A Half Forgotten Song (57 page)

When I started to write this letter, it was to tell you to come to me, here, when the war is over. If you wanted to. But the thought of seeing you fills me with fear. A terrible, terrible fear. When I think of seeing you, I think only of not seeing Élodie. Of that gap by your side, of that gap in all our lives. And it is not fair and it is cruel and unjust, and it was not meant to be so. But still, I fear it, and I cannot bear it. So instead I say: do not come. Please do not. And do not tell your father where I am. Though I will always love him, I am trying every day to cut that love from my heart. It does no good, to love a man like Charles. And I see Élodie in him, of course. I see her there, too. I see her everywhere, even in my father’s eyes, which were passed on to her. How can it be that she is dead? Nothing makes sense to me now.

You more than anybody did not deserve this fate, Delphine. Try to be happy. Try to start a new life. Try to forget about me. Try to forget what you did. My life is over, I am nothing but shadows. But there is time for you, perhaps. You are young enough to start again, and to forget. Try to forget, my Delphine. Tell yourself that your mother is dead, for the best of me surely is. Your heart is good. Your heart was always good, ma chérie. Be happy if you can. I will not write again. C.

Zach read the letter three times, and tried to imagine how much it must have hurt Delphine. For a second he caught a glimpse, and sadness came like dark clouds. His throat was painfully dry, and he swallowed as he folded the paper and slid it back into its envelope. He sat for fifteen minutes or more with his head in his hands and his heart breaking for a girl he had never met.
Try to forget what you did.
The line repeated itself in his head, and he thought about what Wilf Coulson had told him earlier that day. Suddenly, he was flooded with dread, as though the truth would spill out, unbidden. He thought of Dimity, of her face full of fear and tears in her eyes. He thought of the way she’d looked at the ceiling when they’d heard sounds above. Full of desperate hope, he saw it now. He swallowed again, and vowed that he would never share his suspicions about Élodie’s death with anybody. Perhaps not even with Hannah, and certainly not in his book. The thought caught him off guard. Was there still a book? He could not publish it in Dimity’s lifetime, that much he knew. Zach stood up and ran his hands through his hair. He thought about what he would do next, about what mattered, and it was suddenly brilliantly simple, perfectly obvious. The future wasn’t a brick wall, it was a blank page.

Zach jogged down the track to the beach, and saw her straightaway. The pale glow of her skin against the dark blue water, her red bikini on, curly hair shifting in the wind. Standing at the end of the jetty with the waves coming up to her knees and her arms loose at her sides, as if the sea was the only thing keeping her there, the only thing to curb her. Zach kicked off his shoes, rolled his jeans above his knees, and set out towards her, splashing impatiently. She heard him coming; turned and folded her arms across her ribs. Still defensive, still unsure of him. In that instant, Zach knew that he loved her. It was as clear as the sky that day.

“Poor Delphine,” he said, after they’d exchanged a long look. Hannah nodded. “Of all the futures, of all the lives I imagined for her, standing in front of her portrait, I never imagined she’d had to deal with such pain.”

“Yes.”

“And you still think it was better that she never knew her father was alive?”

“I don’t know. Who can know? But perhaps it . . . did help her to forget. To move on in life. Perhaps a dead father, a memory to treasure, was better than a lifetime with a broken father.”

“But she didn’t forget. How could she have? And she kept that letter her whole life.”

“Yes. I saw her reading it, from time to time. When I was little, and we’d been out all day on the farm, and she’d been in the house by herself. I would come in and find her reading it, all alone. She would try not to let me see that she’d been crying.” Hannah wiped at her eyes again, and shook her head. “Do you see, now? Do you see that it’s not just about pictures by a famous artist? These are people’s lives. These are the things they have lived through.”

“Yes, I do see. But I want to say . . . if, some time in the future, perhaps when Dimity’s . . . gone. If you ever do decide to exhibit the pictures, I want to be the one to help you. We could even exhibit them here—turn one of the barns into a gallery. And I do want to write this story. I think I will write it, now, because it feels too big to keep in. But I won’t do anything with it until I have your permission. I promise.”

“Won’t revealing all those new works devalue them, anyway? I thought scarcity was part of what put an artist’s prices up?”

“Theoretically, yes. But in a case like this? No way.” Zach shook his head. “The provenance, the story . . . it’s like nothing people have seen or heard before. If you wanted to, you could make a lot of money. If you wanted to.”

“I want to make money as a sheep farmer, not by selling my inheritance.”

“I thought you might say that,” said Zach with a smile.

“What will you do now?” Hannah asked.

“Close the gallery. Formally close it, I mean. It’s been closed all these weeks; I just . . . didn’t want to admit it. I’ll sell all the stock, and my pictures of Celeste and Dimity. That should pay back the book advance and give me something to live on for a while. But I won’t sell Delphine. I’ll always keep my drawing of your grandmother.”

“I’d like to see it,” said Hannah.

“Of course you’ll see it. I’ll bring it here.”

“Here?” She frowned.

“Closing the gallery rather makes me homeless, you see. The lease is for the whole building, and if I’m not open for business, then I can’t afford to keep it. I was thinking I might . . . stay in Blacknowle. For a while.”

“Zach . . .” Hannah shook her head, and looked troubled.

“Don’t panic. I’m not suggesting I move in with you. But . . . I want to keep seeing you. I want to help you, if I can. Maybe you could give me a job on the farm.” He grinned.

“And spoil those lovely soft hands of yours? Never.”

“Hannah. When I came here I thought I was looking for Charles Aubrey. I thought I was looking for . . . for the reason my life had gone the way it had. The reason my marriage had ended, and my business was failing. I thought I was looking for a paycheck, and for answers. But now I know I was wrong about all of that. I think that when I came here, I was looking for you.”

“What are you trying to say? That you’re in love with me?”

“Yes! I think I am. Or I could be, if you gave me half a chance. And I know that . . . after the way you lost Toby it might seem a lot safer to be by yourself, and to have nothing to lose. But I know you’re braver than that.”

“Zach—” She splayed the fingers of one hand, let them drift up in front of her eyes.

“No, let me finish. I don’t know what will happen next. I’ll get a job of some kind, and I’ll do sketches on the weekends to send to my daughter. But I want . . . I want to do that here. With you. That’s what I’m trying to say. The only thing I want right now is to be where you are, Hannah.”

Hannah kept watching him, steadily. The breeze lifted a few locks of her hair and brushed them into her eyes, and the sunshine made her squint. She was as hard to read as ever, and Zach wanted to take her face in his hands, keep it still until he could decipher what was written there. After a long silence he realized that she wasn’t going to answer him. That she probably couldn’t answer him; not with words. So he battled on, stepped forwards, and bent to kiss her. There was salt on her lips, and on her skin, and her mouth was warm. She stood still, as taut as a bowstring, but she didn’t step away. And then he let go of her, and he waited. The light and shade of the sky was fleet across her face. He longed to draw her.

“I . . .” She broke off, cleared her throat. “I was about to swim, if you fancy it.” Zach looked down at himself and smiled.

“But . . . my clothes . . .”

“Diddums,” she said, and smiled. “They will dry again, you know, city boy.”

“City boy, still? Am I always going to have that hanging over my head?”

“Probably,” she told him airily.

“All right then. Clothes and all.” Hannah took his hand, and there was conviction in her fingers as they laced through his and held on tightly. A grip that would survive the pull of the water, of the tide. They moved forwards, felt for the edge of the jetty with their feet and then dived in, headfirst, together.

D
imity watched them from the cliff top. They were so caught up in each other, so riveted, that they didn’t look up to notice her. She was tired, but she had wanted to come out onto the cliffs, wanted to look down at the sea. At the place where Charles was, somewhere. His bones were in the white crests of the waves; there were traces of his skin in the sand. He had been taken in, made a part of it. She watched Zach and Hannah dive in together, and she was jealous. She wanted to swim in him, too. She wanted to feel his spectral touch; a hand on her midriff, holding her afloat. Instead the wind circled her gently, uncaringly, and made her eyes sting. Below her, the beach blurred, and she blinked furiously to see again. There were figures on the beach, and she knew, before she could see them properly, who was there. She knew, and the next breath she took felt like glass splinters in her chest.

Delphine and Élodie were playing on the sand. Delphine was standing, neat and decorous, with her yellow cardigan buttoned up and her hair in plaits, conducting her sister in a wild dance. Élodie leaped and spun, her footprints making a circle in the sand around Delphine; long strips of kelp in her hands that she twirled like streamers. The wind lifted up from the shore, and carried the sound of their voices to her. Élodie laughing, high and gleeful; Delphine instructing her, patiently, kindly. Letting her play, letting her be a child.
Always a child.
The voice was close to her ear and she turned to find Celeste standing beside her, looking down at her daughters with a smile of pride and love. Celeste, with her glorious eyes and her beauty shining like light all around her; no trace of a tremor in her body, no trace of grief in her face. The kelp in Élodie’s hands fluttered and snapped like pennants. Dimity struggled to breathe. There was a pain in her side, in her heart; more than she could bear. She gasped like a landed fish, clasping her right hand to the left side of her ribs, to the wound she felt there, gaping, letting in the cold wind. She wanted to stay with them, with Élodie and Delphine. She wanted to see their faces bright with smiles; the faces of children who were loved, and whole, and carelessly happy. She wanted to see Élodie’s black hair flying out all around her. But they faded. The water swept in and washed away their footsteps.
Delphine!
She called out, but no sound came from her mouth. Celeste studied her gravely, staying on the cliffs as Dimity turned and walked back to The Watch on slow, unsteady feet.

The Watch was crowded—far too crowded, because they followed her there. Élodie was lying on the sofa, kicking up her heels, and Delphine sat next to her. They were different now. They weren’t happy anymore, these shades. They were waiting. Celeste was walking in wide circles around the house, trying to find a way in, and Valentina scrutinized her every move with narrowed eyes. There were accusations in their eyes; echoes of things so secret that Dimity could barely remember them now. Things so secret she had made herself forget. But the Aubrey girls hadn’t forgotten, and neither had Celeste, or Valentina. Dimity searched the house desperately, the pain in her chest getting worse, but Charles was not there. The one she wanted to see, the one she longed for. Of him there was no sign. She stumbled to the foot of the stairs and started to climb.

His room was lit by the afternoon sun, and the door had been left open. So carelessly, so thoughtlessly. It had never once stood open like that, not since he’d come back to her. He liked it to be closed; liked that security, that privacy. Sometimes, he looked up sharply when she came in, checking to be sure it was her. That instant of fear in his eyes before he recognized her—it had made her heart ache for him, every time. Other times he hadn’t seemed to notice she was there. Now, she went over to his bed, the bed that had been hers in childhood, and gazed down at it as though he might still be lying there. Her fingers trembled. She could almost feel the soft texture of his hair, the hard bars of his ribs.
Old maid,
Valentina whispered spitefully in her ear. And it was true. Charles couldn’t stand her being too close to him. It seemed as though her touch almost hurt him. The times she’d tried to lie down next to him he’d got a confused, panicked look in his eyes and she’d quickly relented. Sometimes she stole kisses when he slept; just the lightest touch of her lips to his, too soft to wake him. She was ashamed of herself, but could not help herself, either, because in those moments she was a girl again, and they were in the alleyway in Fez where he had put his arms around her and kissed her deeply and the world had been bright and complete and startlingly wonderful.

This was Charles’s room, the one place she might still find him. She put her hand on his pillow, just where his head had lain, and felt her heart slow in response, in recognition. She hadn’t stood by his bed since the night they took him out, and now it felt like that night again. The six years since had been a frightening, fitful dream; now it was time to wake up. To follow him, like she should have done all along. She lay down on the bed, careful not to disturb the sheets. She wanted everything to be as he had left it, as he had last touched it. Wanted her body to touch each place his had touched. She put her head into the hollow in the pillow and crossed her arms over her middle, just as he had done. Lying in the last space he had lain, and yearning to feel him there.
Come back to me, my love. Come back and take me with you this time.
She breathed as slowly, as quietly as she could, and she waited. Waited to feel him take her hand and show her which way. And soon, softly, he came. She caught her breath in a gasp as she felt it. Just him, just them, alone in the little room where for more than sixty years he had dwelt, and she had loved him, and lived only for him. The others slipped away through the walls—she felt them go. Élodie, Delphine, Celeste, Valentina. Finally, they all let her be. They left her alone with Charles, which was all she had ever wanted. Her heartbeat was slow and tired; she felt so cold and heavy that she didn’t think she would ever get up from that bed again. She didn’t ever want to. And then he was there. She heard him clearly; and the joy of it was a vivid pain right through her, so sweet, so sharp.
Mitzy, don’t move.
And she didn’t. Not even to breathe.