‘Well that I can’t tell you. Couldn’t be sure.’ Roland’s tone had turned stiff again. ‘Rather a private person really, your mother.’
After a silence, she asked, ‘What about Olivia?’
‘Olivia?’ His brow puckered.
‘Olivia Kemp. You must have met her. She was living with Mummy after I was born.’
‘Ah – Kemp. Yes, school friend of hers – the councillor’s daughter. I do remember someone was staying for a bit but I never met her. Course, when I saw a lot more of you both, you were already living in Florence Road.’
‘It’s so strange,’ Anna said slowly. ‘She seems to have kept bits of her life in such separate compartments. Didn’t she ever talk to you about Olivia?’
‘Not that I remember. She didn’t hark back to school much. No real reason to I don’t think. Why?’
‘I just . . .’ She felt weary suddenly, ready to go and lie under a tree and sleep, rest her brain from all these thoughts. ‘You think you know people, don’t you? And instead you only see little glimpses of them.’ She could feel herself growing tearful.
‘Anna, my dear . . .’
She knelt down and was in his arms, his smell of sweat and shaving cream. Sobbing as she had done as a child after scares or bumps. ‘You’re such a good man,’ she said into his warm, fleshy chest. ‘There aren’t many about like you.’
He didn’t speak and she could tell that he was unable. His body gave little jerks. She didn’t look up at him, knowing his shyness and that he wouldn’t want her to see his tears. As he wiped his pink face with the back of his hand, she said, ‘My father didn’t want to know me. You’ve been a father to me.’
He spoke softly, in a controlled voice, holding her with great tenderness. ‘Nothing would have made me happier than to have been your father.’
The two of them wouldn’t leave her alone: Kate and Olivia. Those days immediately after the funeral and her visit to Coventry it was as if she was paralysed. She moved round the house, tired and stunned, not achieving anything. When the phone rang she ignored it now. Often she found herself standing or sitting, just staring across the silent rooms. She might wander up and down stairs opening cupboards and drawers, looking, not certain for what, but somehow unable to begin disturbing anything.
On the window-sill of Kate’s bedroom, overlooking the garden, were photographs, all of Anna at different ages. A tiny monochrome print with white edges and her serious little face looking out, all eyes. This was stuck into the lower edge of the frame of her graduation portrait, the brick Italianate tower of Birmingham University in the background. 1969. She smiled at the shortness of her dress, her hair bobbed round her ears and backcombed specially for the occasion. There were the familiar snaps Kate had had on show for years: Anna in the backyard of the Florence Road house, aged about eleven, a black and white kitten cuddled close to her face. Another at nine, on a beach, bending over a metal-tipped spade and looking up to grin delightedly into the lens, hair swept to one side by the wind. Wales, and their first-ever holiday.
Revisiting herself at these young stages she tried to relearn her mother, playing through their lives together year by year like tracks on a record.
After seeing Roland she felt spurred to make a start on the house.
Clearing Kate’s wardrobe and dressing table was the worst part. All those intimately shaped garments. The one bottle of cologne, sparing amounts of powder and scantly filled jewellery box. She found a pair of clip-on earrings, fifties style, round and white, dotted with tiny pink spots. She had seen them in the shallow wooden box all her life, yet now they looked so foreign, belonging to a stranger.
She worked in as detached a way as she could, a caul of practical concentration wrapped tight round her. But sometimes it slipped, or something penetrated it, and she sat and cried among this residue of Kate’s life.
There were no diaries. Apart from Kate’s last effort to explain herself to Anna she had not been a writer by habit. She was not an introspective woman. Too busy out there getting on with it. Nor were there a great number of books. She did find several volumes of poetry though, arranged incongruously in with Kate’s few crime novels and old copies of
Reader’s Digest
. They were old books, their pages almost orange at the edges and smelling musty.
‘With all my love, now and always’, was written on the first page of one in small, looped handwriting. ‘Angus’. It was dated 1940.
The past seemed to swoop, swallow-like, through the house those two weeks. Though she was confronted at every turn by the things which had made up Kate’s life, it was Olivia’s voice which kept coming to her. She imagined it soft, sweet, always edged with tears: ‘By the morning I know him. I want my life to be his. And they take him away . . .’
Anna thought of that loss. Unbearable. She knew she could not let this rest. Soon, when she was ready, she would have to try and see Olivia. And after all, why would Kate have left the letters, made her explanation as she did, if she had not been deputing Anna to face Olivia for her?
The only person she could stand to be with was Roland.
The first time he called round with the opening greeting, ‘I thought you might like a bit of help.’ Then added quickly, ‘Or company?’
She opened the door in an old pair of mauve dungarees, hair standing on end from bed, and was about to say no, she could manage, but then saw Roland had come out of his own need. She saw his emotion, coming back into Kate’s house again, eyeing the bin liners stacked for Oxfam in the front room in the grey light of net curtains and looking round as if memorizing the place. He took out a handkerchief and wiped perspiration from his pink forehead, talking a little too fast, trying to cover his wretchedness. She remembered how his face registered every crease and tuck of emotion. His lips twitched as they walked into the kitchen. It was the room she was leaving until last and it still felt as if her mother might walk in any moment, put on the plastic Colman’s Mustard apron and start bustling around in her brown brogue shoes.
She found jobs for Roland: he spent one afternoon clearing the garage.
‘You’ll put the house on the market, I suppose?’ he asked when she brought out a mug of tea.
Anna shrugged. ‘I really don’t know what I’m going to do. You see, I’ve left Richard.’
‘Oh, Anna – ’ Roland’s eyes were two pools of concern. ‘I am sorry. I’d no idea. How long?’
‘The day after the funeral.’ She held up a hand to stem the rush of Roland’s sympathy. ‘It’s right, I know that.’ She paused. ‘I’ve also decided to resign my job.’
Roland gaped at her. ‘Anna. Why? Everything at once, so hastily like this? What are you going to do?’
She shrugged, pulling dead heads from a pink rose by the garage. ‘I just want things to be different. I don’t want to have to decide anything else yet. I want to take stock for a while.’ She looked round at Roland. ‘Mummy never thought much of Richard, did she?’
Roland’s brow creased. ‘I wouldn’t say that. She admired his drive, I think. It’s just that I think she felt you weren’t – what was her phrase? – building each other into more than you would be on your own. That was her idea of what a good relationship should be. She thought Richard was dragging you down.’
‘I wish she’d said.’
‘You wouldn’t have liked it if she had.’
‘True.’ After a silence, she said, ‘That’s how it was with my father, wasn’t it? She felt he was chewing away at her, diminishing her.’
Roland looked uncomfortable again. ‘I suppose that was about it.’
She had found some old photographs of Daisy Turnbull and Lisa and asked Roland about them.
‘Lisa Turnbull?’ He chuckled. ‘Now I did meet her. Kate said she owed Lisa a lot. Not sure why, but she liked her because she was rather to the point as I remember.’
‘I remember her – from when I was little. She
is
dead, isn’t she?’ It seemed terrible, all these years passing and not knowing now whether people were alive or dead.
‘Died three or four years ago,’ Roland said. ‘Cancer as well. Lung I suppose. She used to smoke like a power station.’ He eyed the cigarette in Anna’s hand.
‘I know, I know,’ she said.
‘Lisa went to live out at Sheldon when they did away with the slums round the Birch. Kate saw more of her towards the end again.’
She later found a few other photographs. Roland appeared in some of them, the three of them grouped together like a family. In one he was holding her, aged about three, a rather slimmer but still comical Roland, smiling at her in his arms. He must have been tickling her because she was giggling, face crinkled. Anna looked at it, frowning. Exactly what her mother had felt for Roland was something she knew she would never now find out.
August 27th, 1981
Dear Olivia,
I am Anna Craven, Kate Craven’s daughter. I have your address from my mother and wonder if I might call in and see you some time in the next few days?
It took Anna what seemed a ridiculously long time to phrase this simple note. It was so odd to think of Olivia as a real person now, to use ordinary words. That evening she started up Kate’s Metro and drove to Moseley to deliver the letter, leaving it until it was almost dark because she didn’t want to be seen, to start anything then.
The house was set back from the road, one in the row of looming Victorian mansions of that area, a jumble of gables and turrets which blocked out the light with its sheer size and its screen of mature trees. Creeping up the short drive under the arch of branches, she felt foolish and very nervous.
A tinny sound of music came from inside. Heart pounding, she pushed the paper through the metal letterbox, jumping as it snapped, and fled back to the car.
Her reply pattered on the mat with Tuesday morning’s circulars and a seed catalogue. Anna took it into the kitchen, still dressed in her baggy T-shirt from bed. She looked at the ornate handwriting.
My dear Anna,
I should so love you to come. Any time is convenient for me. I’m always here.
Warmest regards,
Olivia Kemp.
She went that afternoon. It was a fine day, with a waning feel to the light, and piles of cloud kept blotting out the sun. She drove through the slow-moving traffic in Moseley Village, its pavements crowded with shoppers.
After parking the Metro round the corner from Olivia’s, outside a boarded-up house, she sat for a few moments with the engine off, the windows open. From somewhere further along the road came a heavy beat of music, turned up loud. She thought of Olivia as Kate had last seen her, in the doorway of a flat only a street away from here, dressed in bright blue, alone with her child. The child – Anna had barely given him a thought – would now be nineteen. Not much older than she was when her mother came home tight-faced from work one day, going to her room in the pretence of getting changed, then crying and crying. 1962.
She was very nervous at the thought of meeting Olivia. Her uncertainty was made worse by not knowing how to approach her and by the baggage of conflicting emotions she was bringing to this encounter. There were those she felt obliged to carry with her on Kate’s behalf: anger and bitter woundedness, a spirit of confrontation. Yet the warmth of Olivia’s reply had taken her by surprise. Her own feelings were of apprehension, but also curiosity and sympathy. She wanted at least to try and get on with Olivia, to attempt to understand.
She stepped out of the car into the sleepy warmth of the street. In the gutter lay a crumpled Union Jack, a remnant of the Royal Wedding.
The house was on the corner of the two roads, and horse chestnut trees grew inside the front wall on both sides, casting the place into shadow and seclusion. It was a brick building with gables and a square fairy-tale turret at one corner. In the bright afternoon the windows looked dark and dusty.
In the shady porch she found an old-fashioned metal bell-pull at the side of the door, which gave off a tinkling sound inside.
She heard no footsteps and jumped when the door suddenly opened. A young man stood there, dressed in very tight jeans with faded knees, a T-shirt and trainers. He had collar-length mousy hair and a white acne’d complexion. There was something in his manner Anna didn’t take to.
‘Yes. Hello?’ There was no curiosity in his manner but he seemed tense, his brow furrowed, apparently unable to keep still.
‘I’m Anna Craven.’ Nervously she pushed her hand back through her hair wondering if this was Olivia’s son, forgetting he didn’t match Kate’s description at all.
‘You want Olivia, I suppose,’ he said, apparently resentful.
‘She said I could call. Is she here?’
‘Yeah. She’s teaching at the moment. Come through.’
As she was turning to close the door she heard footsteps slapping madly down the wide staircase and another voice called, ‘It’s OK – leave it – thanks.’ Another young man with tight curls, round gold glasses and a file under his arm disappeared outside in flip-flops. The door slammed.
Anna scuttled after the other one and found him standing on the threshold of a huge room. Her first impressions were the glowing red and yellow light from the windows, the honey-coloured parquet floor and a huge grand piano which dominated the middle of the room.
At one end, in the bay window, was a round table. Two women sat behind it, one plump with permed grey hair and a sleeveless, square-necked frock. The other, much smaller and dark, was dressed in something vivid and orange.
‘Someone for you, Olivia.’
Anna stood in front of them, bewildered.
It was only when the smaller of the two women looked over at her that she knew it was Olivia. Across the room her face looked surprisingly young and thin, the eyes dark, seemingly bottomless.
‘Thank you, Sean.’ Her voice was deeper than Anna expected, with a smooth beauty like a nun’s. ‘Would you be a love and put the kettle on?’ He gave a nod and disappeared through a door at the other side of the room.