Harriet Evans - Love Always

‘I am,’ I say. ‘I can’t trust him. I can’t have him back if I don’t trust him.’

‘He’s your husband, and he looks after you, and you don’t have to worry about anything,’ Mum says sharply. ‘I think you need to look at it like that instead, Natasha. I mean, he didn’t kill anyone, you know. He slept with someone. He’s a good husband.’

‘What?’ I am momentarily stunned, as though this is a modern-day version of Gigi and I am Leslie Caron and should just put up with it. ‘He pays for our nice life, for my new boots, I should just shut up, right?’

She stares at me defiantly. ‘Sometimes, darling, I think you just don’t get it at al . I’m just saying it’s hard, being on your own.’

I can’t answer this, as I know she’s right, but I can’t agree with her without hurting her feelings. ‘I just don’t know, Mum,’ I say. ‘I look at our life together and I—’

She interrupts me. ‘Relationships aren’t perfect,’ she says. ‘They’re not. You have to work at them. You were the first of your friends to get married, weren’t you?’ This is true, and I’m surprised she’s aware of it. ‘Perhaps you just don’t see your other friends in the same situations as you.

And I’ve certainly not been much of a role model in that direction, have I?’ She grimaces, blinking rapidly.

‘He slept with someone, Mum. He didn’t forget our anniversary. It’s a bit different.’

‘Like I say. People make mistakes.’ She pauses. ‘Your grandparents are a good example. But they got over it.’

‘How? What do you mean?’

‘I mean –’ Mum begins, and then she stops. Her mouth is open, as though she’s not sure how to continue, and then we hear a noise.

‘Hel o?’ someone cal s from upstairs. ‘Hel o? I think your grandfather needs help.’ I push open the swinging kitchen door. An old lady is standing at the top of the stairs, peering out of the dark. ‘I just came up here to use the lavatory and I heard him . . . he’s cal ing for someone.’

I see Louisa breaking away from her husband and Guy and hurrying towards the hal . I step out.

‘I’l go,’ I say suddenly, watching my mother’s face. I can hear Arvind’s voice, growing louder.

‘Someone needs to come up here!’ he is squeaking. ‘Immediately!’

‘Thanks,’ I say to the old lady, who is waiting at the bend in the staircase. ‘See you later, Mum,’ I say, and I run up the stairs, my hands running along the smooth, dark wood of the banisters.

‘I do hope he’s al right,’ the old lady says, looking anxiously towards the closed bedroom door. I push it open and go in.

Chapter Nine

‘Hel o, Natasha,’ Arvind says. He is sitting up in bed, smal as a child, bald as a baby, his hands wrinkled and lying on the crisp white sheets. The wheelchair is parked neatly in the corner; a metal stand is next to the bed. They don’t go with the room, these metal hospital items. They don’t match.

I love this room, perhaps more than any other in the house. But here on this dark February evening the heavy brocade curtains are drawn, and it is gloomy, with only the light from a lamp on Arvind’s side of the bed. On Granny’s side the sheets are smooth, and the bedside table is empty except for a blue plastic beaker; there’s stil water in it. I wonder how long it would take for it to evaporate al away.

‘What’s up, Arvind?’ I say. ‘Are you al right?’

‘I was bored,’ he says. ‘I don’t want to sleep. I wanted to put some music on, but I was prevented by your wel -meaning relative.’ He nods. His teeth are on the side, in a jar. His voice is muffled.

‘Music?’ I say, trying not to smile. ‘I like Charles Trenet, so does your grandmother. When is a better time than at her funeral to play a compact disc of Charles Trenet? But that is not important.’ He taps the sheets with his fingers. They are etiolated and dry, dead twigs scraping the smooth linen. His mind is working away though, looking at me. He screws up his face. ‘Sit down.’

I sit down on the edge of the bed. ‘Do you know what the col ective noun for rooks is?’ Arvind asks.

‘What?’ I say.

‘The col ective noun for rooks. It has been annoying me. Al day.’

‘No idea, sorry,’ I say. ‘A rookery?’

‘No.’ He glares at me in annoyance. ‘I would ask your grandmother. She would know.’

‘She would,’ I say. I glance at him. ‘It is sad,’ my grandfather says. His hands work away at the sheet. He stares up at the ceiling. ‘So, how is the atmosphere downstairs? I must admit I was not sorry to have to retire. I was finding it rather exhausting.’

‘Most people have gone,’ I say. ‘But there’s stil a hard-core group left.’

‘Your grandmother was a very popular woman,’ Arvind says. ‘She had a lot of admirers. The house used to be ful of them. Long time ago.’

I say, trying to keep my voice light, ‘Wel , you may find a couple of them sleeping on the sofas tomorrow morning.’

He smiles. ‘Then it wil be just like the old days, except they are al greyer and not that much wiser. Are you staying tonight?’

‘No,’ I say. ‘I have to get back. I have a meeting with the bank. They want their money back.’

‘Oh? Why is that?’

‘Wel , I’m going out of business.’

I don’t know why I tel Arvind this. Perhaps because he is not easily spooked and I know he won’t start wringing his hands or sighing.

‘I am sorry to hear that.’ He nods, as if acknowledging the situation. ‘Again. Why?’

‘I’ve been stupid, basical y,’ I say. ‘Listened to people when I should have just done my own thing.’

‘But perhaps it wil give you back some freedom.’

‘Freedom?’

‘The ties that bind can often strangle you,’ Arvind says, as if we were chatting about the weather. ‘It is true, in my long experience. How is Oli?’

‘Wel —’ It is my turn to start smoothing the duvet down with my fingers. ‘That’s another thing, too. I’ve left him. Or he’s left me. I think it’s over.’

Arvind’s eyes widen a little, and he nods again. ‘That is more bad news.’

I put one hand under my chin. ‘Sorry. I’m not doing very wel at the moment.’ My throat hurts from trying not to cry. ‘I’m sort of glad Granny doesn’t know. She was . . . wel – she wouldn’t have screwed everything up like this.’

Arvind says slowly, ‘Your grandmother wasn’t perfect, you know. Everyone thought she was, but she wasn’t. She found things . . . hard. Like her daughter has. Like you.’ He gazes at the curtains, as if looking through them, out to sea, to the horizon beyond. ‘You’re al more alike than you think, you know. “The sins of the fathers shal be revisited upon the children.”’

I can’t real y see what he’s talking about: Mum looks like Granny, but apart from that two more different people you couldn’t imagine. Granny, hard-working, charming, interested and interesting, beautiful and talented, and my mother – wel , she’s some of those things I suppose, but she’s never real y found her own niche, her own place, the way her brother has. Granny was sure of her place in the world. Wasn’t she?

A thick, velvety silence covers the room. I can hear faint noises from downstairs. A door slams, some murmured voices, the sound of crockery clattering against something. I wonder what time it is now. I don’t want to leave, but I know I wil have to, and soon. Arvind is watching me, as if I am a curious specimen.

He opens his mouth to speak, slowly. ‘You look just like her,’ he says. ‘Did you know that?’

‘Like Granny?’

‘No.’ He shakes his head. ‘No. Like Cecily. You look just like Cecily.’