Postcards From a Stranger, page 25
My anger for my flighty mother is evaporating as I get sucked into Ursula’s story again. ‘How do you know?’ I ask. ‘Did they come here then, after they left us?’
‘Not straightaway. First they went on a grand tour, burning their way through Tilly’s trust fund.’
I think of the early postcards, how they’d been sent from tourist hotspots in Europe.
‘They weren’t in touch with me. Tilly made sure of that. She wanted your mother to herself, got her to drop all links with her family. But eventually they landed up here. San Francisco was the centre of the gay world in the 1980s so of course Tilly fancied being part of that scene, although they weren’t really lesbians. For Tilly, it was just a passing phase because she wanted people to talk about her, and for your mother . . .’ She rubs her hands to get some heat into them. ‘Well, for Annie it was all about a way out. So, they rocked up here for the vibe. They weren’t interested in me, although I did see a bit of them once my work started to take off. Tilly could see that I might open doors for them in the kinds of circles that she wanted to move in.’
Ursula is looking out across the water as she speaks, half a smile playing across her lips. It’s almost as if she is finally enjoying telling her tale. ‘It wasn’t going so well between them, though,’ she continues. ‘They’d been travelling for a few years by then without really putting down any roots. I think Tilly’s money was starting to run a bit low. Annie wanted to work, pay her way a bit, but Tilly wouldn’t have it. That meant that Annie was stuck. Again. She was completely dependent on Tilly for everything. Turns out she’d just swapped one controlling influence for another. And when Tilly got bored of her, she was left high and dry. She had nothing. I heard that they’d split up on the grapevine but I didn’t see either of them again. I assume they went back to England.’
I try to imagine my mother racing round the globe after this woman. Maybe she did see Tilly as her only means of escape. If she’d married Dad young to try to get away from an abusive father, like Ursula said, then perhaps she realised later that she’d made a massive mistake. I think of how Dad was when we were children – domineering, uncompromising, frightening sometimes. But we were children. It’s hard to believe that Mum would have been frightened of him. Trapped, though? Now, that I can understand; and if Mum wanted more from her life than Dad could offer, then who knows? Maybe Tilly offered her a way out that was too tempting to refuse?
This brings me right back to the same problem. I have come full circle. What about us, Michael and me? She was our mother. She had responsibilities. Just because her life wasn’t turning out quite the way she had hoped, she should never have just abandoned us. This thought translates itself to an angry outburst before I have time to rein it in.
‘But she left us. I was two years old and she abandoned me with a man who she knew was less than perfect even if he was my dad. How could she have just have gone and then made no effort whatsoever to see us? A box of postcards. Is that supposed to be a substitute for a life of parenting?’
Ursula reaches out and puts her vein-tracked hand on my coat and I see, for the first time, something approaching concern in her face. ‘But she couldn’t take you,’ she says. ‘She couldn’t even see you.’
My head is spinning. ‘What do you mean? Of course she could. She just chose not to. She swanned off to find a better life and didn’t look back.’
‘No, Cara. You’ve got it all wrong. As soon as she told your father about Tilly, he went to his solicitors. He got an injunction against her. Your mother was forbidden from coming near you by the court.’
This is too much. I cannot bear it. I don’t know what to think anymore. I feel my breakfast rising in my throat and I swallow it back down. Ursula speaks more gently now.
‘Your mother didn’t abandon you. Yes, she had an affair and, yes, she left your father, but she fully intended to take you with her. But don’t forget, this was the eighties. I know it doesn’t seem that long ago but culturally it was like a different planet. AIDS was just starting to be understood. People were scared. Homophobia was rife and not just against gay men. Two mothers in a family? You have to be joking. You can’t imagine now how shocking that seemed back then. People really believed that you needed a male role model to bring up kids, especially boys. Not everyone thought like that, of course, but enough people did. All your father had to do was find an old-school male judge and convince him that his philandering, lesbian wife was an unfit mother. It wasn’t that difficult.’
‘But surely she could have fought the decision?’
‘What with? She had no money and Tilly wanted your mother, not you and Michael. She wasn’t about to bankroll Annie through an expensive court case. And Annie was worried about the impact that it would have on the pair of you. Yes, these things are supposed to be held in private, but a woman running off with another woman and leaving her children? The papers wouldn’t have been able to resist. She was desperate not to do anything that would make things worse. She decided that the best thing to do would be to obey the injunction and leave your father to bring you up. She knew you were safe and well cared for. She felt like she had no choice, but it broke her heart.’
My head is spinning. So it was Dad. He drove her away and then made sure that she could never come back.
‘So where is she now?’ I hear myself shout.
Ursula shakes her head. ‘Honestly? I have no idea. We drifted apart after she married your dad and when she turned up here I made it pretty clear what I thought of Tilly. When they left we lost touch. I haven’t heard from her since.’
‘And you didn’t think to get in touch with me and Michael?’ I spit, my anger suddenly directed at the only person I can find to aim it at.
‘And do what?’ says Ursula coldly. ‘What could I have done? It wasn’t my battle to fight.’
‘But didn’t you care whether we were all right?’
‘Your father isn’t a monster, Cara. Not like mine. He did what he thought was best for the three of you. And I think he really did love Annie. Things just got away from him in the heat of the moment. Maybe he was too proud to go back? Who knows? In any case, he made it pretty clear that he wanted to go it alone. I did write to him to tell him when our mother died but he didn’t reply. I figured you were better off without me.’
I cannot process any of this. I am totally bombarded by information and emotion and I don’t seem to have any resources to deal with it. I just sit there and say nothing.
‘Let’s walk,’ says Ursula, standing up and rubbing at her thin frame through her coat. ‘It’s freezing.’
I can’t just sit here so I follow her. She’s limping slightly after her chase to find me. I suppose at her age she isn’t used to running through the streets. We drop down to the water’s edge just at the foot of the bridge. Something catches my eye and as I scan the breakers I see it again. It looks at first like a small brown ball bobbing on the surface, but when I look harder I see its slick back as it dives under the waves.
‘Was that a seal?’ I ask.
Ursula glances in the direction that I have pointed but gives up looking pretty quickly. ‘It’ll be a sea lion,’ she says. ‘The bay is overrun with them.’
I have only ever seen sea lions at water parks doing tricks for rewards of dull-eyed fish. Seeing one here, in the wild, alters my perspective. I keep staring at the water for ages but he doesn’t show himself again. By the time I look away, Ursula has turned round and is heading back along the path in the direction that we came. I have to run to catch up with her.
‘I’m sorry we got off on the wrong foot yesterday,’ she says, keeping her gaze fixed on the horizon ahead. ‘I’m glad that you came all this way to find me. I truly am. I maybe should have got in touch . . .’ Her voice drifts off. She turns to look at me, her eyes lingering over parts of my face. ‘I can see bits of me in you,’ she says.
I think about our hands, about the way she holds her neck, but then something else crosses my mind.
‘I went to art school,’ I say. ‘Just like you. I studied textiles, not fine art, but it must be something in the Kemp genes. Dad can’t even hold a paintbrush the right way up.’
‘And now you design wedding dresses?’ she asks. ‘Tell me about how that happened.’
And so we wander slowly back towards the city, with me chatting away about my business. I ask her about her art, when she first found success, what she is working on now.
‘And how long have you been using the gallery?’ I ask.
‘Oh, forever,’ she says. ‘They know me well in there, know how I work, make allowances for my . . .’ She half smiles at me. ‘For my antisocial tendencies.’
‘That email you sent me was something else,’ I say. ‘I almost ran away right there and then. Actually, you’re not that bad once you get to know you a bit.’
She taps me lightly on the shoulder. ‘Oi!’ she says. ‘I have a reputation to maintain, you know. They are very good to me. Skyler’s a good kid. She always makes room for my work and they put on an exhibition whenever I have enough new work to justify it.’
Her face changes. She looks wistful for a moment.
‘Which is less and less often,’ she adds. ‘I don’t work like I used to. I’m not driven in the same way. The anger that fuelled my earlier painting, well, it’s kind of mellowing.’
She looks at me, suddenly earnest.
‘Don’t tell anyone, will you?’
I think she is serious for a moment and then she smiles at me and I know that she’s joking.
‘Seriously though, I am producing less work at the moment but that’s because I’m working on something new and it’s taking time to bed itself in properly. I don’t want to go off in a new direction half-cocked. Can’t go upsetting my public.’
The wind whips across the water and tunnels its way through my clothing. I shiver.
‘I can’t believe that I have to go home tomorrow,’ I say.
‘I can’t believe you came all this way for just a couple of days,’ Ursula replies.
‘Well, I felt bad leaving Dad. I don’t like to be gone too long in case something happens.’
‘He’s not home alone, though, right?’
‘God no! That would be interesting. We have a nurse who helps me look after him. She’s good with him, very calm, and they seem to get along okay, to the extent that he can get along with anyone these days.’
‘And does your brother help out too?’
It is a reasonable question but I have the impression that she’s fishing for information. Normally I would avoid answering such direct questions about our private life but she has been honest with me and I feel I should reciprocate.
‘Michael and Dad don’t really get along. They never have done. They just don’t see eye to eye.’
‘Too alike?’ asks Ursula slyly.
‘No. Not at all. Michael’s not a bit like Dad.’
I think of Michael and Marianne and their beautiful home filled to the brim with their lively daughters. Then I think of how Michael has been with me over all this: how dismissive, unhelpful, unsupportive. Maybe Ursula is closer to the truth than I’ve ever admitted to myself.
‘Well, maybe a bit,’ I concede. ‘There’s always been an atmosphere between them, though, ever since we were kids.’
‘Maybe he remembers more than he’s letting on?’ she says.
This has never occurred to me. I have always envied Michael and his memories, assuming, because I had none, that they were something that he could treasure. But perhaps that’s wrong. I remember what he said when I asked him about Ursula. ‘There’s a lot you don’t know, Cara.’ What was he talking about? He had remembered Tilly. Did he know about the injunction? That might explain a lot.
‘Michael left home as soon as he finished school,’ I continue. ‘He went off to university and he never came back. He lives in London, a lawyer in the city. He’s married with twin girls. He’s happy.’
Ursula looks at me and pulls a face.
‘And you don’t mind? That you have to do all the caring, I mean.’
I think about her question for a moment.
‘No,’ I answer. ‘I don’t mind. Someone has to do it. I’m single and I still live in the house. Well, to all intents and purposes it’s my house now I suppose. I have my workroom and everything I need there. It’s convenient. It works for us. I suppose it might be different if I met someone, but for now . . .’
An image of Simeon comes, unbidden, into my head. I bat it away.
‘How about you?’ I ask, happy to divert attention away from my life. ‘Are you single?’
Ursula nods.
‘There was someone once but it didn’t work out. He was an artist too. Declan Murphy. You might have heard of him?’ She looks at me expectantly but I shake my head. She shrugs. ‘It was a long time ago now. I met him when I first came over here, we fell in love then we fell out of love. The usual story. He had fiery Celtic blood and a quick temper. You should have heard the fights! Boy! We could have sold tickets. Anyway, my art was starting to sell and so I moved on and never looked back.’
The story is too tidy, even for her. I can tell that she is holding something back. Something is sparking at the back of my mind but I cannot quite grasp it.
‘And you’ve been on your own ever since?’ I ask.
‘Not on my own. I have a child.’
She’s smirking at me. And then it clicks. Celtic blood. Red hair. Murphy.
‘Skyler!’ I virtually shout. ‘So she’s . . .’
‘My daughter.’
Now she says it, I can see the similarities between the two women. Of course, I would not have seen it before. When I met Skyler, I had no idea what Ursula looked like.
‘So that makes her . . .’
My mind struggles to work out the genealogy.
‘Your cousin,’ she says.
I can’t quite take this in. I arrived here with next to no family and now I have an aunt and a cousin.
The sun disappears behind a cloud and the temperature drops rapidly. I pull my coat more tightly across my chest.
‘My cousin,’ I repeat. ‘I have a cousin.’ I can feel my throat tightening and I clench my jaw tight to stop myself crying. I blink hard.
‘So,’ Ursula continues, ‘I thought for your last night in San Francisco you should both come over to my place for dinner. It won’t be anything fancy,’ she adds quickly. ‘I’m no cook. I’ll probably order in. Do you eat Chinese? The Chinese food here is incredible.’
I seem to have lost the power of speech. I just nod at her and hope that she can pick up from my face how grateful I am.
‘Good God, it’s Arctic in this wind,’ she says, choosing to ignore the struggle that I am obviously having to maintain my composure. ‘I’m sorry but I have to get back. I’ve got some stuff I have to deal with this afternoon. But here’s my address.’ She fishes in her bag for a notebook and quickly scribbles it down. ‘Shall we say around six?’
I take the paper from her without looking at it and nod, accepting the instruction like a small child.
‘Have you got plans for this afternoon? You could do worse than visit the Museum of Modern Art. If you keep your eyes open you might see something by yours truly,’ she adds with a wink. ‘Get yourself a postcard. I’ll see you at six.’
Then she heads off, leaving me alone. Seagulls circle overhead in their endless pursuit of food. I really am cold now. I need to get moving again but instead I just stand there and watch the waves break on the shore.
CHAPTER FORTY-TWO
Annie, 1989
Annie sits next to the window and watches as the train pulls slowly into Rome. She’s the only one awake so far and she relishes the peace while it lasts. Rome has been sprawling, neither city nor country, for miles. The tall apartment buildings springing up from either side of the tracks are scruffy and unloved, each smeared with ugly graffiti in greys and reds. It reminds her of Ursula’s artwork from the old days: angry, defiant, refusing to toe the line. Do the people who live here mind that their homes are defaced with such discontentment? Do they even know?
Though it’s not yet eight, the temperature in the compartment is beyond what Annie feels comfortable with. She takes big, gasping breaths to cleanse her lungs but the stale air is not fit for purpose. As the train raced through the night, she’d wanted to fling the windows open, but apparently that would have been too noisy, with all the stopping and starting at the various stations along the line. Annie barely got any sleep anyhow because of the heat. Chicken and egg. Leaning over their luggage, which is piled up on the floor, she reaches up to open the window now. The air that rushes in is not exactly refreshing but it is better than what is rushing out.
How long will they stay in Rome? They have been zigzagging across Europe on a Grand Tour like a pair of wealthy Victorians. She has liked everywhere that she has been shown so far, except St Petersburg, where the open aggression of the authorities coupled with the terrible food shrouded their visit with a shadowy hue. Tilly kept telling her how daring they were to be behind the Iron Curtain, that it was a privilege to be where so few tourists ever went, but Annie didn’t get it and felt only relief when the train trundled back over the border into West Germany. Even though Germany was unfamiliar too, it felt more safely unfamiliar.
Now they are working their way down Italy. First Venice, then Pisa, then Florence and now Rome, flitting from place to place, following Tilly’s plan. Annie tags along after her, ready to look delighted on cue when she is shown yet another building or painting. Rome is a treasure trove of ancient history and stolen wealth, according to Tilly. When Annie thinks of England, she has to bite her lip to maintain control. She tries not to think of it at all.
A guard walks down the corridor outside, shouting something in Italian that Annie doesn’t understand but assumes is a suggestion that the travellers rouse themselves and get ready to disembark. The train goes on to Naples so there’ll not be much time on the platform. She leans over and touches Tilly’s arm gently. She stirs and then is awake almost at once. She scrunches up her eyes tightly, pings them back open and is then fully present. There are no in-betweens with Tilly, no grey areas.
