The Inheritance Page 12

  ‘Don’t be silly . . .’

  ‘But anyway,’ she wiped her eyes, ‘what do you think? Really, I mean?’

  ‘I really think it’s a wonderful idea.’

  ‘For postgraduate study, you know? A distance doctorate or master’s most likely, and for something women-related, because that was Ben’s field.’

  He squeezed his mother’s hand.

  ‘Anyway,’ she straightened up. ‘Patricia said she wanted to see you again. She said she’d call. She might be tied up with the kids over Christmas, though.’ Then she patted his arm. ‘Come. We’ll find your father in his shed.’

  As they walked downstairs, she paused again: ‘Have you been in touch with Jane about the flat?’

  He shook his head. ‘I’ll try and ring her . . .’

  That evening, he sent Lucie a message: How are you doing? Within a quarter of an hour his phone beeped. All good here. Then, a minute later: Miss you. It was impossible to tell what would happen between them. Perhaps they would stay good friends. He seemed to have accumulated a bevy of such friends: exes. The exception: his only wife, ex-wife, Paula, the person whom he had discarded.

  He went for an early-morning run the next day, then took his mother to the Tate Modern on the Embankment, where they had mulled wine and mince pies in the members’ section, looking down at the river. On Christmas Eve, they drove out of London for a country walk. The hotel Christmas lunch the following day was serviceable. Later, they spent the evening in front of their log fire, his father dealing inexpertly with a jigsaw puzzle, a pursuit he had never seen him engage with before, while his mother showed him her genealogy project. By then he had drunk nearly a bottle of red wine, to avoid smoking more than his quota of cigarettes: exchanging one evil for another.

  He was amused to see his mother clicking expertly through websites. So far, there were no surprises, nor any inconvenient ancestor. Her family had been in Lahore, then-India, for two generations before returning to England, after which her father joined the police in the 1950s, in then-Rhodesia. His father’s family arrived in England at the turn of the twentieth century from France, before moving to South Africa. As she talked him through the family tree, his mother seemed unconcerned that she was speaking with the end of the line. Or maybe she was taking comfort from the intricacies of their extended family – the first, second and third cousins, their spouses and children – beyond the limits of their nuclear family. His eyes were heavy, and he drifted off for a few moments, came back when she was tidying her papers away and shutting off her laptop. She was saying, ‘I mean, people find it so hard to talk to you that they just don’t talk to you at all.’

  He roused himself. ‘You mean about Ben?’

  She nodded.

  ‘Who do you mean?’

  ‘I suppose no one we’re really close to. I’m probably being over-sensitive. But friends I’ve made here. The ladies from my book group . . .’

  He made a sympathetic sound.

  She stopped still. ‘I should phone the Armstrongs . . .’

  For some reason he could picture Jane, reading out a card from a board game, sitting by a fire just like theirs, in a very short dress and woolly tights, her legs tucked under her like that day at the flat.

  ‘Wait until tomorrow. It can be a Boxing Day thing to do . . .’

  His mother sighed. ‘You’re right, it’s a bit late now.’ Then, ‘We were so touched when Ben’s student came to see us, weren’t we, John?’

  His father grunted.

  ‘That goes there,’ she said suddenly, picking up a piece and handing it to him. His father gave her a long look before placing the tile in its slot.

  ‘His student?’

  ‘Lovely girl,’ his mother said. ‘Indian. Of course, I bored her with my stories of Grandpa in Lahore.’

  He tried to keep his voice steady.

  ‘How,’ he said, ‘how did she know where you lived?’

  ‘Ben gave her a lift down once,’ his mother said. ‘I remember him saying actually. Because her parents live not far away. And he lent her one of Dad’s novels. Which one was it again, John?’

  His father mumbled, and his mother continued. ‘That’s right. She wanted to return it. Of course we said to keep it.’ She was quiet for some time and then repeated, ‘I was so touched that she’d made the effort. She stayed for an hour or so.’

  ‘And,’ he spoke slowly, ‘you said her parents live nearby?’

  ‘Yes, but we ordered her a taxi to get home. It was dark by the time she left, and you know what buses are like . . .’

  So: whatever he had thought, whatever he had expected when he painted that painting, it had worked. Someone who was not real became real. An image from a photograph became flesh and blood. There was no chance that this was not the girl. Why had she made herself known? He was unwilling to quiz his parents, both of whom were still innocent of the affair, but later he went to the hall table and found in his mother’s extravagant swirls an address written down on a notepad, and beside it, a name: Rita.

  It was an unpretentious road off the high street, a small gate leading to a park just visible at the end. He located the house easily. The front garden had been covered with concrete, and the curtains in the windows looked old fashioned and tired. He spent a few moments standing on the street, allowing himself to acclimatise. If this was indeed her parents’ house, then it was clear that the girl had done well to gain entrance to a prestigious university. And there, she had met his brother. He rang the bell, and the door swung open almost immediately. There stood a woman whose eyes widened in surprise before one hand went to her neckline.

  ‘Good afternoon,’ he said, his best smile on show. ‘Is Rita in?’

  ‘No.’ She hesitated. ‘You are . . . ?’

  She was flustered, smoothing down the shapeless gown she was wearing. Older than he had imagined, with hair streaked grey, heavy eyebrows but smooth skin. He had not prepared an excuse, half-hoping that he would find the girl conveniently waiting for him outside the door. He made a spontaneous decision.

  ‘I work at the university . . .’

  It was enough. Her face cleared; she beamed. ‘Oh! Come in! Doctor . . . ?’

  ‘Martin,’ he said.

  She showed no reaction to his name, only opened the door wider. He stepped into the entrance hall.

  ‘Come in, please. I am Ushmi Kalungal, Rita’s mother.’

  He held out his hand and she took it.

  ‘It’s a pleasure to meet you.’

  She had been expecting someone else, otherwise she might have substituted the grey slippers she wore, a hole at the toe, for something smarter. And then, as if she knew what he was thinking, she spoke: ‘So sorry. The house is messy.’

  ‘Please don’t worry.’

  ‘She went to the park with my granddaughter. Please come. Sit, sit.’

  The living room held two shabby sofas, a coffee table placed on a violently coloured rug. The walls were mostly bare aside from a picture of an Indian-looking Jesus, surrounded with a wreath. On one side stood a synthetic Christmas tree; the lights were not turned on.

  ‘I’ll call her.’

  She went into the hall, and he heard her speaking on the phone, in another language, in an excited voice, two sentences that he didn’t understand; and then she came back in, still holding the phone.

  ‘She is coming.’

  She sat in a hard-backed chair in front of him, her fingers twisting in her skirts. The aromas – heavy spices, oil and meat – made his mouth water and, again, as if she could read his mind, she asked, ‘Some tea? Coffee?’ Then, ‘I made some samosas?’ A pause. ‘Beer?’

  Tempting, very tempting, but would that be the done thing? he thought. To have a beer and samosa with the mother of the girl his brother was having an affair with?

  He cleared his throat.

  ‘No, thank you. I wouldn’t want to trouble you.’

  ‘No trouble!’ she was on her feet already, so he said hurriedly, ‘Reall
y, please, I’m not hungry’, his stomach growling in protest.

  She sat down slowly, and he snatched at a way to distract her.

  ‘Did you have a good Christmas, Mrs . . .’ he struggled to remember her name.

  ‘Kalungal,’ she spoke quickly, smiling. ‘Yes, but quiet. Just Rita, my husband. My son and family were not with us.’

  ‘I see.’ He smiled back, laid his arm on the armrest.

  ‘So,’ she said. ‘You teach Rita?’

  He made a movement with his head, then gestured to the photos on the mantelpiece. ‘Your granddaughter?’

  ‘Yes,’ she laughed nervously. ‘She likes photos! Always a big smile.’ Then something outside caught her eye. ‘Ah, she is coming,’ and she went into the hall.

  He saw her through the window, walking at a pace down the street in front of the house, turning into their path. In short black jacket, her face hidden by the hood, skinny jeans tucked into boots: her clothes hugging her delicate frame. She was a slip of a girl: a child carrying a child on her hip. He got to his feet, flutters in his stomach, and he had a sudden desire to turn and leave through the back door. He heard her mother’s voice as she opened the door, the same excited tone, and then silence.

  She stepped into the room, the child still on her hip, small hands gripping the collar of her jacket, her own hand pushing back her hood so he saw the drops of rain on her cheekbones, the makings of a spot on her chin.

  ‘Rita,’ he said. ‘It’s good to see you.’ His realised his hands were shaking, and he put them behind his back.

  She said nothing, her face a mask, her lips pressed together. The child wriggled, dropped to the floor like a cat and went out of the room. The mother returned to her daughter’s side, spoke rapidly, and the girl shook her head, then spoke, reluctantly: ‘My mother asked if you are staying for tea.’

  The sound of her voice flooded into him; he could see her lips move as she formed the words. After months, a picture had come to life.

  ‘Oh no,’ he said, then turned to the mother with a smile. ‘Actually, I wondered if I could invite Rita out for a coffee. There’s something I’d like to discuss . . .’

  His voice trailed off, and so he turned and smiled at the girl, then clasped his hands in front of him. ‘Perhaps you could suggest somewhere?’

  She did not reply, her eyes had not moved, and then he saw a small nod. She turned and walked back to the door. He held his hand out to her mother.

  ‘It was so nice to meet you . . .’

  ‘Thank you for coming. Please, next time stay for dinner.’

  He almost raised her hand to his lips, as an apology for his lies, and then he followed the girl out of the door. It had started raining, softly.

  She was walking rapidly, with long strides, and he kept pace, glancing at her, and once he glanced back. Her mother was still standing in the doorway, a bewildered expression on her face. Then they reached the end of the street, turned the corner, and she swung around to face him, her eyes flashing. He stopped in front of her, his eyes involuntarily taking her in, her form, her face: his brother’s inamorata.

  ‘Rita,’ he started, then stopped. ‘I’m Ben’s brother. Francois.’

  She nodded, opened her mouth, closed it and then opened it again.

  ‘How did you find me?’

  ‘My parents had your address. For the taxi.’ And then, as if she needed reminding: ‘You went to see them.’

  She nodded again. He realised he had his hands stretched out in front of him, as if he wanted to catch her. He let them fall down to his sides.

  ‘I found the photo that Ben took of you.’

  She digested his words.

  ‘Your parents didn’t recognise me.’

  ‘Well, they’ve not seen the photo.’ He smiled but she did not return the favour, and his smile faded. She did not say anything, only stared at him.

  He gestured at the rain, ‘Look, shall we find somewhere to sit down?’

  But she ignored him: ‘You came to see my mother?’

  ‘No. I came to see you.’

  ‘But you spoke to my mother . . .’ her voice was rising.

  ‘Well,’ he said, ‘you spoke to mine.’

  She was breathless; her cheeks were flushed. ‘You told her you were . . . him.’

  ‘No, she came to her own conclusions.’ It was not quite a lie, he told himself. Near to one, but not quite.

  ‘She told me, “Dr Martin has come to see you”.’

  He was quiet.

  ‘That must have been a shock for you, but like I said, your mother—’

  She turned away suddenly, striding up the road so that he had to jog a little to catch up.

  ‘Can we talk? Can we go somewhere and sit down?’

  She was crying, he could see, and he felt a brute, a bully. But at the same time he could not stop himself. ‘I just want to know what happened. I want to know about Ben . . .’

  ‘Why?’ her voice was strangled.

  ‘When did you last see him?’

  She shook her head.

  ‘Did he—’

  ‘I don’t want to talk about it. I don’t want to talk to you.’

  He reached over and put a hand on her elbow, which she shook off with a sudden violence. But she did stop walking and stood still, looking down, her breath coming fast.

  He swallowed.

  ‘OK. I can see that. But I’m staying with my parents for a few more days. Can you call me and we can go for a coffee or something?’ He fiddled in his pockets, found a pen, an old tube ticket. ‘My number. Please call me.’

  He wasn’t sure if she would, but she took the piece of card. She stared down at his number.

  ‘Will you call me? Please?’

  She raised her head, and he saw the heart-shaped face, the smudges under her eyes but the soft freshness of her lips, her bruised expression, and he thought, Ben. Christ.

  ‘I saw him the day before . . .’ Her eyes were huge.

  ‘I see.’

  She looked shell-shocked. Perhaps he was cruel to have looked her up, remind her of what had happened.

  ‘I haven’t told my parents,’ she said.

  He said nothing. Beyond her physique he had made few assumptions about her, and now the question arrived: what had he expected? Certainly he had not expected the surge of sympathy that rushed through him. He was confronting a broken spirit, that was clear. And along with this came a recognition of a purpose, as if his brother had left the photograph knowing that he, Francois, would feel exactly such a sympathy for this young and lovely and vulnerable individual before him.

  ‘I’ve not gone back,’ she continued, her words tumbling out. ‘I’ve not gone back to uni. I’m not sure I’ll go back.’

  A tear rolled down her cheek. He reached out tentatively with one hand, touched her shoulder, and when she did not flinch he did the same with the other.

  ‘Please,’ he said. ‘Please tell me what I can do,’ he gave her shoulders a small squeeze. ‘I want to help. I know Ben would want me to make sure you were all right.’

  She raised her eyes; her eyelashes were clustered together.

  ‘How can you know that?’

  ‘He was my brother,’ he said with as much confidence as he could muster. ‘I just do.’

  Part Three

  13

  WHEN she arrived at his office that morning, he was not there as they had arranged. Waiting outside, someone had told her the news. She stood aside as the hushed, shocked conversations ensued. Ben Martin had been a valuable member of the faculty. He was so approachable; he never made you feel dull. For his wife to die as well? Such a tragedy. Each comment was a reminder of the marriage, of the connections that each of them had to so many people. When Matt arrived, he had surprised her by enveloping her in a hug, crushing her face against the tattoo on his upper right arm, then said, let’s go somewhere else. I’ll buy you a drink. Could he see? Did he know? She refused, untangling herself from his embrace. She returned to the room
she was renting and lay on the bed, staring at the ceiling until late into the night.

  Some days later, she took the bus down to the river. The windows of the flat stood dark and empty, the occupants gone. If only she could go inside one last time, look on at his (her) books, look out from his (her) window, choose something as a memento. There was a movement in the large window on her right. The owner of the art gallery had been arranging something on a stand but was now eyeing her curiously. It was possible that she was recognised: she had passed in front of this window every time en route to her assignation in that glorious week. The woman stared; Rita could not look away. Eventually, she cast her eyes downwards, turned and walked away. That evening, she decided that she could not remain. She sent an email to the two friends she was due to share a flat with in the new term. She would be letting them down: they would think badly of her. There would be rapid, quick-fire, appalled condemnations of her last-minute decision. The judgements they would make upset her even as there was a derisive voice: and what if they knew everything?

  How could she tell her parents that in her first foray as an adult she had amassed so much darkness? She had not the bravery to go somewhere alone, and so she alighted on Rosemary, a friend whose parents had no contact with hers. These parents had bought a flat in Cambridge as an investment when her friend had been accepted to read law. Rosemary, after the initial surprise, went silent on the phone when Rita explained: she would tell her parents at Christmas but needed a place to stay until then. She would pay her way of course, she would find a job in Cambridge. When her friend finally spoke, it was with a kindness that made tears pool in Rita’s eyes. The other bedroom was already taken, by a paying tenant who could not be asked to leave. But there was a small room off the living room, a study of sorts but which already held a single futon. Would that do? And then her friend’s voice lowered to a whisper: you’re not pregnant, are you, Rita? When she had responded, no, no, it’s nothing like that, I’m just stressed out, she had for a fleeting instant a vision of herself: her swollen belly holding a precious, living, breathing memento of Ben.

  A few days after the decision was made, there was a brief and startling encounter with Julian, in a shop in town. She pretended she had not seen him, but to her embarrassment he had come over and asked after her. They spoke inconsequentially for a few minutes; he was friendly and relaxed. He was not a monster; he had clearly wanted to make amends. She could have behaved with more equanimity after their entanglement, but she had taken another road to more ruinous consequences.