A Place for Us (41 page)

They disappeared into the hallway, consulting in low voices.

And then someone said, “Well, I didn’t expect to sleep so late. What on earth was that bang?”

A figure in the doorway, so like David that Martha started again, and her hands felt instantly clammy.

Their faces were the same shape, their eyes were the same. But she was younger, her face less lined, her skin smooth. She was slightly
portly—
stately
was perhaps a better word. Reserved, a little shy maybe: when she’d arrived last night, Martha had struggled to talk to her. She hadn’t seen her for nearly fifty years, and they acutely felt the absence of David and his easy conversation. She was elegant, her silver-and-gold hair twisted neatly up into an old-fashioned chignon. Like her brother, she had remade herself.

“Cassie,” said Martha. She came forward. “Did you sleep well?”

“I did, and I’ve been up for a while. I had a bath, had a nice read of some of David’s old Wilburs.” She advanced into the kitchen. Martha took her hands and held them.

“I’m so glad you came. Thank you.”

“Well. He wanted me to. He wanted me to come up before he died. I . . . I’m so sorry. I wish I had.”

“He hadn’t told me he’d even met up with you. . . .” Martha tightened her grip on Cassie’s hands. “I didn’t go into the study for months, you see. I didn’t see your letter.”

She had been up to London three times, looking for her. She had been to the Public Record Office in Kew, sat poring over parish registers and censuses, and could find nothing. She had even been to the Angel, walked around the streets David knew so well, looking for a woman who looked like him, like Florence. But there was nothing, and she had begun to despair.

It was only three days ago when, looking for something the gallery wanted for David’s Muriel Street exhibition, she had finally opened the little drawer of his desk and seen it lying there. On top of old erasers, pencils worn to stubs, blotting paper, and ink cartridges. David opened that drawer each morning to get his materials out; he must have seen it every day after it arrived before his death. But now that he was dead, no one else, much less her, had thought to look in it.

Dear Davy,

I’m sorry I haven’t been in touch since our drink. It was nice to see you, it really was.

I have been thinking about what you said. About family, and how we’re the only ones left who remember. I’d like to come up
and see you all sometime. See Florence. I’d like to meet her. Could I come to your posh house and drink tea like a lady one day? I’ll be on my best behavior. How does that sound?

My phone number’s on the back.

Maybe it’s a bad idea. Not sure. Just thought I’d ask.

Love, Cassie

Your sister x

“I heard he died,” Cassie had said when Martha immediately rang her, shaking, “but I didn’t know how to ring you. I didn’t know if it’d be what anyone wanted.”

Florence was due home on the Saturday. She was coming here, and she was bringing Jim—who had been with her in Italy for most of the summer—ostensibly just for the night (Florence had given some excuse about how Jim needed to go to the Holburne Museum in Bath to check out a Joseph Wright of Derby portrait, but even she hadn’t sounded wholly convincing about it), but it was really a much bigger event than that. Bill was bringing Bella and Karen home. Lucy and Cat and Luke would be there.

So they would all be there. It was supposed to happen. Martha kept thinking of the wasted couple of months she’d spent looking for Cassie. She thought of how, the night of David’s death, Florence, unbeknown to her, had found her own birth certificate. She’d asked Florence to leave the study, and if she’d only left her in there a while longer, she might have opened the drawer, found Cassie’s note.

But what if she had done? Wasn’t David right? It had to happen in its own time. She, Martha, had to be ready to change things, to alter their family’s script.

Cassie said: “I’d have written right away if I’d have known.”

“I know, and we should have found you sooner. It’s my fault.”

Cassie shook her head. “It’s all fine. Oh, look, Martha, I’m kind of nervous about all this,” she said frankly. She sat down in David’s chair. “It’s so fast. Not sure, what if she freaks out? It’s a big shock to land on someone.”

“I know.” Martha’s mouth was dry. “I know. But it has to happen. She
wants to meet you, I promise you. She knows I’m looking for you, that I couldn’t find you anywhere.”

“We liked being able to blend into a crowd, me and Davy,” Cassie said. “Think we got that off our mum. We had to. Well, I’m glad. It’s going to happen, it had to sometime, didn’t it?”

“Yes. It did.” Martha stared at her sister-in-law in David’s chair, and something settled within her. She felt quiet, for the first time in a long while.

“I don’t know what I’ll say to her.” Cassie was fiddling with her buttons, slim white fingers fluttering. “I’m not a mum, I don’t know how to be a mum.”

Martha took her hand. “You are a mum,” she said.

The sound of car wheels on gravel. The sound of Bella crying, of Lucy clattering down the stairs, noise and chaos. Cassie sat still, clasping her hands together.

“Yes.”

Martha left her alone in the kitchen, hurrying through to see the front door open.

“Flo! Jim!” Lucy was advancing toward the pair at the front of the house, with Bella in her arms. “Look, my new sister! Your new niece, Flo, look at her! Isn’t she gorgeous? Look at her schmoochy cheeks.” She kissed the black-haired, black-eyed Bella, who stared at her aunt, then Jim, unimpressed. “Well, come in!” Lucy said, a little too loudly.

“Thanks,” said Florence, hugging Karen and Bill. “Bill,” she said, gripping his elbows. “Wonderful to see you, dear brother. This, this is Jim.”

With one finger pressed into his back, she propelled Jim forward, and Jim, swallowing, held out a hand. “Bill. Good to meet you. Hello, Martha.” He gave her a kiss, and Martha, who had been with him in Italy at the same time, smiled and threw her arms around him.

“It’s awfully good you’re here,” she whispered. “It really is.” Then she turned to Florence. “Hello, my darling.”

“Ma.” Florence kissed her cheek. “Hello. Look, I brought you that almond cake you like.” She thrust a large waxy packet awkwardly into Martha’s hands. “Right.”

There was a sort of silence. Lucy said, “You should come inside.”

“Yes, please,” Jim said in his mild tones, and they all laughed nervously.

Lucy led the way. “Everyone’s here. And Gran’s got a surprise for you, Florence.”

•   •   •

How do you do it? How do you do the next part?

You simply took a deep breath and kept on going.

She put her arm through Florence’s. Lucy opened the sitting room door. Martha saw them through the crack in the open door, Bill lying with his head on Karen’s shoulder, Karen with her feet up on the footstool, looking exhausted. She smiled as Lucy came in, reaching her arms out for her daughter. Lucy laughed quietly at something and closed the door. “She just . . .”

Her voice was a low murmur as the door shut.

“Jim,” Martha said calmly, “Flo needs to go into the kitchen first.”

“Why?” Florence was looking through the open door toward the table, the figure sitting sedately, head turned toward them. “Who’s in there?” she said. She froze. “Ma? Who . . . ?”

She looked at Martha, and Martha blinked and nodded. She wanted to say something, to beg her not to love this new mother more. She wanted to run in there now, ahead of Florence, pave the way. Call out to Cassie:
Be kind to her, tell her how wonderful she is! Ask her about her new book. Don’t make her feel awkward or stupid. Don’
t tease her, she mustn’t be teased. She loves the sunshine. She loves coffee, like her father. Like David. Please don’t take her away from me. Please don’t hurt her.

Florence looked back and lightly touched her mother’s cheek. “Oh, Ma,” she said. “That’s quite a coup. Well done.” She handed Jim the car keys. In the kitchen, framed by the door, they saw Cassie stand up stiffly as Florence walked toward her.

“Hello, Florence, my dear,” she said simply. “I’m . . . I’m Cassie.”

Florence stood very still. As though she were hesitating.

“Hello, Cassie,” she said eventually, her hand on the door, in a small voice.

Martha wished she could hold her hand, push her forward, but she knew she couldn’t. This was, maybe, the last thing she could do for her. For any of them.

“It’s lovely to meet you,” Florence said. She turned back and smiled at Martha. Then she closed the door, and there was silence in the dark hall, only the sound of Lucy’s voice and Karen’s soft laugh, and then nothing else, really.

Jim and Martha were left facing each other. He put his hand on Martha’s. “Shall we go for a walk? Would you show me the garden, Martha?” he said. “I’d love to see it.”

“I’d love to show it to you,” Martha said. She tucked her arm through his, and on the way out the door, picked up her garden pliers. The wisteria was too wild, and the honeysuckle would strangle everything one day. There was always something to do, there always would be. They walked outside into the sunshine, down the lawn toward the daisy bank, away from the house and the people inside. Just for a little while.

“Good-bye, my love,” she whispered, and she looked up at the sky. “Thank you. Good-bye.”

Cat

A
T THE BOTTOM
of the hill but before the village was the edge of the wood, and a web of streams that had flowed down from the hills around and converged on this shallow spot overhung with trees, babbling loudly and full of tiny, clear fish. It swept into one stream around the side of Winter Stoke and ran beside the green.

Cat sat on the bank, dangling her feet in the water, trousers rolled up, wearing a piece of paper folded into the shape of a hat on her head. In one hand she held a wooden spoon, and in the other a plastic trumpet.

“Where are you?” a voice called from the other side of the river, and Luke’s face, black with burned-cork marks, popped up between the reeds.

“I’m here,” said Cat.

“You stay there. I am still building my boat. If you try to escape, my men will beat you and kill you with sticks,” said Luke, and he disappeared again.

“Oh, no,” said Cat. “Well, I’m going to escape anyway. I’ve got special powers. I’ve turned into a monster and I’m going to cross the river and come and eat you.”

“No!” Luke shouted. “You can’t eat me.”

“Oh, yes I can!” Cat yelled, advancing slowly across the stream. “I’m going to—oh, darling, I’m sorry,” she said, as Luke’s face crumpled into terrified tears. She splashed across the rest of the stream toward him and took him in her arms.

“I don’t like monsters, Mum.”

“Me neither. But they’re not real, are they?”

“Well, sometimes they are. Zach says when you die you go to hell,
and a monster eats you every night, and then the same bit grows back again in the day. His mum is a vicar. She told him.”

“Right.” Cat kissed the top of his head. “Well, Zach’s telling you porkies. That’s not true.”

He shivered against her. “I’m still scared.”

“Oh, Luke, I really am sorry,” Cat said, hugging him close again.

“Let’s go back home.”

She hesitated. “We can’t. Not just yet. Gran’s visitor wants to meet Florence, and I said we’d go and play while they talk.” She didn’t know how to explain the real reason. “Now,” she said, “have I shown you this?” She took some string out of her pocket. “Real pirates, they stab their fish in the water. Trainee pirates, they catch their fish like this.”

“Where in the world?”

“Oh, all around the world. The Amazon, mainly.” Cat fixed the bread she’d brought on the string and tied it to a stick. “That’s yours.”

“When can we go back?” Luke said, staring at the stick in concentration as he lowered the string carefully into the water.

“Later. After we’ve caught a fish.”

“Jamie doesn’t eat fish. We won’t give him any fish.”

“Jamie? Right.” Cat wasn’t really listening.

“Jamie’s dad likes fish. He likes eating fish. He told me there are small fish you can eat all of them, including their heads.” Luke nudged Cat. “Mum! Why don’t you listen to me? Why are you always thinking about something?”

“I’m a busy pirate,” Cat said.

“What are you thinking about?”

“Never mind. Oh, look. There they are.”

She could hear their feet, crunching on the dry leaves and twigs of the undergrowth.

“Hey there,” called Joe, advancing toward them. “Hi. Hi, Luke. How’s your frog?”

“What frog?” Cat said, surprised.

“I got a frog in a box,” Luke said. “When we camped, me and Jamie and Joe.” He waved at Jamie. “How’s your frog?”

“Dead.” Jamie fished around in his satchel as Joe sat down and opened the coolbag. “Dad made some sandwiches. Do you want sandwiches?”

Luke looked at Cat. “Do pirates eat sandwiches? Do they?”

“Yes, they do,” called Joe. “Big pirates eat them with bones and eyeballs.” Luke’s eyes grew huge, and he added hurriedly, “But that’s just in films. Not really.”

“Okay, Joe,” said Luke happily.

“You’re a pirate too, Luke,” Joe told him. “You can’t be scared of other pirates. That’s like . . . like one of your toes being scared of the other toes.” He sat down next to Cat.

“What’s up?” he said.

“Nothing, why?”

“You look like you haven’t slept,” he said.

“I know we’re friends again,” she said, “but a word of advice: don’t go around saying that to people.” He said nothing, but she saw him glance again at her out of the corner of his eye. Cat took the sandwich he offered and took a huge bite, savoring the fluffy sourdough, the crunch of the crust. “That’s so good. What is it?”

“Leftover beef slices from yesterday, bit of mayo, some watercress from down the way. You like it?”

“I’ve said it before, Joe. You make the best bread alive.”

“It’s my pleasure,” he said. “Honestly. You and Luke are my best bread customers.”

The boys were advancing farther into the wood, shouting with joy. Luke looked back at Cat, waving, his eyes alive with excitement. “See you later. If I don’t come back . . . please don’t be sad, Mum, okay?”

“Sure,” Cat said. “Okay. Roger. Jolly Roger.”

Joe and Cat sat in silence, Cat swinging her legs in the water again. Even in the cool of the trees it was hot still. Two dragonflies danced above the stream. She watched them, the dappled light catching their wings.

“Thanks for meeting up. There’s a thing up at the house and I wanted to clear out for a bit.”

“Right,” said Joe. “Family gathering?”

She looked at him. “All of them, yep.” She swallowed a bit more sandwich. “Karen’s there, with Bill. And Bella.”

“Of course,” he said mildly.

“Just in case you—you know.”

“I heard he’s looking to buy into a practice in Bristol, then,” Joe said.

“Yes.”

“It’s a shame.”

“Oh, Joe.”

“I mean, he’s a great doctor, we’ll miss him round here.” He ate some sandwich. “There’s not enough pepper on this, Cat. I’m sorry.”

She ignored him. “You’re very circumspect about it. About Bella.”

“I’m happy for them, that’s why.” He wrinkled up his nose. “I’d love to meet her someday. The little one.”

They were both silent for a few moments, and Cat remembered yet again with gratitude how easy it was to be with him. He understood.

“It’s Florence,” she said eventually. “She’s meeting her mother. Her real mother. Florence is Southpaw’s niece, they adopted her. His sister couldn’t look after her, they had a very difficult childhood, and he wanted to help her—something like that. Southpaw was always so cagey about his past.”

“Why?”

“I’ve seen the pictures he drew, the ones going into that exhibition. It was awful,” she said sadly. “Anyway, she’s here now. I thought I’d take Luke out. Enjoy the sunshine.” She took a deep breath.

He smiled at her. “Cat, is that why you didn’t want to be up there this morning? Because of your mother?”

She reached for an apple. “Maybe.”

“Why?”

“Mothers and daughters. Still makes me sad.” To her horror, Cat’s eyes filled with tears.

Joe immediately pulled her toward him, stretching his arm around her. “Oh, Cat. Hey. Don’t cry.”

She leaned against him. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to.”

He patted her back. “You poor girl. It’s still hard, is it? I’m so sorry.” Cat nodded. She turned into him, and he wrapped both his arms around her. “You cry if you want,” he said, his voice muffled by her hair.

She held on to him, thanking her lucky stars she had a friend like him, that they had found their way through. “All those years,” Cat said, drawing back and wiping her nose on her hand. “I spent so many years thinking one day we’d get close, that she’d come and find me, take me home, you know.” She sat up, sniffing, and pushed her hair out of her face. “I’m so sorry, Joe. I just always had this idea of her, even after I
knew she was always going to let me down. But I think a part of her might have wanted me . . . might have missed me. Oh, goodness. This is the eight-year-old in me. Forgive me.”

He leaned toward her and touched her cheek. “Nothing to forgive, Cat. Never, ever.”

She stared at him. At the sprinkling of freckles on his nose, his blue eyes. He held her gaze.

“Gran told me this morning it’s been a year since she wrote the invitations to her party,” she said eventually.

“I heard the food at that party was amazing.”

“I heard the chef was a liability, he nearly mowed down her great-grandson and slept with her daughter-in-law.”

“
But
his miniature toad-in-the-hole canapés were sensational.”

“It’s been good, hasn’t it?” she said after a while. She spread her arms wide. “All of—this. This year.”

“Oh. Yes, of course.”

They smiled at each other. She could stare into his eyes, see nothing hidden there at all except honesty, truth, kindness. Herself, and him, and all of them. And she was terrified suddenly, as if a bubbling river had risen up and was about to sweep them away. She couldn’t do it.

She just couldn’t. She touched his hand gently, and stood up. “I have to go. Would you mind watching Luke for an hour or so?”

Joe got up and looked at her in confusion. “Where are you going?”

“I have to go back to the house.”

“Why?”

“Just need to,” she said. She had to go. “Is that all right?”

“We have to collect Jamie’s hat from Winterfold, so I’ll drop him off in a while. I think it’d be good to say hello to everyone, anyway.”

Everything was straightforward about him. No silly, petty games, no overthinking. He was as clear as the water in the stream.

“Sure, good idea,” Cat said. She tried not to look like she was backing away from him. She wished there were dust, something she could kick up, anything to create an obscuring cloud that would enable her to get out, run away. “Thanks. Bye.”

She ran out of the wood, yanking at her top as though it were covered with brambles that would pull her back in; and as she ran back up the hill, she swallowed back tears, already disgusted with herself.

•   •   •

At the top of the lane was a gentle curve, and as she turned into it, Cat started. There was a figure on the bench, holding a baby, her long hair falling over her face, both of them apparently sleeping. Cat slowed down, her head still spinning. The sun shone on the woman’s hair, and Cat found herself thinking again of her mother’s ashes, scattered over the garden, still flying somewhere in the breeze around the hills. She stopped and shook her head, smiling at herself. It was Karen, and Bella. She paused a few yards away, not knowing what to do. Her legs twitched; she felt quite mad, as if she ought to just keep on running, past the house, up the hill.

The inscription on the bench was: “Seek rest, weary traveler.”

Bella was in Karen’s arms, her body almost entirely wrapped up in an old shawl of Martha’s. Her chest went up and down. Cat had forgotten how quickly babies breathed, how alarming it had seemed to her at first. She watched her, suddenly transfixed. The tiny fingers of one hand waved involuntarily suddenly, like a magician’s flourish, and Cat laughed softly.

“Hello,” said Karen, suddenly raising her head and opening her eyes. Cat had thought yesterday, when they’d arrived, how different she looked, especially without her makeup. Much younger. “I’m getting good at catnapping. Sorry. Just went for a little post-feed stroll and sat in the sunshine and fell asleep. I bet you thought we were tramps.”

“You both looked very peaceful,” Cat said, smiling. She sat down next to her, trying not to fidget.

“Thought it might be good to clear out for a while.” Karen pushed her hair away from her face. “The sound of a baby crying isn’t necessarily the most appropriate . . . erm . . . vibe they want right now, do you know what I mean?”

“Totally agree,” said Cat. “You’re very wise.”

“Where’s Luke, then?”

“He’s with Joe and Jamie. They’re just down by the river, actually. They’re so happy down there.” Cat hesitated, and shifted on her seat. “He’d love to see you and Bella, I know he would.”

“Really? I never heard back from him. I’ve e-mailed. And called.”

“He was pretty upset. You know Joe, he loves kids. Loves a family.”
She laughed, already feeling exasperated with herself for running off like that. “That’s why I’ve given him mine.”

Karen stared at her; then her face cleared. “Great. That’s so great, Cat! I really hoped he’d go for it. I didn’t realize. You two, at last! That’s fantastic.”

“Oh,” said Cat hurriedly, “no, Karen. I meant—not that. I meant I’ve given him . . . No, he’s just looking after Luke. For an hour or so.”

Karen shifted the sleeping Bella under her arm. “Oh.”

“There’s nothing going on with me and Joe,” Cat said, mortified. “It’s not—we’re friends. We’re really good friends. Actually. It’s great.” She nodded. “Great.” The sun flickered in her eyes.

Karen stared at her, and then she laughed. “Bollocks!”

“What?”

“I said that’s bollocks. Cat, he’s in love with you.”

Bella slowly opened her eyes, glaring sleepily at her mother.

“Joe,” said Cat, as though Karen just hadn’t understood her.

“Yes, Cat. I know who you mean. Joe Thorne. Six one, blue eyes, black hair. Got a scar on his finger, loves
Game of Thrones
, makes nice bread.” She spoke slowly, as if Cat were a bit deaf. “He is in love with you.”

Cat stroked Bella’s hair, her heart thumping. “He’s not, honestly. We don’t have that kind of relationship. Once . . . you know. We sort of once . . . anyway . . .”

“Cat, it’s obvious. I’ve watched the two of you together. I’d see the way he looked at you. That’s why I left. Wasn’t fair on him, on you. On me, on Bill.” She gave a funny smile, then took Bella and clipped on the baby’s sling. “Look, Cat, none of my business, but I think you need to stop looking to the past. Forget about what’s happened. I think we all need to.”

“Yes,” said Cat, looking at her. She stood up. “Yes.” She looked down the drive, toward the old house. She could hear laughter through the open windows and peered forward, to see what she could make out. Blurred figures, distorted by the leaded diamond panes of glass. She couldn’t see who it was, who was there.

She could go back to the house now. Walk in, say hello to the reunited Cassie and Florence. Be part of that family, the niece, the granddaughter, the cousin; and then Joe would bring Luke back and say hello
to everyone and it would be fine, of course it would be, and then he would leave, and she’d see him the next day and the next day. . . .