There is a terrible silence after he says this. What’s worse is Julius doesn’t look at all embarrassed by what he’s just said. As though he knows he’s right. Jay and I stare at each other, then at him. A dark red blush stains Jay’s cheeks.
‘Fuck off, Julius,’ he says. ‘You’re really out of order. OK?’ Julius doesn’t look abashed. ‘Come on. They’ve always been like that, the pair of them. Everyone knows it.’
And he walks over to where Octavia is chatting to an old lady.
Jay and I are standing there staring at each other. Jay breathes out, whistling slowly. ‘Nice to see Julius again, isn’t it?’
‘Yes,’ I say. I put on a faux-serious BBC announcer voice. ‘And it’s a sad day, but it’s lovely to see the family again. All gathered together, reunited once more in the same place.’ I’m trying to sound jokey, but it’s scary. This is what we’re like now Granny’s not here. It’s all changed, and I don’t know how, or why.
Chapter Eight
It’s a while before the final cluster of guests starts to leave: old neighbours, a few artists who have retired down here, a magistrate, a well-known writer and her husband – they know each other and aren’t in a hurry to get back anywhere. I stand at the door of the sitting room, watching people disperse, looking around, thinking. A draught of cold air whistles past my back and I shiver, turning to see Jay waving goodbye to Mr and Mrs Neil who live up the lane. They have been there for thirty years and will miss Granny as much as us, I don’t doubt. They saw her every day which is more than I did. Yesterday, as I was trying to sleep, I realised I hadn’t seen her for three months, since November, when she came up to go to an exhibition at the Royal Academy and we had lunch in the café, where other old ladies and gents gather for a cup of coffee before getting their trains back to the Home Counties.
I wondered, as we sat there, if any of them realised who this still strikingly beautiful old lady was, that she had exhibited here, was in fact an RA, a Royal Academician. That she was sort of famous, in her day, appeared in the Picture Post and Life magazine, the famous bohemian painter and her exotic husband in their house by the sea with their mixed-race children, though everyone was too polite to mention that, of course, and if they did, they said it was terribly interesting. I wonder if they knew, if Granny knew what Mum once told me in an unguarded moment, that before the train left every term, my mother would dash to Boots the chemist in Penzance to buy a pack of disposable razors, to shave the black hair on her dark arms.
Jay comes towards me. ‘Hey.’ He looks round the empty hallway, the dresser and table littered with paper plates and half-empty champagne flutes, and says cautiously, ‘Thank God, those people are starting to go.’
We both look at our watches. It’s seven and the sleeper leaves at nine. ‘How are you getting to the station?’ he asks. ‘I’ll drive you.’
At this exact moment, as if she’s been waiting for this conversation, Octavia appears in the hallway. She strides towards us, her heavy, sensible black shoes loud on the floor. ‘Are you talking about the trains?’ she says. ‘I’m going back tonight actually too. I have a meeting at the MoD tomorrow, just found out.’ She waves her BlackBerry authoritatively, her thick ponytail swinging out behind her head as she nods at us.
‘Should you be telling us this information?’ Jay says. ‘Won’t we have to kill you now?’
‘Ha,’ says Octavia, ignoring him and turning to me. ‘How are you getting to the station?’
‘I’ve booked Mike the taxi,’ I say. ‘He’s coming in an hour.’
‘I’ll get a lift with you then,’ Octavia says. She adds, almost under her breath, ‘If that’s all right.’ There is no way I can say, No, it’s not all right, I hate you and your horrible brother! I don’t want you coming back with me! Which is kind of what my eight-year-old self would want me to say to her.
I nod instead. ‘Of course,’ I say. ‘Have you booked a cabin?’
‘Yes, just now,’ she says. ‘Don’t worry, Natasha, I won’t make you share with me like the old days,’ and she runs her hands awkwardly through her fringe and I feel a pang of guilt, for that is exactly what I was thinking.
‘Well, that’s great. I’m just going to find Mum then,’ I say, and I touch Jay on the shoulder and dash towards the kitchen. Mum is talking to Guy, the Bowler Hat’s brother. Her hands are on her hips, she is leaning over him as if she’s about to spit at him. They both jump as I stride in.
‘There you are,’ Mum says, standing upright. Her jaw is set, her green eyes flinty; she is staring at Guy with something approaching loathing and I know the signs. She’s about to blow. She blinks, rapidly, as if calming herself down, and she says, ‘Nat – darling, my darling, how are you? We need to talk, don’t we?’ She winds some hair round her finger.
I look suspiciously at Guy. ‘Everything OK?’
‘Yes, absolutely,’ Guy says smoothly. ‘It’s fine. I was just asking your mother about the . . . stuff in the house.’
‘The stuff in the house,’ I say carefully, because I don’t want to be rude. ‘Look, I said this to your brother already, and please don’t take this the wrong way, but do you really think now’s the time to be poking around valuing things here?’ He is turning red. ‘It’s not great timing.’ I’m surprised to hear my voice shaking. ‘Perhaps you should come back another day.’
Guy turns to my mother, who is staring at her feet. There is a chicken vol-au-vent on the linoleum floor. ‘Why doesn’t she know?’ he says.
Mum says nothing.
‘Know what?’ I ask.
‘That’s why it all seems rather abrupt, Natasha. Your grandparents agreed it years ago, that when Frances died something should be established in her name. A charitable foundation, or a gallery. You know, she hasn’t had an exhibition for years. It’s a disgrace, a painter of her stature. But she’s never let them. There was a big show planned for the autumn after Cecily, after she died.’ He stops and collects himself, and I remember he must have known her too, that summer. I hadn’t thought of that before. ‘The country hasn’t seen Frances Seymour’s work, apart from the two in the Tate Modern and a few in America, for well over forty years.’
I blink, trying to take it in. ‘So?’
‘Now she’s dead, the terms of her will say the foundation should be established as soon as possible. Miranda,’ he says crossly. ‘You should have told Natasha. She’s one of the trustees, for God’s sake.’
‘Me?’ I say. ‘I don’t know anything about painting. I never saw her paint, anyway.’
‘It’s nothing to do with that. She wanted you to be one of the trustees. You, your mother, and me—’ He clears his throat, awkwardly. ‘I – I don’t quite understand what I’ve got to do with it, but—’
‘Look,’ says my mother, her throaty voice cutting across Guy’s. ‘I get it, OK? I get the whole thing. All I’m saying is, Archie and I would also like to make sure that the house and furniture are sold in the right way. You know, we have got bills to pay out of all of this. And Arvind’s nursing home.’ She twists the big jade ring she’s wearing, and this seems to give her momentum. ‘You know, Guy, you’ve got a bloody nerve, showing up here, trying to tell us what to do, after all these years. I was going to tell Natasha, but you know it’s been a busy day.’ She shakes her hair, pursing her lips and staring at him in fury, and she does look rather magnificent. ‘After all these years,’ she says, more