Chapter Forty-Four

Granny loved spring. She said spring made her happy. She hated autumn most of al , couldn’t ever understand why people found it poetic and romantic. She said it was depressing, the sign that life was over. Spring, she always said, was why we stuck around, to see that life had survived during the long winter months. As we turn into the little lane that leads to Summercove and then on to the sea, I can see why. The branches are bursting with bright green new life. White apple blossom blooms in the orchard next to the house.

I think of her, starting another spring here, year after year, and then watching the summer fade away into autumn, the long winter nights, with nothing to do, nothing to occupy her, Arvind in his study, her studio locked away, only memories of what she did, what happened, and I start to understand a little better.

We rol almost silently down the lane in Archie’s gleaming silver and red 4x4, so appropriate for Ealing, so out of place here, where it actual y helps on the narrow, sometimes treacherous roads. He turns the engine off and he, Mum and I look nervously up at the house, as if expecting some sign. Arvind is stil staring straight ahead.

‘They’ve done a good job, Didier’s gang,’ Archie says to Mum, in the seat next to me. ‘Hope you’l think so. I think so.’ Why does he always want her approval? She nods.

‘Good. I hope there isn’t too much mess. You told him it goes on the market on Monday, didn’t you? They have to have al their shit cleared out of here by then.’

Archie nods, and I realise how glad they wil be to see the back of the place, in some respects. How sad that is. ‘Agent says it’l go real y fast,’

he says. ‘We spoke a lot while you were away. He says the price is absolutely realistic. And we should have some . . . left over.’

‘Real y?’ Mum says, as if she’s only vaguely interested, but I see her hands tightening in her lap, clutching the sheaf of notes for her speech.

‘Oh, yeah.’ Archie pul s the keys out of the ignition and turns to his father, as if remembering he’s there. ‘Come on, Father. We’re here now.

Let’s go inside.’

It’s Arvind’s bloody house, I want to say to them. He’s stil here! Stop acting like that money’s yours. I want to knock their heads together, and then I think, He doesn’t care. He doesn’t care and that’s always been part of the problem.

It is strange to stand outside Summercove, looking up at the windows, with the memory of Cecily’s diary stil so clear. It hasn’t changed much in al those years, either, it’s not that kind of house, and so it is easy to imagine her, sitting at our room at the top, peering out of the window, dancing across the lawn towards the gazebo which stands at the edge of the garden, leaning against that wal there to have her picture taken. I clutch my bag, with the diary in it. It is now cloudy and the wind is stil vicious, whipping itself against my hands and face.

We go inside, Archie pushing Arvind. The reception starts soonish. There are people already here, chattering, a few out in the garden, looking out to sea, sitting in the gazebo, enjoying the beautiful weather. I can hear Louisa in the kitchen, directing the caterers. We go into the long, bright sitting room, and I breathe in sharply.

It is not Summercove, the home I loved more than any other. That place is gone. It’s as if it never existed.

Everything has changed. Gone are the comfy sofas, worn-out chintz armchairs, the fireguard. Gone are the shelves lined with books on art, travel, photography, the battered old TV in the corner. Gone are the original fifties wooden sideboards, the bright curtains and cushions that were so in vogue when they bought the house which have lasted, most of them, al these years. Al gone, the contents of the ground floor either moved upstairs for today or taken away to the local auction house or up to London.

The curtain rail, even, has been unscrewed. The French windows, where Jay and I would sit on rainy days betting on raindrops racing down the glass, are closed and the cushions on the window seats removed. The room is white, devoid of any furniture apart from dining chairs placed strategical y around it, and Granny’s paintings.

They line the wal s of the big room, fifteen or so, and below some of them are sketches. Above the fireplace is ‘Summercove at Sunset, 1963’, and I stare at it, having never seen it in the flesh before.

‘Where did they find this?’ I ask. ‘It was in her studio,’ Archie replies. ‘She never showed it to anyone. That, and – this was there too.’ He points, and I swivel round. Next to the door, almost hidden in its shadow, is an oil painting of a girl, a girl I know very wel now.

‘Cecily Frowning, 1963’

It’s the painting. I wonder whether Arvind stil has the sketch. I hope so. She is sitting on a stool, watching the painter, her expression watchful yet slightly cross. She is wearing a pale blue cotton sundress, which sets off her dark hair and skin beautiful y. One leg is tucked under the other, one hand holding the heel. She looks rather bored. I stand stil and stare at it.

‘My God,’ I say. ‘That’s – it.’

‘I’m going to find Louisa,’ Archie says, looking at his watch, and he strides out. The door bangs behind him. We three are alone in the echoing room.

I turn to look at Mum. ‘She said she hated being painted, didn’t she?’

‘Absolutely.’ Mum nods. She narrows her eyes. ‘It’s rather clever. The way Mummy got that absolutely right.’

We stare at it together, neither acknowledging that we’re talking about the diary.

‘I wondered what happened to that painting,’ I said.

My mother moves closer towards it and peers. ‘Goodness,’ she says. ‘You do look so like her, Natasha.’

‘She does,’ says a voice beside us, and I remember Arvind is here, too.

I do not move; I know that if I say the wrong thing, I could ruin everything. But I know now is the moment. This might be the only chance I get.

‘Can I ask you something?’ I don’t use her name, or cal her Mum, but she turns to me, slowly. ‘Why did you take the rest of the diary? Why didn’t you tel anyone about it, about the truth? Why didn’t you tel me?’

She looks at Arvind, then back at me. She folds her arms. ‘Oh, darling, it’s complicated.’

‘I know it is,’ I perservere. I real y want her to give me answers. She can’t keep doing this. ‘Just tel me why though.’

She shrugs, and looks at her father again. He nods. ‘Please, Miranda. Enlighten me.’ He gives a little gesture, as if to say, Go ahead.

‘I knew Cec was writing a diary,’ she says, in a rush. Her fingers fiddle with the knotted tassels of her scarf. ‘Al that summer. She wouldn’t stop bloody going on about it. “I’m putting you in my diary if you don’t stop being so mean to me,”’ Mum says, in a childish voice.

‘Did you know about her and Guy? Is that why you sent the diary to him?’ I wish it al felt as though it was fal ing into place, but it doesn’t.

She blushes slowly. ‘I think I always knew, yes.’ She shakes her head. ‘It’s not important, not at the moment. He had to have it though, I had to tel him. Anyway. I knew she’d written the diary so it had to be somewhere. I didn’t think Mummy would throw it away. She wouldn’t have done.

Couldn’t do it. So I had to find it. Because I knew – the day she died . . . she’d found out – about what she’d found out about—‘ Her eyes are burning into mine, imploringly. ‘I knew, you see.’

‘I know,’ I said. ‘I’ve read it, Mum.’

‘Wel , we went for a walk. She says that. We were both upset – so tired. You have no idea what it was like. We had a row about what to do next. I said we should expose Mummy. Tel Daddy. She said absolutely not.’ She turns suddenly to Arvind. ‘Dad – oh, shit. I shouldn’t have . . .’ She trails off, clamping her lips together. ‘Forget it.’

‘Please,’ Arvind says. ‘Don’t protect me, my dear. I know what happened.’

I must be imagining it, but it seems his tone is softer, kinder, for a moment, and the parent he could have been is apparent for a split second.

‘You do?’ Mum says. She runs her fingers along the mantel-piece, as if checking for dirt. ‘I never knew. Always, I thought I was the only one.

And I couldn’t tel . Look, look at us,’ she says, almost hysterical y. She waves her arm round the empty white room. ‘Look at the – what this did to us, to our family. I – Damn! Damn her.’

‘Mum—’ I go over to her, put my arm on her shoulder. ‘Don’t.’ Someone drops something in the kitchen, I think it must be metal. It clatters loudly, recal ing us to the present. I look at her. ‘What happened? Please tel me.’

Mum glances at Arvind, and at me, and speaks softly, urgently.

‘We fought. Not physical y. I mean we shouted at each other. Oh, God. I – oh, she made me so angry! But I would never have hurt her. We were young, you know how sisters fight.

We both had tempers, you know . . . I wanted to tel Dad about Mummy.’ She looks again at Arvind and then carries on. ‘I – I wasn’t getting on with her. I don’t know if I ever did, real y. I always felt she didn’t like me.’ She smiles. ‘Always. What a strange thing to say about your mother. Isn’t it?’

‘Yes,’ I say. I look at her and wonder, quite calmly, whether she, my own mother, ever liked me. I don’t know that she did. The sins of the fathers, Arvind said, and perhaps he’s right. He knew.

‘I wanted revenge, I suppose. Wanted to show her I was grown-up now, I could cal the shots, al of that rubbish. She was always putting me down. And she had every right to, I wasn’t – I wasn’t—‘ She blinks, and two fat mascara-flecked tears rol slowly down her cheeks. ‘I wasn’t a very nice person, back then. I was horrible to her that day . . .