The Long Way Home

by Fanny Blake

  The apartment seemed spacious and comfortable, with high ceilings and furniture that was neat and tidy, though had perhaps seen better days. Madame chattered away but May couldn’t keep up with what she was saying. Her room was at the very top of the house where the servants from all the other flats would once have slept – a ‘chambre de bonne’, Madame explained. The room was small and the bed was pushed against the wall with a side table and a light beside it. The curtains at the narrow window were patterned with oatmeal-coloured bees and laurel wreaths on a white background. Outside she could see the spring sunshine and the tops of the trees in the park opposite.

  It didn’t take long to realise, however, that her charge, Emile, would prefer her not to be there. The first clue was the marbles laid out on the floor. She had spotted them in time to avoid slipping and breaking a leg. The second was a piece of rancid cheese hidden behind her bedside cabinet. They were the sort of pranks that May would have played herself as a child, and she couldn’t help smiling when Emile’s back was turned.

  * * *

  Soon after her arrival, May was in the nursery, wondering how she could jolly it up. There was no sign of Emile. A shiny rocking horse sat motionless in the window, looking out towards the trees on the other side of the road. On top of the heavy chest of drawers sat three string puppets – a clown with red hair, Pinocchio and a growling wolf in checked trousers – heads lolling, their blue eyes in fixed stares, rictus smiles. She touched Pinocchio’s nose with a fingertip. In a corner, she found a one-armed teddy left on a chair, a little blanket strewn roughly over him. She stepped over the railway track that ran round half of the room, the trains on it stationary.

  A sudden noise made her spin round, hand on her heart, as a clockwork soldier marched across the floor towards her, banging his drum. Rat a tat. Rat a tat. She snatched him up.

  ‘You scared me.’

  From behind the heavy wooden door came a muffled sound that she pretended not to hear.

  ‘But we could be friends, as I can’t see any children here. Where do you live?’ She spotted a toy fort in the corner opposite the abandoned teddy. ‘Will you fit in here? No?’

  ‘He lives here.’ Emile raced into the room to point at the mahogany armoire, one of his knee-length socks down round his ankle.

  ‘Where have you been hiding?’ She pretended surprise so he laughed. ‘I thought we might go out.’ She spoke in her best very basic French as she pulled open the armoire door to find four shelves neatly stacked with toys in boxes. Remembering she was only to speak English with him, she repeated herself very slowly in her mother tongue, her hand itching to ruffle his hair that was combed so flat on either side of his parting.

  ‘Oui. We go to the park?’ His eyes lit up.

  ‘Of course.’ If she kept the English simple, they might even get on. Her stomach was churning as it had since the moment she arrived.

  They couldn’t possibly get lost going across the road to the park on the other side. She took the navy jacket that her mother had insisted she bring especially, although she was aware of how unfashionable it was, bought for the long cold Scottish winters. Emile took a model sailing boat, and together they headed down the stone stairs and out of the front door onto the street.

  ‘Emile! Stay with me,’ she said as they crossed the road. The spring sunshine filled the air with promise, and the trees were misted green with new leaves. When they reached the gate, she stopped for a moment to stare back at their building again. Goodness, how… well, how elegantly the Parisians lived. Seven storeys of imposing cream stone with elaborate narrow wrought-iron balconies on each of the four principal floors, decorative stone scrolls supporting each one. Paris was nothing like her home town of Dunfermline, dominated by the great abbey on the hill, but it didn’t matter. She was already intoxicated by Paris and to discover somewhere as beautiful as this so soon was a blessing.

  Emile was running ahead of her. She ran after him, glad of the sensible flats her mother had insisted she pack. ‘Come back,’ she yelled, aware it wouldn’t make a jot of difference. Fortunately the model boat slowed him down, so she soon caught up with him.

  ‘We won’t come here again, if you run away,’ she said, knowing full well they would come here as often as she could.

  Emile was taking them down a long avenue flanked by trees, past women with prams, other children playing ball, people walking dogs. Through the trees, she saw a group of men throwing heavy-looking silvery balls in some sort of game that required all their concentration and a lot of standing around. Three children sat astride donkeys that were being walked down the path. In front of them, the avenue led to a vast open area of ornamental gardens and gravelled paths, with statues around a large pond, and presided over by an imposing palace with a decorative clock marking the centre of its façade. May had never seen anything like it. While Emile ran over to join the other children sailing their boats in the pond, she approached a girl about her own age, sitting in one of a pair of seats. She could sit here, take in the scene while keeping an eye on her charge.

  ‘Is this taken?’ Her French was careful.

  ‘No. It’s yours.’ The voice was as English as May was Scottish. ‘You must be looking after one of the horrors too?’ Below the hair that made her look a little like Marilyn Monroe, her eyes were friendly and shone with her enjoyment of life, at the same time inviting May’s confidence. ‘Well, aren’t they?’ She raised a hand to her flyaway blond curls as she shook her head in mock despair.

  May laughed. ‘Mine is, rather.’ She pointed out Emile who was trying to right his capsized boat. A flock of little boys were crowded round offering advice.

  The other girl grinned, and just like that, May was on the way to making her first friend. Wendy was from Bournemouth and was working for a family who lived on the opposite side of the Gardens, looking after a little boy called Amaury. Within minutes, Wendy was pointing out the regulars to her.

  ‘That old woman in black always walks her dogs at this time and sits on that seat. If anyone else takes it, she moves them on.’ She looked around. ‘Now, you see those two?’ A tousle-headed young man was passionately kissing a woman as if they were alone in the park. ‘One of them’s married to someone else. You can tell by the way she keeps looking around her as if she’s worried they’ll be seen. That man there always sits alone, waiting for someone who never comes.’ He wasn’t old but he looked as if he had the cares of the world on his shoulders. ‘And those boys must be students at the Sorbonne.’ She waved with her fingertips at a group of young men with satchels. One of them returned the wave before another looked their way, said something and they all laughed.

  She smiled back. ‘You’ll get to know them all.’

  May was entranced. By sitting here and watching, she could tell the French were different. The women had a style that the good burghers of Edinburgh and Dunfermline couldn’t dream of. A flower in a lapel, a piece of ribbon, the angle of a hat, the heel of a shoe – a single stylish detail could make all the difference. She took note and vowed to try it for herself.

  A boy ran over, clutching a ball. ‘Can we go? I’m hungry.’

  ‘How good your English is already, Amaury. Of course.’ Wendy stood, wiping her hands on the skirt of her dress. ‘Perhaps I’ll see you tomorrow? Same time?’

  Perhaps she would.

  7

  Norfolk, 2019

  ‘So where are we actually going?’ Charlie straightened up in her seat and took out her earphones. This was the first time she’d expressed any interest in their journey, so Isla felt a little encouraged.

  ‘Norfolk,’ she replied. ‘It’s a long way round, but I haven’t seen my best friend for months and I miss her. I want to talk to her.’

  ‘Can’t you do that on the phone?’ Charlie turned hers in her hand.

  ‘Of course. But it’s never the same as face to face. When Mum died, stuff happened that I want to tell her about.’ Mary was the only person Isla wanted to tell the full story. She
had explained the bare outlines over the phone but there was plenty more for them to chew over.

  ‘You can tell me if you like.’

  Isla laughed, surprised. ‘Would you be interested?’

  ‘Why don’t you try?’ She wound the cable around her phone then popped it in her backpack by her feet. ‘Go on.’

  She hadn’t thought of telling Charlie the reason for the Norfolk detour, but why shouldn’t she know? They were going to be together for a long time. They turned off the M11 onto the A11 towards Newmarket and she began to explain how the row over selling Braemore escalated, the things they had said.

  ‘So Morag and I haven’t spoken to Lorna since. Although she’s still on about selling, if not the house itself, then some of the land. Apparently she talked to the solicitor about it and he’s spoken to Morag, who’s incensed. I’ve no idea why Lorna’s so set on this, but nothing can be done till we’ve got probate.’

  Charlie bent forward and retrieved her phone. ‘Actually, you know what, Gran? It sounds pretty playground to me.’

  ‘Oh.’ Isla was taken aback by the put-down. ‘You think so?’

  ‘Yeah. Sounds like everything blew up out of control but you should be able to patch it up. It’s just a question of saying something.’ Her attention was turning to whatever was on her screen, her thumbs moving at speed over it.

  ‘Well, yes, I suppose so.’ Charlie was more mature than Isla had given her credit for. Her solution was the obvious one, but even so it didn’t seem that easy. She had deliberately skated over being left out of May’s will. She’d save that for Mary, the one person she could trust not to judge, the one person whose opinion she relied on.

  The rest of the journey they travelled in near silence, the only sounds being the tinny music that occasionally leaked from Charlie’s earphones accompanied by a gentle snore and a constant stream of pings from her phone.

  Eventually they arrived on the outskirts of Sheringham, and turned into the driveway of a very modern house. She parked by a white gabled garage. ‘You have arrived at your destination,’ pronounced the satnav. Isla had not been here before and the house was not one she would ever have imagined for Mary. Gabled wings extended on either side of the plate-glass front door: the left one entirely glass-fronted so she could see right through the sitting room to the garden at the back; the right one had two narrow windows, one on top of the other. Very Grand Designs and nothing like the messy Victorian terrace they had left behind them in Camden.

  ‘Wow!’ Beside her, Charlie was coming to life again, having been out cold for the last half hour. ‘Is this where your friend lives?’ Her hand tightened on her phone as if it was a body part she was frightened of losing. Anxiety overtook Isla’s excitement.

  ‘Looks like it.’ She got out of Betty and crunched across the gravel to the front door. Although she could hear the chime inside, no one came.

  ‘How do you know her anyway?’

  ‘We met at a school fête when Helen and Gaby, her daughter, were eight. They lived right round the corner from us in Camden and we’ve been friends ever since.’

  ‘Oh.’ She obviously wasn’t tremendously impressed. ‘Long time.’

  ‘Maybe they’re in the garden.’ They went round to the back of the house where a large paved area contained an arrangement of outdoor sofas all set at angles to one another that were interrupted by square tubs containing box bushes. To one side, in a glass-sided wooden shed, there was, quite definitely, a gym. There was no one to be seen. Could this really be Mary and George’s house? In London they had lived more like Isla, fighting off the tide of children’s belongings and, by the time their children had left home, just accepting things the way they were. But they must have been pining for this contemporary pared-down lifestyle all along. How unlike Isla who had moved to her pretty house in Oxford’s Jericho and taken all her slovenly housekeeping habits with her.

  ‘Mary said there was a key under the big pot… in case she wasn’t here.’

  They watched Jock go straight up to the first sofa. He sniffed at it then cocked his leg and peed against it.

  ‘Jock! Oh my God! You can’t do that.’

  Charlie burst out laughing. ‘Here.’ She unrolled a coiled hose by the house and gave the end to Isla. She went back to the tap. ‘Ready?’

  Isla nodded. ‘Yes.’

  The water shot out with such force that the sofa and Isla were drenched.

  ‘Shit! Sorry.’ Charlie looked as if she was expecting a ticking off, eyes half shut, face set, shoulders hunched.

  But as Isla stepped out of the puddle they’d created, she couldn’t help laughing as she wrung the water from her skirt. ‘Great start!’

  Charlie visibly relaxed. Maybe her grandmother wasn’t that bad.

  They found the key and let themselves in. Charlie stood just inside the front door with her hands on her hips, looking round. ‘Where can their hub be? They must have WiFi, mustn’t they?’

  ‘God knows. I suppose so.’

  They heard a car parking outside, the slamming of two doors, footsteps and the handle of the door.

  Mary hadn’t changed. Her greying short hair was swept back off her face, accentuating her features. She looked cool in cream trousers and flat twinkly sandals with a deep-pink patterned Indian kurta over the top. Isla hugged her friend as a Border terrier tore past them towards Jock.

  ‘Toby!’ Mary warned as she broke away from Isla. ‘It’s so good to see you. It’s been too long. Let me show you your rooms first and then you can make yourselves at home. It’s such a gorgeous day.’

  Isla took in the vast open-plan downstairs area with plate-glass windows running along the back wall past living room, dining area and kitchen. It was white and light-filled, with one deep pink wall in the kitchen. There were prints on the walls that Isla didn’t recognise from London and, in corners, were impossibly healthy-looking plants in ceramic containers. It was all like something out of a magazine – gorgeous to look at but with no personality at all. Anyone could live here.

  Mary put her arm round Isla. ‘We’ve got so much to catch up on.’

  ‘You said it.’ This was just what Isla had been looking forward to. She had no doubt that Mary would cut through to the heart of her problems and tell her what she thought.

  * * *

  Charlie didn’t come down from her room immediately so Mary sat Isla down on one of the garden sofas with a white wine then raised her own glass. ‘Cheers. First of all, tell me how you got saddled with Charlie.’

  Isla looked up towards Charlie’s bedroom window which, despite the ferocious summer heat, remained firmly shut. ‘Don’t say “saddled”, that makes me feel awful, even if it is true.’ She briefly explained what had happened. ‘It’s hard for Helen and Mike. I suppose that’s the curse of the freelance life,’ she said, trying to find an excuse for what she could only describe as their benign neglect of Charlie. ‘No time or too much time, so Charlie gets a raw deal.’

  ‘Still, on the positive side, it’s nice you’ll get to know her.’

  ‘Honestly? It’s like being with a creature from another planet. I can never tell whether she’s going to talk to me or go all sullen. And the phone! She’s never off the bloody thing.’

  ‘My grandchildren are exactly the same. It’s oxygen to them: without a phone they’ll die.’

  ‘But she must have a weak spot, and once I’ve found that I’ll worm my way in.’

  Mary laughed. ‘I hope so for your sake. Or it’s going to be a long old week.’ She stretched out her legs. ‘Anyway…’ She sipped her drink. ‘I was sorry to hear about your mum.’

  ‘Thanks. But you don’t know the half of it.’

  ‘Tell me then.’ She sat back and listened as Isla began to explain exactly what had happened that night at Braemore. She left nothing out. When she finished she picked up her drink and waited for Mary’s reaction. Her friend was staring at her, astonished.

  ‘My God! That’s extraordinary. But why?’

/>   ‘That’s what I keep asking myself. I thought I could accept it but the implications just niggle away at me. I want to find out why. At the least, I want the three of us to be on speaking terms again.’

  ‘Then be the one to break the ice. The longer this goes on, the harder it will be.’

  ‘That’s what I’m trying to do.’ But she was glad to have Mary’s approval.

  ‘But for your mother to do this… it’s unimaginable. Did she always treat you differently?’

  ‘Not at all. She was a great mum. When we were little, it was all picnics on the beach, games in the garden, smoothing over squabbles, helping with homework and bedtime stories – that sort of thing. ‘She gave me my first five Wade Whimsies one Christmas. One of them was a corgi and I called it Elizabeth after the Queen.’ She laughed. Her collection of small porcelain animal figures, initiated by that gift, was now in Fernleith Museum of Childhood, the museum she ran. ‘No, she adored us. But as we all got older, she seemed to become more introverted, less tolerant. Especially when it came to me.’

  ‘I wonder why. Did something trigger that?’

  ‘Not that I can remember. But once I was a teenager, I could never do anything right. Skirt too short, make-up too heavy, rude, ungrateful – you know.’

  Mary nodded. ‘Isn’t that the way, though?’

  ‘My God! I had some epic rows with Helen over exactly the same sort of stuff, but this was different. I never stopped loving Helen but I wonder if Mum ever loved me at all. I guess her will proves she didn’t. That’s what it felt like at the time. I always ended up tiptoeing round her, never understanding why she was so impatient with me. In the end, we drifted apart. It was easier than having a confrontation, although I wish we had now. I only went back home when I had to, largely to see Dad and then, after he died, of course I wanted to go on seeing Aggie who then moved into Braemore with Mum. When I did come up, Mum and I gave each other a wide berth. I didn’t behave well.’