Authors: Mairi Wilson
The folder wasn’t unduly thick, but contained an assortment of documents and scraps culled from different sources, different times. Lexy flicked through. Torn pages from diaries, letters, handwritten notes and occasional newspaper or magazine clippings, all dated and with brief explanations in that precise writing she had first encountered in the photograph album. She glimpsed names she’d seen in that album too, as she’d suspected she would. With the exception of the first page, everything was dated, again in that same meticulous hand, so it was clear that Ursula had intended it to be read in a particular order. Resisting the temptation to jump ahead, pull out pieces here and there, Lexy tapped the papers together into a neat pile and started at the beginning. She would be patient and thorough in her research, working meticulously, just as she’d seen Danny at work so often in the past, marvelling at his ability to plod on steadily. She was the sort of person who flicked ahead to the last page of a novel, something Danny found incomprehensible. And infuriating when she’d share it with him if it were a book he hadn’t already read.
She steeled herself when she saw the first page was a handwritten note to Isobel, the penmanship neat, precise, with just the odd tremor evident in some of the longer strokes. Recent, then? The writing of an aging, failing woman, perhaps, but there was no date and no real way to tell when it had been composed. The smoothed sheen of the folder suggested it could have been under that cushion for years. Shuffling herself further back on the bed and rolling her shoulders back and down, she began.
For Isobel
I should have told you all this years ago, but couldn’t. Not wouldn’t, as you thought, but couldn’t because it wasn’t my story to tell. And he was still alive, then, Cameron, who, as you will see, had more than a hand in all of this. So much I didn’t tell you, even that awful night. I still don’t know what it was that made you question the truth we’d always lived by. What it was that made you so sure there were secrets. Made you doubt me.
What little you forced out of me was enough to drive you away. I can still hear the harsh slam of the door behind you, as final as a gunshot. What, I wonder now, would you have done if I’d told you all of it back then? Could it have been any worse than not having you and little Alexis in my life these last years? How you’ve punished me! But I couldn’t tell you then, even if I’d dared.
No more secrets, I promise. No more pretending it was right, what we did, no matter our reasons. It wasn’t just me, you see, although I was at the root of it, and the others only did what they did to help me, despite my stupidity. I haven’t tried to paint any of us in a better light than we deserve, but just to show you how it was. We do not appear at our best, me least of all. My diary will show you what a fool I was, so hopelessly gullible and naive; the letters will show you the true and trusting friends I was blessed to have and who helped me. They suffered too, immeasurably. Such a mess, all of it. My fault.
I left so much behind when I came back to Scotland. Thought I’d lost everything. Until you came to me. And then when you left, it felt as if it was happening all over again.
Oh Izzie, I’m so very sorry. How could I not be? I had the joy of you all those years, and yet you were right. There could have been, should have been, so much more for both of us, if I’d been stronger, braver. But I’ve always been a coward, worried about what people think. They say there’s no fool like an old fool, but believe me, there’s no hypocrite like an old hypocrite, either. And that’s worse: much, much worse.
I’m old now, but still frightened. I’ve been afraid all my life, of something or someone, of my own feelings, and now I’m afraid I’ll die without seeing you again. Without having the chance to explain. To be forgiven.
But at least I must try. Bear with me, my darling child. At my age it all gets jumbled. That’s why I’ve pulled these papers together. I will do my best to tell you all of this when you’re here and fill in any gaps, but I am afraid the excitement, the joy of seeing you again, of having you beside me, will overwhelm me. I’m afraid that when it comes to it you might yet change your mind and not come at all. Might still want to punish me. So this will be here for you one day, if you ever want it. If I’m gone by the time you do. If you don’t come, I’ll give it to my lawyers to keep safe.
So here it is, dearest Izzie, everything I didn’t tell you that night, in our own words as far as I can assemble them. Please don’t judge us too harshly, my darling. It was fear and love that made us do what we did. Made me do what I did. Which serves as no excuse, I know, but may go some way towards explanation. Forgive me if you can, Izzie. Please.
Ursula
Twisting her head from side to side to release the tightness that was gathering in her neck, Lexy leant back against the bedhead for a moment. Her mind buzzed with questions. She threw the papers down on the bed. None of it made things much clearer. No insight into what “that awful night” had revealed, what exactly Izzie had found out, why Ursula had abandoned one child and taken in another.
Lexy struggled to make connections to the photographs she’d seen in the albums. Cameron. He’d been married to Helen, hadn’t he? Or was that Gregory? They were brothers, she remembered that much. And the friends. Helen? Evelyn and Douglas? Fredi? All of them, or none?
She pushed herself up from the bed and stalked out onto the balcony in exasperation.
Calm down. Think.
She needed to tackle this more systematically. She would do a Danny and chart it. Plot out the relationships between the people in the photographs as far as she could. But first she’d see what else was in the folder.
Pausing to let her eyes readjust to the darker shade of the room after the bright sunshine of the balcony, she saw the still-unopened note she’d been given at reception on her first night lying on the floor under the desk. It must have fallen when she slammed her notebook down after speaking to the lawyer’s assistant. How could she have forgotten about it? Jet lag. No, that excuse had been lame to start with. She needed a new one. She stooped to pick the envelope up, sat on the edge of the bed and slipped a finger under the flap. She ripped it open, parted the envelope’s ragged edges and pulled out a small square of paper, black ink scrawled across its centre:
Go home.
Evie was restless. She’d been here long enough now, spent each night lying sleepless in this coffin of a bed, to know the rhythms of the hospital. She could tell when shifts changed, when night took over from day, when they reached the dying hours, those small hours of the morning when so often a patient would silently slip away. One night it would be her. But not yet. Not yet. She had too much still to do. She’d yet to dance on Cameron’s grave as she promised Helen one day she would. For Ursula. For all of them.
And there was so much still to tell. Or, rather, to sift and select before telling. Lexy was coming and Evie had better be prepared. The past was spooling through her mind like an old film, creaking and jumping in parts, blurred and discoloured in others. Which version should she share with this young woman Robert had asked her to see? Dear Isobel’s daughter. Lexy. How very modern. Ursula’s nose would have twitched a little at the abbreviation, but Alexis or Lexy, no matter. Poor child. She must be feeling very alone. No wonder, really, that she was searching for Ursula’s son.
And Ursula herself dead. Nearly sixty years they’d been friends, Helen too. All three of them tied together by their secrets, placing their trust in each other unreservedly. Sharing those secrets with no one for all those years and then only with Robert as they became older and frailer, less able to manage the responsibilities alone. He was a good boy, young Robbie. More like a son than a grandson, so like his father, yet he’d chosen to stay in Malawi when Edward and Susan had left. Evie sighed softly, trying not to waken the wheeze in her chest. She missed him, her Teddie, but the last time, the only time, they’d visited he’d sounded more Australian than his wife. He’d settled. He wouldn’t be coming back. But he’d left her Robert. Malawi had that boy’s heart, just as it had hers.
She arched her back, pressed palms against the mattress as she tried to shuffle herself back up straight against the pillows. The effort exhausted her, so she slumped back down again, head dropping forward onto her chest. She shut her eyes. This getting old was a tiresome business. Now, think. She and Robert must tread carefully. There was so much at stake. They could tell Lexy enough, just enough to satisfy her, to send her safely home. Tell her the son was dead, perhaps.
No. Not worth the risk. It raised more questions than Evie wanted to answer. Better to say nothing. Nothing at all. Feign surprise at the suggestion of Ursula having had a son. Or just trust her instincts and decide what to say and what to conceal when she saw the cut of her young visitor’s jib.
She strained to lift her head up again and rest it back on the sagging pillows, took deeper breaths as she recovered from the effort, heard the rattle in her chest like a snake’s warning. Robert had said it must be Evie’s decision and so it would be. She hated to lie, but in the circumstances …
She’d set Evie to remembering, though, even more than usual, this young Lexy. As she lay imprisoned by her body in this gloomy room, she found herself thinking about the old days more and more. The reward of old age, a kindness of sorts, to return to one’s youth in memories more vivid than the events of today. Perhaps she’d feel more grateful if the memories weren’t so painful.
What did Lexy already know, Evie wondered; what had her mother told her, or Ursula, even? Evie had held her breath for two long years when Izzie had come to work in this very hospital. Blantyre was too small for their paths never to cross and she was certain one day her god-daughter would see him and pick up a hint, a resemblance in a gesture or an expression, and come and ask, demand, to know the whole sorry story. Or worse still that she’d come not to Evie but go directly to them. To Cameron. He’d been like a cat watching a mouse and Evie was terrified that one day that paw would swipe, the claws would scratch and he’d leave Izzie on Evie’s doorstep as a gift. A reminder. A punishment.
But their dear girl never did. Why should she, really? She knew nothing, then, and it was only Evie’s own guilt, and Ursula’s persistent, anxious letters during those interminable years, that fuelled her fears. Their darling, inquisitive, precious Izzie. Then she’d married Philip and returned home, neither of them knowing he’d already contracted the malaria that would kill him. So very sad.
Evie had loved the time she’d spent with Izzie, and then with Philip too, but had been so relieved they’d gone, Ursula almost giddy with excitement that they were back. Now Evie had to find a way of making sure Izzie’s daughter left Malawi too, before she came to any harm.
Lying open-eyed in the darkness, scenes from her earlier life played before her eyes over and over again. Was there anything that could have warned her, the slightest clue that could have let her steer them all safely onto another course? But there was nothing, there had been nothing that could be done differently. The die had been cast by another’s hand and all they had done was play his game.
“How unlike the others to be late,” Evie mused to Ursula as the maître d’ seated them at their table.
“Oh.” Ursula’s face creased in puzzlement. “Only five places have been set. We should call the may … mader … that man back.”
“Strange,” Evie agreed. “I’ll speak to him when he brings the others over. Let’s not make a fuss.”
“But they really shouldn’t—”
“There’s Helen, now. And Gregory at her side, of course.” Evie dipped her head in the direction of the door. She watched the couple start to make their way across the floor, stopping to talk to other diners as they went.
“Always someone wanting to talk to our Helen,” Ursula muttered, tugging at the lace sleeves of her borrowed gown, then pulling its scooped neckline a little straighter, higher.
“Well, she is delightful, our sophisticated friend, and just look at them together. So charming. And so very kind of her to lend … I mean, I’d no idea we’d be dressing for dinner, but then we neither of us have much experience of society, do we?”
Evie felt Ursula tense beside her and feared she had offended her, but when she looked round she saw Cameron had arrived, pausing in the open doorway to survey the room, although Evie felt sure the pause was more to let the room survey him. He was undeniably handsome, arrestingly so, but his conceit and arrogance made him unattractive in the extreme. She thought again of her dear Douglas, short, round and florid of face, already balding at the age of twenty-eight and no doubt even less hirsute now than when she’d last seen him nearly two years ago. No. Not a patch on Cameron to look at, but worth twenty of him.
Ursula was rearranging the cutlery at her place setting, her hands twitching so that the knives tinkled against one another.
“Do be still, Ursula. Don’t give him the satisfaction of seeing how upset you are.”
“What? Nonsense. I’m perfectly fine and I don’t— Oh!”
Again Evie looked over to the door. Cameron was bowing over the outstretched hand of Gertie von Falken, his lips briefly touching its back. Allowing herself to be uncharacteristically uncharitable, Evie hoped he’d cut his lip or snag his thin moustache on one of those ostentatious rings the young widow sported. However, he straightened up to full height unharmed and offered the simpering woman his arm to lead her across the floor. As they approached the table, Evie put her own hand out and grabbed Ursula’s restless one to stop her picking at the linen tablecloth, squeezing her friend’s cold hand as she laid it firmly in Ursula’s lap.
“Chin up, old thing,” she instructed out of the side of her mouth, tilting her own chin and squaring her shoulders. She was unsure quite what was happening, but whatever it was, she’d confront it full on.