Authors: Grace Wynne-Jones
I look up at the arty pink neon sign. ‘Extravaganza,’ it says.
‘Specialities: Tea, Recycled Sofas and Hats. Proprietor: DeeDee
Bertorelli.’
Chapter
Thirty-Nine
I stand outside Extravaganza
for a full five minutes. I gaze into the window and then up at the sign. Any minute now I’ll wake up and find myself on a seat at Dublin airport. This whole afternoon has been a dream. And in my dream it has started to rain.
I place my hand gingerly on the golden door-handle. It feels
very real and solid. I turn it and the door swings open. The interior
is low-lit; there are lamps and candles making a dusky glow.
I scan the room. Is DeeDee in here – and is she my lost great-aunt? The sign said DeeDee Bertorelli; but her name is, or was,
DeeDee Aldridge. She said she wanted to be an actress. She said she wanted to live in Rio. How did she end up here, on this drab, damp London street? Or maybe she didn’t. Maybe Nathaniel has
got the whole thing arseways.
I stare at a tanned, plump woman who is engaged in an
animated conversation with a ponytailed young man. They are sitting on a large yellow sofa, cradling steaming mugs; before them, on a dolphin-shaped turquoise table, is a big orange bowl full of what appear to be home-made chocolate chip cookies.
They are the only customers in the shop – or is it a café? It seems
to be both. If DeeDee were here, would I even recognise her? I try
to remember the photo of her as a young woman. I recall her firm
jawline and strong eyebrows, the straight look in her eyes. She
was smiling even though she was sad. I knew she had longings she
couldn’t speak of, longings she felt no one would understand. But was it myself I was thinking of when I found these feelings in the grainy, faded image? Is that why I became so fascinated with her?
She isn’t here
,
I tell myself.
Of course she isn’t. Finding DeeDee
wouldn’t be this simple. I’d have to trawl through thousands of
pages of South American parish registers and spend days on the Internet. She would have hidden her tracks very carefully. None
of us even know where she settled, though Rio is the place that suits here. She should be in Rio, not here.
Hello, DeeDee, how wonderful to meet you at long last
…
I
prepare the words, even though I’ve convinced myself there will
be no need to say them. If DeeDee were here, she would have
somehow known who I was. She would have welcomed me with
a warm embrace, and by now we would be seated and talking. I
wouldn’t be standing hesitantly by the door of this strange,
almost surreal room, wondering if I should sit down.
Hi, DeeDee. I’m your great-niece Sally. Nathaniel gave me the
address of your shop – you know Nathaniel, don’t you?
The words in DeeDee’s notebook return to me: ‘Nobody believes that Joseph forced himself on me…’ They have been
etched in my memory ever since I first read them – and I have read
them many times, each time hoping to find something new, something I hadn’t noticed.
She isn’t here
,
I think, as I walk past a large sculpture of a unicorn and almost fall over a fawn-coloured Labrador, who is
dozing by the counter.
And, if she is, she won’t want to see me. She
may even throw me out. I’d be a reminder of everything she’s
wanted to forget. I should leave now. I should just go to the airport.
‘Would you like something?’ a young girl behind the counter
asks. She seems surprisingly conventional and is wearing a crisp
white blouse and a navy cardigan.
I just look at her.
‘A cup of tea, maybe?’ She peers at me in the half-light. I must
look very puzzled and lost, and extremely tired.
I think of the long journey and the lack of lunch. Tea… the
word sounds like an old friend in all this strangeness. ‘Yes, thank
you. I’d like a cup of tea, please.’ I no longer feel hungry.
She doesn’t ask me what type of tea, or point to the rows of
boxes behind her. She simply reaches for a teapot and says, ‘I’ll
bring it over.’
I turn round like a sleepwalker and wonder which of the three
unoccupied sofas I should choose. My eyes are drawn to an
amazing collection of exotic hats, scattered across a wall so white
it could have been bleached by the sun on a Mediterranean island.
A strategically placed lamp illuminates the collection.
I decide on the red sofa by the window and cross the room
again, this time stepping carefully over the Labrador, who is now snoring gently. Where on earth is Nathaniel? I reach into my bag
and turn on my mobile phone. Maybe he’ll ring me. He has my
plane ticket. Surely he’s not just going to abandon me. Whatever
I may feel about Nathaniel just now, I can’t believe he would be
that careless.
I check my phone to see if I have any messages, but nobody has
tried to call – not even April. I really should phone April to tell her I haven’t got that plane to San Francisco. I dial her number quickly and get her answering machine; I leave a brief message and don’t mention that I have somehow ended up in London instead.
One of Bach’s Brandenburg Concertos is playing softly in the
background. I sit on the sofa and survey my surroundings. Even
though the room is not particularly large, it contains many
unusual objects. I notice a large cushion shaped like a toaster, and
a painted wooden mermaid who seems to be overseeing a
collection of antique teddy bears. What this room does, I suddenly r
ealise, is it takes objects that might seem bizarre and strange elsewhere and it gives them a home – a place where they fit in.
The young girl arrives with the tea. ‘Here you are,’ she says,
with a beaming smile. It seems to me suddenly that I am just one
of the many unusual objects and people who have found their way here. Whoever owns this place knows about solace and sanctuary. It isn’t a bad place to find oneself on a lost August evening.
The tightness in my chest relaxes and a thrill of excitement suddenly runs through me. What if Nathaniel is right? What if
DeeDee is here?
Of
course
I want to meet her. How can I have had
any reservations? A woman who owns a place like this wouldn’t
be bitter and unforgiving. She wouldn’t refuse to talk to me. And
I need to talk to her. She has surely unearthed plenty of wisdom during her long and unusual life. She may even tell me how to
endure my love for Nathaniel; the feelings he evokes in me are as
odd as this room and its contents – which, of course, include me.
‘Is… is DeeDee here?’ I hopefully ask the girl, just as she’s about
to move away.
‘Sorry, who?’
‘DeeDee,’ I repeat. ‘I came here to see her.’
‘I’m sorry, I don’t know who you mean,’ the girl says.
My heart sinks. So this whole crazy trip to London has been for nothing. What on earth can Nathaniel have been thinking? If DeeDee were here, I could
understand why he might have absented himself. He might have
seen it as an act of tact and kindness; he wouldn’t have wanted to intrude on a reunion. But he has brought me here on a wild-goose
chase, and for the flimsiest of reasons. There are thousands of DeeDees in the world. The name on the sign has probably been there for years and no one has thought to change it. No one thought that it would mean this much to anyone.
I am unprepared for the sharp, almost physical ache of
d
esolation. In a flurry of misery, I grab my bag and get up. My love for Nathaniel has clearly been misplaced; I must reclaim it
and forget him, forever. And I must forget DeeDee, too. I should
have gone to San Francisco. Maybe I’ll fly to San Francisco this
very evening.
‘She means me.’ The plump, tanned woman is walking slowly
across the room, and I notice she is limping. ‘She means me,’ she
repeats, to the girl. ‘I’m DeeDee.’ She looks at me. ‘I’ve been expecting you, dear, but I thought you might like a cup of tea before we talked.’
I sink back onto the sofa. I gaze at her and swallow hard. My
mouth is dry and my heart is thumping. This isn’t true. Of course
it isn’t. I’ve got so desperate I’m making it up, like Aggie with her
angels.
But then I know it is happening. I know it from her smile. It is
the same smile I saw in the photo, only it’s happier; it’s a real
smile, not just one plastered on for the camera. She has the same
firm jawline, though it’s thicker now with age. And the look in her eyes is unchanged. It is still straight and true and extraordinarily gentle.
I want to rise from my seat and embrace her; I want to find the right words to mark this momentous, extraordinary occasion. But
I stay rooted to my seat. It is she who sits beside me and takes my hand.
This softly lit room, with its lamps and candles, made her seem
much younger when I saw her from a distance. Now that she’s closer, I can see that her face is considerably wrinkled and her wispy brown hair has streaks of grey at the parting. It is the plumpness, the general sense of roundness and tanned radiance, that convinced me that she was a middle-aged woman who had, perhaps, just returned from a sun-filled holiday. The impression
was deepened by the thick silver bangle on her arm and the
picture on her T-shirt, which sends a tropical sunset streaming a
cross her ample breasts. She has the face of an old woman who
doesn’t know she’s old.
‘Would you like an omelette?’ she asks. ‘Nathaniel phoned me
to say you were very hungry and hadn’t had any lunch.’
‘So you know him?’ I lean forward, desperate for an explanation. ‘You know Nathaniel?’
‘Yes, I met him a while ago. He’s a lovely young man.’ She smiles at me. ‘I think we also have lasagne.’
I realise we are still discussing my supper. ‘Omelette,’ I say. ‘That omelette sounds just right.’
‘With some cheese, maybe?’ She squeezes my hand. Hers is warm and soft and very comforting.
‘Yes.’
‘Chips would be nice with it, too, wouldn’t they?’
‘Yes,’ I agree quickly. I want to get on to more important matters.
She gets up and goes over to the girl behind the counter. They
have a quick chat, and then DeeDee returns.
‘Sorry Ita didn’t know my name when you asked her,’ she says
as she lowers herself slowly onto the sofa. ‘She only started here last week. I’m rarely here these days. Craig is the manager now.’
‘So you know Nathaniel?’ There are so many things I should be asking her about, but this is the one that seems most urgent and extraordinary.
‘Yes, I met him a while ago,’ she says vaguely.
‘
How
did you meet him?’
‘It was an amazing coincidence. We sort of bumped into each
other and got talking. Would you like a biscuit?’ I get the distinct
impression that she doesn’t want to explain this matter more fully;
but she sees me waiting eagerly for more details. ‘I know a friend
of his. They came here together for coffee one day when
Nathaniel was visiting London. And then, of course, he met you
and heard you talking about your great-aunt DeeDee, so he p
honed me one day to ask if I was this mysterious DeeDee – he
said he knew it was a long shot, but it is rather an unusual name.’