The Queen of New Beginnings (34 page)

After a week of flitting about the country from one recording studio to another on a variety of jobs that ranged from sugarcoated customer care to corporate training videos, it was Saturday morning and Alice was once again behind the wheel of her car. She was driving south to Sussex, on her way to meet her sister. Or more accurately her half sister: Grace.

She had never once considered the possibility that her father may have gone on to have another child. Just as she had never considered the likelihood that he and Isabel would have stayed together for as long as they had. She had told George all about this latest development and even she had been surprised. But she’d also been happy for Alice. “It means you’re not alone now,” she had said. “You have a family again.” As true as this was, it was a bittersweet observation and filled Alice with a weight of melancholy regret. If only she hadn’t been so pig-headed she would have known this young girl from the moment of her birth, would have been a part of her life. It would also have connected her to her father in a way nothing else could.

With the A3 now behind her, Alice followed the satnav directions given by a calm but firm woman—a woman who sounded like she’d never once taken a wrong turning in her life.

• • •

Squirrel’s Patch was isolated, approached through a dense wood of beech trees and as Alice slowed her speed and saw the house ahead of her, she experienced the sensation of entering a fairytale-like world. Built of classic Sussex stone with a low sloping roof, the house was neatly placed in a clearing. There were two small chimneys at either end of the roof and with an off-centre door and porch draped in a rambling rose it looked as if it had originally been two cottages that had been joined together. There was a small front garden in full flower and with the sun shining down from a faultless blue sky, the scene was a tableau of idyllic enchantment. Strangely, Alice felt instantly at home.

She stepped out of her car and was greeted by a peaceful stillness. The only sound to be heard was birdsong. It really was another world. From inside the porch, the door opened and Isabel stepped out. Behind her a slightly built girl with shoulder-length blonde hair appeared. Alice recognized her at once from the photographs she had seen and while her mother came over and hugged Alice, she remained shyly where she was. Rendered shy herself, Alice offered the girl a small, tentative smile. She badly wanted Grace to like her and was anxious not to say or do the wrong thing by leaping in too fast.

Slipping a cool hand through Alice’s, Isabel said, “Come and meet Grace; she’s been dying to meet you. She was up at six o’clock this morning she was so excited. Isn’t that right, Grace?”

“I’ve been dying to meet you, too,” Alice admitted. “I couldn’t sleep last night for my excitement.”

Grace smiled and Alice saw that Isabel hadn’t been exaggerating when she’d said that her daughter had the same smile as Alice. “I’ve made you some flapjacks,” Grace said. “Do you like flapjacks?”

“I love them.”

Isabel put her arm around Grace’s shoulders. “She takes after you, Alice. She’s a brilliant cook. Unlike me.”

“I’m not brilliant, Mum. Just better than you.”

Isabel laughed. “Well, let’s go in and put your expert baking to the test, shall we?”

Inside, the décor was pure country house with plenty of antiques, tasteful fabrics and delicate watercolours hanging on the walls. Nothing was overworked or in excess though, and Alice felt charmed and embraced by the warmth of its welcome. They were now in the kitchen, a large L-shaped room with two sets of French doors leading out onto a terrace and a gorgeous cottage-style garden. “Who has the amazing green fingers?” asked Alice.

“Believe it or not, it’s Mum,” said Grace. “Would you like me to show you round the garden? There’s a small area that I’m allowed to grow things in. I’ve planted some lupins and some rhubarb.”

“Thank you, I’d like that.”

“That all right with you, Mum?”

“Of course,” Isabel answered with a smile. “I’ll make some tea and we’ll have it outside.”

• • •

All trace of her earlier shyness now gone, Grace escorted Alice round the garden. First she showed Alice the raised beds devoted to herbs and salad vegetables, then the beds that seemed to be overflowing with colour and texture. The impression was that the flowers and shrubs had grown at random, giving a natural organic feel, but Alice suspected that chance had not been at work here; the garden had been carefully planned right down to the miniature clay pots that contained tealights and lined the curving herringbone brickwork path. Beyond a weathered summerhouse there was a hammock strung between two apple trees; lined with a tapestry throw and a large cushion it looked wonderfully inviting. As the sound of cooing doves drifted on the warm, still air, Alice could easily imagine herself happily dozing in the hammock.

“This is my bit of the garden,” Grace said proudly as she led Alice away from the hammock. “Do you like it?”

“Very much.” Alice said as she took in a mostly bare patch of soil containing a crown of rhubarb and two orderly rows of lupins. Separating it from the surrounding area was a boundary made up of large seashells; they had been placed with great care. “Did you do it all yourself?” Alice asked, trying not to sound patronizing.

“Oh yes. I’m going to sow some spring cabbage tomorrow. And maybe some runner beans.”

“I remember growing radishes when I was about your age.”

“Really? What else did you grow?”

“Carrots. Except they didn’t grow any bigger than my thumb.”

“That was probably because you didn’t dig the soil enough before you put the seeds in.”

“Goodness, you know your stuff, don’t you? I reckon your fingers must be as green as your mother’s.”

She shrugged. “Not really. I have a lot to learn.”

“Well, good for you. I’ve only got a tiny garden compared to yours. Perhaps you’d like to see it one day?”

“That would be great. I’ve never been to Derbyshire. Will I be able to see the house where Mum met my dad?”

Taken aback by the girl’s directness, Alice said, “We’d certainly be able to see it from the outside, but not inside. There are other people living in it now.”

“That’s a pity. Never mind. It’ll still be cool to see Cuckoo House. I’ve heard a lot about it. And about you. You’re just as I pictured you.”

“Is that a good thing?”

“Oh, yes. Mum’s never wrong. She said you were pretty and you are.”

“Now you’re making me blush.”

“Why? I’m only telling the truth. Mum says I must always tell the truth, that it’s really important.”

With a nasty stab of guilt, Alice said, “Now I’m blushing even more.”

“Well, you shouldn’t. I think it’s going to be the coolest thing in all the world having you as my big sister.” She suddenly spun round on the spot and laughed gaily. There was such an air of vibrancy about her, an expressive joyful simplicity. She was as uncomplicated as a summer’s day and just as lovely. “My friends at school are all really jealous,” she said.

“Why?”

“Because you’re famous.”

“I’m not famous.”

“You are. After Mum went to see you and found out what an amazing job you have, we bought one of your CDs.”

Flattered, Alice said, “Which one?”

“
Matilda and the Grumpy Dragon
.”

“Did you enjoy it?”

“I thought you did the voices really well. I’d like to do that kind of job when I’m grown up. Is it difficult to do?”

Before Alice could answer, Isabel called to them from the terrace. “Tea and flapjacks for anyone who’s interested.”

Grace took hold of Alice’s hand. “Come on,” she said. “Let’s go.”

It was such a small gesture, such a casual instruction, but Alice felt her heart soar.

• • •

Late that evening, despite numerous ruses and pleas to stay up longer, Grace was finally persuaded to go to bed. Isabel sat on the sofa next to Alice and placed a large photograph album on her lap. “I wondered if you’d like to look at this,” she said.

“Pictures of my father?” Alice asked.

“Yes.”

Alice had already seen several framed photographs of her father around the house—Bruce and Isabel together, Bruce cradling a day-old Grace. She opened the album and turned to the first page, where an A4 black and white photograph had been placed. Wearing an open-necked shirt, the collar askew and slightly frayed at the corners, her father stared back at Alice, his gaze as penetrating as if he were in the room with her. He looked as if he was trying to decide whether to turn his head from the lens in annoyance or to laugh out loud. It was a look Alice remembered all too well. “He hated having his picture taken,” she murmured. “He never trusted anyone else to do a good job of it. Who took this picture?”

“I did.”

“Really? You’ve captured him perfectly.”

“Thank you. He did his best to teach me his craft; I like to think I occasionally got the ‘money shot’ as he called it. That’s what I do these days. Portrait photography.”

“You work as a photographer?”

Isabel laughed. “I have a small studio but honestly, Alice, I dabble. It’s what I do in life: a dabble here, a dabble there. I’m one of life’s great dabblers. It’s probably because I inherited a stonking amount of money when I was young from a trust fund that my father had created for me. Then when my mother died, I inherited again. So you see, I’ve never had to do a proper job. I’ve been lucky. Or unlucky, depending on how you view these things.”

“I’ve been lucky as well,” Alice said thoughtfully. “When I sold Cuckoo House, I hardly touched a penny of the money. Deep down I felt too guilty to do anything with it. Instead, I regarded it as a safety net for when work wasn’t so easy to come by. I still do. I did use a small amount of it to buy Dragonfly Cottage, but the bulk of it remains untouched. And, of course, there was the money my great aunt Eliza had left for me in trust.”

“Bruce always hoped you’d be financially secure. I’m glad his hope wasn’t in vain.”

Alice turned the page and looked at another picture of her father. In this one he was sitting in an armchair, engrossed in a book.

“I caught him unawares when I took that photograph,” Isabel said. “He was so deep in concentration he had no idea I was even in the same room as him. It’s a particular favourite of mine, that picture.”

Again, Alice had to admit that Isabel had captured her father perfectly. She turned the page and once more there was a striking black and white portrait of her father. “I think you’re being modest about your ability. This is more than mere dabbling. You must be very successful at what you do.”

“People seem to like what I do for them.”

“Do you only ever do black and white photography?”

“Yes. Colour seems too forced and clumsy for my eye when it comes to portraiture. It gives the sitter something to hide behind. Black and white is infinitely more revealing. I feel I can get to the heart and spirit of the person I’m photographing.”

“I seem to recall my father saying something similar, although of course he rarely took pictures of people.” She continued turning the pages of the album. She stopped at a photograph of her father with Grace; the little girl looked to be about two years old and was riding his shoulders.

“That was taken in Buenos Aires,” Isabel said.

“Was that where you lived?”

“For a time. It was where Bruce did some of his best work. He did very little freelance work for magazines then and more gallery and exhibition work. He was in great demand. Being the silly man he was, he could never quite figure out whether that was a good thing or not. I used to accompany him on his trips. Even when Grace arrived, I still went with him, Grace as well. I think those trips were some of the happiest times of my life.”

“You mentioned earlier today that you’d lived in America. When was that?”

“After Bruce died. His death coincided with my mother’s illness and so I went to be with her in Maine, where she was then living. She died a year after Bruce. I’d never been more miserable and that was when I stupidly made the mistake of marrying the first man who came along. The marriage only lasted fifteen months. I then decided to come back to England.” She laughed. “I didn’t want Grace picking up an American accent.”

Alice returned her attention to the photograph in front of her. “He looks so happy,” she said wistfully.

“He was. But please don’t think that Grace replaced you in any way. There wasn’t a day when he didn’t wish things could have been different with you. But he respected your right to punish him and so he left you alone.”

Alice looked up from the album. “I feel awful that I behaved so badly. That I felt the need to punish him. It was cruel and needless.”

“Whatever guilt
you
may feel, think how bad I felt at times knowing that if I hadn’t walked through the door of Cuckoo House, your father would never have left you. But neither of us can change the past so perhaps it’s time to put that behind us. What do you think? Shall we give ourselves a break and look to the future? After all, Grace deserves the best of both of us, not two miseries hung up on guilt. Why not award ourselves a new beginning?”

Alice smiled. “I think that’s a great idea.”

“Excellent. And just in case you were wondering, Grace thinks you’re the best big sister she could have.”

“That’s good, because I think she’s the best little sister I could have. I’m so pleased you got in touch with Clayton.”

“So am I. How is he, by the way?”

“I don’t have a clue. I haven’t heard from him since he came up to see George.”

“And in response to the steely tone in your voice, I shall back off and show you another album of photographs. That’s if you’re interested?”

The next album contained photographs that were even more of a surprise than the ones Alice had just looked at. They were the pictures she had witnessed her father taking of Isabel in the garden at Cuckoo House that foggy Christmas Eve. The intimacy Alice had guessed at was there in every photograph. Reminded so strongly of that day, she couldn’t help but think of Rufus. “Can I ask you something, Isabel?”