
‘Well I know. And I’m sending you a list of donations I want to make too when the sale goes through, but I can’t, like, end food banks, much as I’d like to. Is this possible, though? Can you set up some sort of charitable trust?’
‘Yes, but you can’t be the sole trustee. You need someone—’
‘I’ve got someone. Sam.’
‘Sam Ham again, eh?’ Zeina scribbled some more. ‘I remember you talking about him when he got that job. You couldn’t stand him. Does he talk about you this much, too?’
‘He’s my boss.’
It was clear Zeina thought this was a shoddy answer, but she changed the subject. ‘How is Bea?’
‘I think she’s OK. I am giving her a lot of space at the moment. To sort of find herself if that doesn’t sound hokey.’ Juliet hesitated. ‘I have to remind myself not to yes to her too much though, just because I feel guilty about screwing everything up.’
Zeina put her hand on her arm. ‘You still think that, do you?’ Her eyes were wide with amazement.
‘What?’
‘That you screwed everything up.’
‘God yes. Sandy – that wouldn’t have happened if we’d been in London. Bea – she’s been so unhappy. Isla’s got no friends—’
And then she stopped. ‘She has, actually. She had a playdate last week and a sleepover the week before. And Bea’s not unhappy.’ She was nodding. ‘She’s doing really well. They think she’ll get some A*s for GCSEs. And Fin is nice. And – you know what? Frederic loves me. And George. And I love them.’ She was counting on her fingers, and she could feel her face burning. ‘What else? Mum and Dad have been terrific, and we barely spoke a year ago. And Honor is there if I need her, and I’m going to bloody well have that drink with Jo next week and I – well, I love going to work. And I planted some lupins from seed and they died, and it doesn’t matter, because they’re impossible to grow from seed. I should have just bought baby plants. But that’s OK! I know that now and it’s OK!’ Zeina was shaking her head, lips curled inwards in a fond expression of bemusement. ‘My point is a year ago . . . Wow, Zee, a year ago I was so unhappy, they all were, and it’s not the house or the money that’s made the difference.’
‘Come on. It’s helped.’
‘It will help. It didn’t then. It’s that I made a change. And I wouldn’t ever have had the courage to do it if that slimeball Henry Cudlip hadn’t made me redundant or if that other slimeball Matt Taylor hadn’t had an affair. Sorry, he’s not a slimeball. But you know what I mean.’
Zeina tightened the pressure on her arm. ‘Women! Why do we do this to ourselves! Matt is a slimeball. He had the affair and treated you like absolute shit, Ju. And the kids.’
‘He did. But I’m saying I thought all these things were the worst things that could happen when they happened. But losing my job, finding out about Matt and Tess – they were the best things that could have happened. They forced me to make a change. You just get used to unhappiness, I think. I used to think of it like muscle memory. You forget how to be happy.’ She rolled her head around her neck, feeling it click. ‘Sandy is the exception. That wasn’t a bad thing that turned out to be a great thing. That was on my watch.’
Zeina nodded, but she said, ‘Listen, babe, accidents happen. That kid was always in everything. Remember the time he climbed on to your bedroom windowsill? Who’s to say he wouldn’t have had a worse accident if you’d stayed in London? You can’t see that path cos you didn’t take it. You took this one. You did the right thing. You’ve always done the right thing.’
Her voice was soft, and so kind. Juliet blinked, arms folded across her chest. ‘Well—’
There was a knock on the door. ‘That’ll be Nawal or Yasmin.’ Zeina got up, went down the hallway. ‘Oh, hi there,’ Juliet heard her say, in some surprise. ‘Of course, babe. Come in.’
Bea entered, hands in her pockets and her backpack on, looking gingerly around, but when she saw Juliet she flung her arms round her. ‘Mum! How’s Sandy?’
‘He’s – yep, he’s really good, darling. How’s your week been?’
‘It’s been fab.’ Bea nodded. ‘Can Fin come down again next week?’
‘Of course.’ Juliet drained her mug. She looked up at Zeina, in the doorway. ‘We should go and get Bea’s stuff from across the road –’
‘No need, I’ve got it,’ said Bea. She patted the backpack. ‘Let’s go home.’
‘Oh. Well. Don’t you want to say bye to—’
‘Don’t ruin the symbolism of it, Mum. Anyway, Dad’s taking Tess out to dinner tonight at some fancy Italian place in Hampstead so she’s resting now. Her feet are killing her and she’s hungry all the time and I heard her tell Dad she’d rather not see you.’
‘Hey – well. So – did Dad say anything?’
‘He said he’d try and come down for Sandy’s thing on Saturday but he’s not sure. Tess’s kid has a kung-fu display.’ Bea leaned against the wall, one foot up under her leg. Her fringe was getting long again – it was only a week or two since she’d cut it. Where did time go? Weeks, months, slipping away, and Bea was a young woman, sixteen in a couple of months.
Zeina opened the door. ‘Car’s still there, it hasn’t been nicked in the crime cesspit of Zone 2. Is that it? Have you finished with me?’
Juliet stopped. ‘There is one more thing. I want to buy another painting. It’s in Geneva at the moment, in a vault. Don’t laugh. It really is. Do I have to pay import tax on it?’
Zeina sighed, and folded her arms. ‘Right. What painting is this?’
‘Well, it’s the sketch. The sketch of The Garden of Lost and Foun
d.’ Juliet scratched her nose. ‘I know it sounds mad. It does sound mad. The guy who bought it won’t loan it out. He doesn’t want to bother with it any more, I think. He’s been crucified for it. I offered him a bit above the market price and pointed out he’d look like a good guy if he sold it back to the great-granddaughter of the painter since she has somehow managed to acquire the other painting—’
‘Which it turns out was in your own house all along anyway and your child had to suffer a severe head injury for you to find it—’
‘Yes, well.’ Juliet scratched her nose. ‘I didn’t go into that with him to be honest . . . he’s not a details man.’
‘Uh-uh.’
‘But I think we have a deal. I want to take it back to the house and hang it up again, in the study. So when I’m working and writing my biography of Horner I can stare at it. Can you check out the contract, when it comes?’
‘All this work,’ Zeina complained. ‘Eid is coming up, I’m tired by about five and hungry, and you’re giving me all this extra trouble.’
‘Thanks, Zee. I loves ya.’ Juliet kissed her again and headed down the front path, turning to say, ‘Bea, do you need a—’
‘Mum! I’m fifteen, for God’s sake! I’ve had a pee, all right!’
‘All right –’ Juliet began and then stopped, and waved. ‘Oh. Hi, Tess.’
Tess was standing in the doorway opposite, holding a bag of rubbish. She stared at Juliet without emotion. ‘Let me help you with that,’ said Juliet, and before she could think about it she was crossing the road towards her, taking the bag, slinging it into the bins by the front wall, not the nearest one, the second one.
‘That bin leaks,’ Juliet said, pointing. ‘It’s better—’ She stopped, moving back, towards the gate, suddenly awkward.
‘It’s a new bin. But thanks.’ Tess turned back to go. Juliet saw the deep, curved shadows under her eyes above her apple-like cheeks, the clear, waxy perfection of her slightly bloated, heavily-pregnant-woman’s face and the dilated, slightly dead look in her eyes.
‘How are you doing?’ she said.
Tess turned slowly, and in obvious discomfort. She patted her large bump, snugly encased in Breton stripes. ‘I’m OK. I have pelvic girdle pain. It’s fucking agony.’
‘I had that with Isla. It’s awful. I’m so sorry. Matt will know what to do. He used to—’ Juliet stopped, then said in a rush: ‘I had a support belt I’d wear. He used to rub my hips, and my feet. Get him to do it.’
Tess gave a weary smile. ‘I’m sure he’ll remember. I’ll ask him. When he’s in a good mood.’
Matt’s moods, the barometer of the house. Juliet felt a warm breeze on her face, liberty washing over her. Oh, how she must bring her girls up believing they never, ever needed to be with someone for the sake of it. It was better to live contentedly alone than live like that. Far, far better.
‘Anyway, I bet Matt’s thrilled,’ said Juliet. ‘He’s great with babies. I’m sure—’
She trailed off, remembering how very hard Isla had found being with Elise, Tess’s first child. Juliet realised then her kids must visit their new half-brother or sister, must love them, but she’d have to make sure it wasn’t for too long each time. This was a toxic situation, brewing right there. She thought for a moment.
‘Matt really is great with babies.’ She swallowed, and then went on. ‘He sings them to sleep. And he’s good at just having them around while he does stuff. Cooking, making tea. He used to empty the dishwasher with Isla strapped into the Baby Bjorn. He’d sing her Paul Weller. She loved it.’ She nodded, brightly. ‘He likes feeling useful. I stopped needing him, I suppose.’ It was the truth, she saw it now. ‘Listen, congratulations, Tess. I’m happy for you.’ And that, she supposed, was also the truth. She was free, and she was out of here.
‘I think the congratulations are all yours,’ said Tess, thinly. ‘Matt keeps saying how pleased he is for you.’ She gave a short laugh. ‘Just so you know. He’s really pleased for you.’
‘Oh – thanks.’
The dark shadows beneath Tess’s eyes deepened as she looked down. ‘It’s bullshit, of course. But we have to say we believe it, don’t we? Otherwise he’s afraid he’ll be a laughing stock.’
She gave a small, terrible twisted smile, hand still wrapped tentacle-like around her own bump. Juliet nodded, and looked at the bump but when she glanced up, Tess had shut the front door.
Juliet stared at her old house one last time: the evening sun on the neat cream and red brick frontage, the last of the honeysuckle clinging to the rotten trellis. She crossed the narrow road to her car.
‘Righty-ho!’ she said, brightly.
‘She’s weird,’ said Zeina, under her breath.
‘Zeina . . .’ Juliet said warningly, nodding her head towards Bea, but Bea stuck her thumbs into her backpack straps.
‘She is weird. But, then, so’s Dad. I think they’ll be good together.’
‘Oh,’ said Juliet. ‘How?’
‘They’re both convinced there’s a conspiracy against them. That everyone else is having a better time.’ She shrugged. ‘Money and better lives and stuff. She’s got no money now she’s divorced her husband and she loves money. So does Dad. She said you’d got loads, is that because you divorced Dad?’
‘Sort of. I’ll tell you about it on the way back home.’ They smiled at each other and Juliet turned to Zeina. ‘Look, I—’
‘Don’t,’ said Zeina. ‘Just go away. I love you and I miss you, and I’ll be in touch about all that stuff. Give Sam my details.’ She pulled her close to her. ‘And give him your details.’
‘Can we listen to your ABBA CD, Mum?’ Bea said, as they got into the car.
‘Why of course,’ said Juliet, managing to hide her shock. ‘Let’s open with “Super Trouper” – it’s a work of genius.’
‘It is, Mum.’ Bea made an awkward gesture, rubbing her silky head against Juliet’s arm for a brief second then sitting back, half frowning, half smiling.
‘So – wow. You think I’m right about something.’
‘You are. You’re right about a lot.’
Juliet glanced at Matt’s house one last time as they drove away.
‘Let’s go home, darling,’ she said, waving to Zeina as the car pulled away from the kerb.
Chapter Forty
One week later, and it was early July. As the last guest was leaving – the Tolleys from Walbrook Farm, who had brought some of their own pig pâté to Sandy’s Welcome Home party and a load of frozen sausages and two ready meals – ‘We didn’t want to bother you, now he’s home we thought you might be a bit swamped, what with everything, and a few meals are good at a time like this,’ Debs Tolley had said, plonking them down almost defiantly in the little kitchen – Juliet stood at the bottom of the stairs, listening out for Sandy. It was just seven and he was already fast asleep, worn out by the excitement of being at home and being with his siblings. He had eaten too many sweets and bounced up and down on the sofa cushions for a few seconds, then felt very dizzy and turned extremely white. Juliet had tried not to freak out before reassuring herself it was the bouncing, not anything more. She had taken him into the dining room, and given him a proper, voice-raised, finger-wagging talking-to, where she told him that if he bounced on things again while he was recovering he’d have to go back to hospital.
‘I don’t care if that scares the crap out of you,’ she’d added, horrified at herself, but almost enjoying the thrill of the alarm on his face. ‘You are a very lucky little boy. And if you fall off anything again before you’re better, I will be furious with you.’
‘No! You must come to my hospital and give my presents again,’ Sandy said, arms folded, and then he stalked out, yelling, ‘Isla! Food!’
‘His speech has really come on,’ said Honor dryly in the background, nursing a glass of wine.
Juliet watched him fall asleep in his new bed, with his Peppa Pig toys ranged against the wall and his new pop-up Tiger Who Came to Tea bo
ok and his digger from Matt. She had resisted the urge to stay and check his breathing, his head position, the heat of the room . . . with huge force of will she had taken herself away, and down to the study, to have a little weep. For he seemed still so very small and vulnerable to her.
Honor appeared in the hallway now, draining her wine. ‘I should be going,’ she said. She put her glass on the hall table, and ruffled her hair in the mirror, tying her scarf around her neck again. ‘Oh, by the way. My gardener’s popping over this afternoon. Do you remember, I mentioned him? Is that OK?’ Juliet looked blank. ‘I’ve told him all about the place. He wants to see what he can do.’
As with many things over the last couple of months Juliet had no memory of this, but she nodded. ‘That’s great. Thank you so much for fixing me up with him.’
Honor laughed, then hugged her. Juliet smelled her delicious fragrance, so redolent of her childhood, and she felt her soft skin on her cheek as she kissed her. ‘I’m so glad you’re still here. All of you,’ Honor said. ‘Now, I’m leaving the car here. George is giving me a lift home, I’ve had too much wine.’
Juliet opened the french windows, and in a few moments heard the sound of George’s car purring quietly up the drive. She smelled the fresh evening air, welcome in the stale, hot room.
On her desk lay the high-resolution photograph of The Garden of Lost and Found and a card from Sam, confirming the sale to the Tate. It had been waiting for her when she arrived back from London with Bea. He had dropped it round, but hadn’t stayed.
The Tate will display the picture with The Nightingale and The Lilac Hours. Twenty-five per cent of all proceeds from postcards, memorabilia, etc. will go to the Stella Horner Foundation for Art Education. They will be in touch with you separately about it. And, if I may, I’ll call you soon.
Thank you
S
It was coming back to the house for one night, at her request, before it went to the Tate for its unveiling. She would put the painting on the terrace, in front of the french windows, just above the rambling roses and Honor’s newly planted foxgloves. She would see it in its rightful setting, once more before it left again.
The Garden of Lost and Found Page 45
