The House of Vandekar (43 page)

David said gently, ‘Don't cry. She doesn't sound the sort who'd want you to, after all this time.'

‘She'd had a bad heart for years,' Nancy said slowly. ‘Nobody knew about it. I remember she stopped all the parties and rushing around and I realized afterwards it was because of that. She said it to me one day. “I want to see you out in the world. Up at university, making your life. After that, I don't think I'll worry too much.”

‘I think she was afraid for me, David. She knew what might happen if she wasn't there. And she was right, it did. I think she kept herself alive as long as possible for my sake. My Aunt Fern came down that night. I'll never forget that either. My grandmother was taken upstairs to her bedroom. Fern went up on her own. She didn't stay more than a few minutes and then she walked down the stairs and into the hall. There was a look on her face I can't describe. I thought at the time, she's not crying. She's glad. She said to me, “Where's my father?”

‘He'd been desperately upset. I couldn't imagine him showing his feelings about anything, but when he saw Alice die he broke down and wept. She told me he'd loved her, and I believed it then.

‘“Where is he?” my aunt said. I said, “He's shut himself up in the library. He's in an awful state. He won't let anyone come near him.”

‘“He won't grieve for long,” was what she said. “He won't waste any tears on her. Not after what I'm going to tell him!” And she marched up to the door and walked inside. I heard her say, “Daddy darling, don't …” and then she closed the door. I went to my room, David. I didn't know what to do. I couldn't imagine that I'd never see my grandmother again.

‘I went to find poor Lily – I knew what losing Alice meant to her.'

‘What happened to her?' he asked.

‘She was kicked out the very day of the funeral. She was old and rather feeble, but that didn't stop Fern. She was out, bag and baggage.'

‘What about your grandfather? What did he do about it? Didn't he try and stop your aunt?'

‘Stop her?' Nancy echoed in bitter irony. ‘They stood side by side with his arm round her while the poor old thing was driven away to the station.

‘Before I left I went in to see him. I'll never forget it. If he'd said one kind word or shown me any human feeling, I might have stayed and tried to fight Fern, but he didn't. “I'm leaving,” I said. “After what my aunt has said, I feel I can't stay here another night.” In my heart I hoped he'd try to stop me, David. I was very young and I was so lost. He was sitting in the library in that big leather chair by the french windows. He was reading a book, and he put it down, took off his glasses and looked at me. “I think that's a very wise decision.” That's what he said. “I think Fern and I deserve to have our home to ourselves, now that Alice is gone.” That's all. I wouldn't break down and cry. I remember thinking, damn you, damn you, I won't let you see how hurt I am …

‘Lily knew what my aunt had done. The night Alice died and Fern went in to my grandfather, he came out a different man. He looked like a stone. He went through the funeral without a flicker of feeling. All he did was stand by the graveside holding on to my aunt's arm. He never spoke a word to Lily or to me. We just stood by ourselves. Lily was crying. I couldn't. I felt as if my whole life had come to a stop. I walked back to the house with her. She said to me, “She's done it at last. She's waited all these years to put between them and blacken her own mother. Much good it'll do her!”

‘It didn't do my grandfather any good either. He didn't live very long after Alice died. I saw the news item about his death in New York and the sale of Ashton. That's when I changed my name, David, and made up my mind to start a new life. I wanted to bury it all. I didn't know who I was any more. I had no real identity. Fern had seen to that.

‘I know who you are,' he said. He put his arm round her. ‘I love you, do you know that?'

‘Yes,' she nodded, ‘I do know.'

‘All right then. Now I'm going to tell you what we do. Tomorrow we get to work. We go round to your flat and we go through the cuttings you told me about and we open the old lady's envelope. That's a start. By the way, when did Lily die?'

‘She's not dead,' Nancy answered. ‘I traced her when I moved back. I just wanted to make sure she was all right. She's in a nursing home. They told me she was bedridden and senile. She doesn't even know her own name any more. I've got lots of family albums and all the press cuttings in a box at home. Fern sent them on with the rest of my things from Ashton.'

‘That was gracious of her,' David said. ‘We'll make a start tomorrow. I've got a theory of my own about what really happened, but I'm not saying anything yet. I want you to have a good night's sleep first.'

Nancy turned and put her arms round his neck. ‘I'm not tired,' she said. ‘I want you, David. I want you so badly.'

His arms locked round her. He didn't speak for a moment. He didn't quite trust his voice. At last he said, ‘I thought you'd never say that to me again.'

‘Where's that envelope?' David asked her.

‘It's in that box,' Nancy said. She touched him and said, ‘Darling, would you mind if we left that to last? I don't want to open it just yet.'

He didn't argue, he just nodded and said, ‘We'll wait then. You might like to read whatever it is on your own.'

She hesitated. ‘No,' she said, ‘I wouldn't. You're part of my life, David. We'll open it together. Let's look through these first.'

There were heavy leather-bound photograph albums laid out on the floor. She opened them, and for David the people she had talked about came to life. Pictures of Alice as a young woman. Even in the unflattering prewar fashions she was amazingly beautiful. Hugo Vandekar. Yes, he was seeing him properly now. A cold eye, a hard mouth, good-looking, impeccably dressed. Different in the elaborate wedding photographs. He looked young and smiling, full of a triumphant happiness. It was the only time, except in snaps taken with a plump little girl in his arms. Fern and Hugo, 1938.

And there was Lily Parker. He was fascinated to see her. Sturdy, quite a big girl, with a strong, plain face. Dark dresses, everything so neat and functional, beside the glittering, ethereally slim Alice Vandekar. He thought suddenly, I wouldn't like to have got on the wrong side of Lily.

And Nancy's American great-grandmother, Phoebe. Pretty, smiling, quite different from her dazzling daughter. There were lunch parties and shooting parties, and parties labelled Ascot, Henley, the Derby … Groups taken on holiday in the South of France, the men in old-fashioned one-piece bathing suits, the girls long-legged and covered up, wearing ugly bathing caps which looked like helmets. Golfing pictures, tennis pictures, pictures of picnics with everyone grinning self-consciously at the camera with glasses in their hand. Photographs of Hugo on a series of hunters. He looked an arrogant sod, David thought, imagining the child Nancy being ignored, the bereaved Nancy being coolly turned out after Alice's death. Fern again, with a stolid nanny clutching her on her knee. He tried to see something in the round, flat little face that might indicate the woman she grew into, but it was anonymous, a child like every other child. She wasn't even pretty.

Then the war. Alice, and Hugo in uniform. Ashton, with nurses and VADs in their distinctive outfits, posing with groups of convalescents on the terrace in front of the portico. Men in khaki, men in RAF blue, Alice posing with them. 1940. 1941. 1942. There was the newly born Richard Phillip Vandekar in his mother's arms. Swathed in a shawl, with the legend ‘Christening at Ashton Church, January 1943,' written in ink underneath.

They turned the pages and the children grew. Fern, in school uniform, holding tightly to her father's hand. Not so plain now, promising to be a pretty girl, but with a shut-out expression as if the face were painted onto the print. The boy Richard, a toddler, one hand clutched by an invisible keeper, to help him stay on his feet.

David said to Nancy, ‘He's blond, isn't he?'

‘He was always blond,' she said. ‘He had Grandmother's hair and eyes. They were the same bright blue.' She closed the second album. ‘I haven't looked at these for years,' she said.

He said to her suddenly, ‘There's a missing piece in this story, darling. What happened to your father?'

Nancy answered after a moment. ‘He died while I was in New York. The abbot wrote to the solicitors and they sent me the letter. “He died in the Peace of Our Lord of Jesus Christ.” That was all.'

She lifted a slimmer album, bound in morocco leather, with an elaborate coat-of-arms embossed on the front cover. ‘This was my mother's,' she said. ‘It's a scrapbook too. I put the old press cuttings I found afterwards in here.'

‘So you did,' he answered. ‘And I said we'd look at them together and then put them on the fire.' He put his arm round her. They opened the album and Nancy's mother, Diana Brayley, smiled at them from the very first page.

David looked at the photograph and then turned the leaves one by one. Diana as a girl, arm in arm with Richard at their engagement party. Diana in her long white wedding dress, and the heavy tiara framing her wistful face. Very pretty, childlike, but with something secretive and knowing in the eyes. Diana with Nancy in her arms, Richard posed behind her. David recognized one of the tapestries from Ashton in the background. He looked at Nancy. She was pale and strained, gazing at the pictures over his shoulder.

‘You know something? You're not at all like her. If it wasn't for the colouring I'd never think you were related. Isn't that you riding the pony Alice gave you?'

‘Yes,' Nancy said. ‘It is. I remember the show – we came second. I was so disappointed. David, I don't want to look at these. I don't want to read the press cuttings and the coroner's report. Please.' She leaned over and closed the album.

He said, ‘Tell me what you're afraid of, darling.'

‘I'm not afraid of anything. It's just so upsetting. I didn't think I'd mind, after all these years, but I do. Forget it. Let's forget all about it.'

‘No, Nancy,' he said, ‘we can't stop now. You can't stop. You're shit scared of something. That's why you want to pull out now. Why don't you open that envelope and see what's in it?'

It was difficult to tear the flap – it had been sealed in three places. David slit it open with a kitchen knife. There was a cheap little notebook inside and a small white envelope marked ‘Nancy'. A sheaf of faded press cuttings fluttered to the ground.

David picked them up and gave them to her. She set them aside. ‘I want to see what she wrote to me,' she said.

A single sheet of writing paper, embossed with the word ‘Ashton' at the top. No date.

‘My darling Nancy,' The handwriting was bold and strong. ‘I've lived longer than I hoped, but not as long as I'd have liked. This little book was written for me by someone I loved very much. The press reports will tell you all about him. I think you'll be proud to know he was your grandfather. I hope you'll understand and not judge me. You must never try to judge him. I know that my daughter Fern will say things to hurt you. They will be lies. This and the little notebook are the truth. My own mother said to me once, “Love is the most important thing in any woman's life. One day you'll find it.” I didn't believe it would ever happen to me, but it did. When it comes to you, be brave. Don't hesitate. You won't regret it. I never did. Think of me sometimes. My love always, Grandmother.'

Nancy handed him the letter. She picked up the press cuttings and started reading from
The Times
out loud. ‘It was announced in London yesterday that the George Cross has been awarded posthumously to Flight Lieutenant Nicholas Armstrong, RAF, for his part in directing the successful bombing mission on the Gestapo prison at Lyons in May this year. The mission resulted in the escape of Resistance leaders from German custody.

‘Flight Lieutenant Armstrong had been captured and tortured by the Gestapo on a secret mission the previous year and, after escaping back to England, volunteered as soon as he was medically discharged from hospital to go in the leading aircraft and pinpoint the exact target areas. He had been held in Lyons himself as a prisoner. The citation emphasizes that, without him, the mission could not have been accomplished.

‘The aircraft, with its crew and Flight Lieutenant Armstrong, was shot down on its way home and there were no survivors …'

‘David? David, look at these.'

He read the other reports. They said the same thing, carried the same photograph of a dark, thin-faced man in a peaked RAF cap.

He looked at Nancy. ‘This must make you feel pretty good. He must have been a hell of a brave man. Why don't you keep the notebook and read it later yourself? I don't think anyone else was meant to see what he wrote to her.'

‘You know, David, I don't think she'd mind if it was you. But I'll look at it first. Thank you, darling. What a relief to know at last.'

‘You know
something
,' he answered. ‘But you still don't know who followed your mother that night and put pills in her drink. But I think you do know, Nancy, and that's what's scaring you. Maybe you did see who it was and you've spent your life forgetting it. Except when you were asleep, and you kept dreaming it, and waking yourself up before the truth came out. Listen to me. Isn't that it? Isn't that what you ran away from, all the way to America when your grandmother died? You could have gone to Oxford. You had money of your own. But you put three thousand miles between yourself and what had happened. Because Alice was dead and you'd have to face the truth.'

The verses were passionate and tender. Nancy felt embarrassed, as if she were spying on lovers.