Losing Nicola (37 page)

‘I'd rather not, if you don't mind,' trills Gordon Parker.

I raise my glass to my parents. ‘Thank you both for everything. Particularly you, Fiona. Gifted, unorthodox, indomitable – you've always been an example to us all. As well as being completely . . . how shall I put this? . . . different from other mothers . . .'

‘God, how I envied you, having a mum like that,' says Julian.

‘Like what?' Fiona bridles a bit.

‘Never . . . um . . .
fussing
about things,' Julian says.

‘Is that a compliment?' says Fiona. She takes my father's hand.

‘Most definitely,' he says.

‘And I want to say thank you to my friends, both old and new.' Again I look round the table, tipping my glass at them one by one. ‘Coming back to Shale has been . . . everything I wanted it to be – and much more. And finally, since it's my birthday, I ask you to make a special toast to the man who all my life has been my dearest friend, who is everything to me and always has been – Orlando Grahame.'

As I sit down, Orlando rises to his feet. ‘First, we should wish our charming hostess a happy birthday,' he says, at which everyone breaks into uncoordinated song. I've forgotten that Julian is tone-deaf, and Yelland can't sing a note.

‘Don't call us,' Orlando says wrily. ‘Secondly, may I echo Alice's sentiments about the assembled company. And thirdly, and most importantly, I'd like to say that this afternoon, I finally asked Alice to marry me . . . and she said Yes.'

There are whoops and cheers.

‘About bloody time,' shouts Dougal.

‘What took you so long, slowcoach?' calls Erin.

‘Don't blame me . . . I've been waiting forever for her to stop mooning over some unattainable . . . uh . . . dream,' Orlando avoids looking at Sasha Elias, who sits next to Erin, ‘and accept her fate, her destiny.' He reaches into his pocket and brings out a small leather box. ‘No prizes for guessing what this is.' He comes round the table and kisses me. ‘Darling Alice, I'm so happy today that it was almost worth the wait.'

Fiona, never normally one for sentiment, nonetheless wipes away an unaccustomed tear. ‘Oh, if only Morag were here today,' she exclaims. ‘She'd be absolutely delirious.'

On my left, Sasha is looking bewildered. ‘But, I don't understand . . . isn't Orlando your brother?'

‘No relation at all.'

‘So Grahame isn't just the name he uses for professional purposes on the television and so on?'

‘It's his real name. He's the son of my mother's oldest friend, Morag, from her school days,' I explain. ‘They'd always promised each other that if anything happened to either of them, they'd look after any children they had. So when Doctor and Mrs Grahame were killed during an air-raid in London, Fiona brought Orlando to live with us, even before I was born.'

‘We always used to plan that our children would get married.' Fiona takes a swallow from her glass of wine. ‘I can't believe it's finally coming true.' She pats at her hair, greyer now, but otherwise styled pretty much as it was the afternoon she walked me down to the cinema to see
Mrs Miniver
.

‘The mystery,' says Vi Sheffield, ‘is why it's taken them all this time to get it together. Even when they were children, you only had to look at them . . .'

Bertram Yelland lumbers to his feet. ‘If I may be permitted,' he says, ‘I'd like to record that those days living down the road at Glenfield House were among the happiest of my life. Post-war England was hardly the most comfortable place in the world, and Glenfield considerably less so . . .'

‘How very gracious,' murmurs Orlando.

‘Nonetheless, I think we would all agree that life then was . . . was . . . well, I don't know what it was really, but if it hadn't been for Mrs Beecham's encouragement, and Professor Beecham's many kindnesses, I for one wouldn't be where I am today.' He raises his glass. ‘So thank you, and cheers!'

‘Was I kind?' Beside me, my father seems bemused. ‘I can't remember being kind to him. In fact, on the whole I thought the fellow was a bit of a pompous prick.'

‘Still is,' says Orlando. ‘But a good painter.'

When everyone has left, Orlando and I stroll arm-in-arm along the sea front as we have done so many times before. The sun is well below the horizon now, but the sky is still faintly light. The air smells of salt and wind, a faint scent of cut grass is carried on the breeze. Peace, at last, I think.
Shanti, shanti, shanti
. ‘Tomorrow, we'll go and pick some blackberries, shall we?' says Orlando.

‘Oh, yes!' Ahead, I see the wraith of Nicola walking away towards the distant cliffs. She is powerless now; we're free of her, or as free as we'll ever be. She looks over her shoulder at us and I watch her begin to dissolve, her red hair, her white blouse, melting, evaporating, fading into the blue air, the rolling water, slipping away until finally she's gone.