A mad thought strikes me. Perhaps I could step into Mum’s shoes and prove I am not completely useless. I could nip down to Cornwall to find out what needs to be done, see if I can help in any way. And let Olivia know that Mum is dead, poor old dear. I need something positive to focus on, and the universe has provided. It’s a gift, isn’t it? A gift to both Olivia and to me, both of us beset and bereaved.
Filled with new energy, I burn through the rest of the mountain of post, filling a bag with rubbish, and placing the remaining official letters into a neat pile. In a heap of correspondence beside Mum’s armchair I find more letters from our Cornish cousin. I am just sifting through these when James and Evie reappear, James with more full bin bags, Evie with a cardboard box. James deposits the bags in the hall, then comes back in, rubbing his hands on his trousers. ‘We’d better get cracking,’ he says.
‘The town planner and her husband are coming for dinner tonight,’ Evie says brightly over the top of the box. ‘I was going to put them off, but sometimes it’s good to have practical things to focus on, don’t you think?’
I am so gobsmacked I can’t find any words. I just look at my twin in disbelief. To give him some credit, he looks abashed. ‘Sorry, Becks. Life goes on, eh?’
I swallow, and nod. Getting to my feet, I add the pile of official correspondence to the cardboard box.
‘Can I give you a lift to the station?’ James asks.
I shake my head. ‘I’ll hang on here for a bit.’
Evie leans forward to give me an air kiss and I can smell her perfume – something musky and expensive, tainted by the lingering trace of rubber gloves. ‘I left your mother’s jewellery box on the bed,’ she says, nodding back towards the bedroom. ‘It’s all cheap costume stuff but you may want to keep something out of sentimental value. Oh and,’ she hands the box to James then reaches into her handbag and gives me the roll of red stickers. ‘You may want to put these on the paintings you don’t want the clearance chaps to take.’ She pulls away. ‘And you know, dear, you shouldn’t smoke…’ A meaningful pause.
I stare hotly at the sticky labels, then at James.
‘Take care of yourself, sis,’ he says, then shoulders his way out of the narrow door, and just like that they are gone. I can almost feel the apartment sigh in relief, its violations at an end.
I go into Mum’s room. It shows little trace of Evie’s depredations, but when I open the wardrobe doors, there is nothing left inside but the smell of camphor and a couple of dozen empty hangers. The jewellery box lies on the floral duvet covering the bed where Mum has not lain for two months. There is nothing left of her, nothing left but absence itself. Disconsolately, I open the box and gaze at the meagre contents: strands of coloured beads, a coral necklace with a broken clasp, an old cameo brooch, some rings. I remember Mum wearing this one: a dress ring with a long green stone set in silver. When I pick it up I am suddenly assailed by her perfume. Je Reviens by Worth. I will return. Except she won’t, not ever. I remember her wearing this ring so clearly, holding her hand out to admire it. ‘Who cares if it’s not valuable?’ she said. ‘It could have come out of a cracker and I’d still love it. You should never wear jewellery you don’t love.’
Oh, Mum. I put it away: a keepsake.
Going to her bedroom window, I press my hand against the pane, my breath making a bloom on the glass, just in time to see James’s Lexus disappear at the junction. My splayed fingers look like a plea for help and the little winking stone in my ‘engagement’ ring seems to mock me.
I call Eddie’s number one more time, and one more time I get his voicemail. ‘Hi there, it’s me, Becks,’ I tell the message recorder. ‘Look, it’s a bit complicated, and I’ll explain properly when we speak, but I’m going to Cornwall for a few days. It’s a family thing. It’ll give you time to finish the final preparations for the show.’ I pause. ‘Eddie? I wish you’d been able to come with me.’ I tap the red phone icon and stare at the screen. I wish I hadn’t said the last bit. It sounds whiny, needy; weak.
Am I making a foolish, even dangerous, mistake? Or is this the chance to do something for someone worse off than me? Though perhaps she isn’t worse off than me. After all, this cousin, this Olivia Kitto, is ancient and I’ve barely lived at all.
No self-pity, you’re stronger than you think, darling.
Sometimes it’s as if Mum’s voice is right there inside my head.
You know, my engagement ring really is hideous. I’ve never even liked it, let alone loved it. I lick my finger, tug and twist, and force it over swollen, reddening flesh until at last it comes off. It lies in my palm, two curlicues of cheap nine-carat gold joined by a single zircon. Thirty quid, from a cheap jewellery chain that no longer exists, bought because… I can’t even remember exactly why. The only way Eddie and I could book a hotel room? An empty gesture? A joke? Certainly, it wasn’t meant to be a proper engagement ring, binding two hearts together for all time, though I so wanted it to be, so there it has been all this time, a small and tawdry lie.
Without it, my hand looks naked, the skin pale.
But I feel unshackled.
2
‘ARE YOU SURE THIS IS THE PLACE?’ I LOOK UP AT THE house, indistinct against a wooded hill. Grey granite, grey trees merging into a grey, grey sky.
The taxi driver mutters something. I am too strung out after the journey, which has taken the best part of eight hours, including two changes and a lot of running up and down station stairs with my luggage, on the fraying edge of missing every train, to ask him to repeat himself. I have spent much of the journey trying to convince myself that my decision is a good one, but it seemed increasingly unlikely as the train crawled through the longest county in the country, making every mile count.
‘Fifteen seventy-five,’ the driver says, possibly again, and not even with a ‘please’. Unbelievable! We have come only three miles.
I hand over a precious twenty-pound note and defiantly take all the change. The driver huffs out of the car, pops the boot, and wrestles my case out onto the side of the road where it promptly falls over. Without setting it upright, or offering a word of farewell, he gets back into the car, slams the door, performs an angry five-point turn and drives off down the unmade road, leaving a swirling cloud of dust in his wake.
The gate below the house bears no name: I don’t even know if this is the right place. The house regards me from brooding blank windows.
I get my phone out to let Eddie know I’ve arrived. There is, of course, no signal. The sense that I am making a monumental mistake begins to mount up. What do I know about helping an elderly lady? I’ve made such a mess of my own life, it is sheer hubris to think I can take on someone else’s problems. But it seems there is no immediate choice than to go up to the house and say hello, tell her the sad news. And maybe then I can call for a taxi and flee.
Tugging my case, I step through the gate and forge a path through the vegetation. Clusters of bright orange flowers flame above shanks of pale, bladed leaves; brambles snake out to snag my coat. Somewhere in the midst of all this I can smell lavender.
At last, huffing from the effort, I reach a shanty of a porch whose indeterminate shade of paint has flaked back to silvered wood. The corpses of long-dead insects twist in thick corner webs. Dusty shelves sit to either side of the structure, stacked with bric-a-brac. Panels of stained glass flank an old-fashioned doorbell which, nervously, I ring. The bell makes a tired ratcheting noise as if I have set off some dysfunctional mechanical on the other side. The sound is met only by a watchful silence as if the house is holding its breath, waiting for me to give up and go away. Then a harsh voice shrieks, ‘Bugger off, arsehole!’