The Frances Garrood Collection

by Frances Garrood

‘I think the key to a satisfying life is finding something you’re good at, whatever that may be, however unexpected, and going ahead and doing it.’ Humphrey fumbled in his pocket for his pipe and tobacco. ‘That’s what I did, and while it’ll never make me rich, I’ve had a lot of fun. So many people drift into moulds or jobs that don’t fit them, and spend their working lives being miserable. And there’s no need. There’s a job out there for almost anyone if they look for it. One doesn’t always get it right first time.’

  ‘Is this little talk aimed at me?’ I asked, after a moment.

  ‘Take it whichever way you like, Cass.’ Humphrey struck a match and lit his pipe, the smell of tobacco clouding his small office. ‘I know you’ve been floundering a bit, but it often takes a while to find what it is you want to do in life, and sometimes that also means finding out what you don’t want to do. You obviously enjoyed a lot of your nursing, but in the end it wasn’t what you wanted to do for the rest of your life. Nothing wrong with that. And your experience will stand you in good stead.’

  I thought then, and have often thought since, that I would love to have had a father like Humphrey, who in many ways reminded me of dear Dr Mackenzie all those years ago. While my fatherless state wasn’t something I dwelt on a great deal, working for Humphrey brought home to me again what it might have been like to have had a father to love and support me; someone strong and wise; someone who would love me unconditionally; someone safe. I knew Humphrey had two daughters, and just for a moment, I envied them.

  Over the next six months, I sold several more paintings, and as my confidence developed, so did my ability. I took to going out on my day off, taking my paints and easel and a packet of sandwiches, and spending the day painting some of the marvellous scenery of the surrounding countryside. New Dog often accompanied me, and was happy to explore the hedges and ditches or simply lie in the sun while I painted. Often walkers would come and look over my shoulder and comment on my work, and while it puzzled me that I was as it were fair game, and not apparently entitled to any privacy, I didn’t mind. Their remarks on the whole were kind, and I gained at least one new customer.

  Mum continued to be supportive, but was also bewildered by my solitary pursuit. Unable herself to manage more than an hour or so on her own without seeking company or reaching for the telephone, she couldn’t understand that I was happy to spend whole days by myself.

  ‘You must get so lonely, Cass,’ she said, on more than one occasion. ‘It doesn’t seem natural.’

  ‘It’s perfectly natural to me,’ I said. ‘I enjoy my own company.’

  ‘And still no boyfriend,’ she continued (this was a recurring theme, and unlikely to go away). ‘When I was your age —’

  ‘I know, Mum. I know what you were up to when you were my age. You’ve told me often enough. But I’m different.’

  ‘Perhaps you’re a slow developer.’

  ‘Mum, I’ve had one career, and I’m embarking on another. No one could call that slow.’

  ‘You know what I mean.’

  ‘Men,’ I sighed.

  ‘Yes. Men.’

  And of course she was right. Most of my friends had boyfriends and several were now married. Even the unconventional Myra was currently assessing the beaded boyfriend as husband material. I knew that by spending much of my leisure time alone and refusing the rare party invitations that came my way I was avoiding the issue, but I didn’t know what else to do. The incident with Neil had distressed and frightened me, and while I knew that my reaction had been out of all proportion to what had happened, I also knew that I couldn’t face risking a repeat performance.

  And so I drifted along reasonably contentedly. My pictures continued to sell steadily, Humphrey gave me more responsibility at the gallery, and life at home was, if not exciting, then too comfortable for me to wish to seek any change. Lodgers came and went, Call Me Bill suffered increasingly with an arthritic hip, and Lucas and Gracie got married.

  It took some time for Mum to come round to the idea of a wedding in the family.

  ‘A wedding? Lucas and Gracie want a white wedding? Whatever for?’ she asked me.

  ‘It’s traditional, I suppose. It’s what people do.’

  ‘It’s not what we do.’

  ‘No. Probably not. But you’re lucky, Mum. All you have to do is wear a hat and behave nicely. I’ve got to be a bridesmaid.’

  In the event, the wedding went off very well. Gracie looked beautiful (looking beautiful was what Gracie did best), Lucas was dashing in his morning suit, and I wilted in my hideous peach frock. As for Mum, she behaved better than I’d expected, and if her enormous lime-green hat upstaged that of the bride’s mother, then, as she pointed out, it certainly wasn’t deliberate. The flirting at the reception, on the other hand, almost certainly was deliberate, but if one or two eyebrows were raised, then Gracie’s family were going to have to get used to Mum. It was going to take more than a nice, conventional daughter-in-law to change the habits of a lifetime.

  After the wedding, Mum seemed downhearted.

  ‘I’ve lost him, Cass. I’ve lost Lucas,’ she told me sadly.

  ‘Of course you haven’t.’

  ‘They say you lose a son. When he gets married.’

  ‘That’s nonsense. You’ll never lose Lucas. He’s just moved on, Mum. That’s what people do when they marry.’

  But while I tried to reassure her, I felt that Lucas had drifted away from me, too. Some of the closeness we had always shared had gone, and Lucas had lost some of his sparkle and become ever so slightly dull. He and I no longer seemed to be on quite the same wavelength or laugh at the same things, and it was hard not to blame Gracie, who, while pleasant enough, appeared to have little sense of humour. It must have been hard for Gracie, too. Her background was so very different from ours that I’m sure she must have felt the difference between our two families as keenly as we did.

  I had been working at the gallery for several years when we received some news which was to affect us all.

  ‘Cass, I’ve just had a letter. From a solicitor.’ Mum seemed agitated, and looked as though she’d been crying. ‘And — and I don’t know how to tell you this.’

  ‘Quickly,’ I suggested, with the now familiar feeling that I was about to be the recipient of bad news.

  ‘It’s Uncle Rupert. He’s — he’s died.’

  ‘Oh.’

  ‘Poor man.’ She hesitated. ‘He must have died all alone.’

  ‘I’m sorry.’ What else could I say? Mum was obviously upset, and I was sorry about that if nothing else. Uncle Rupert had been released from prison some two years ago, but Mum hadn’t told me where he was living and I hadn’t wanted to know.

  ‘It seems he had quite a lot of money.’

  ‘Did he?’ We’d always been led to believe that Uncle Rupert was entirely without funds. Where had it been hiding all these years?

  ‘Yes. And — oh Cass! — he’s left it all to you!’

  Thirty-seven

  ‘How could he. How could he!’ After the initial shock, I was overcome by blinding rage.

  ‘But Cass! All that money —’

  ‘To hell with the money! I couldn’t give a damn about the money!’ I turned on her. ‘Mum, can’t you see? Can’t you see what he’s done?’

  ‘No. What has he done?’ Mum looked bewildered.

  ‘He’s escaped, that’s what he’s done. He’s escaped, and he’s paid me off, or thinks he has. How dare he! How dare he!’

  ‘But Cass, I don’t understand.’

  ‘Of course you don’t understand. You never really did understand, did you? He was a wicked, evil, dirty old man, and now he’s got away with it.’

  ‘How can you say he’s got away with it? He spent all that time in prison, and now he’s dead. I can’t see that he’s got away with anything. And he’s tried to make it up to you —’

  ‘No! No, he hasn’t. He’s bought me; he’s paid me off; cleared his nasty little debt. Good old Uncle Rupert. Wh
at a brilliant move. He’ll never have to face the music now, will he?’

  ‘But Cass, he’s dead. How can he face the music when he’s dead? And all that time in prison —’

  ‘Yes. All that time in prison, and I’m sure he richly deserved it. But that was nothing to do with me. That happened when he did it to someone else. That was when he was caught. How many other times were there when he wasn’t caught? You tell me that. How many other girls’ lives has he cocked up?’

  ‘But Cass, I never knew. I thought — I thought you’d got over all that a long time ago. It was years ago. You never said anything. Why didn’t you tell me?’

  ‘What was the point? What on earth would have been the point? You couldn’t have done anything about it, could you?’

  ‘I was furious with him at the time. You know I was. And I did throw him out of the house.’

  ‘You threw him out of the house! Well, big deal. You could hardly have kept him here, could you, unless you were prepared to risk his raping me. Lucas too — why not? — while he was about it. Perhaps you would have preferred that. Perhaps you would have been happy to let him stay, if I hadn’t made such a fuss.’

  ‘Cass! That’s not fair!’

  ‘Isn’t it? Think about it, Mum. You left him alone with me, knowing what he was, not even warning me. You risked my safety and you risked — you risked my life!’

  ‘Oh, don’t be ridiculous, Cass. Uncle Rupert may have been many things, but he wasn’t a murderer.’

  ‘I’m not talking about murder. I’m talking about my life. What he did to it. How he’s — spoiled it.’

  ‘Now you’re being melodramatic. How can Uncle Rupert have spoiled your life? You have a good life. You’re successful and I thought — I thought you were happy.’

  ‘But there’s something missing, isn’t there?’ I was beginning to enjoy myself in the way that one does when one’s so angry that suddenly it seems as though there are no holds barred. And while I knew I was being cruel, I couldn’t seem to stop. ‘You’re the one who’s always bringing it up so you ought to know the answer. What is it that’s missing from my life, Mum? Come on. It’s hardly a difficult question.’

  ‘Well, you haven’t got a boyfriend —’

  ‘Right. I haven’t got a boyfriend. And why do you think that is?’

  ‘I’ve no idea. You always told me you weren’t bothered about men, and I assumed you were telling the truth.’

  ‘Of course I’m bothered about men! I’m a normal woman, believe it or not. It’s just that I can’t face — I can’t face the physical thing. And it’s all because of Uncle Rupert. It’s what he did to me; what he left me with. It’s all his fault. And no amount of money can make up for that.’ I burst into tears and fled from the room.

  In my own bedroom I sat on the bed, sick and shaking. I had stopped weeping, but I was overwhelmed by a feeling which I can only describe as shock. Because until that minute, until that conversation with Mum, right up until the moment those words came out of my mouth I had never really known what was wrong with me.

  It wasn’t as though Uncle Rupert had been constantly on my mind. In fact I had hardly given him a thought in years. But now I realized that he must have been lurking there all the time, somewhere in that part of the brain which conveniently files away the distasteful or the plain abhorrent; not so much Uncle Rupert himself, but the feelings of fear and revulsion I had had when he came into my room all those years ago. It was something which had cast a shadow over my life for so long that I must have long since learnt to live with it, never thinking to question it, accepting it — albeit reluctantly — as part of what I was.

  Now, it dawned on me for the first time that there was probably nothing wrong with me at all; that I could have had a normal adolescence and early adulthood and enjoyed normal healthy relationships. I could have partied my way through my nursing years like all my friends; I could have gone out with boys and fallen in and out of love the way everyone else seemed to (I had had plenty of opportunities), and without all that angst, all that neurosis, I could have had so much more fun. As it was, my trust and my innocence had been stolen from me, and something which should have been precious and special had been spoiled long before I’d had a chance to exercise my own choice and judgement. It was all such a terrible waste.

  And now here I was, twenty-seven years old and living at home. I hadn’t been out with a man in years, and my family and friends had already written me off as, if not yet a spinster, then a likely candidate for a cosy little place on the shelf.

  Looking back now, I know I was being unfair; unfair to Mum, certainly, and perhaps even a little unfair to Uncle Rupert. I had always been naturally shy, and I couldn’t blame him for that, and maybe I could have sought some kind of help. But in those days, people still tended to accept themselves and their lots as faits accomplis, without question and certainly without having recourse to anyone else. Hitherto, it had never occurred to me that the basis for my problem lay anywhere but within myself.

  But now, at last, I had someone else to blame, and I felt literally sick with rage; a rage which was entirely impotent since there was no longer anyone upon whom I could justly vent it. Uncle Rupert was dead; the only possible target for my anger now was poor Mum.

  For a week or so we avoided the subject of Uncle Rupert altogether. I was still feeling too upset and Mum was no doubt reluctant to incur another of my outbursts. Eventually, however, we had to face the problem of what to do about my unwelcome inheritance.

  ‘It would be a shame to turn it down, Cass,’ Mum said. ‘Can’t you forget where it came from and just enjoy it?’

  ‘No. No I can’t. I want nothing — nothing — from Uncle Rupert.’

  ‘You could share it with Lucas,’ she said, after a moment. ‘He and Gracie are always short of money.’

  I thought of Lucas and Gracie, who after much ‘trying’ (that expression always amuses me; it makes the whole business seem such terribly hard work) were expecting their first child.

  ‘I don’t know. It’s still Uncle Rupert’s money.’ I hesitated. I had never had much money, and in spite of myself, I was tempted. ‘In any case, where did it all come from?’

  ‘I’ve no idea. He never talked about money, and since he was always saying how hard up he was I assumed he hadn’t got any.’

  ‘Did he ever pay you anything towards rent and things?’

  Mum looked uncomfortable.

  ‘Well, he did help sometimes.’

  ‘You mean he didn’t give you anything.’ How typical of Mum, to house someone like Uncle Rupert, to feed him and look after him, expecting nothing in return. Typical, too, that there wasn’t a hint of resentment at the revelation of Uncle Rupert’s hidden assets.

  ‘That doesn’t matter, Cass. It’s all in the past. I was happy to do it until — until he went.’

  ‘What about his funeral?’ I asked, with the sinking feeling that we might be expected to put in an appearance at his wake.

  ‘All over. He died a month ago, and I only found out when I got this letter.’ She sighed. ‘I’m so sorry, Cass. So sorry about — well, about everything. I never realized how badly you still felt about him; how much he’d hurt you. And of course, you were right. I should never have let him live with us. He’d only been in trouble once before, and I really thought he could change. He made me a promise, and I trusted him. I don’t blame you for being angry. You have every right. I just — I just never thought.’

  Poor Mum. How could I stay angry with her? In some ways so worldly-wise, but in others, such an innocent; of course she’d believed Uncle Rupert when he’d promised to reform. She looked for — and usually found — the best in everybody. In Mum’s eyes, even Uncle Rupert was capable of redemption.

  ‘I know,’ I said, with sudden inspiration. ‘You have Uncle Rupert’s money. You’ve certainly earned it, and if it’s mine, then presumably I can give it to whoever I like.’

  ‘Oh no. I couldn’t possibly. It’s out of
the question.’

  ‘Then — then we’ll share it.’

  ‘We?’

  ‘Yes. You, me and Lucas. I won’t feel so bad about it if we share it, and heaven knows, we could all do with it.’

  In the end, that was what we did. And while for some time afterwards I felt uncomfortable about the source of my inheritance, it was true that the money would be useful. I would be able to buy my own little studio; something I had dreamed of for years. Gracie would have free rein to plan her frilly little nursery, while Lucas would be able to replace his car, which for some time had kept going on a wing and a prayer, and Mum ...

  ‘Mum? What will you do with your money?’ I asked some weeks later, when everything had been arranged.

  ‘I’m going to travel,’ Mum said grandly.

  ‘Travel? Travel where?’

  ‘Oh, anywhere. I’ll just take off, and see what happens.’

  ‘Is that wise?’

  ‘Of course it’s not wise.’ She patted my cheek. ‘I can’t wait. I’m going to have such fun!’

  ‘That’s what I was afraid of.’

  But Mum was no longer listening.

  Thirty-eight

  My mother is sleeping again, her hands making tiny fluttering movements, and I wonder whether she is dreaming of flying.

  ‘I fly in my dreams, you know, Cass,’ she once told me.

  ‘How?’

  ‘Breast stroke. You’ve no idea how difficult it is to get off the ground. Doing breaststroke.’

  ‘I can imagine.’

  ‘Yes. You have to work at it with your arms, and then when your legs leave the ground, you have to kick like mad.’

  ‘Goodness. It sounds exhausting.’

  ‘Oh, it is. But so exciting, too, Cass. Except that no one seems to notice in dreams. Sometimes I call down to them “Look at me!”, but no one ever does. They just get on with what they’re doing, as though people fly all the time. It’s so disappointing.’

  ‘It must be.’

  ‘Much more fun than aeroplanes. You don’t really feel as though you’re flying, in an aeroplane.’