The Olive Tree (47 page)

‘Yes, Helena. Vivienne was a guest at Pandora many times. She was known both here at the house and in the village.’

‘Really? So . . .
that
must be why so many locals have said I reminded them of someone. I know I’m thought to look like her.’

‘You do. My grandmother could not believe the resemblance when she came to Pandora that night.’

‘I saw her here in the old photographs we dug out of the box room. So’ – Helena’s mind was racing now –‘all those letters Alex found, were they written to
her? Was she the mystery woman?’

‘Yes, she was.’

‘But how do you know all this?’

‘Helena, Christina worked here for almost thirty years. She saw everything. And those letters – they were returned to Angus by your father.’

‘So he knew?’

‘For certain, if he sent back the letters.’

‘Well,’ Helena breathed, trying to make sense of what Alexis had told her, ‘to be honest, my parents never seemed very close when I was growing up. My father seemed to spend
more and more time in Kenya. I rarely saw him.’

‘Perhaps it was an arrangement that suited them both. Every marriage is different, after all,’ added Alexis.

‘Maybe, but why didn’t Angus and my mother ever get together? It’s obvious from the letters he wrote that he adored her.’

‘Who knows, Helena? We both know there are many reasons why those who love each other spend their lives apart,’ he commented quietly.

Helena looked down at the dead leaves fallen from the olive trees. She took one between her fingers, felt its roughness.

‘Angus left me everything.’

‘He did, yes.’

‘I was his goddaughter.’

‘You were. And . . .’

‘What, Alexis?’

‘Christina always wondered if you were more than that.’

‘What are you trying to say?’

‘I think you know, Helena.’

‘I do, yes,’ she whispered.

‘Those letters were returned soon after your birth. My grandmother remembers it vividly. She found Angus sobbing at his writing desk. Your mother never came here again.’

‘But I did. And . . .’ Helena searched her memory. ‘It was only a few months after my father had died.’

‘Perhaps by sending you here, you became the way in which your mother could show her love.’

‘Why didn’t she come with me herself?’

‘Helena, I do not know. Perhaps she felt it was better not to reignite the flame. Maybe the life here did not suit her, as it would not have suited you.’

‘Maybe . . . but now, I can never ask her. Or find out who really was my father.’

‘Does it matter? Angus loved you like you
were
his daughter. He gave you the gift of Pandora. I hope this shows you that everyone has secrets, Helena. That no one is as you think
they are.’

‘Yes, you’re right. Do you have any?’ she asked him with a wry smile.

‘I have none from you. But from my wife, yes. She did not know why I could not love her enough. I still feel guilt for that. Come, we should go back.’ Alexis offered Helena the crook
of his arm.

‘Thank you for showing me that,’ she said, as they made their way up to the house.

‘Well, we can both say that is what you call putting a woman on a pedestal!’ he chuckled.

‘And that, Alexis,’ Helena sighed, ‘is a very dangerous thing to do.’

After Alexis had left, Helena walked into the kitchen and found Immy and Fred at the kitchen table. She sat down, feeling suddenly drained from yet more revelations.

‘You’re back! I’ve made something with honey that are really sticky with Sesame Street nuts on them!’ said Immy.

‘I help make them too, Immy,’ added Fred.

‘Mummy, you look funny. Are you funny?’ Immy climbed onto Helena’s knee and hugged her.

‘Mummee, you look funnee!’ copied Fred, enjoying the rhyme and giggling. He tried to climb on too, and Helena pulled him up onto the bit of knee that Immy wasn’t
inhabiting.

She hugged them both tightly to her.

‘We love you, Mummy,’ said Immy, kissing her face. ‘Don’t we, Fred?’

‘Yeah, we do,’ he added.

‘And I love you too.’ She returned their kisses onto sticky cheeks. ‘How do you fancy going to the beach, chaps?’ she asked.

‘Yes, pleeease,’ they chorused.

They arrived back as the sun was starting to set. Helena fed the little ones, then gave them a bath and put on the DVD of
Cinderella
for them in the drawing room.

Taking a glass of wine upstairs onto the balcony, she saw dusk was falling already, even though it was just past seven o’clock.

Summer was coming to an end.

Could she live here, she pondered, knowing she was no longer welcome at Cedar House?

The answer was no. As she – and maybe her mother before her – had known all those years ago, her life was meant to be lived elsewhere.

Where, with whom and how, she didn’t yet know . . .

Loneliness suffused her then, and she physically ached for her husband and her son.

Wandering inside and shutting the balcony doors behind her, she took a shower, then sat at the dressing table brushing her hair.

Putting down her hairbrush, she traced her fingers along the swirls of inlaid mother-of-pearl on the lid of the jewellery box Alexis had retrieved from the rubbish dump.

‘Pandora’s Box,’ she murmured.

And then she saw it.

Subtly entwined in the decoration on the lid of the box were her own and her parents’ initials.

Tears sprang spontaneously to Helena’s eyes.

Eventually, she came downstairs to check on the children. They were absorbed in
Cinderella
, so she left them and stepped out onto the terrace. She jumped in fear as she
saw two figures emerging from the deepening shadows, climbing up the steps from the swimming pool.

‘Hello, Mum. Dad and I thought we’d have a quick dip to cool off from the journey.’

‘Alex!’

‘Yep. That’s me. You can’t hug me, I’m wet.’

‘I don’t care.’

‘Okay.’ He walked into her outstretched arms, and she held him tight.

‘How are you?’

‘Good, very good.’ He looked at her, his vivid green eyes telling her he was. ‘Love you, Mum,’ he whispered.

‘I love you too, Alex.’

‘Where are the little ones?’

‘Watching a DVD in the drawing room.’

‘I promised Chloë I’d give Disney a go, so I will. See you in a bit.’

As he squelched inside, she didn’t shout at him not to drip all over the fragile damask sofa. Because it didn’t matter a damn if he did.

‘Hello, Helena.’

She was so choked, she couldn’t speak.

William stood in front of her, also soaking wet from the pool.

‘How are you?’ he asked her.

‘Fine.’

‘Really? Then why are you crying?’

‘Because if you’ve just come here to chaperone Alex back and you’re about to leave again, I . . . can’t bear to see you.’

‘No. Well, could I at least stay the night? See Immy and Fred?’

‘Yes,’ she agreed desolately, ‘of course.’

‘And perhaps tomorrow as well? And the day after that?’

‘I . . .’ She looked at him, still not sure what he meant.

‘Helena, you have . . .
we
have, one hell of an amazing son. He . . . Alex, showed me the way back. To you.’

‘Did he?’

‘Yes. And . . .’ William’s voice broke, ‘I don’t ever want to go away again. I love you.’

‘And I love you, darling. Believe me, I do.’

They stood ten yards apart, both of them longing for there to be no distance between them.

‘But, Helena, you have to promise me: no more secrets. Please, just tell me now if there’s anything else I should know.’

‘Actually,’ she said slowly, ‘something happened here earlier.’

‘Did it?’ The muscles in William’s face tensed.

‘Yes, it did.’ She nodded. ‘And it’s a
big
secret. Perhaps the biggest of them all. And . . .’

‘Oh God! What?’

She smiled then, her blue eyes lighting up as she walked slowly towards him.

‘I just can’t wait to tell you all about it.’

We’re on our way home tomorrow.

I mean,
our
family.

We’re leaving Pandora and her Box behind.

Mum told me all about it – the box, I mean. And took me to see the statue of naked Granny in the olive groves.

Even though it’s morally reprehensible, everyone involved is dead. Except my mother, who seems to be fine about it, so it can be beautiful instead.

We have something in common now, my mother and me. I like that.

And besides, I got two for the price of one:

‘Find out who your Daddy is and get Grandpa for free!!’

I’m glad Angus and I are probably related. He was a real man, doing butch things, like going over the top and commanding armies. But at the same time, he cried like a girl,
and he knew how to love.

I have someone else to aspire to, as well as my father.

The Cash’s name tape people, plus the solicitor, have been duly alerted. ‘Beaumont-Cooke’ is where it’s at. I decided to honour both of my parents. Under the
circumstances, it only seemed fair, or Mum might have felt left out.

Dad and I will become officially ‘wed’ in a few months’ time, but for the moment, I shall trade illegally on my surname when I start school.

I reflect on whether I am sad to be going home.

And I conclude I am not.

I have not had a holiday so much as an emotional, mental and physical assault course. In fact, our whole family has had a serious, sweaty workout, which hopefully has equipped us
all to move on and face the future.

I also had a heart-to-heart yesterday with my parents about the impending school situation. It turns out that my mum is dreading me going away, and that Dad is just genuinely proud
that I won the scholarship and thinks it’s a fantastic opportunity.

They both thought that I really wanted to go. I explained I thought they wanted me to go. So, the upshot is, I
will
go. At least for a term or two. And if I hate it, I can
leave and come home.

And now that I understand they are not going to hold a celebration in my empty bedroom for all their friends and relatives on the night me and my trunk have been removed to my
new
Broom Cupboard, I feel far more relaxed about the whole thing. I understand they just want the best for me.

I have also grown up in the past few weeks.
Literally.

When Mum took some final measurements for the horrendous school uniform she’s ordering me, I was almost five foot five.

So, I muse, what have I learnt, on this holiday?

That there are all kinds of love, and it arrives in different shapes and forms.

It can be earned, but not paid for.

It can be given, but never bought.

And once it’s truly there, it holds fast.

This love thing.

I turn to the next page and see the rest of the diary is empty. I could have died the following day, for all the future readers of this diary might know.

I glance at my watch and see that it is midnight, local time. Picking up the diary, I walk back inside Pandora, closing the shutters behind me. This simple act alone reminds me of how much has
changed since I was last here. I am now the adult, who takes responsibility and is trusted with it.

Walking along the corridor, I hesitate at the bottom of the stairs, then walk past them and along the corridor to my Broom Cupboard. Opening the door, I switch on the light and the electric fan,
which groans with the effort of turning after so many years standing idle.

There are no sheets on the camp bed –
or
gusseted tights – to protect me from anything that might bite me in the night.

But since I was last here, I’ve travelled to South America and stayed for four long nights in a tent in the Amazon. I’ve encountered spiders the size of dinner plates, flying
cockroaches that would provide a decent supper for two. Mosquitoes are now a mere irritation.

Removing my clothes, I turn off the light and lie down. And feel Pandora’s atmosphere closing in around me. Faces from the past appear like a beauty parade behind my closed eyelids. They
remind me that all the protagonists who played a part in that dramatic summer ten years ago are due to arrive back here in less than forty-eight hours’ time.