has been installed since it happened. I gave her quite a scare.’
‘I know. I saw her in the foyer.’ She smiles conspiratorially. ‘She told me not to excite you.’
‘God forbid.’
She sits on the chair near my pillows, rests her carry bag on the floor beside.
‘The film,’ I say. ‘Tell me how your film is coming along.’
‘It’s almost ready,’ she says. ‘The final edit’s done and we’ve almost finished the post-sound and the soundtrack.’
‘Soundtrack,’ I say. Of course they are to have a soundtrack. Tragedy should always play out against music. ‘What sort?’
‘There are a few songs from the twenties,’ she says, ‘dance songs mainly, and some piano. Sad, beautiful, romantic piano, Tori Amos-style.’
I must look blank, for she continues, scrabbling for musicians more my vintage.
‘There’s some Debussy, some Prokofiev.’
‘Chopin?’
She raises her eyebrows. ‘Chopin? No. Should there be?’ Her face falls. ‘You’re not going to tell me one of the girls was a Chopin nut, are you?’
‘No,’ I say. ‘It was their brother-David-who played Chopin.’
‘Oh, thank goodness. He’s not really a major character. He died a little too early to affect things.’
This is debateable, but I don’t debate it.
‘What’s it like?’ I say. ‘Is it a good film?’
She bites her lip, exhales. ‘I think so. I hope so. I’m afraid I’ve lost perspective.’
‘Is it as you imagined?’
She tilts her head from side to side. ‘Yes and no. It’s difficult to explain.’ She exhales again. ‘Before I started, when it was all in my head, the project was full of unlimited potential. Now that it’s on film, it feels bordered by limitations.’
‘I suspect that’s the way with most endeavours.’
She nods. ‘I feel such a responsibility to them, though; to their story. I wanted it to be perfect.’
‘Nothing’s ever perfect.’
‘No.’ She smiles. ‘Sometimes I worry I’m the wrong person to tell their story. What if I’ve got it wrong? What do I know?’
‘Lytton Strachey used to say ignorance was the first requisite of the historian.’
She frowns.
‘Ignorance clarifies,’ I say. ‘It selects and omits with placid perfection.’
‘Too much truth gets in the way of a good story, is that what you mean?’
‘Something like that.’
‘But surely truth is the most important thing? Particularly in a bio- pic.’
‘What is truth?’ I say, and I would shrug if I had the strength.
‘It’s what really happened.’ She looks at me as if I might finally have lost my marbles. ‘You know that. You spent years digging into the past. Searching for the truth.’
‘So I did. I wonder if I ever found it.’ I am slipping down against the pillows. Ursula notices and lifts me gently by the upper arms. I continue before she can debate me any further on semantics. ‘I wanted to be a detective,’ I say. ‘When I was young.’
‘Really? A police detective? What changed your mind?’
‘Policemen make me nervous.’
She grins. ‘That would have been a problem.’
‘I became an archaeologist instead. They’re not so dissimilar when you think about it.’
‘The victims have just been dead longer.’
‘Yes,’ I say. ‘It was Agatha Christie who first gave me the idea. Or one of her characters. He said to Hercule Poirot, “You would have made a good archaeologist, Mr Poirot. You have the gift of re-creating the past.” I read it during the war. The second war. I’d sworn off mystery stories by then but one of the other nurses had it and old habits die hard.’
She smiles, then starts suddenly. ‘Oh! That reminds me. I brought something for you.’ She reaches into her carry bag and pulls out a small rectangular box.
It is the size of a book but it rattles. ‘It’s a tape set,’ she says. ‘Agatha Christie.’ She shrugs sheepishly. ‘I didn’t realise you’d sworn off mysteries.’
‘Never mind that. It was a temporary swearing-off, a misguided attempt to shed my youthful self. I picked up where I left off the minute the war ended.’
She points to the walkman on my bedside table. ‘Shall I put a tape in before I go?’
‘Yes,’ I say. ‘Do.’
She tears off the plastic packaging, removes the first tape and opens my walkman. ‘There’s one in here already.’ She holds the cassette to show me. It is the tape I am currently recording for Marcus. ‘Is it for him? For your grandson?’
I nod. ‘Just leave it on the table if you don’t mind; I’ll need it later.’ And I will. Time is closing in on me, I can feel it, and I am determined to finish before it comes.
‘Have you heard anything?’ she says.
‘Not yet.’
‘You will,’ she says firmly. ‘I’m sure of it.’
I am too weary for faith but nod anyway; her own is so fervent.
She puts Agatha in place and returns the walkman to the table. ‘There you are.’ She puts her bag over her shoulder. She is leaving.
I reach for her hand as she turns, clutch it in mine. So smooth. ‘I want to ask you something,’ I say. ‘A favour, before Ruth…’
‘Of course,’ she says. ‘Anything.’ She is quizzical, has detected the urgency in my voice. ‘What is it?’
‘Riverton. I want to see Riverton. I want you to take me.’
She tightens her lips, frowns. I have put her on the spot.
‘Please.’
‘I don’t know, Grace. What would Ruth say?’
‘She’d say no. Which is why I’ve asked you.’
She looks toward the wall. I have troubled her. ‘Maybe I could bring you some of the footage we shot there instead? I could have it put on video-’
‘No,’ I say firmly. ‘I need to go back.’ Still she looks away. ‘Soon,’ I say. ‘I need to go soon.’
Her eyes return to mine and I know she will say yes even before she nods.
I nod back, thanking her, then I point to the cassette box. ‘I met her once, you know. Agatha Christie.’
