Читать книгу The By Request Collection - Kate Hardy - Страница 91

CHAPTER ELEVEN

HOW HE REMEMBERED the address, Alex had no idea. He must have written it on enough letters that somehow he had retained the information, lying dormant until his need unlocked it once again. It took less than an hour of research to ascertain that his grandmother was still alive and living in the same house. But as he drove along the leafy, prosperous-looking road it was all completely unfamiliar and doubts began to creep in.

What if he had got the name and address wrong?

Or worse, what if he had got them right and she didn’t want to see him?

He pulled up outside a well-maintained-looking white house and killed the engine. What was he doing? It was Christmas Eve and he was about to drop in, unannounced, on a long-lost relative who probably didn’t want to see him. He must be crazy. Alex gripped the steering wheel and swore softly. But then he remembered Flora’s face as she walked away from him at the airport. Disappointed, defeated. If there was any way he could put things right, he would.

And this might help.

The house looked shut up. Every curtain was drawn and there was no sign of light or life anywhere. The driveway was so thickly gravelled that he couldn’t step quietly no matter how lightly he trod, and the crunch from each step echoed loudly, disturbing the eerie twilight silence. Any minute he expected a neighbour to accost him but there was no movement anywhere. It was like being in an alternative universe where he was the last soul standing.

The door was a substantial wooden oval with an imposing brass door knocker. It was cold and heavy as he lifted it, making far more of a bang than he expected when he rapped it on the door. He stood listening to the echo disturb the absolute silence, shivering a little in the murky air.

Alex shifted from foot to foot as he waited, straining to hear any movement in the house. He was just debating whether to try again or give up, half turning to walk away, when the door swung open.

‘Oh, you’re not the carol singers.’ He turned back, words of explanation ready on his tongue when he found himself staring into a pair of familiar green-grey eyes, eyes growing round, hope and shock mingled in their depths. ‘Alex? Is it really you?’

* * *

‘You’re not watching the films?’ Flora’s dad looked up from the pastry he was expertly rolling out and smiled at her. ‘It’s The Muppet Christmas Carol.’

‘I know.’ Flora wandered over to the oak and marble counter where her father practised his recipes and slipped a finger into the bowl of fragrant home-made mincemeat, sucking the sweet, spicy mixture appreciatively. ‘Mmm, this is gorgeous. What’s the secret ingredient?’

‘Earl Grey and lemon.’ He nodded at her finger. ‘Dip that again and I’ll chop it off. I thought the Muppets were your favourite?’

‘They are.’ Flora slid onto a high stool and leaned forward, propping her chin in her hands as she watched her father work. The pastry was a perfect smooth square as he began to cut out the rounds. ‘Only I peeped in and Minerva, the twins and Greg are all curled up on the sofa. They looked so sweet I didn’t want to disturb them.’

‘They wouldn’t have minded.’

‘I know, but it’s not often I see Minerva so relaxed. She might have wanted to start talking marketing strategy or buzz creation and then the film would have been ruined for everyone.’

‘That’s very thoughtful of you.’ Her mother bustled into the kitchen, her phone in her hand. ‘Great news, darling. Horry’s colleague wants to work Christmas, bad break-up apparently, so she’d rather work. Awful for her but it means Horry can come home this evening after all. Now we just need Alex and the whole family is together again.’

Guilt punched Flora’s chest and she resisted the urge to look at her phone to see if he’d responded. ‘I’m sure he’ll be here as soon as he can.’

‘We’re all very excited about your scarves.’ Her mother filled the kettle and began to collect cups from the vast dresser that dominated the far wall. The kitchen used to be two rooms but they had been knocked into one and a glass-roofed extension added to make it a huge, airy, sun-filled space filled with gadgets, curios and the bits and bobs Flora’s dad couldn’t resist: painted bowls, salt and pepper pots, vintage jugs and a whole assortment of souvenirs. Saucepans hung from a rack on the ceiling, there were planted herbs on every window sill and the range cooker usually had something tasty baking, bubbling or roasting, filling the air with rich aromas.

‘It doesn’t seem quite real.’ Flora grimaced. ‘I’m sure Minerva will change that. She was hissing something about Gantt charts earlier.’

‘She’s right, you should take this seriously.’ Her mother added three teaspoons of tea to the large pot and topped it with the boiled water. No teabags or shortcuts in the Buckingham kitchen. ‘I don’t know why it’s taken you so long. It’s obvious you should have been focusing on this, not wasting your talents on that awful pub chain. Those disgusting neon lemons...’ She shuddered.

Flora stared at her mother. ‘I thought you wanted me to have a steady job.’ She couldn’t keep the hurt out of her voice. ‘You’re always asking me when I’m going to settle down—in a job, a relationship, a place of my own.’

‘No,’ her mother contradicted as she passed Flora a cup of tea. Flora wrapped her hands around it, grateful for its warmth. ‘I wanted you to have direction. To know where you wanted to go. You always seemed so lost, Flora. Vet school to compete with the twins, interior design to fit in with Alex. I just wanted you to follow your own heart.’

‘It’s not always that easy though, is it? I mean, sometimes your heart can lead you astray.’ To Flora’s horror she could feel tears bubbling up. She swallowed hard, trying to hold back the threatening sob, ducking her head to hide her eyes. She should have known better. Nothing ever escaped Dr Jane Buckingham’s sharp eyes.

‘Flora?’ Her mother’s voice was gentle and that, combined with the gentle hug, pushed Flora over the edge she had been teetering on. It was almost a relief to let the tears flow, to let the sobs burst out, easing the painful pressure in her chest just a little. Her mother didn’t probe or ask any more, she just held Flora as she cried, rubbing her back and smoothing her hair off her wet cheeks.

It was like being a child again. If only her mother could fix this. If only it were fixable.

It took several minutes before the sobs quietened, the tears stopped and the hiccups subsided. Flora had been guided to the old but very comfortable chintzy sofa by the window, her tea handed to her along with yet another of her father’s mince pies. She curled up onto the cushions and stared out of the window at the pot-filled patio and the lawn beyond.

‘I won’t ask any awkward questions,’ her mother promised as she sat next to her. ‘But if you do want to talk we’re always here. You do know that, I hope, darling.’

Flora nodded, not quite trusting herself to speak. She didn’t often confide in her parents, not wanting to see the disappointed looks on their faces, not to feel that yet again she was a let-down compared to her high-flying siblings.

But she wasn’t sure she could carry this alone. Not any more.

‘Alex asked me to marry him.’

She didn’t miss the exchange of glances between her parents. They didn’t look shocked, more saddened.

‘I wondered if it was Alex. You’ve always loved him so.’

She had no secrets, it seemed, and there was no point in denying it. She nodded. ‘But he doesn’t love me. He thought marriage would be sensible. He said I would have financial stability and storage for my designs.’

‘Oh.’

‘I mean, I didn’t expect sonnets but I didn’t think anyone would ever suggest storage as a reason for marriage.’ Flora was aware she sounded bitter. ‘How could I say yes? It would have been so wrong for both of us. Only now he’s not here and I miss him so much...’

Her mother patted her knee. ‘Have I ever told you how your father and I met?’

Flora stifled a sigh. Here it came, the patented Dr Jane Buckingham anecdote filled with advice. ‘You were flatmates,’ she muttered.

‘For a year,’ her father said, standing back to survey the trays of finished mince pies.

‘And then you went out for dinner and looked into each other’s eyes and the rest is history.’ Perfect couple with their perfect jobs and a perfect home and nearly perfect children. The story had been rehashed in a hundred interviews.

‘I think I fell in love with your mother the moment I saw her,’ her father said, a reminiscent tone in his voice. ‘But I didn’t think I was good enough for her. I was a hobby baker and trainee food journalist and there she was, a junior doctor. Brilliant, fierce, dedicated. I didn’t know what to say to her. So I didn’t really say anything at all.’

Flora’s mother picked up the tale. ‘But when I came off shift—exhausted after sixty hours on my feet, malnourished after grabbing something from the hospital canteen—I would walk in and there would be something ready for me. No matter what time. A filo pie and roasted vegetables at two in the morning, piles of fluffy pancakes heaped with fruit at seven a.m. Freshly made bread and delicious salads at noon.’ A soft smile curved her mother’s lips. ‘Do you remember when I said I missed falafel and you made them? They weren’t readily available then,’ she told her daughter. ‘It was just a passing comment but I got home two days later to find freshly made falafel and home-made hummus in the fridge.’

‘You old romantic.’ Flora smiled over at her dad.

‘I still barely spoke to her,’ he admitted. ‘I didn’t know what to say. But I listened.’

‘And then on Valentine’s Day I came in, so tired I could barely drag myself in through the door, and waiting for me was the most beautiful breakfast. Home-made granola, eggs Benedict, little pastries. And I understood what he’d been telling me for the last year. Not with words but with food, with his actions. So I slept and then I took him out for dinner to say thank you. We got married six months later.’

‘If you want to be wooed with flowers and lovely words, then Alex is never going to be the man for you, Flora,’ her father added. ‘And maybe he really does think storage and stability is enough. But maybe those words mask something more. You need to dig a little deeper. See what’s really in his heart. A pancake isn’t always just a pancake.’

Flora bit into the mince pie. The pastry was perfect, firm yet melting with a lemony tang, the filling spicy yet subtle. When it came to food her dad was always spot on. Maybe he was right here as well.

‘Thank you,’ she said, but she couldn’t help checking her phone as she did so. Nor could she deny the sharp stab of disappointment when she saw that Alex hadn’t replied.

Was her father right? Was Alex’s matter-of-fact proposal a cover for deeper feelings and if so would she be able to live with someone who would never be able to say what was in their heart? Live with the constant uncertainty? Flora sighed; maybe she was clutching at straws and there was no hidden meaning. Maybe storage was just that. The question was how willing was she to find out and what compromises was she willing to make?

And if a practical marriage was the only way to keep him, then could she settle for that when the alternative was losing him for ever?

* * *

‘That’s you and your mother. You must have been about eighteen months.’

Alex stared at the photo, lovingly mounted in a leather book. It was one of several charting his mother’s brief life from a smiling baby to a wary-looking teen, a shy young bride to a proud mother.

‘She looks...’

‘Happy?’ his grandmother supplied. ‘She was, a lot of the time.’

Alex struggled to marry this side of his mother with the few pieces of information his father had begrudgingly fed him. He put the album back onto the low wooden coffee table and stared around the room in search of help.

Alex had never really known any of his grandparents but he had always imagined them in old, musty houses filled with cushions, lace tablecloths and hordes of silver-framed photos. The light, clean lines of his grandmother’s sitting room were as far from the dark rooms of his dreams as the slim woman opposite with her trendy pixie cut and jeans and jacket was from the grey-haired granny of his imagination.

‘My father said she cried all the time. That she hated being a mother, hated me. That’s why...’ he faltered. ‘That’s why she did what she did.’

His grandmother closed her eyes briefly. ‘I should have tried harder, Alex. I should have fought for you. Your father made things so difficult. I was allowed a day here, a day there, no overnight stays or holidays and I was too scared to push in case he locked me out completely—but he did that anyway. In the end my letters were returned, my gifts sent back. He said it was too hard for you to be reminded of the past, that he wanted you to settle with your stepmother.’

Letters, gifts? His father hadn’t just returned material items. He had made sure that Alex would never have a loving relationship with his family.

His grandmother twisted her hands. ‘If I had tried harder then I could have made sure you knew about your mother. The colours she liked, her favourite books, the way she sang when she was happy. But most importantly I could have told you that she loved you. Because she did, very, very much. But she wasn’t well. She didn’t think she was a good enough mother, she worried about every little thing—every cry was a reminder that she was letting you down. Every tiny incident a reminder that she was failing you. In the end she convinced herself that you would be better off without her.’

Alex blinked, heat burning his eyes. ‘She was wrong.’

‘I know. I should have made her get help.’ She closed her eyes and for a moment she looked much older, frailer, her face lined with grief. ‘But she was good at hiding her feelings and she was completely under your father’s control. He couldn’t admit that she wasn’t well; it didn’t fit with his vision of the perfect family. And so she got more adept at denying she was struggling but all the time she was sinking deeper and deeper. I knew something was wrong but every time I tried to talk to her she would back away. So I stopped trying, afraid that I would lose her. But I lost her anyway. And I lost you.’ Her voice faltered, still raw with grief all these years later.

Alex swallowed. ‘Can you tell me about her now?’

His grandmother blinked, her eyes shiny with tears, and glanced up at the clock on the mantelpiece. ‘Goodness, is that the time? My son—your uncle—will be collecting me soon. I always spend Christmas Eve at their house. You have three cousins, all younger than you, of course, but they will be so excited to meet you.’

Christmas Eve, how could he have forgotten? ‘I’m sorry, I didn’t think...’

His grandmother carried on as if he hadn’t spoken. ‘I’m just going to ask him to collect me in the morning instead. You will stay for dinner? There’s a room if you want to spend the night. We have a lifetime of catching up to do. Unless, there must be somewhere you need to be. A handsome boy like you. A wife?’ Her eyes flickered to his left hand. ‘A girlfriend?’

Alex shook his head. ‘No,’ he said. ‘There isn’t anyone.’ But as he spoke the words he knew they weren’t entirely true.

Alex wasn’t sure how long his grandmother was gone. He was lost in the past, going through each album again, committing each photo to heart. His mother as a young girl on the beach, her graduation photos, her wedding pictures. There was a proud, proprietorial gleam in his father’s eyes that sent a shiver snaking down Alex’s spine. Love wasn’t meant to be selfish and destructive; he might not know much but he knew that. Surely it was supposed to be about support, putting the other person first. Shared goals.

Pretty much what he had offered Flora.

And yet it hadn’t been enough...

His brooding thoughts were interrupted as his grandmother backed into the room holding a tray and Alex jumped to his feet to take it from her. ‘Thank you,’ she said. ‘There’s not much, I’m afraid. I’m at your uncle’s until after New Year so rations are rather sparse.’ She directed him to the round table near the patio doors and Alex placed the tray onto it, carefully setting out the bowls of piping-hot soup and the plates heaped with crackers, cheese and apples.

‘It looks perfect. Thank you for rearranging your plans. You really didn’t have to.’

‘I wanted to. Everything’s arranged and your uncle has asked me to let you know that you are welcome to come too tomorrow—or at any point over the holidays. For an hour or a night or the whole week. Whatever you need. There’s no need to call ahead, please. If you want to come just turn up, I’ll make sure you have the address. Now sit down, do. I tend to eat in here—I don’t like eating in the kitchen and sitting in sole state in the dining room would be far too lonely. I rarely use it now.’ She sighed. ‘This house is far too big but it’s so crammed with memories—of my husband, of your mother—that I hate the idea of leaving.’

‘When did my grandfather die?’ Another family member he would never know.

‘When your mother was eighteen. It hit her very hard. She was a real daddy’s girl. I sometimes think that’s why she fell for your father. He was so certain of everything and she was still so vulnerable. Your grandfather’s death had ripped our family apart and we were all alone in our grief. I still miss him every day. He was my best friend. He made every day an adventure.’

The soup was excellent, thick, spicy and warming, but Alex was hardly aware of it. Best friends? So it could work.

‘That’s the nicest epitaph I ever heard. He must have been an amazing man.’

How would Alex be remembered after he died? Hopefully as a talented and successful architect. But was that enough?

No. It wasn’t. He wanted someone to have that same wistful look in their eye. That same mingled grief, nostalgia, affection and humour. No. He didn’t want just someone to remember him that way.

He wanted Flora to. He wanted every day to be an adventure with his best friend. Not because it was safe and made sense. No. Because he loved her.