Love Always: A sweeping summer read full of dark family secrets from the Sunday Times bestselling author. Harriet Evans
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‘The collective noun for rooks. It has been annoying me. All day.’
‘No idea, sorry,’ I say. ‘A rookery?’
‘No.’ He glares at me in annoyance. ‘I would ask your grandmother. She would know.’
‘She would,’ I say. I glance at him. ‘It is sad,’ my grandfather says. His hands work away at the sheet. He stares up at the ceiling. ‘So, how is the atmosphere downstairs? I must admit I was not sorry to have to retire. I was finding it rather exhausting.’
‘Most people have gone,’ I say. ‘But there’s still a hard-core group left.’
‘Your grandmother was a very popular woman,’ Arvind says. ‘She had a lot of admirers. The house used to be full of them. Long time ago.’
I say, trying to keep my voice light, ‘Well, you may find a couple of them sleeping on the sofas tomorrow morning.’
He smiles. ‘Then it will be just like the old days, except they are all greyer and not that much wiser. Are you staying tonight?’
‘No,’ I say. ‘I have to get back. I have a meeting with the bank. They want their money back.’
‘Oh? Why is that?’
‘Well, I’m going out of business.’
I don’t know why I tell Arvind this. Perhaps because he is not easily spooked and I know he won’t start wringing his hands or sighing.
‘I am sorry to hear that.’ He nods, as if acknowledging the situation. ‘Again. Why?’
‘I’ve been stupid, basically,’ I say. ‘Listened to people when I should have just done my own thing.’
‘But perhaps it will give you back some freedom.’
‘Freedom?’
‘The ties that bind can often strangle you,’ Arvind says, as if we were chatting about the weather. ‘It is true, in my long experience. How is Oli?’
‘Well—’ It is my turn to start smoothing the duvet down with my fingers. ‘That’s another thing, too. I’ve left him. Or he’s left me. I think it’s over.’
Arvind’s eyes widen a little, and he nods again. ‘That is more bad news.’
I put one hand under my chin. ‘Sorry. I’m not doing very well at the moment.’ My throat hurts from trying not to cry. ‘I’m sort of glad Granny doesn’t know. She was . . . well – she wouldn’t have screwed everything up like this.’
Arvind says slowly, ‘Your grandmother wasn’t perfect, you know. Everyone thought she was, but she wasn’t. She found things . . . hard. Like her daughter has. Like you.’ He gazes at the curtains, as if looking through them, out to sea, to the horizon beyond. ‘You’re all more alike than you think, you know. “The sins of the fathers shall be revisited upon the children.”’
I can’t really see what he’s talking about: Mum looks like Granny, but apart from that two more different people you couldn’t imagine. Granny, hard-working, charming, interested and interesting, beautiful and talented, and my mother – well, she’s some of those things I suppose, but she’s never really found her own niche, her own place, the way her brother has. Granny was sure of her place in the world. Wasn’t she?
A thick, velvety silence covers the room. I can hear faint noises from downstairs. A door slams, some murmured voices, the sound of crockery clattering against something. I wonder what time it is now. I don’t want to leave, but I know I will have to, and soon. Arvind is watching me, as if I am a curious specimen.
He opens his mouth to speak, slowly. ‘You look just like her,’ he says. ‘Did you know that?’
‘Like Granny?’
‘No.’ He shakes his head. ‘No. Like Cecily. You look just like Cecily.’
‘That’s funny – Louisa just said that,’ I say. ‘Really?’ A memory from long ago begins to stir within me.
‘Oh, yes.’ Arvind scratches the side of his chin with two thin fingers. ‘I thought you understood. That’s why.’
‘That’s why what?’
‘That’s why your grandmother, she sometimes found it hard to be with you. She was so proud of you. Said you had her blood running in your veins. She loved your work, loved it. But she found it very hard, at times. Because, you see, you are like twins.’
‘I – I didn’t know that,’ I say, tears springing into my eyes. ‘It’s not your fault.’ He wiggles his toes under the duvet, watching them dispassionately. I watch them too. ‘But you did look very like her. Perhaps her skin was darker, so was her hair, but the face – the face is the same . . .’ He gives a deep, shuddering sigh, almost too big for someone so tiny, and his voice cracks. ‘Cecily. Cecily Kapoor. We don’t talk about you, do we? We never do.’
He is nodding, and then he mutters something to himself. ‘What did you say?’ I ask. ‘No, it doesn’t matter. Here. Wait.’
Suddenly, like an old crab, he shuffles over and pulls open the top drawer of his bedside table. He is surprisingly agile.
‘It’s right.’ He leans forward and takes something out. ‘What’s right?’
Arvind moves back to his side of the bed again. I move forward, to plump up his pillow, but he shakes his head impatiently. His face is alive, his dark eyes dancing. ‘Have this. It was your grandmother’s. She wanted you to have it. I think you should take it now.’
Like a magician, he opens his fist with a flourish. I peer down. It is the ring Granny always wore, twisted diamond and pale gold flowers on a thin band, Arvind’s family ring, the one his father sent over for his son’s new bride all those years ago. I know it so well, but it is still startling to see it here, on my grandfather’s palm and not on Granny’s finger.
‘That’s Granny’s,’ I say, stupidly. ‘It’s yours now,’ he tells me. ‘Arvind, I can’t have this, Mum should, or Sameena, or Louisa—’
‘Frances wanted you to have it, she told me quite clearly.’ Arvind’s voice is devoid of emotion, and he’s staring out at the thick brocade curtains. ‘You’re a jeweller, she was very pleased with your work. She knew you loved this. We planned everything, we discussed everything. You are to have it.’
I don’t know what to say. ‘That’s very sweet,’ I begin, falteringly. Sweet – such an insipid word for this, for him. ‘But I’d rather not take it from you.’
‘You are to have it, Natasha,’ Arvind says again. ‘She gave it to Cecily. Now it is for you. This is what she wanted.’ He puts it on my hand, his thin brown fingers clutching my large clumsy ones, and we stare at each other in silence. Arvind has never been the kind of grandfather who whittled toy soldiers out of wood, or mended your tricycle, or let you try the sausage on the barbecue. He is frequently obtuse and it is hard to understand what he means.
But while I don’t know what his final aim is, in this moment, looking at him, I know each of us understands the other. I put the ring on, sliding it onto the third finger of my right hand, like a wedding. My granny had strong, large hands, so do I. It fits perfectly. The flowers glint gently in the low light.
‘Thank you,’ I say softly. ‘It’s beautiful.’
‘Would you be very kind and please open the curtains,’ he says, after a moment. ‘I would like to see the sea. The moon is also out tonight. I don’t like to be shut in like this. They must understand this, in the new place. I want to see the moon. It will remind me of home.’
I get up and draw the heavy fabric back. The moon is out and it shines, like the midnight sun, low and heavy on the black waters, golden light rippling towards the horizon. It is calmer now, but as a dirty cloud scuds across the surface