Sea of memories, p.24
Sea of Memories, page 24
I nod, smile again at the nurse and turn back to my grandmother. Ella’s breathing is faint, a shallow, staccato sip on the inhalation; an impossibly long pause; a faint sigh on the exhalation.
I wish I’d known Ella’s story before, so that I could have been a better granddaughter to her than I have been. But at least I came to understand it before it was too late. At least her story can now be told. I hope my mother will understand too, now, before it’s too late for her to make her peace.
My heart was in my mouth when I’d finished writing; the day I brought the finished manuscript to Ella’s room. What would she make of it? Had I done her story justice?
She had been awake, but she asked me to read it aloud to her, saying, ‘I’m too far gone these days. My eyesight is so poor, and my memory wanders so if I try to read anything myself. But they do say that hearing is the last of the senses to go. So, read it to me, my dear. Let me listen to my own story one last time.’
There’s been an unspoken sense of urgency these past few days. Every time I came to visit her to read her some more of the manuscript, she’d drifted a little further away. She would fall asleep sometimes as I was reading to her and then I’d mark the place carefully and tiptoe away, hoping that she was dreaming of the Île de Ré, or the beach at Arisaig, and the two men who have loved her as she has loved them.
And this final day, with the last words read, I sit in silence, watching her smile as she lies there with her eyes closed. And my heart swells with happiness that I’ve done her story justice and with sadness that, now that it’s told, there’s a sense of another ending that sits heavily in the hot, artificially scented room.
I wonder whether I should leave her to sleep, but suddenly her eyes open wide, the misted sea-green of them clearing so that, for a few moments they are the colour of the deepest ocean once again. Viridian.
‘Thank you, Kendra,’ she says. ‘I knew you would tell my story well. That you would understand. That you would write the truth of it all.’
‘I’ll give it to Mum,’ I reply. ‘I know she’ll see things differently too when she reads the whole of the truth.’
Ella nods and then reaches her age-spotted hand towards the bedside cabinet, pointing to the fine, deep-blue ceramic bowl shot through with a vein of purest gold like a lightning bolt.
‘It’s the kintsukuroi bowl, isn’t it Granny?’
‘Caroline gave it to me when Angus and I left the island.’ Her voice is a faint whisper now and I have to lean in close to hear what she’s saying. ‘She asked us to call in at the gallery on our way past, just as we were setting off for home. We walked in and when Angus saw the painting, Neptune’s Locket, he looked at it for a good long spell. Then he nodded, and said, “He loved you the way I love you – body and soul.” It felt as if he was laying to rest the spectre of Christophe that had haunted him throughout our marriage. A bit of closure, I suppose. And then Caroline said that she had something to tell us. Which was that Christophe had left the painting to me.’ She frowns, struggling to remember.
‘At that news, Angus’s expression flickered – just the tiniest bit, but I noticed it. And in that moment I understood that his acceptance had taken courage and generosity of spirit, but that having the painting there the whole time would have been too much, even for him. So I said to Caroline that I didn’t think there was room for it above the mantelpiece in Morningside. Can you imagine how out of place it would have been in that setting? I told Caroline that the painting belonged where it was, in the gallery, so that people could still come and see it. And that was the right thing to say because I saw the look of relief on Angus’s face. But then he said, “And we will come back every summer to visit it, and you can show me this island which has been the other love of your life.” So, that’s what we did.’
‘Where is the painting now, Granny?’
‘Why, Kendra, it’s there!’ Sudden joy flickers across Ella’s face. ‘Caroline is still alive; she lives on the Île de Ré. She has help, of course. Do you remember Sandrine and Benoît, who used to manage the house for the Martets? Whose daughter cared for Christophe through his illness? Well, they are long gone, but their granddaughter runs the gallery in Saint Martin for Caroline. And Caroline herself still goes there most days to supervise things, despite her age. She’s quite famous in the art world and still has the keen eye for beauty she always had . . .’
Ella’s voice tails off and her eyes close for a moment as her memory drifts from its course. But then she opens her eyes again, focusing on my face with an effort. I sense she’s struggling now.
‘Anyway, where was I? Oh yes, the bowl. So, there we were in the gallery, about to come back to Edinburgh. And Caroline took it from its plinth and said, “Do you remember what I told you? About the philosophy behind this? That something which is unique has its own beauty that can never be destroyed; that it’s always worth mending, even when it’s broken; and that the fractures and the scars become part of the beauty too, making the piece even more remarkable, even more precious.” And then she said, “Heal your heart, Ella. Let Angus help you. Mend your marriage with veins of the purest gold and remake it, better and stronger than before.” And we did. Because, you see, Kendra, I fell in love with your grandfather all over again. Caroline was right: our love was worth mending. In the end, we made the scars part of the beauty of our marriage.’
She pauses, smiling, remembering. Then goes on, her voice growing a little stronger for a moment. ‘And Christophe was right too. He was my first love, but Angus was my lasting love. I’d always thought I wanted a second chance with Christophe, that life had cheated me of it. But, in fact, the second chance I got was with Angus. How lucky I am, to have loved and been loved by two such good men.’
For a few moments she’s lost in her thoughts again, her mind wandering where the tangled skein of her memories takes her.
But then, once more with an effort, she pulls her attention back to the bowl on the cabinet beside her bed. ‘When you give Rhona the manuscript, give her the bowl as well. Tell her that I’m sorry for the damage I did, but show her that it can be mended. Tell her that I know it will be, even if it’s after I’m gone.’
I pick up the bowl carefully and stir the collection of white shells that lie within it with my forefinger.
‘And the shells, Granny? Is the one that Christophe gave you in here?’
She smiles again. ‘But of course it is! And the one Angus gave me is too. Along with other shells I’ve collected on Atlantic beaches as reminders of perfect days. And shells my children found and gave me, which are some of the most treasured ones of all. Souvenirs. Memories. Such richness . . .’
Her voice is growing weaker once more, her eyes misting as her mind fades again. I bend close to her to hear the words she whispers.
‘Keep them for me, Kendra. The shells. Add them to your own collection of memories and keepsakes. With Dan and Finn. To remind you to find the beauty in your life, even in the most difficult times.’
‘I will. And I’ll be back tomorrow, Granny,’ I promise. Before I go, before I kiss her forehead one last time and smooth back the fine white hair – hair that was once the sun-kissed blonde of the grasses that grow amongst the sand-dunes on that wind-swept island – I whisper another promise to my grandmother.
‘I’ll tell her, Granny Ella. I’ll give Mum your story to read. And I’ll make sure she understands as well.’
I stand to leave, gathering up the manuscript, and the bowl of shells which I wrap in my winter scarf to keep safe.
In the doorway of her room, I hesitate for a moment, listening to her soft breathing. It’s changing, slowing: a shallow sip; a pause; a sigh.
She’s beyond my reach now, slipping further away with each breath. I hope she’s with them, the ones who have gone before. If they are holding her in their arms again at last, then maybe I can bear to let her go.
2015, Île de Ré
There’s no hint of what lies ahead as we skirt La Rochelle, passing a chaotic jumble of ugly signs advertising the offerings of the superstores that flank the city’s by-pass. But then I realise that there are subtle changes all around us: there’s a new freshness in the air as Dan winds down the window to let the early summer warmth wash into the car; the vegetation has changed too and the road is now lined with scrubby pines and silver-leafed shrubs that are tough enough to withstand the scouring of a salt wind. And the light is different all of a sudden. It has a clarity which heightens the colour of the tamarisk trees with their plumes of rose-pink froth and paints the heads of the bulrushes that grow in the ditches alongside the road a rich velvet brown, as they dance in the slip-stream of the passing cars.
We negotiate a roundabout and pay the toll for the bridge. And then suddenly we are swept into the air on a soaring arc of concrete that, these days, spans the channel separating the Île de Ré from the mainland. For a moment I regret that there’s no longer a ferry to catch; I would have enjoyed retracing that step of my grandmother’s journey. Has the bridge made a difference, I wonder? Has being physically tethered to its motherland made the island lose the sense of otherworldliness, that feeling of stepping off the edge of the world and out on to the ocean that she talked about?
To our left I glimpse the serried ranks of cranes in La Rochelle’s busy port, which stand to attention behind the busy to-and-fro of white-sailed yachts in and out of the harbour.
‘Look, Finn, can you see the boats?’ I try to distract my son from his rocking. It’s been a long day’s journey for him and he’s never comfortable in unfamiliar surroundings.
And then I look to the right and I catch my breath. For there is the Atlantic, a sweep of green water, dappled golden over shallow-lying sandbanks, just as Ella must have seen it that first time. And far out, along the horizon, is a strip of deeper colour, a wash of green-blue that is hard to define. ‘Viridian,’ I murmur. ‘The colour of the ocean beyond the point.’
I needn’t have worried. The island – changed though it must be after all these years – is still an island. I sense it immediately. Even though it’s now referred to as ‘the Twenty-First Arrondissement’ because allegedly le Tout-Paris comes to holiday here in its chic little towns and on its beautiful beaches, there’s no way this low-lying land of salt-marshes and sand-dunes can ever be truly tamed: it will always belong more to the ocean than to the land.
We pass fields of wildflowers, where cornflowers, poppies and Queen Anne’s Lace weave their own exuberant version of the French flag, and fields of purple scorpion weed abuzz with insects. The lush, fresh green of vineyards is interspersed with the old gold of cornfields, scarlet-spattered with yet more poppies. The soil at the roadside is sandy, bound by sprawling tendrils of wild vines which have escaped from the constraining trellising of the vineyards and made a bid for freedom amongst the spikes of silver sea-holly and santolina that thrive in the salty air.
Following the directions Caroline has sent, we turn off the main road and into Sainte Marie de Ré, where Dan negotiates the car through the narrow streets between rows of whitewashed houses. And hollyhocks. They are still here, just as Ella described. Tall spires of tissue-paper flowers in shades of raspberry, apricot, cream and plum.
I glance again at Caroline’s letter. ‘Turn left, following signs to the campsite. Pass the vineyard on your right-hand side and just beyond it you will find the house. Sandrine will leave a key on the terrace at the back, under a blue ceramic pot of geraniums. Make yourself at home. I shall be staying in the apartment above the gallery in Saint Martin, and I look forward to meeting you all the day after you arrive. Come to the gallery at midday and we will go and have some lunch together and make our plans.’
I’m here because Ella asked me to come. When Robbie and Jenny went to collect her things from the nursing home they found a note in the drawer of her bedside cabinet, addressed to me.
It had been an emotional few days; first, the phone call from Robbie to say that she’d gone, and then the conversation I’d had with my mother, telling her about the manuscript. She’d answered the phone in her customary way, with a crisp, ‘Rhona Mitchell speaking.’ Her voice became a little more gentle though, softening when she realised it was me, and she’d asked as fondly as always after Finn and Dan. But when I broached the subject of Ella’s funeral, that defensive tone returned.
‘I don’t know when I’m coming up,’ she’d said. ‘The timing’s not very convenient. I might not even be able to get away.’ There was a finality in the way she said this that allowed no room for argument, so I let her words sit there, heavy as a gravestone.
‘Okay, Mum, but listen, there’s something I need to give you. So, if you’re really not going to come for the funeral I’ll have to send it to you. And I want you to promise me you’ll read it. Will you?’
‘What is it?’ She was suspicious now, distrustful. ‘Something your grandmother’s cooked up?’
‘Please, Mum. Just read it. Then we can talk afterwards.’
She’d sniffed, and I wasn’t entirely sure whether it was a scornful sound or an attempt to disguise the fact that she was crying.
‘Are you okay?’
‘Of course, I’m okay. Why shouldn’t I be?’ A pause . . .
Then she’d said, ‘Don’t go to the trouble of sending whatever it is. Of course, I’ll be there. We’ll stay at Robbie’s. It will be a good opportunity to come and see you all as well.’
‘Okay, Mum, it’ll be lovely to see you.’ I’d hung up the phone and let my hand rest for a moment on the kintsukuroi bowl which sat on the kitchen-dresser weighting down the sheets of paper that tell Ella’s story. I ran my finger lightly around the rim, feeling the almost imperceptible ridge where the vein of gold joins the deep blue shards of pottery, binding them together.
‘She’s coming,’ I’d whispered. Although I don’t know who I was telling it to, standing there in my empty kitchen.
Then I’d picked up the note, written in Ella’s shaky italic script, and re-read it.
My dearest Kendra,
You have been my faithful ally, writing down my story so that Rhona will finally understand. I hope that she will forgive me, although I accept that forgiveness may be too much to ask. But her understanding of the truth will be enough. So you have given me peace of mind, at last, and for that I thank you.
You’ve already helped me so much that I hesitate to ask more of you. But I would like you to go to the Île de Ré, sometime when you can manage it amongst the many demands of your busy life. Would you do that for me? Go to the island and find Caroline. She knows my final wishes.
I should so like you to meet her. And perhaps you might enjoy a visit to that place – I know you’ve grown to love it already through writing about it. I hope you will find some of the freedom and peace there that the island has brought me over the years.
Thank you for being such a wonderful granddaughter. And thank you for telling my story.
Your loving grandmother, Ella.
So my mother came to Scotland for the funeral and we all hugged one another and cried as Ella was laid to rest alongside Angus, her lasting love.
I gave my mother a large envelope, containing the manuscript, and a wrapped box containing the bowl. ‘Open the box after you’ve finished reading this,’ I told her.
She nodded briskly and, without giving them a second glance, stowed both envelope and box into the capacious bag in which she’d brought presents for Finn. I haven’t heard from her in the past fortnight, so I don’t know if she’s begun to read Ella’s story. Or if she’s finished it and decided not to mention it yet. But I understand that she needs time. Plucking up the courage to face the truth may take a while; realising how much more there was to her mother’s story – and her father’s – and allowing the defences of her anger and pride to be dismantled will take considerably longer.
In the back seat of the car, Finn is growing restless. He’s never been on such a long journey before and we’ve been nervous about how he may react to being in strange surroundings. We usually stay at home in the holidays, so that he can be in his familiar environment and stick to his usual routine. Any changes can agitate him, although it’s been a while since he last had a full-blown meltdown. But Dan and I had decided that our need for a holiday outweighed Finn’s need for the safety of familiarity this time, and Caroline’s offer of use of the house was just too tempting to pass up.
Dan’s been struggling, I know, no matter how manfully he’s tried to pretend otherwise. The community garden’s been closed down: government cuts, no funding. That seemed to be the final blow to his confidence. Still jobless, he’s picked up bits of work here and there, doing the accounts for a couple of small local businesses, work that he does late at night once I’m home and can take over Finn’s care. I know how tough it is for him, and how desperately he needs a break – in all senses of the word.
‘You alright back there?’ Dan glances anxiously in the rearview mirror.
‘We’re nearly there, Finn,’ I soothe him. ‘What a good boy you’ve been. Just a few more minutes.’ As I hand him his comforter, a worn scrap of blanket he’s had since he was a baby, I notice he’s bitten his lips until they’re cracked and bleeding. He hangs on to it tightly, bringing it close to his face to smell its reassuring scent of home.
‘Look, there! That must be the house. See, Finn? The white house with the pale blue shutters.’
Dan pulls up on to the sandy verge, alongside the whitewashed wall that surrounds the house and its garden. I’d half prepared myself to be disappointed, expecting that it might be run-down now, the garden overgrown or – worse – levelled to a patch of easily maintained lawn. But Caroline and her assistant Sandrine – the granddaughter of the original Sandrine and Benoît – have looked after the property with loving care over all these years. It’s just as Ella described it and I feel a sense of excitement and relief.
