Chapter 42
THE RAIN STARTED ON the morning of the party, a drizzle that developed into a storm. By the evening, the olive trees were swirling in the wind, the surface of the pool was choppy with rain drops, and the sky low and pewter.
Still, Maggie was craving a moment of peace outside. It was chaos inside. Happy chaos – there was music and food and dozens and dozens of people because locals had come, and brought their families (including Pierre, who’d winked at her on arrival, while standing beside his wife, Sofie). But she kept being cornered by guests who asked the same questions – was the chateau really sold, when was she going back to London, would she come back and visit and so on. It became claustrophobic after a while, and she wanted a moment of peace to think about why they were having this party in the first place: to remember Phil.
She slipped from the dining room, where Claude’s band were tuning up, went to the kitchen to collect the urn and let herself out the back door.
There was a specific olive tree beneath the terrace on the other side of the hotel where Maggie would sit as a child, and occasionally as an adult. It was peaceful there. You couldn’t hear the sounds of the pool, or any shouting from the kitchen. It wasn’t overlooked by any windows. She’d come here to simply be, when her mother had become too much that first holiday, or when she’d wanted to daydream about Pierre as a teenager, or after Phil had cut herself on the knife in the kitchen, or when she’d pinched one of Audrey’s cigarettes and snuck down here to smoke it, trying to see if she could like smoking.
Carefully, she laid out a tea towel on the damp grass and sat, the familiar solidity of the gnarled trunk behind her, cradling the urn with both hands. She hadn’t prepared a speech but that didn’t matter. She only wanted to sit with her aunt.
Maggie thought back to the very first time she’d come to the chateau and her heart constricted in her chest. It was twenty-five years ago and she could recall almost everything about it – the gaps where windows were now, the ivy knotting itself across the roof, Ringo and Paul chewing the overgrowth, and the geckos that had delighted her inside. She could remember the sensation of breathing in the hot Mediterranean air for the first time, and the musky smell of lavender every evening. Perhaps that was the first time she’d really fallen in love.
‘Thank you,’ she said quietly, looking down at the urn in her lap. ‘And I’m sorry that you’ve been in such a hideous pot for so long.’ She wiped her face with her fingers before trying to unscrew the lid, but it was too tight and her hand slipped.
She wiped her face again before having another go, but her fingers were damp. Grasping the urn with both hands, she tried to twist it between them, but the lid didn’t move.
‘Don’t ruin the moment,’ Maggie told herself, trying to twist the urn the other way, before letting out a small sob. ‘Come on,’ she urged, but her fingers slid ineffectually around the metal cap.
At a sound behind her, she turned to see Gray, his hand to his forehead, shielding his eyes from the rain. ‘Sorry, I don’t wanna intrude.’
Maggie made a noise that was half sob, half laugh.
‘I saw you leave and I just wanted to check you were OK in this …’ Gray swung his arm upwards at the sky.
‘Yes! No! Kind of! You are intruding, actually, but since you’re here can you help me with this?’ Maggie held up the urn.
‘Sure. What is it?’
‘My aunt.’
Gray froze, his hand outstretched. ‘Your aunt?’
‘I’m supposed to be setting her free. Except the very special and moving moment I had planned is being ruined because the lid’s on too tight. So could you, please?’
He took the urn, twisted it and the lid came free.
Maggie took it back. ‘Do you think it matters that it’s raining?’
‘Stand downwind. When we did my granddad at home I got a whole mouth of him.’
‘ What? ’
‘The wind blew him back in my mouth.’
‘You swallowed your grandfather?’
‘Not on purpose. Anyway, I’m gonna go.’
‘Do you mind staying?’ she said, suddenly needing him to be beside her. ‘I’ll feel less stupid if I say something and you’re here to listen.’
‘’Course.’
Maggie cupped her hand over the open urn, protecting the ash from the rain, then looked up at him. ‘D’you know what I should say?’
‘Now?’
‘I’ve never scattered anyone before. Did you say anything to your grandfather?’
Gray nodded. ‘I did.’
‘What was it?’
‘A poem.’
‘Oh,’ Maggie said, looking back at her fingers curled over the top of the urn. She felt bad. She didn’t know any poems by heart.
‘Want me to recite it now?’ offered Gray.
‘You can remember it?’
‘It’s really the only reason I’m an actor, because I can remember lines.’
‘What is it?’
‘The poem? It’s called “Let Me Go” by Rossetti.’
‘And you don’t mind?’
Gray shook his head. ‘I’d be honoured. Ready?’
She nodded.
He swallowed then began while Maggie stared down at the urn.
‘When I come to the end of the road
And the sun has set for me
I want no rites in a gloom filled room
Why cry for a soul set free?
Miss me a little, but not for long
And not with your head bowed low
Remember the love that once we shared
Miss me, but let me go.
For this is a journey we all must take
And each must go alone.
It’s all part of the master plan
A step on the road to home.
When you are lonely and sick at heart
Go to the friends we know.
Laugh at all the things we used to do
Miss me, but let me go.’
Maggie repeated fragments of the sentences in her head before looking at him, unsure how to express her gratitude for such perfect words. ‘Thank you,’ she said, after a few moments. ‘That was very beautiful.’
‘You’re welcome. Comforting, I think.’
She glanced back at the urn. ‘I’m sorry that I didn’t see you, that I came too late, but at least you can stay here.’
She tipped it sideways and let the ash blow into the wind and the rain and be carried across the garden – a grey cloud that swirled and danced in the breeze before fading and disappearing altogether. And as she watched, she no longer knew whether it was tears or rain sliding down her face. She stood and gazed at the view, and thought of Phil’s message to her on the back of the photograph. Go well, Maggie urged silently, and forgive me. And when she felt Gray’s arm around her shoulders, she leant into his chest, grateful for his silence.
They remained like that for several minutes, listening to the rain spatter the leaves of the tree above, until she sensed Gray look down at her.
‘You know,’ he began, ‘leaving a place doesn’t mean you lose the memories.’
Maggie stared back at him for a few moments before replying. ‘I know.’
‘I’m telling myself the same thing,’ he added.
She smiled sadly as she looked out at the hills, understanding then that he didn’t want to leave either. ‘I know that too.’