Forgive Me (7 page)

Sophie cried constantly before, during and
after the service, and both Andrew and Ben kept wiping their eyes. But Eva remained
dry-eyed because the hymns, prayers and words about her mother didn’t seem to have
anything to do with her. The clergyman did mention that she had been very artistic, but
that didn’t cover how at Christmas Flora would transform the whole house into
fairyland with beautiful handmade decorations. She could do amazing arrangements with a
few twigs and leaves and whatever flowers she could
find in the garden.
When she made any of them birthday cakes they were always something fantastic: monsters
for Ben when he was little, and Cinderella’s coach for Sophie. Eva remembered she
had once had a Little Red Riding Hood cake on her birthday, with a forest of marzipan
trees, Grandma’s cottage in the middle and the wicked wolf spying on Red Riding
Hood.

Eva recalled how Mum used to get the three
of them to dance with her to old rock ’n’ roll records, the wonderful
picnics she used to make, and how every birthday she painted them a card. And it always
reflected what they were currently interested in, from whales to dinosaurs.

Even when Eva had gone out into the garden
earlier in the morning in the rain to pick a bunch of spring flowers, she didn’t
feel the expected surge of emotion. Mum had loved the garden; in good weather she would
be pottering out there all day, and it was beautiful in every season because of her
care. Eva had thought she could make a lovely flower arrangement for the top of the
coffin. But although she’d found the right shallow container and put oasis in it,
the way Mum always did when she made table decorations, when she began to put the
flowers in, it looked like something a six-year-old had put together. She did cry then,
because she felt she was letting her mother down. She left it in the kitchen; she
didn’t want Andrew thinking she couldn’t even get that right.

The only thing that made her want to cry
during the service was when she suddenly realized she hadn’t really known her
mother. She had always believed that she had; she knew what made Flora laugh or cry, her
favourite music, television programmes and types of food. She had even been very good at
picking out clothes her mother would love. But now that seemed so very superficial – the
way icing on a cake gave you no indication as to what lay beneath it.

It was impossible to imagine her mother’s
curvy small body was inside the pale wood coffin. Flora had often joked that when she
died she wanted her body to be put in a boat, surrounded by flowers and then floated
down a river like the Lady of Shalott. Eva knew the famous painting by Waterhouse, and
the model even looked like Flora with her long red wavy hair and very pale skin.

She didn’t think she ever wanted to
see that picture again.

As they came out of the chapel at the
crematorium, there was a far larger group of people waiting rather impatiently to go in
for the next funeral. That was a further reminder that Flora was only special to her
children and husband. Eva supposed the other group, who had lost a loved one through
illness or an accident, wouldn’t hold out much sympathy for a suicide.

Everyone walked very slowly past the part of
the Garden of Remembrance where the undertaker had put the flowers. That too seemed
pointless – a waste of money, as they were destined to die by the next day. Eva gathered
up the cards with the flowers because she thought they should all read the kind
messages. But the rain had made the ink run and most were illegible.

Back at the house, two friends of Rose, the
cleaning lady, had put out all the food Eva had bought the day before, and made pots of
tea. Eva busied herself taking round a large plate of canapés, but she watched Andrew
talking to the guests, a large glass of whiskey in his hand. He had forced a smile at
the compliment about his children. She heard him telling Sophie that the lady owned an
antique shop in Montpellier, and that Flora was always popping in there and buying
things when they first moved here.

It was that comment which made Eva suddenly
aware she
might be able to find out more about her mother from some of
these people.

Taking courage into both hands, Eva made her
way towards the oddest couple in the room because she was certain they had never been
friends with Andrew.

The man was tall and thin with lank hair
straggling over his collar and John Lennon glasses. He looked like he’d borrowed
his dark suit; it didn’t fit him anywhere. The woman he was with had coal-black
dyed hair, bright green eye shadow and a too short and too tight navy-blue dress for
someone plump and past fifty. But it was plain to see she had been a beauty: her green
eyes were lovely and her cheekbones sharp, and she had an air about her of someone well
used to being admired.

‘Hello, I thought I’d introduce
myself and ask where you fit into Mum’s past,’ Eva said, holding out her
hand to shake theirs. ‘I don’t think we’ve met before.’

‘We’ve met you, Eva,’ the
woman said with a warm smile. ‘We often minded you as a baby. I’m Lauren
Calder and this is Jack Willow. We were at art college in London with Flora. We shared a
house together as students.’

Jack stepped forward and, instead of taking
her proffered hand, he kissed both her cheeks, his hands resting on her shoulders.
‘We are both so sorry about your mum, Eva. It must have been a terrible shock to
you all.’

The genuine sorrow and sympathy in his voice
was soothing. ‘It was,’ Eva agreed. ‘It’s very difficult to get
your head around such a thing. It’s also made me realize that Mum hid a great deal
from me. I know nothing about her past, not even about her student days.’

She noticed the way the couple looked at one
another. It was the kind of look that said they weren’t sure if they should be the
ones to divulge anything.

‘I’m not looking for a complete
biography,’ Eva added quickly. ‘Just a few little stories. There’re so
many people here that I don’t know. Did Andrew call you all about Mum?’

‘He called me,’ Lauren said.
‘I think I’m the only one of our student group that Flora kept in touch
with. Even that wasn’t much, just a few words on a card at Christmas really. I
rang around the other people, and we all came today because Flora had a special place in
our hearts.’

‘That’s a nice thing to
say,’ Eva said. ‘But why?’

‘For many reasons; because she was
such fun, so very talented, and because she gave us so much encouragement when she
became successful.’

Eva was puzzled at that.
‘Successful?’

‘Surely you know your mother was a
very good artist?’ Jack sounded surprised that she didn’t appear to know.
‘She was selling her work when the rest of us were just dreaming about
it.’

‘She was?’

‘My goodness, she really did keep you
in the dark,’ Lauren said with a nervous giggle. ‘I know she gave up
painting, and I never understood why, but I didn’t imagine she wouldn’t tell
her kids about those days.’

‘I was surprised to see only one of
her paintings here,’ Jack said. He pointed to the Cornish beach scene on the wall.
‘That’s a very early one. I remember her working on it, she said it was a
beach near to where she grew up. Are there any more in other rooms?’

‘No. That’s the only one,’
Eva said, looking round at the picture. It had been hanging there in the alcove by the
chimney for as long as she could remember – just sea, beach and rocks, nothing in it
that had ever made her ask questions about it. But looking at it now, as if for the
first time, she could see that it really was a very good painting. The light,
clouds and the texture of the rocks were so realistic it could almost
have been a photograph.

‘She would paint birthday cards in
watercolours for friends and for us, but she never used oils or did any big pictures.
But if she was so good, why did she give it up?’ she asked.

Lauren reached out and took Eva’s hand
in hers. ‘Maybe it was because when she had you three children, she didn’t
feel the need to paint any more.’

Eva nodded. ‘I can understand her not
keeping it up when we were small, but it seems strange she didn’t start again once
we were all at school. She never worked, you know, and it wasn’t as if she was
that house-proud.’

Jack smiled. ‘She used to be the
untidiest person I knew,’ he said. ‘She always claimed she was born to be
waited on.’

‘She said that to me once too.’
Eva smiled back at him. ‘I think she only kept the house perfect because Andrew
insisted that she must. She didn’t do it when he was away –’ She stopped
short, suddenly aware she shouldn’t tell people such things.

Lauren took her hand again, perhaps guessing
what had cut her short. ‘It’s OK, Eva, you can talk about it, especially to
us. I bet the last couple of weeks have been a very lonely time for you? My mother died
when I was just a bit older than you. I felt so confused, angry, sad, every kind of
emotion, and I had no one I could talk it over with. How’s your dad been? He was
very curt on the phone, I didn’t dare ask him anything more.’

‘He’s been struggling with
it,’ Eva admitted. ‘But then he would, just like all of us. We didn’t
see it coming. But there is one thing I’d like to ask you. Mum’s studio, do
you know about it?’

‘Well, yes, of course I do,’
Lauren replied. ‘She bought it
while we were all still sharing a
house. That’s where I babysat you.’

‘She never said anything about it to
me, and apparently she’s left it to me. That’s caused some hard
feeling,’ Eva said carefully. ‘Where is it?’

‘In West London. Holland
Park.’

Eva didn’t know London at all, but she
had heard of Holland Park being a smart area.

Jack must have read her expression because
he smiled. ‘Parts of that area were good even back in the sixties, but not where
the studio is, that was virtually a slum. We all said she was mad buying it. But
she’d inherited some money – from her father, I think – and she was determined. It
wasn’t as if it was a real artist’s studio, only a little terraced house. I
haven’t seen it since you were small, but I should imagine it’s been tarted
up since then.’

Ever since Eva had been told about this
‘studio’, she’d imagined it was just one big room, perhaps with an
adjoining bathroom, because that was what estate agents called such places. She was very
surprised to discover it was a house.

Her earlier caution left her. ‘Do you
know who my real father is?’ she asked. ‘I thought it was Andrew until
Mum’s death, but he said he isn’t my father.’

Jack and Lauren exchanged glances again.

‘She didn’t tell you
before?’ Lauren said, and looked very uneasily at Jack. ‘I wonder if
that’s why she never invited us here?’

‘You think she was afraid you’d
let the cat out of the bag?’ Eva prompted.

Lauren hesitated. ‘Maybe, dear. Flora
always did play her cards close to her chest.’

‘So who is my father?’ Eva
asked, keeping her voice down as she could see Sophie hovering close by.

‘Well, we’ve always assumed it was
Patrick O’Donnell, the illustrator. He was part of our group and they were
together for several years.’

‘You only imagine! Flora was your
friend, surely you know for sure?’ Eva said a little sharply.

‘Look, Eva,’ Jack took over.
‘It was a strange time, with lots of things going on, and we weren’t always
part of it. Flora was with Patrick for a few years, but she left him and later on took
legal action to get him out of her place. Pat went off to Canada, tail between his legs,
and Flora didn’t tell us anything, not even that she was expecting you. By the
time we caught up with her again, you were a couple of months old.’

Eva switched on the light and looked at the
clock. It was after two, but she couldn’t get off to sleep. She could hear Andrew
snoring – just a soft, distant rumbling because his bedroom door was shut. She’d
listened to the sound a thousand times in the past and found it comforting that he was
close by. But now she knew he wasn’t her real father she found it irritating.

She almost wished she hadn’t spoken to
Jack and Lauren today at the funeral. She’d hoped for some new understanding about
her mother, but all she’d got was more puzzles. First, that she’d been a
successful artist; Eva knew little about the art world but she did know that only a
handful of artists made any real money from it. So why on earth hadn’t Mum ever
told her that she was one of those few?

Then there was the news about an illustrator
called Patrick O’Donnell who might be her father. Jack had said he knew he was
living back in England now, and had suggested she look him up. But how could she? If he
didn’t want her as a baby he wasn’t likely to care about seeing her now.

She had spoken to some of Flora’s
other old friends too, and although she didn’t get as much from them as she did
from Jack and Lauren, they had created a picture for her of the young Flora they knew.
They all said how much of a party animal she’d been, the last one to leave, always
up for anything. Someone said how she had mad ideas – camping in midwinter,
skinny-dipping in the Thames – and she got people joining her with sheer force of
personality. Yet none of
this fitted the woman Eva knew; she’d
always seemed rather reclusive, and certainly not bold or impulsive.

There were also some pointed little remarks
from a couple of people that hinted at Flora being mercenary, hard and devious. Eva
thought that might be because as students they’d have all been on their uppers,
and they were probably jealous of Flora’s success. It was clear from the clothes
and the cars of these old student friends that they were still poor, and coming to The
Beeches to discover Flora had never had to struggle financially, as they had, might have
resurrected that envy.

But why had Flora cut herself off from them?
And why when she had been a successful artist had she given it up?