your life.’
‘Temporal illusion,’ I said, shrugging. ‘Give someone more time and they’ll appear to have done more with it.’
She laughed. ‘You’re being modest. It can’t have been easy. A woman in the fifties-a mother-trying to get a tertiary education. Was your husband supportive?’
‘I was on my own by then.’
Her eyes widened. ‘But how did you manage?’
‘I studied part time for a long time. Ruth was at school in the days and I had a very good neighbour, Mrs Finbar, who used to sit with her some evenings when I worked.’ I hesitated. ‘I was just fortunate the educational expenses were taken care of.’
‘A scholarship?’
‘In a sense. I’d come into some money, unexpectedly.’
‘Your husband,’ said Ursula, brows knitting in sympathy. ‘He was killed at war?’
‘No,’ I said, ‘No, he wasn’t. But our marriage was.’
Her gaze drifted once more to my wedding photo.
‘We divorced when he returned to London. Times had changed by then. Everyone had seen and done so much. It seemed rather pointless to remain joined to a spouse one didn’t care for. He moved to America and married the sister of a GI he’d met in France. Poor fellow; he was killed soon after in a road accident.’
She shook her head. ‘I’m sorry…’
‘Don’t be. Not on my account. It was so long ago. I barely remember him, you know. Odd snatches of memory, more like dreams. It’s Ruth who misses him. She’s never forgiven me.’
‘She wishes you’d stayed together.’
I nodded. Lord knows my failure to provide her a father figure is one of the old grievances that colour our relationship.
Ursula sighed. ‘I wonder whether Finn will feel that way one day.’
‘You and his father…?’
She shook her head. ‘It wouldn’t have worked.’ She said it so firmly I knew better than to probe. ‘Finn and I are better this way.’
‘Where is he today?’ I said. ‘Finn?’
‘My mother’s minding him. They were at the park for ice-cream last I heard.’ She rolled her watch around her wrist to read the time. ‘Goodness! I hadn’t realised it was getting so late. I’d better be going, give her some relief.’
‘I’m sure she doesn’t need relieving. It’s special, grandparents and grandchildren. So much simpler.’
Is it always so, I wonder? I think perhaps it is. While one’s child takes a part of one’s heart to use and misuse as they please, a grandchild is different. Gone are the bonds of guilt and responsibility that burden the maternal relationship. The way to love is free.
When you were born, Marcus, I was knocked sideways. What a wonderful surprise those feelings were. Parts of me that had shut down decades before, that I’d grown used to doing without, were suddenly awakened. I treasured you. Recognised you. Loved you with a power almost painful.
As you grew, you became my little friend. Followed me about my house, claimed your own space in my study and set about exploring the maps and drawings I’d collected on my travels. Questions, so many questions, that I never tired of answering. Indeed, it is a conceit I allow myself that I am responsible, in some part, for the fine, accomplished man you have become…
‘They must be in here somewhere,’ said Ursula, searching her bag for car keys, preparing to leave.
I was beset by a sudden impulse to make her stay. ‘I have a grandson, you know. Marcus. He’s a writer of mysteries.’
‘I know,’ she said, smiling as she stopped fossicking. ‘I’ve read his books.’
‘Have you?’ Pleased as I always am.
‘Yes,’ she said. ‘They’re very good.’
‘Can you keep a secret?’ I said.
She nodded eagerly, leaned close.
‘I haven’t read them,’ I whispered. ‘Not right the way through.’
She laughed. ‘I promise not to tell.’
‘I’m so proud of him, and I’ve tried, I really have. I begin each with strong resolve, but no matter how much I’m enjoying them, I only ever get halfway. I adore a good mystery-Agatha Christie and the like-but I’m afraid I’m rather weak-stomached. I’m not one for all that bloody description they go on with these days.’
‘And you worked in a field hospital!’
‘Yes, but war is one thing, murder quite another.’
‘Maybe his next book…’
‘Perhaps,’ I said. ‘Though I don’t know when that will be.’
‘He’s not writing?’
‘He suffered a loss recently.’
‘I read about his wife,’ Ursula said. ‘I’m very sorry. An aneurism, wasn’t it?’
‘Yes. Terribly sudden.’
Ursula nodded. ‘My father died the same way. I was fourteen. Away at school camp.’ She exhaled. ‘They didn’t tell me until I got back to school.’
‘Dreadful,’ I said, shaking my head.
‘I fought with him before I left. Something ridiculous. I can’t even remember now. I slammed the door of the car and didn’t look back.’
‘You were young. All the young are like that.’
‘I still think of him every day.’ She pressed her eyes shut, then opened them again. Shook the memories away. ‘How about Marcus? How is he?’
‘He took it badly,’ I said. ‘He blames himself.’
She nodded, didn’t look surprised. Seemed to understand guilt and its peculiarities.
‘I don’t know where he is,’ I said then.
Ursula looked at me. ‘What do you mean?’
‘He’s missing. Neither Ruth nor I know where he is. He’s been gone the better part of a year.’
She was perplexed. ‘But… is he okay? You’ve heard from him?’ Her eyes were trying to read mine. ‘A phone call? A letter?’
‘Postcards,’ I said. ‘He’s sent a few postcards. But no return address. I fear he doesn’t want to be found.’
‘Oh, Grace,’ she said, kind eyes meeting mine. ‘I’m so sorry.’
‘So am I,’ I said. And it was then I told her about the tapes. About how much I need to find you. That it’s all I can think to do.
‘It’s the perfect thing to do,’ she said emphatically. ‘Where do you send them?’
‘I have an address in California. A friend of his from years ago. I send them there, but as for whether he receives them…’
