by Fanny Blake
‘This is pointless,’ said Isla, disliking how overtly hostile Lorna had been towards Andrew. ‘Aggie owns half the house. You two own the rest. That’s what Mum wanted.’
‘People challenge wills all the time.’
‘But we’re not going to.’ Morag was firm. ‘Are we?’ She turned to Isla for support.
‘It’s not up to me. But I don’t think you can do that to Aggie, no.’
‘Can’t do what to me?’ Aggie stood in the doorway, a spry woman of eighty-four, theatrical in a brilliant blue and pink kaftan, short grey hair gelled on end, inquisitive eyes, hand resting on a walking stick – another ancestral relic – with large rings on her fingers, a tea-towel over her shoulder. ‘Thanks for the help, girls!’
‘We were talking about the house,’ said Lorna, suddenly sheepish.
‘I’m so grateful,’ said Aggie. ‘I didn’t expect May to leave it to me.’
‘Well, technically speaking she’s only left half of it to you.’ Lorna didn’t look at her sisters.
‘She said she’d make sure I could stay here.’ Aggie came to sit beside Isla, her hands on the table so the light bounced off her rings. ‘It’s going to be so different now.’ Then she gave a mischievous smile. ‘But at least I can start playing poker again. She banned me, you know? I might even ask a friend to live here with me.’
‘Did she talk about why she wasn’t leaving me anything?’ Isla spoke quickly, aware Lorna was fuming beside her, but she had to know.
‘Och, she’ll have had her reasons, dear.’ Uneasy, Aggie shifted in her chair and eyed the sideboard where a couple of bottles of whisky stood. ‘I’ve just come in for a wee night cap.’
‘But what were they?’ Isla insisted, certain there was something Aggie wasn’t saying.
Their aunt’s eyes flicked nervously between them before she shook her head. ‘You know what May was like. She kept herself to herself.’
‘She only left me the picture that used to be in Dad’s study. Why would she do that?’ Isla heard her voice catch.
‘It meant a lot to your father.’ The shutters came down. ‘Have I ever told you about the time—’
‘Have you ever thought about moving somewhere smaller?’ Lorna barged in with all the finesse of a charging bull.
‘I’m not ready to move yet, dear.’ Aggie crossed the room, took a glass from the corner cabinet and poured herself a generous slug of the malt. ‘I’ll see you in the morning.’
‘Lorna, you shouldn’t have.’ Isla spoke as soon as the door closed behind her and before Lorna had time to push back.
‘I had to. She was about to embark on one of her never-ending stories. And the whole thing’s ridiculous. She’ll be around for years and we’ll never…’ Lorna was red with fury now, her mouth a thin angry line. A pulse ticked by her right eye. ‘You two have always sided against me. I’ve always been the baby to you.’
Isla could see the red mist descending on Morag. She closed her eyes, resigned to the inevitable.
‘I don’t think of you as the baby.’ The words squeezed out of Morag. ‘But your sense of entitlement is off the fucking scale. We’re not going to a lawyer and we’re not going to try to persuade Aggie to sell. We’ll follow Mum’s wishes to the letter. End of.’ Morag helped her and Isla to another glass of wine, her hand shaking so she spilled some on the table.
All Isla wanted was to go home to Oxford and get on with her life.
‘You’re no better than me.’ Lorna put down her glass. ‘You and your middle-child complex. Nothing’s ever fair, is it?’
‘That’s rich, coming from you.’ Morag gave a superior smirk.
Lorna was on her feet and shoved her chair hard into the table.
‘Will you two stop it. Please!’ Isla shouted, snapping at last.
‘Don’t start trying to be peace-maker.’ Morag turned on her suddenly.
Lorna was at the door. ‘I’m leaving. You’re pathetic. I just think it’s sensible to sell, that’s all. I’m not the one who turned this into something personal.’
‘You never do take responsibility. Yes! Think about that for a second.’ Morag paused to let her words sink in. ‘Lucky you found a husband who can carry you. He’s the one who’s encouraged you to be so entitled. He should have put the brakes on years ago.’
The sisters stared at each other, appalled it had come to this.
‘I’ll leave you to deal with the probate then.’ Lorna was icy. ‘Everything can be done through the post or by email. I’ll see you tomorrow at the funeral.’ She opened the door. ‘Andrew! It’s time to go.’
Isla and Morag were left staring at each other. They heard muttered words outside, the front door slamming, and a car start.
Morag spoke first. ‘Perhaps I was a bit over the top, but honestly…’
‘Yes, you were.’
‘She pushed me too far. So – now we know her position. I’m not speaking to her about it again. It’s too soon to sell. That’s it.’ She left the room and ran upstairs.
‘Why didn’t you just say that?’ Isla shouted after her.
The bathroom door slammed shut.
Isla placed her hands on the mahogany table and stared at them, neat, long-fingered with even, unpolished nails. She waited until her heartbeat had slowed, unable to believe they had let the evening before their mother’s funeral drift into this, the worst argument they’d had yet.
How would they ever come back from here?
4
London, June 2019
Three months after May’s funeral, Isla was standing outside the Noel Coward theatre on St Martin’s Lane, staring at her ex-husband’s name. Ian Dansbridge. No matter how big or small it was on the poster, it was there. That was the main thing. Ian was still working (part-subsidised by his profitable sideline in antiques ‘just in case’), still on the West End stage where he had always wanted to be. That of course had been at the heart of his leaving her. Even now, seeing his name there gave her the smallest frisson of… what? Regret, resentment, but a real fondness too. Achieving his ambition of appearing in London’s West End was no mean feat. Plenty of their contemporaries had dropped by the wayside long ago and found new avenues in life-coaching, alternative healing and one had even reinvented himself as an accountant.
‘Come round after the show,’ he’d said. ‘We’ll have dinner somewhere.’
The street was pulsing with people, umbrellas being shaken and closed as their owners shuffled up the steps, past the bag check and into the theatre foyer. Isla joined them.
She had just got inside the doors when her phone rang. She looked at it, annoyed with herself for not turning it off sooner. Helen, their daughter.
Can’t talk now She texted quickly. Play starting. Will call after show
The anticipatory buzz of the audience before curtain-up always excited her. Ian had got her a good seat in the centre of the stalls. She leafed through the programme, pausing only to study the pictures of the cast in rehearsal. In one, Ian looked focused, determined, and in another he was laughing. He had aged well. Good genes. He looked so like his father – tall, craggy and debonair. Isla and he had made a handsome couple. Something snagged inside her at the thought.
A series of trilling ringtones hushed the audience. The last of the phones blinked off as the theatre was plunged into darkness. When the lights went up, the actors were in place as if by magic and the play began.
Isla soon realised that this heavy-duty political drama was not for her. Ian’s role as one of four politicians was small but crucial. She twisted her wrist stealthily until she could see the time. Only another two hours to go. She began to think what she would say to him when she went round after the show. ‘Darling, you were wonderful.’ What else? It wasn’t that he wasn’t wonderful, but he was nothing. This wasn’t a role that demanded anything extraordinary from him. When they were married, he was ambitious, versatile. Now he was merely professional, dialling in the performance expected of him…
In the in
terval, a single glass of champagne stood in the bar with her name by it. A typical showy gesture of Ian’s. She enjoyed the moment, taking in the atmosphere, listening to snippets of conversation, listening out for any praise for her ex.
The second half of the play picked up a bit but was still turgid, talky and old-fashioned. Watching him take the curtain call was a pleasure though. Ian eyed the house seats to check she was there. She raised her hands higher and clapped harder. How pleased he looked, confident the cast had done justice to the play. The rest of the audience applauded less enthusiastically.
Afterwards, she went outside and sheltered from the drizzle in a shop doorway while she returned Helen’s call. Ian would be happy having a post-performance drink with his fellow cast-members until she turned up.
Helen picked up immediately. ‘Mum! At last! I’ve got a bit of a problem.’
Isla knew what that meant. She waited to hear how she was going to be roped in to help.
‘You know Mike’s away on a shoot and I’m going to the States for a few days?’
A nasty sense of foreboding crept over Isla. ‘Yes, I do. It’s very exciting.’ Helen’s career as a scriptwriter was beginning to take off at last after years of working hard on countless TV soaps. That graft was about to pay dividends.
‘Tilly’s mum’s phoned. She can’t have Charlie to stay after all. I’ll explain when I see you. So… can you possibly put off your trip to Edinburgh?’
‘Can’t we talk about this later?’
‘Of course, but just say you will. Please.’
‘I really don’t think I can. Put off the trip, I mean.’ She had carefully planned this journey to answer questions and mend fences. Instead of accepting May’s ultimate rejection of her as she had hoped she’d be able to, as the months went past she had become increasingly obsessed with what lay behind it. Finding out might at least give her some sort of resolution or acceptance. They may not have been as close as some mothers and daughters, but nothing merited this slap in the face. Just as importantly, she wanted to be on speaking terms with both her sisters again, and them with each other. So she was going to stay with both of them in the hope she could bring that about. ‘We’ll talk later,’ she said. ‘Dad’s expecting me. I’ve just seen him in the most terminally tedious play. He was great, of course.’
She added the last bit just for Helen.
* * *
There was a huddle of people at the stage door, hunched against the wet, waiting for the star of the show, an actor who had recently fronted a BBC spy drama that that had revived his flagging career. On her way up the whitewashed stone staircase, she heard Ian’s voice booming from a dressing room on the second floor. She opened the door to a long narrow nondescript room with lightbulb-framed mirrors, a dressing table down one side and rails of costumes at either end. Rain pattered onto a small window high in the wall.
‘Darling, Isla,’ he roared, still in costume. ‘How wonderful to see you. It’s been too long. Tom, have you met my first ex-wife?’
Tom, the actor they were all waiting for outside in the wet, was relaxing in a moth-eaten armchair. He looked over with a languid smile, the one that set the nation’s hearts racing. ‘I don’t think so,’ he said. ‘Hello. Drink?’ He passed Ian the bottle.
Isla’s own heart fluttered faster for just a second, then she remembered who she was. A sixty-five-year-old ex-wife. Get a grip! She smiled. ‘Thanks.’
She took the hard school chair Ian had pulled out from behind the costumes. They sat opposite each other in front of the mirror, the edges stuck about with good luck cards. There were a couple of dying bunches of flowers in brown water in vases, and a furry giraffe sat, legs splayed, among his make-up. She raised an eyebrow in its direction.
‘Fan,’ he said, shutting down that line of enquiry. ‘So how did you enjoy the show?’
‘Wonderful,’ she said. ‘So thought-provoking. And you were wonderful too.’
‘Really?’ He frowned. ‘There was that bit in the second act. When I had to slip the papers to Tom. I’m not sure that works.’
‘No, no. It did,’ she said. ‘It was terrific. Absolutely.’ She had known him for long enough to know that agreeing with his doubts was the fastest route to an argument.
Twenty minutes later they were round the corner in Sheekeys where they were shown to a discreet table for two in a corner surrounded by black-and-white photographs of West End performers over the decades. Once they had ordered, they both relaxed.
‘So,’ he said. ‘How are you? May’s death must have hit hard, even though I know you weren’t close.’
‘Thank you for coming to the funeral.’ To her horror, Isla felt tears welling. Not here, she told herself, biting the inside of her lip to stop them.
Since May’s death, she had experienced similar overwhelming waves of emotion that crashed over her when least expected, making her feel utterly helpless. Thankfully, they retreated as swiftly as they came, but left her feeling like a limp rag. Once she had broken down in Sainsburys, unable to choose between two brands of frozen peas. Another time, she had been at work, talking to one of the Museum’s trustees about funding when he suddenly asked, ‘Would you like a Kleenex?’ She had missed the crucial point of the conversation altogether and tears were rolling down her cheeks. Once or twice she had been overtaken by unprompted choking emotion when she was in the middle of a staff briefing or dealing with guests or suppliers. People were sympathetic, embarrassed, or just waited until she had regained control.
She had tried to see her relationship with her parents for what it was. The warmth and affection she held towards her father was in no doubt but it was hard to think about her mother. She knew so little about either of them but especially her. Bare facts yes, stuff about her life as Mrs Adair, housewife and mother to three daughters, but nothing about her feelings, her wants and desires – or why she batted those kind of questions away if they asked. Isla remembered her father shutting himself in his study for another evening and the accompanying click of their mother’s bedroom door as she retired early for the night. Her bond with Aunt Aggie had been so much stronger.
Ian ignored her tears – if he noticed them at all.
‘She was a funny old thing, your mum, but I was actually very fond of her. Could never quite make her out though.’
‘She adored you.’ She tried to steady her voice. All her family loved Ian, his behaviour towards her long ago written off as history. May especially had always encouraged him to keep in touch, inviting him to stay, as if his divorce had nothing to do with Isla. She didn’t once stop to ask Isla what she felt about Ian’s continued attachment to the family.
‘Isla?’ He wasn’t good with emotion but he reached across the table and took her hand.
If she didn’t change the subject she would break down and embarrass them both. ‘Do you have to introduce me as your first ex-wife?’ she said.
He looked taken aback, then smiled, withdrawing his hand. He understood. ‘But you are. The first of three, and the only one who still talks to me.’
‘Because I’m the only one who had your child.’
‘Ah, sweet Helly.’ He swilled the red wine round his glass and looked over the top of it at her. ‘How is she? I spoke to her the other day but she’s always so busy.’
‘In a state about Charlie.’
‘Ah, the school suspension.’ He nodded, in the know. ‘I don’t remember Helly’s old school being so bloody draconian.’
‘Charlie’s been suspended from school?’ Warning lights started flashing in Isla’s mind. ‘Helen hasn’t said anything to me.’ She knew why not. Because Ian wouldn’t make a fuss, whereas she wouldn’t be able to help herself.
‘Didn’t she tell you?’ He looked smug at having the inside info.
She didn’t need to prompt him. He’d delight in being the one to tell her. She sipped her wine and waited.
‘She’s been suspended till the end of term because there were drugs found at some party she wa
s at. The parents reported it to the school, who’ve come down on the girls like a ton of bricks.’
‘What?!’ Isla was shocked. ‘Why would they do that? Couldn’t they deal with it themselves? And anyway Charlie’s not like that. Is she?’ Stories of youngsters experimenting with drugs and with fatal results raced through her head.
‘Bloody stupid, I agree. Getting caught I mean.’ He sliced off the head of his plaice. ‘It’s all fine. Charlie had nothing to do with it – or so she says – but the school’s drugs policy is fierce. Get caught in the vicinity of the stuff, and you’re suspended. Supply it and you’re expelled. Four of them apparently. Probably just for a spliff or two.’ He shook his head. ‘Remember when we—’
‘—grew our own in the flat? Of course. How dumb were we, putting the pots in the kitchen window?’ The police had spotted them from the street. No arrests. Just a warning and an order to throw them away.
They laughed. Isla relaxed.
No wonder Helen had been so on edge. Perhaps Isla should stay with Charlie after all. As she deliberated, Ian’s attention was taken by an animated young woman in a red dress on the next table before he turned back. ‘Don’t make a fuss, will you? The poor child’s had enough of that.’
She hated it when he advised her how to behave. ‘Of course I’ll talk to Helen when I see her tomorrow.’
‘Just keep it low-key, that’s all.’ He lifted the skeleton from his fish, filleting it cleanly.
‘I do know how to talk to her, Ian. I’ve had years of practice.’
‘But sometimes you get it wrong.’ He raised an eyebrow to elicit her agreement.
‘Let’s not talk about it now.’ She would get the truth from Helen and make her decisions then.
‘Fine. In fact, I do have other news.’ He pulled a long face. ‘Can I talk to you?’
‘You know you can.’ She readied herself for one of Ian’s confessions that were always prefaced by those words. She had become his best listener and sometimes advisor over the years. She had never asked him to reciprocate, but she was happy for their confidences to remain a one-way street. She had her friend Mary to confide in when necessary.
