‘Oh, yes. Is – is Louisa stil there?’
My mother lowers her voice. ‘God, yes. Of course she is. I wish she’d just leave, to be honest, but no . . .’ She pauses, as though she’s looking around. ‘She’s stil here. Pretending to be the dutiful daughter, even though she’s not.’
I am recasting everything in my mind, now: everything I thought I knew. I knew my mother and Louisa didn’t get on that wel , but I thought it was simply because they’re so different. Now I don’t know what to think. I don’t know what actual y happened that summer, after al , but I can tel Mum was difficult even then, based on just a few pages of her sister’s diary. Does my mother know what they say about her? That behind her back people whisper about her, like those old friends of Granny’s at the funeral, that they say, You know, it was never proved, but Miranda . . . yes, that one over there, you know they always had trouble with her. They say she kil ed her sister. Oh, it wasn’t an accident . . .
It occurs to me, as silence fal s between us, that she does, always has done, that she has always known that’s what they say about her.
Are they right, though? And if so, why? Why would she do it? What happened?
‘I didn’t ring for that, though,’ Mum says. ‘I rang to see how you are. Um—’ She pauses. ‘I can’t believe you didn’t tel me about you and Oli.’
‘Look, Mum, I’m real y sorry about it,’ I say. ‘I feel awful, but it was only three weeks ago, and I wanted to keep a lid on it until I knew what I was going to do—’
‘Oh, Natasha, you always want to bottle things up,’ she says. ‘You never talk about things! You should have told me. It was awful, finding out like that. At the same time as Louisa! And
I am not in the mood for her amateur dramatics, her sighing and hair tossing. ‘I had my reasons,’ I say. ‘I told you that. I’m sorry if you feel left out.’
She pauses. ‘Wel ,’ she says, sounding slightly flattened. ‘Anyway – oh, darling. I don’t know what to say.’
There’s a silence. I don’t know what to say either. We can’t help each other, my mother and I, we never have been able to. The ties that bind us together are so tight there’s no room for friendship. We’ve put up with the cold, with crappy one-bed flats, with creepy landlords and no money, too-smal winter coats, meal after meal of pasta or baked beans, watching a tiny TV with a coat-hanger aerial, and spending night after night in each other’s company, always making out to our family and friends that the life we lived was bohemian, carefree, simple and al the more tasty as a result. We don’t run towards each other’s company now. We don’t real y have anything in common, now we’re both adults. Whoever my father is, he and I must be pretty alike. I often think we’d probably get on like a house on fire. My mother and I haven’t real y had that luxury. Instead we’ve tried to respect each other, and we don’t go into any more of it than that.
Now, everything has changed, and I don’t know what we do. Perhaps she’s trying to be a good mother. And I don’t believe Octavia, I don’t believe my mother is responsible for Cecily’s death. But then I’m beginning to realise I don’t know anything.
‘Look, I’m sorry I didn’t tel you,’ I say.
She sighs. ‘It’s fine, honestly, darling. I know it’s been a hard time for you.’
It’s very odd, hearing her voice. ‘Wel , it has for you, too, Mum,’ I say. ‘Granny’s only just died.’
‘I know.’ She sighs again. ‘A lifetime and a week, a week and a lifetime.’
‘What?’
My mother gives a smal laugh. ‘Nothing. I’m feeling a bit mad at the moment. Being with one’s family wil do that to one, won’t it?’
‘Oh, yes,’ I say. ‘It’s just hard, packing away the house, knowing we’re leaving it empty, leaving al these memories behind.’ She sounds tired.
‘Al these lovely pieces in the house, and I don’t know what to do with them – whether Archie’s right about it al . I’m sure he is, but – wel , there’s Louisa.’ Her voice hardens again. ‘Bossing us around.’
‘You should talk to . . . I don’t know, someone who knows a bit about that stuff.’ I remember back to that scene in the kitchen. ‘Guy, perhaps.’
‘Guy Leighton?’ Mum stops me. ‘No. I don’t like Guy.’
I remember how angry she was with him in the kitchen, just before I left last night. Only twenty-four hours ago. ‘Why not? He seemed quite nice.
As if he knew what he was talking about.’
‘Wel , he’s not nice,’ Mum says. ‘He makes out he’s nice as pie, al sticky-up hair and glasses. He’s worse than the rest of them. No, I’m not having anything to do with him.’
‘But don’t you have to, if Granny asked him to be on the committee?’ I ask.
She clears her throat. ‘Believe me, Natasha,’ she says. ‘Guy Leighton is not what he seems. Just steer clear of him, if you can.’
‘What?’ I say. ‘What does that mean?’ I wind a strand of hair tighter and tighter around my finger. ‘What’s he done?’
She seems to hesitate. ‘Wel . He was a complicated fel ow.’
‘Yes?’ I say expectantly. ‘And?’
There’s a silence. It’s so long that after about ten seconds I think she must have been disconnected, and I say, ‘Mum? Are you stil there? What did he do?’
‘Oh.’ And then she sighs. ‘Perhaps I’m being unfair. I haven’t seen him for years and years. It’s a long time ago. Forget it!’ She trails off. ‘I’d just rather do it at my own pace, and Archie agrees. Jesus.’ She breaks off, and suddenly says, ‘By the way, did Arvind give you anything? Yesterday?’
