The Day She Came Back(67)

‘But you grew up here.’

‘Yes.’

‘I know you had one of the turret bedrooms.’

‘Yes, the one on the back-left corner. I loved it. I had the best view of the lake. I used to spend a lot of time sitting on the landing. When the sun hit the window in the right way, the stained glass would make shapes on the carpet. They fascinated me. I used to sit there in a warm spot like a sun-puddling cat and read.’

‘I do that too.’ It felt nice to have the connection, no matter how weird it was to hear Sarah talking about the house so familiar to them both, and yet they had never lived together. She also loved listening to her voice, a bit similar to Prim’s, a bit like her own – strange how a thing like a voice could be inherited, passed down. It wasn’t something she had ever considered.

‘When I was little, there was a ghastly wallpapered celling in the hallway. And Granny Cutter’s plates were all over the walls.’

‘It’s still like that!’ They both laughed a little. It made the breath catch in her throat. To hear Sarah refer to her own great-grandma was a strange and wonderful thing. For the first time, she considered running into her mother’s arms and holding her tight. Thought about saying goodnight on the landing each night, but to Sarah, not to Prim:

Night night, Mum.

Night night, darling.

All the things she had missed . . .

‘Mum never did like change. Don’t tell me the garden room still has the old potting tables in, and the steamer chairs?’

‘It actually does!’ Victoria beamed.

It was the oddest sensation; despite their estrangement, tiny threads joined them: memories of the same experiences. Prim was unwittingly their glue, and this in itself was tough, as she was also the woman who had kept them apart.

‘You know, Mum and Dad didn’t think they could have children and I arrived a little late in their life, a surprise, I think – or actually a shock would be more accurate. Mum was in her forties when she had me, which was quite uncommon back then. I have often wondered if that was why she was so strict, as if she was overly keen not to mess up the thing she had to wait for. I spent my whole life feeling like my wings were clipped and I couldn’t wait to leave and fly.’

Victoria settled back on to her pillows, quite unable to recognise the woman Sarah described.

‘Strict? She was never strict with me. She was . . .’ She wondered what the best word might be. ‘Really cool.’

Sarah snorted her disbelief. ‘Really?’

‘Yes.’

‘I guess she learned to do things differently with you. Or maybe you were easier to handle.’ Sarah let this hang. ‘I found her quite hard to live with. We clashed. She wanted to mould me into a specific type of person and I was adamant about not being moulded. She loved me, but could be overbearing and judgemental, and in response I rebelled in just about every way possible. I felt like someone had tied my hands behind my back and all I wanted to do was climb and run. It wasn’t great. But my dad’ – Sarah made a clicking noise with her mouth – ‘oh, he was wonderful. Kind, sporty, funny, and he would always shout, “Yes, dear!” to Mum’s many requests and then wink at me as if to say he had no intention of doing what she asked. He was a great joker, smart too, and was always finding new ways to make me laugh.’

Victoria tried to picture her grandpa in this way and failed. As much as she had loved him, he was to her the old man who would slowly tend his roses, come rain or shine, stepping out at dusk if a hard frost was forecast to wrap the delicate, blousy heads in plastic bags tied with nimble fingers. The stooped man who wheezed when he got to the top of the stairs and would mop tears from his eyes if he looked at her in a certain light, as if she reminded him of someone else, someone he loved and missed very much. She now considered how the loss of his daughter, or rather the loss of contact with his daughter, had changed him, and she more than understood, thinking for the first time what it might have been like for him to have to live with that deceit.

‘I feel closer to them by being able to talk to you; it’s lovely for me.’ Sarah sniffed.

Victoria realised in that moment that she was not an orphan, not alone and not the last surviving member of the Cutter-Rotherstone family. It was almost overwhelming.

‘Dad just wanted me to get my degree, that was all he focused on. Marcus, too, was very keen on me finishing my education.’

‘He was an addict too, wasn’t he?’ she asked softly, aware this time that they were talking about her deceased father. Marcus Jackson was no longer just a name.

‘Yes, but oh! He was so much more than that! He was a poet, a musician, a linguist and the kindest, kindest soul on the earth. And very handsome. So very handsome. You have his hair.’

Victoria ran her hand over her springy curls.

‘Mum and Dad always blamed him for giving me drugs; they wouldn’t believe that I was already using when I met him, but that’s the truth, I was. We met in a dealer’s flat. It was a horrible, dark world and one we were trapped in. But out of the dark, dark place we found something incredibly beautiful; we found a wonderful love that has shaped my whole life, shaped the way I look at the world. He taught me a lot, and of course we had you!’

Victoria felt tears slip down her cheeks. It was a new and wonderful thought in recent times to feel so wanted and not like a thing abandoned. It was hard to explain how in that moment she missed her daddy, a man whose face she could not picture but who had the same hair as her. These thoughts of Marcus again skewered her with a simmering coldness towards Prim – how, how could she not see that to be with her mum and dad was the very best thing for her?