Chapter 31
I t was – oddly, given they all had to sit under very strong lighting, and the room was incredibly warm, and everyone had to shout because everyone was deaf – one of the very best Christmases Mirren could remember. And Violet managed to sit up at the table, and although she could only take a little soup, she shared a dram of whisky with June, holding Mirren’s hand.
For June’s part, her family, most of whom lived in London, were pleasantly surprised that she had come down back to the city of her birth. In fact, among them there had been some fairly frantic WhatsApping that, given June kept forgetting things, couldn’t look after the house, and let in literally anybody who came to the door, well, perhaps it was time? And this place was pretty nice? And handy? And June, basking in the luxuriant warmth that meant only wearing two cardigans, couldn’t believe people just brought you food, and you got to chat with your best friend all day and, okay, they couldn’t promise miniature ponies all the time, but as things went, it could definitely be worse.
When Mirren got up to leave at six, to go to join some very neglected girlfriends who didn’t celebrate Christmas with their families and wanted to go and eat Chinese food, she kissed Violet on the forehead.
‘You brought me,’ said Violet, ‘such a wonderful gift. The best thing. Far, far better than ... Shepherd’s Land and hollyhocks .’
That winter was cold, but it didn’t feel so in the home. Warm and safe and with constant companionship, Violet grew thinner, and quieter, and passed gently, less than a week later, everyone there by her side, stroking her hair, holding her hand, while Mirren read from the edition Violet had once given her:
For the long nights you lay awake
And watched for my unworthy sake:
For your most comfortable hand
That led me through the uneven land:
For all the story-books you read:
For all the pains you comforted:
Mirren was there, as well as her brothers, June, and Mirren’s mother, who had been offered a job at the care home after Christmas and taken it, and was having an absolute whale of a time bossing the young staff around. To the surprise of Mirren and her brothers, Nora’s attention to detail, consistency and willingness to perform any job herself meant that the people who worked for her absolutely adored her. And it made her much, much easier to be with for Mirren too.
After the small, tender funeral, Mirren and her mother discussed packing up what was left of Violet’s small house before handing over the keys to an estate agent.
‘It’s to be put on the market and sold and split between us all,’ said Nora. ‘But I’m the executor of the will. She’s made a special bequest to you – her pearls, if you want them, plus anything you’d like from the house.’
‘I wouldn’t mind a couple of photos,’ said Mirren. ‘We could share them, yeah? Copy them out for everyone.’
Nora nodded. ‘That’s a nice idea. Can I leave the house with you? I ordered some packing crates, but there’s nothing there. She did a massive clear-out before she went to the home. Always was thoughtful.’
‘She was,’ agreed Mirren.
Sure enough, the cosy little home Mirren had spent so much time in as a child was bare and empty, the books and personal objects all cleared away; there were a few winter coats and clothes that Violet had been going to take to the home but then realised she would never need again, which made Mirren sad. It was a little eerie, but Violet hadn’t been there for a long time. Plus, Mirren had June to visit now too.
She filled two boxes with the odd bits and pieces before the estate agents came in, and thought she’d better check the attic.
There was only one item up there, and as she opened it, she realised what it was. Violet’s father’s old kit bag. It was incredibly ancient, dusty and decrepit; cracked along the seams.
Fascinated, Mirren opened it. There it was: his old mess can. An incredibly worn old greatcoat with a musty smell. A little box full of writing materials including, amazingly, some old French stamps. Wow. Amazing.
Mirren reached down. There was something ... something more at the bottom, with sharp edges ...
She drew it out carefully, then sat down with a bump in the cold attic.
It couldn’t be. It couldn’t be.
Mirren couldn’t understand it. Why on earth had Violet thought it had disappeared when it had been here the entire time, under her nose?
She blew the dust off it, opened the small hard red cover. The beautiful black ink stood out, like it had been drawn yesterday, even though the pages were yellowed and worn. The first picture – of a child watering a garden – was ornate, almost surreal, but still, clearly, a child, living in a heightened, extraordinary world that was nonetheless plainly an extension of the artist’s own imagination. It was beautiful. But why ... Had Violet been going doolally?
No, realised Mirren finally.
No, that wasn’t it.
It wasn’t only Violet – and June – who had wonderful memories of the book. There was someone else to whom it was a world of happy love, a book that he had to keep close to his heart to remember, when things were terribly bad – and they must, often, have been so terribly bad – everything that was good about this life.
As if in answer, her fingers felt a stiff corner of something and she pulled it out. It was an old photograph; it must have been from the same set as June’s, as it showed the girls in the same dresses, only this time the girls’ mothers were there, young and pretty with their set hair, aprons over dresses, each holding a little girl pressed against her, arms around her neck, and the little girls were grinning and waving at the camera. He must have taken it. They must have been waving at him.
Now in the elders’ seat
We rest with quiet feet,
And from the window-bay
We watch the children, our successors, play.
‘Time was,’ the golden head
Irrevocably said;
But time which none can bind,
While flowing fast away, leaves love behind.