I feel a hand on my shoulder. I turn around and it’s Guy.
‘Hel o,’ I say. ‘You off?’
‘Yes,’ he says. ‘I’m driving back tonight. Left the car here last week. Came down in advance to finish the cataloguing.’
‘Oh, right,’ I say.
‘I had some things to sort out. Hey – I just came to say bye. Listen, Natasha. I’m sorry we haven’t talked. Since you—’
‘Excuse me,’ I say, turning back to Mary the journalist. ‘Nice to meet you.’ She smiles and moves off to greet someone else. I turn back to Guy, trying to sound jovial, scatty, breezy. ‘Phew. She was asking me about Futurism. I was out of my depth. Go on.’
‘Since you read the diary, I was wanting to say,’ he continues. ‘I’ve had a lot to think about, for my part. It’s been strange.’
‘It must have been,’ I say. ‘I had no idea – you poor thing.’ I don’t mean to, but I put my hand on his arm.
The muscles around his jaw tighten. He swal ows. ‘I was head over heels in love with her, you know,’ he says. ‘Reading it, hearing her voice again, it was almost unbearable, after al these years when I’d tried to put her out of my mind.’ He speaks so softly in the hubbub of the crowd. ‘It has been . . . very strange.’
‘I’m sure,’ I say. ‘I can’t imagine what it must have been like for you, reading it now, finding out about Granny and al of that, now . . .’
‘Interesting,’ he smiles, his eyes stil blank. ‘It’s been – yes, interesting. There’s no one else quite like Cecily. Never has been. I thought, at least. Now I’m not so sure.’
He stares at me again. ‘Guy – I real y would like to come and talk to you about it,’ I say. I don’t want to sound as though I’m begging, but I think it creeps into my voice anyway. ‘Just one afternoon. I know it must be upsetting, but you know – it’s my family. I won’t bother you again—’
‘Your family,’ he says, as though he’s considering this. ‘Your family. It is, isn’t it? Look, Natasha, that’s what I was coming to say. I was a prat, that’s al . Come whenever you like. I’l be in touch if not. Have you spoken to your mother?’
‘Mum? About the diary?’ Someone pushes past me, and I sway a little on my feet. ‘Wel , she’s been away . . .’ I say, and I trail off. He smiles.
‘Of course she has. And she wil be again soon, I’l bet.’ He takes a deep breath. ‘I’m sorry, but I do have to go. Listen, come round when you get back to London. Yes? And try and talk to your mother again.’ He hugs me. ‘Goodbye, my dear,’ he says.
So the afternoon wears on into evening and sooner than I would have realised it is time to leave. They have taken Arvind away already, around tea-time. I have arranged to go and see him next month. People in the crowd were practical y genuflecting as Archie wheeled his father out to the car. I kissed him goodbye and clutched his hand, and he stared up at me.
‘Glad you came,’ he said. ‘Just remember.’ He half-sang, half-spoke. ‘“The flowers that bloom in the spring, tra- la, have nothing to do with the case.”’
I don’t worry about my grandfather. It sounds cal ous but I don’t. He learned how to file everything away in his mind a long time ago, and I wish I had that gift: I think I’m just beginning to learn it. Perhaps it’s the nature of his job, perhaps it’s being a foreigner in a strange country, never going back to the city you were from. Perhaps it’s seeing your child die. Whatever the truth is about his marriage to Granny, it was successful in its longevity, which isn’t important perhaps, but it is when you honestly believe, as I do, that they actual y rubbed along pretty wel together. Not very romantic, but perhaps that’s real life. I don’t think he was the best father in the world, and that’s an awful thing to say about someone, but there are worse fathers, and like his wife he leaves an extraordinary legacy behind. I find myself wondering what we’l do when he dies, and then stop myself.
Knowing Arvind, that won’t be for another decade or so.
Clutching my bag over my arm, I walk down towards the sea one more time, the wind whipping about me. I think I wil always remember these last few moments here, wil remember the trees just coming into bud, the greenery everywhere instead of the bleached yel ow and grey of August.
Arvind is right about the flowers that bloom in the spring: cow parsley, hawthorns and the beginnings of the apple blossom smother the lanes, and there are daffodils everywhere on the ground: these are not the flowers I remember from Summercove in the summer. For me it wil stil , always, be the place I spent the summer. Cecily’s diary is in my bag, and I take it out and look at it. I feel I can read it again now, if I have to. I have stapled the first, loose pages, to the red cover, so it’s al together again. I open the book, transported back into her world again.
I am writing this sitting on my bed at Summercove.
I look down to the sea. It is choppy. The path where Cecily fel is stil dangerous, the rocks stil slimy from winter. I peer down. I hear a voice, cal ing behind me.
‘Natasha?
I turn around, and there are Louisa and Octavia, coming towards me. I sigh.
‘Be careful, Natasha! It’s very slippery!’
‘I know,’ I say, walking towards them. The diary is stil in my hand; I fold it under my armpit, hugging it to myself.
Louisa says, almost sharply, ‘Your mother’s looking for you, Nat darling. Says it’s time to go.’ She runs a hand through her hair. ‘Phew,’ she says, blowing air through her lips. ‘When wil they go? I’m about to run out of rose, and I wanted to keep at least a bottle back for myself. I’l need it, I tel you.’
It’s so Louisa, that; apparently rather bossy and straight, but in actuality a bit of a flapper, unsure of what to do next, and much nicer in her insecurity.
I run my tongue around my teeth; my mouth tastes stale, bitter. ‘Sorry to make you come looking for me,’ I say. ‘I was just – thinking.’
