Page 65 of All the Things We Never Knew

‘Laurel.’ She didn’t look pleased to see me, but she didn’t look furious, either. ‘Sorry. We’ve been out.’

‘I…’ I wasn’t sure what would be worse: her believing I’d come to see her or her knowing I’d been to visit Orla. ‘That’s okay. I was just about to head home. I had a drink with Orla.’

Anna grimaced. ‘Always such a tonic. I might drop in on her myself. I take it you overheard that pleasant little chat with my daughter.’

I thought about denying it, but there was no point. ‘Some of it.’

‘Well.’ She looked at me coldly. ‘I’m glad I could give that bit of insight into our family life.’

I blushed. I knew what she must be thinking – that I would be feeling smug and vindicated at this evidence that Gray’s family wasn’t perfect. That I’d witnessed Anna scolding her daughter and might imagine her scolding Gray too.

Desperate to convince her that I didn’t see things that way at all, I said, ‘My niece is that age. They’d try the patience of a saint.’

Reluctantly, Anna cracked a tired smile. ‘Tell me about it. Sweetness and light one minute, spitting hellcats the next. I keep telling myself she’s growing out of it, and then something like this happens.’

‘I can imagine.’ She must have been shaken by the row, I thought, to be unbending like this to me, of all people. I kept my voice neutral. ‘It must be a difficult time for all of you.’

Abruptly, Anna seemed to remember who she was talking to, and her familiar prickliness returned. ‘Yes. We’ll be all right. We’ll get through it… as a family.’

It was a clear keep-off message. I swung my leg over my saddle and was about to pedal away when I heard myself saying, ‘I could drop her a message, if you like. Take her out for a coffee. She’s got my number, from before the hospital open day.’

Something stopped me adding that Lulu hadn’t turned up to it – from the gist of their conversation, I suspected that Anna might not know that, and I didn’t want to inflame things between them even more.

‘What? You want to have some sort of cosy chat with my daughter? Exchange reminiscences about her father? Is that it?’

‘Anna!’ I understood her wariness, but the idea that I might reveal the nature of my relationship with Gray to his daughter shocked me. ‘No! Of course not. Not that.’

‘All right,’ Anna agreed reluctantly. Then she stiffened further and added, ‘It’s not like I can stop you. Or her.’

‘Okay.’ I ignored her coldness. ‘I’ll do that. Take care, Anna. Have a good evening.’

I pushed down on the pedal and rode away towards home, leaving Damask Square and its inhabitants behind me – for the time being at least.

THIRTY-SEVEN

ORLA

20 September 2024

Memory is a perverse faculty! For the past week, I have been racking – or is it wracking? – my brains on Laurel’s behalf, trying to recall the incident with Gray that I mentioned to her, which might or might not have been the clue she is searching for. Now, as I lie here hastily filling these three pages as the sky outside my bedroom window lightens, it is there in my mind, as clear as if it had always been there.

It was Iseult who reminded me. She has taken to waking me in the mornings by standing on my chest, reaching out a paw and tapping my face, then – when that is ineffective – extending a claw to prick my skin. It is just what my Maud used to do. Lying here, resistant to being woken, I let my thoughts drift to my old cat, with all her quirks and foibles, and a picture – or rather a film, for it was fully there with movement and sound – came back to me.

It was after a meeting of the historic buildings Preservation Trust two years or so back. Somewhat guiltily, I’d roped Gray into joining the society, hoping he would be an ally against the faction that supports allowing a supermarket chain to take over Imran’s shabby newsagent shop. We had sat through the meeting together, and afterwards I invited Gray back here for a drink by way of thanks.

I sat him down in the chaise longue in the living room. On the table there was a pile of glossy magazines: Beatrice, my musical daughter – so unlike me in that regard – subscribes to The Strad, and while she was abroad she asked to have them delivered here. While we were chatting, Maud strolled into the room, slightly stiff and arthritic as she was by then, before taking a leap up on to the table.

Poor soul – she must have misjudged her distance or forgotten that the glossy pages were there, because she landed on top of the pile and it – and she – went skidding to the floor. She was fortunately unharmed and, as cats do, immediately set to washing herself, as if to convince us that that was exactly what she had intended to happen.

We laughed, and Gray got down on all fours to gather up the scattered magazines while I went to the kitchen to fetch some ice. While I was there, I could hear him remarking dismissively about their contents.

Rachmaninoff’s Second – God, who’d want to sit through that?

Philip Glass must be the most overrated composer of all time.

I remember Blodwyn Griffiths playing when she was sixteen and she’s still at it, poor woman.

When I returned with glasses, ice and a bottle of single malt whisky on a tray, I found Gray sitting by the fireplace, a page open in front of him, staring at it as if he had seen a ghost.