Compared to that Saturday of Oriana’s first visit – when it felt more normal because there were children out and windows open and the sounds of families – today, on a Friday, Windward was deserted. Few cars were around. It was anomalously quiet. She sat in Cat’s car and waited a moment or two before stilling the engine.
‘People have gone to work,’ she murmured. ‘That’s what they do these days. They only live here.’ She thought about it. If that was the case, they only really had a slice of Windward. She recalled the estate agent’s particulars which Cat and Django had shown her. What was the shoutline? ‘
Windward is an exclusive, peaceful and orderly place to live
,’ she quoted to herself. Little did they know! No mention had been made of the fact that two of the original pioneering inhabitants were still there. People don’t want bohemian these days. They want order and anonymity. They want luxury and solitude after a stressful day at work. They want containment and no spillage. They want to forget the rest of the world. And these days they pay big bucks for the privilege.
The facts and figures of Windward were too extraordinary to be forgotten – and yet few would actually know them. She could still recall vividly Malachy and Jed’s father telling them how he’d negotiated rent of £16 per month which was a bargain, even then. And then, in 1973, they’d all chipped in and bought it for a song. £35,000. And now Louis’ apartment was for sale for £400,000 and mysteriously had three bedrooms and two bathrooms. What a vulgar insult to those lovely proportions! What daft bugger would pay that for it? Some stressed-out soul with enough money to buy sanctuary, to buy back their sanity.
‘I digress,’ Oriana said out loud. ‘I’m just stalling. Come on, woman,
come on
.’ She got out of the car. Stretched. Breathed deeply. ‘Welcome home.’
At some point she really would have to go past her old home; she’d need to look up at the windows and, if necessary, acknowledge the person inside. But, for the time being, she didn’t have to go to that side of the building and she could justify that she wasn’t avoiding it, she was simply taking her stuff to the Bedwells’. The entrance to their apartment was at the front of the house, probably one of only three doors currently never locked. Standing with her bags and suitcase a step or two away from the car, Oriana regarded the building. Despite all the changes to the place, visible or otherwise, Oriana could so easily conjure up the inhabitants of old. How she needed them just now. She was suddenly frightened – the circumstances of her abrupt departure reared caustically from her memory and disrupted the calm she desperately needed to accompany her arrival today. Under her breath, she spoke an affectionate roll call to guide her slow passage towards the front door.
Louis who wore cologne and who declared that all children were revolting though every Windward child felt unconditionally adored by him.
Lilac who’d danced at the Café de Paris, George the composer and their son Rafe, the oldest of all of us, who could play every instrument in the world.
Plum and Willow – daughters of Laurence Glaub, novelist, and his actress wife what’s-her-name. What
was
her name? Mousy woman always in the garden. Patty!
Zoot the musician whose real name was Bob – offering friendship and sanctuary to Ronnie and Rod and, for that one summer, so they’d been told, Jimi too.
Gordon Bryce, illustrator extraordinaire of cutting-edge bespoke book-jacket designs for Agatha Christie and Sylvia Plath and Elaine Dundy.
And the Bedwells – architect Orlando and furniture designer Jette, sons Jed and Malachy; the family at the very epicentre of Windward physically, intellectually, parentally.
As she made her way to the great front door, the cast, as vivid now as they had been then, danced around Oriana with the tribe of all the waifs and strays who’d ever convened at Windward. Passing the Corinthian columns, they took her up the grand stone steps, under the temple-like portico and all the way to the majestic double doors. And there they left her. This part was down to her. She placed her hand on the wood and, for a moment, cast a wish deep into the grain.
Look after me.
With her hand on the scalloped brass doorknob, she took a deep breath and pushed the door open. It creaked out exactly the same dissonant scale she remembered from her childhood. And then she was in.
The vestibule. Everyone always enjoyed lingering over that word, emphasizing the invisible ‘Y’. Vestibyool. It was amusing to give the area such reverence when it was always a dumping ground for boots and bikes and dead or dying houseplants people forgot to take to the compost heap. There was only one bike today, two pairs of wellingtons, a pair of trainers and two mismatched walking boots. A pile of newspapers in a green tub, glass and plastics ready for recycling in a black one. It needed a sweep.
Inside for the first time in so many years, Oriana really noticed the travesty of the stud wall almost directly in front of her, denying from view the beautiful staircase which rose in one wide sweep before splitting off into two. It had been one of the quirks of the commune – to divide the building so radically and yet amiably. Had Orlando Bedwell, such an esteemed architect, really agreed to so drastically compromise the integrity of the original design, to slander the Georgian architect’s vision? But what was it that Jette had told Oriana – a concept that, at the time, had seemed so pioneering to a teenager? Even today Oriana could quote her verbatim.
It wasn’t about ownership, my love – it was about sharing. You have the staircase, we’ll have the ballroom. In the late sixties it wasn’t about tradition, it was about the New and the Now
.
The New and the Now. How she’d loved Jette.
Oriana stared at the inner door that would lead straight into the heart of the Bedwells’ home. How much of Jette might remain? What degree might be covered up, torn down, remodelled? Suddenly, she wondered if she herself was prepared for change, for the New. She opened the door and entered.
With a sigh of relief, Oriana stood in the kitchen and saw how Jette’s Scandinavian eye had provided a legacy as tasteful and functional today as it had been then. There had been no reason to change much at all. The units were still milky grey, the worktop the same scrubbed maple. Even the kitchen table remained, with the mismatched chairs that encircled it as perfect as the different personalities that make up a family. Oriana noted a mug and a plate with toast crumbs beside the sink. And washing-up yet to do from last night and the night before, by the look of things.
She walked on through to the hallway and put down her bags. The bathroom was unaltered though today it seemed cold and unused. No towels on view, no bath mat. No loo roll. Opening the door to Malachy’s childhood bedroom, Oriana found little more than stack after stack of paintings. Perhaps he stored the overflow from the gallery here. Jed’s old room was completely changed – a sofa bed, a rowing machine; but she couldn’t resist lifting the edge of the carpet. The floorboards remained spattered with the paint, black and red, purple, navy and orange. It made her smile and that enabled her to ignore two small oils by her father on the far wall.
Back into the hallway, ahead of her, the
pièce de résistance
of the Bedwells’ place. The tall, arched double doors were ajar and, with a deep breath, she pushed them wide open. The ballroom. The original ballroom with its flamboyant proportions, intricate plasterwork, exquisite full-height windows, balcony and sublime bay at the far end. She looked around. It was greatly changed and yet the spirit of the place, so indelible in her memory, was untouched. The piano was still here and one of the vast draughtsman tables. Originally, although there had been three of these desks each busy with drawings and designs, none had ever encroached on the space. The same purple velvet sofa remained, about twice as long as any normal sofa, in need of some repair these days – just a throw or couple of scatter cushions would suffice. She thought to herself that perhaps she’d provide them, like a moving-in gift. She noted new items of furniture too, paintings she’d never seen, a state-of-the-art sound system and a very large, black, glossy television. There was a navy-blue pullover slung over the arm of the Eames lounger, a pair of suede moccasin slippers with the backs trodden down. Another dirty plate with a blackened banana skin on it.
‘It’s all a bit dusty,’ Oriana said quietly, running her fingertip along. She wondered how often Jette visited. Ten years ago, when Oriana had last asked her mother about Malachy, Rachel had told her that Orlando and Jette had moved back to Denmark.
Do you have an address for them? No, I don’t. Where’s Malachy? I don’t know.
Even if her mother had known, Oriana doubted that she’d have told her.
She went to yank up the sash windows and open the balcony doors to let the fresh air in, but she was momentarily transfixed by the sight of six pieces of yellow film, each covering random sections of glass. Quickly, she stepped out onto the balcony and back into the memory of Jed clambering over it and grappling his way down to see her a few weeks ago. She looked out and gazed at the cedar, her cedar. Then she turned to the room again and opened the door along the back wall into what had been Jette and Orlando’s bedroom. Here was the biggest change. It was obviously still the master bedroom but now – yes – it had an en-suite shower room. She laughed.
‘I remember you two coming back from rugby or football and your dad hosing you down outside, midwinter,’ she said to a photo of the brothers aged around nine and twelve. ‘I remember your mum berating the fact that in an apartment this size, there was only one bathroom.’
Oriana stood awhile with her memories, challenging herself on this crazy thing she was doing, trying to make a sensible present out of an insane past that happened right here at Windward. She was gasping for a cup of tea. Back in the kitchen she opened cupboard doors and drawers to orientate herself. She was quite appalled at how disorganized it was, and how relatively barren. The contents of the fridge were shocking. Beer and butter, unwrapped cheese, pots of Greek yoghurt and two jars of chutney. There was just about enough milk for her tea – but a sniff at it made her pour it away and drink the tea black. She sat at the table and made a shopping list. If she was going to stay here, she couldn’t spend all her time captivated by reminiscences. She had to make it work. She’d need to ensure she was useful, thoughtful and generous – as she’d been at the Yorks’. If one ignored the cot incident. It prompted her to phone Cat.
‘I think I’ll stay here tonight and drop the car back with you tomorrow – is that OK? I just want to do a shop and unpack. Maybe cook something. I think that would be nice. He obviously doesn’t look after himself particularly well.’
‘Have you seen him?’
‘He’ll still be at work – I guess he’ll be back around six?’ She looked at the kitchen clock which had stopped. She looked at her watch. It was just gone five.
‘Don’t worry about the car,’ Cat was saying. ‘I’ve decided Ben can be chauffeur from now on because I can’t fit comfortably behind the steering wheel anyway. And his car has Isofix for the baby seat.’
‘So I’ll see you tomorrow – I’ll phone you in the morning?’
‘Bet you stay up all night rampaging down memory lane,’ Cat said. ‘Say hi from me.’
Oriana liked Cat’s little car. She wondered if Cat might even lend it to her for longer – on account of its being unable to Isofixate, or whatever it was that babies required. Heading for the Sainsbury’s between Matlock and Blenthrop, she pulled over halfway along the drive to let a car pass, on its way home to Windward for the weekend. She didn’t notice the driver. She didn’t know it was Malachy.
I’m sure there was milk.
I
definitely
had milk.
The kettle had boiled, the tea bag was already in the mug and Malachy wanted his customary cup of tea. He continued to look in the fridge, on every shelf, convinced he could will the milk to appear. He laughed at himself, closed the fridge and opened a cupboard door, rooting around for a jar of coffee whitener and reading the label to see if it would do for tea.
No.
Fuck it, he’d have to have coffee at a time when really, only tea would do.
How can coffee whitener have a sell-by date? Thinking about it, when was the last time he’d used it? He unscrewed the lid. It was still sealed. He couldn’t actually remember buying it but as the sell-by date itself was almost two years ago, that was hardly surprising. He thought back to which girl he might have been with at the time. Who was the coffee drinker? Who might have bought it? Who might have been fed up with him running out of milk or having milk past its best? He laughed at himself again.
‘Any one of them!’
None had been relaxed about Malachy’s relaxed attitude towards food freshness or pantry management.
He broke through the foil seal, sniffed the contents and spooned out the slightly crisped, congealed powder.
‘Who needs Starbucks,’ he said. And then he noticed the cup and saucer on the kitchen table and all thoughts of coffee were shelved. He never used that cup and saucer, he’d forgotten he even had them – they must have been right at the back of the cupboard. On closer inspection, it appeared to be a third full of black tea. He put his hand against the china. Lukewarm.
‘What the fuck?’
He looked in the sink. Just the items of overdue washing-up. He looked under the sink and there, in the bin, the rinsed-out carton of off milk. He looked again at the cup, felt it once more, observed the chairs, gazed about the kitchen. But there were no further clues.
‘So where are you, Goldilocks?’ he murmured under his breath, leaving the kitchen. ‘Hullo?’ Silence. ‘Who’s been sitting in
my
chair?’ But he knew the place well enough to know it was empty.
He’d never given a girlfriend a key – they’d never needed one because he’d never locked a door in his life. So who was it? Who’d returned? And why? Perhaps it wasn’t a girl but a bloke. Was there someone who bore him a grudge, who was lurking behind a door ready to cosh him? Some tough guy who steeled his nerves with tea in a china cup and saucer? Shit – whose woman did I steal? But he knew the answer to that – no one’s. It had never been Malachy’s style.