Love Always: A sweeping summer read full of dark family secrets from the Sunday Times bestselling author. Harriet Evans
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night,’ I say after a silence. ‘There’s something brewing,’ he says simply. ‘I can smell it in the air. That’s what happens when you’re old. Peculiar, but useful.’
I smile at him, and go back towards the bed. I notice the drawer of his bedside table is still open, and I lean over to push it shut. But as I do, I see something staring up at me. A face.
‘What’s this?’ I say. ‘Can I see?’
I don’t know why I say this, it’s none of my business. But the idea that Louisa is going to go through this room, that everything is ending here at the house, emboldens me, I think.
‘Take it out,’ Arvind glances at it. ‘Yes, take it out, you’ll see.’ I lift it out. It is a small study in oils, no bigger than an A4 piece of paper, on a sandy-coloured canvas. No frame. It is of a teenage girl’s head and shoulders, half-turning towards the viewer, a quizzical expression on her face. Her black hair is tangled; her cheeks are flushed. Her skin is darker than mine. She is wearing a white Aertex shirt, and the ring that is on my finger is around a chain on her slender neck. ‘Cecily, Frowning’, is written in pencil at the bottom.
‘Is that her?’ I am holding it up gingerly. I gaze at it. ‘Is that Cecily?’
‘Yes,’ Arvind says. ‘She was beautiful. Your mother wasn’t. She hated her.’
I think this is a joke, as Mum is one of the most beautiful people I know. I look again. This girl – she’s so fresh, so eager, there’s something so urgent about the way she is turning towards me, as if saying, Come. Come with me! Let’s go down to the beach, while the sun is still high, and the water is warm, and the reeds are rustling in the bushes.
‘Where did – where was it?’
‘It was in the studio,’ Arvind says. ‘I took it out of the studio, the day after she died.’
‘You went in there?’
Arvind puts his fingers together. ‘Of course I did.’ He looks straight through me. ‘I never did before. She never went back in there, either. The day after she died, yes. I told myself I had to. She asked me to. To get what was in there. But it wasn’t all there any more.’
‘Get what was in there?’ I don’t understand.
I look at my grandfather, and his eyes are full of tears. He lies back on the pillows, and closes his eyes.
‘I am very tired,’ he says. ‘Yes, I’m sorry,’ I say. But I don’t want to put her back in the drawer, out of sight again, hidden away.
‘I’m glad you’ve seen her,’ he says. ‘Now you can see. You are so alike.’
This is patently not true, this beautiful scrap of a girl is not like me. I am older than she ever was, I am tired, jaded, dull. I stand up to put the painting back. As I do, something which had been stuck to the back of the canvas – it is unframed – falls to the ground, and I bend and pick it up.
It is a sheaf of lined paper, tied with green string knotted through a hole on the top left corner, and folded in half. About ten pages, no more. I unfold it. Written in a looping script are the words:
The Diary of Cecily Kapoor, aged fifteen. July, 1963.
I hold it in my hand and stare. There’s a stamp at the top bearing the legend ‘St Katherine’s School’. Underneath in blue fountain pen someone, probably a teacher, has written ‘Cecily Kapoor Class 4B’. It’s such a prosaic-looking thing, smelling faintly of damp, of churches and old books. And yet the handwriting looks fresh, as though it was scrawled yesterday.
‘What is this?’ I ask, stupidly.
Arvind opens his eyes. He looks at me, and at the pages I am holding.
‘I knew she’d kept it,’ he says. He does not register surprise or shock. ‘There’s more. She filled a whole exercise book, that summer.’
I glance into the drawer again. ‘Where is it, then?’ Arvind puckers his gummy mouth together. ‘I don’t know. Don’t know what happened to the rest of it. That’s partly why I went into the studio. I wanted to find it, I wanted to keep it.’
‘Why?’ I say. ‘Why, what’s in it? Where’s the rest of it?’ Suddenly we hear footsteps at the bottom of the stairs, a familiar thundering sound.
‘Arvind?’ a voice demands. ‘Is Natasha in with you? Natasha? I just wonder, isn’t the cab going to be here soon?’
‘Take it,’ he says, lowering his voice and pushing the diary into my hands. The footsteps are getting closer. ‘And look after it, guard it carefully. It’ll all be in there.’
‘What do you mean?’ I say. ‘Your grandmother, she must have kept it for a reason,’ he says, his soft voice urgent. He drops his voice. ‘This family is poisoned.’ He stares at me. ‘They won’t tell you, but they are. Read it. Find the rest of it. But don’t tell anyone, don’t let anyone else see it.’
The door opens, and Louisa is in the room, her loud voice shattering the quiet.
‘I was calling you,’ she says, accusatory. ‘Didn’t you hear?’
‘No,’ I say, lying. ‘I was worried you’d be late for your train—’ She looks at the open bedside table, at the painting at the top, the girl’s smiling face gleaming out. ‘Oh, Arvind,’ she says briskly, closing her eyes. ‘No, that’s all wrong.’ And she shuts the drawer firmly.
I slip the sheet of paper into one of the huge pockets of my black skirt and clench my fingers so she can’t see the ring. ‘Sorry,’ I say. ‘I’m just coming.’ I bend over and kiss my grandfather. ‘Bye,’ I say, kissing his soft, papery cheek. ‘Take care. I’ll see you in a few weeks.’
‘Perhaps,’ he says. ‘And congratulations. I hope that you can enjoy your freedom.’
‘Freedom?’ Louisa makes a tutting sound, and she starts smoothing the duvet out again, tidying the bedside table. ‘It’s not something to congratulate her on, Arvind. She’s left her husband.’
I smile. ‘Freedom,’ he says, ‘comes in many guises.’
My hands are shaking as I leave the room. I walk to the end of the corridor, to the staircase, past my room, which was also Mum and Cecily’s room, down the end, to the alcove that leads to the door of Granny’s studio. I stare at it, walk towards it, push it open, quickly, as if I expect someone to bite me.
It’s all glass, splattered here and there with seagull crap. A step at the end. The faintest smell of something, I don’t know what, tobacco and fabric and turps, still lingers in the air. The moon shines in through one of the great glass windows. The world outside is silver, green and grey, only the sea on view. I have never seen the garden from this viewpoint before, never stood in this part of the house. It is extremely strange. There is a thin layer of dust on the concrete floor, but not as much as I’d have thought. A bay with a window seat, two canvases stacked against the wall and wooden boxes of paints stacked next to it, neatly put away, and right in the centre of the room a solo easel, facing me, with a stool. A stained, rigid rag is on the floor. That’s it. It’s as if she cleared every other trace of herself away, the day she shut the studio up.
I look round the room slowly, breathing in. I can’t feel Granny here at all, though the rest of the house is almost alive with her. This room is a shell.
Shutting the door quietly, trying not to shiver, I go downstairs, feeling the paper curve around my thigh in its pocket. There they are, gathered in the sitting room, the few who are left: my mother on the sofa next to Archie, the two of them sunk in conversation; the Bowler Hat, hands in his blazer, staring round the room as if he wishes he weren’t there and next to him his brother Guy, also silent, so different from him, but looking similarly uncomfortable. On cue, Louisa appears behind me, pushing her fringe out of her face.
‘All OK?’ she says, and I notice how tired