Chapter 2
2
PRESENT DAY
Maggie had woken early and was on the road well before most, especially on a Sunday. Tiger had protested at being put in his cage at first but settled quickly once on the passenger seat. Maggie packed her laptop so she could stay on top of things whilst away, but she wasn’t due back in the studio until Friday; it felt like a minibreak. Not that visiting her parents really counted as a minibreak but for now, familiar surroundings were all Maggie wanted.
Hitting shuffle on her current favourite playlist, a mix of folk, rock anthems and some classic hip hop thrown in for good measure, Maggie set off on the familiar route feeling better than she had done for a while. Getting out of the city was like coming up for air. As she left the suburbs and hit open motorway, she lost herself in the music, singing loudly. Every now and again Tiger would make his presence known with a paw through the cage door to get Maggie’s attention. She stopped for coffee after a few hours, then again for a sandwich and a packet of crisps a few hours after that, before pushing on through the Northumberland landscape with its big skies and finally into the Scottish Borders. Catching her first sight of Eildon Hill as she made her way towards her hometown of Melrose always made her feel like a kid again. Along with her parents, she’d walked that hill almost every Sunday morning as a child and seeing the outline on the horizon never failed to transport her back to that time in an instant. Crossing the River Tweed over the old stone bridge, she wound her way up the hill on the other side and turned off the road onto the track leading to the farm. The sun was still bright, just a few clouds in the sky. The house came into view, its whitewashed walls and bright blue door looking exactly as it always did. The last of the roses hung around the door frame and as Maggie pulled the car up in front of the house, out came her mother. Dressed in her familiar uniform of jeans, an old white cotton shirt with the sleeves rolled up and a clay-splattered navy apron over the top, she wore a beaming smile on her face. A small black and white Jack Russell and an old black Labrador followed close behind.
Maggie opened the car door. ‘Hey, Mum.’
‘Darling, you must be exhausted. Come inside, I’ve just put the kettle on. All good?’
‘I’m fine, Mum, thank you.’ She got out and hugged her mother. ‘It’s so lovely to be home.’
Her mother hugged her back hard. ‘We’ve missed you. We’ve been worried about you.’
‘I know you have, I’m sorry. I just got busy with work.’
‘Did you get my last letter?’ Her mother looked at Maggie, smiling hopefully.
‘I did, thank you. I love your letters, Mum. I think you might be one of the only people left who writes them.’
Her mother looked her daughter straight in the eye. ‘How are you doing?’
Maggie nodded. ‘Getting there.’ She reached down and stroked the Labrador, now leaning against her legs. ‘Hey, Juno.’
There was a loud meow from the passenger seat. Maggie went round to open the door. ‘Let me bring Tiger in. He’ll be happy enough once he’s back in your kitchen.’
They chatted as Maggie’s mother made up a tray with a pot of tea, a jug of milk and three mugs. Maggie sat watching from the old kitchen table, covered in the usual debris of books, old newspapers and a pot filled with pencils and pens. It always amused Maggie that her mother, a celebrated ceramicist and something of a local celebrity, prized that pot Maggie had made for her many years ago at school over anything she’d made herself.
Maggie’s father appeared at the door, still in his farm overalls. ‘Sylvie, you didn’t tell me Margaret was here!’
‘Michael, how many times do I have to ask you not to come in here in those boots, they’re filthy!’ Sylvie threw him a look.
Maggie got up and went to her father. ‘Hi, Dad.’
He hugged his daughter then held her face in his hands before kissing her forehead. ‘Let me get these boots off before she banishes me.’ Her father rolled his eyes and laughed. ‘Is that tea?’
‘It is. Do you want some cake?’ Sylvie reached for a battered old biscuit tin on the side.
‘Ooh, yes please,’ chorused father and daughter.
They sat eating fruit cake with their fingers as they caught up on Maggie’s news. She told them about her latest job, including the disastrous morning she’d had the day before.
‘When does that finish?’ Her father spoke through a mouthful of cake.
‘I’ve just finished so I’ve got a bit of a break before the next one.’ Maggie wrapped her fingers around her mug. ‘There’s a job that’s come up, it’s a two-month project but I think Jack might be working on it too, so I haven’t committed yet.’
‘Isn’t that a bit unfair?’ Her mother looked at Maggie, one eyebrow raised.
Maggie sighed. ‘It’s just the way it goes, Mum. We always knew this would happen; we work in the same industry.’
‘But why can’t you take the job and Jack find something else?’ Maggie’s father bristled.
‘Dad, honestly. It’s not a problem. We’ll work it out as we go. I’m not sure I’d want to take it anyway. The job involves pop stars from the nineties competing to get back into the charts with a live show every Saturday night. I swore never again after the last time I did something like that, so I’ll only take it if nothing else comes up. Which it usually does, touch wood.’ Maggie put her fingers on the kitchen table, feeling the familiar grooves in the wood under her fingertips. The hours they’d spent round that table as a family, the three of them but always with people coming and going. Over the years various friends, often fellow artists, had come to stay for a few days and would still be there a month or so later. At times it had felt like a commune; Maggie loved it and being an only child, she’d never had to vie for attention. There was always someone to talk to in the kitchen.
‘I’m sure it will,’ said her mother, reaching for Maggie’s empty plate. ‘Another slice?’
‘If it’s alright with you, I might just walk down to the river after that drive.’ Maggie got up from her chair, attracting the attention of the two dogs curled up in a basket by the range cooker. She looked at them. ‘You heard the word “walk”, didn’t you?’
‘Oh, do take them, they’d love that.’ Sylvie gathered the empty mugs and walked to the sink. ‘Michael, did you take that pie out of the freezer?’
‘I think so, let me go and check.’
‘Just to take it out and put it on the top.’ Sylvie waited until he’d left the room. ‘He’s getting so forgetful.’
‘How is he?’ Maggie leant against the wall, watching her father through the large kitchen window as he crossed the yard to the barn.
‘Not too bad, all things considered. But we do have to keep an eye on it. Regular check-ups, that sort of thing.’
Neither wanted to say the word ‘dementia’ out loud but it sat there, like an unwanted guest.
‘You will tell me when it gets worse, won’t you?’
‘He’s alright, really. As long as he’s here at home with me, he’s happy. There is something I need to talk to you about, though. I was going to tell you in my next letter but now you’re here it makes things a bit easier.’
‘What is it?’ Maggie felt panic rise in her chest.
‘Nothing bad, don’t worry.’ Her mother gestured for Maggie to sit back down. ‘I got a letter recently, from an old friend of my mother’s. I’ve not heard from her for years, not since your grandmother died.’ She picked up a letter from a pile on the table and slipped open the envelope. Putting her glasses on, she unfolded the piece of paper carefully. ‘It’s from a woman called Allegra; they knew each other in Paris.’
Maggie looked surprised. ‘I didn’t know she lived in Paris. What was she doing there?’
‘Studying photography at an art college – her parents lived there for a couple of years – and Allegra was her best friend there. American, very glamorous by all accounts.’
Maggie tried to imagine her grandmother as a teenager in Paris. They’d adored each other and Maggie used to love visiting her as a little girl, making the long journey south with her parents in the car to stay in her cottage by the sea. Widowed at a young age, her grandmother had brought up her mother for much of her life on her own. Maggie had been in her late teens when she’d died and still missed her dreadfully. ‘What does the letter say?’
‘Allegra lives in France now. She left the US and retired to Cannes after her husband died apparently. She says she’s been going through some old boxes that hadn’t been touched for years and found one belonging to my mother. It’s got some of her photographs and her old camera. She says she thought about sending it but wondered if we might like to go and collect it instead, given it’s obviously got sentimental value. She didn’t want to just put it in the post without asking me first.’ Maggie’s mother looked up from the words on the paper, a small smile on her face. ‘Obviously I can’t leave your father here on his own…’
‘You want me to stay here and look after him?’ Maggie couldn’t hide the reluctance in her voice, much to her instant embarrassment.
‘No, Maggie, I want you to go and get it.’
‘But surely you want to go and see her yourself, don’t you?’
Her mother looked out of the window. ‘I would love to, really. More than anything it would be lovely to talk to her about her time with my mother… but I really can’t. As I said, your father has good days and bad days and for now I want to be here for all of them.’ She sat down and reached for her daughter’s hands across the table. ‘Darling, all I’m suggesting is that you think about it. My mother used to talk about this woman all the time. They kept in touch practically until the day your grandmother died. Allegra always sounded so interesting, and she knew all the famous artists, everyone from Picasso to Warhol apparently. You could stay for a few days; she’s offering a room at her house so it’s not going to cost much more than the flight there. Which, if you go, I would like to treat you to.’
‘Mum, I haven’t said I’ll go yet and even if I did you don’t have to do that.’
‘It would be your birthday present and besides, you’d be doing me a favour. I’m not leaving your father so hearing all about it from you is the next best thing. I’d love to see some more of my mother’s photographs; I don’t know much about her time there. I’ve always regretted not asking her more about it when I had the chance.’
Maggie hadn’t entertained the idea of going anywhere on holiday for a while, certainly not since her divorce. It was years since she’d had a real change of scene. But how could she just drop everything and go? What about Tiger? Then the penny dropped. Was this her mother’s way of getting Maggie out of her current rut without being seen to interfere?
‘Don’t overthink it,’ her mother said, gently, squeezing Maggie’s hands.
Maggie gave her a sideways glance, a wry smile on her face. ‘Don’t think I’m not onto you.’ She stood up, the dogs immediately at her feet, all eyes on her. ‘Back in about half an hour.’ Maggie kissed the top of her mother’s head.
‘See you in a bit. And can you just check your father hasn’t forgotten to take that pie out on your way past?’
* * *
Maggie set off along the path that ran along the riverbank, both dogs walking dutifully close behind. She made her way down the familiar narrow road from the house towards the chain bridge that linked them to the Melrose side of the river. The road was lined with old oaks and thick cotton wool clouds hung low in the sky. The sun still shone but the air was beginning to cool. Maggie looked across the dark waters of the Tweed towards the triple peaks of the Eildons beyond. She headed east along the river towards one of her favourite places, a deep holding pool on the bend. Reaching the corner, Maggie made her way across the grass to the water’s edge. She picked a spot on a rock overlooking the long, deep pool and sat, watching the water as it swirled and eddied. The dogs made themselves comfortable in the long grass behind her, settling down for a late afternoon snooze. Clearly the fish weren’t biting; there wasn’t a fisherman to be seen, not even in the shallows further upstream. She kept her eyes on the stout-coloured water, hoping to catch a glimpse of a salmon. Before long, her mind had wandered back to the last conversation she’d had with Jack just a few months before. She’d gone over it so many times in her head and still it didn’t make sense.
They’d agreed to meet for a drink to toast their decree absolute. It had been Jack’s suggestion and had seemed like quite a good idea at the time. After all, they’d both agreed to a divorce in the first place. Saying no would have seemed churlish. And so there they were, sitting opposite each other at a table outside a pub in Hampstead, both smiling as they raised their glasses. Hard as it was, Maggie was determined to ‘do’ divorce in a civilised manner.
They’d met on a TV job years before; she was an assistant producer and Jack was a cameraman. The attraction had been instant and three months later, by the end of the gig, she’d moved into his rented flat. Life went by in a blur of work, long lazy Sundays spent mostly in bed or in the pub with friends along with the occasional trip out of London to visit their families. After a couple of years, Jack proposed and Maggie was over the moon. So far, so normal.
After almost three years of marriage, on Maggie’s thirty-fourth birthday, they’d been out for dinner with friends and on the walk back home Jack had raised the subject of starting a family. Despite worrying about temporarily losing an income, they decided the time was right. Nine months later, Maggie stood in their bathroom holding a pregnancy test in her hand. It had been the first time she’d been late since she’d stopped taking her contraception pills and she braced herself for the moment she’d seen in so many films, the one where she’d walk out of the bathroom and silently show him the stick, waiting for him to see the thin blue line. He would then look at her, a mix of wonder and disbelief. She’d slowly nod, then smile.
Instead, she stood alone in the bathroom, willing the test to tell her she was pregnant. It wasn’t until Jack knocked gently on the door, asking if she was alright, that she realised that line wasn’t going to appear, no matter how long she stood there staring at it.
Almost four years, three rounds of IVF, twenty eggs and six embryos later, there was still no baby. Barely a moment went by when Maggie wasn’t thinking about getting pregnant and each time treatment failed, she felt the gap between the two of them widen. In that time, they went from talking about almost nothing else but having children to not being able to bring up the subject without arguing. Maggie wanted to keep trying; Jack wanted to stop. By this time, some of their friends had started having their own children. Life had changed so much and yet Maggie was stuck where she was, unable to move forward. Unexplained infertility, they’d been told. No matter how many times Jack tried to convince her no one was to blame, Maggie felt ashamed. Somehow, she’d failed. It was all her fault.
Their separation happened quickly. A filming job had taken Jack away from home for two weeks and, both exhausted after years of disappointment and sadness, not to mention financial stress, they realised life was less painful apart than it was together. The fight in them to see it through had gone and they both knew it.
Jack moved out shortly after and Maggie threw herself into work, accepted every invitation to go for drinks from concerned friends and for the next few months tried her best to shut out the pain of the previous few years. And she thought she was covering it up well right up until the point she went to visit her parents for her mother’s birthday.
By this time, Maggie was barely sleeping. She’d lost her appetite almost completely. As they’d sat around the kitchen table on the evening she’d arrived, sitting in familiar surroundings and without the need to put on a brave face, Maggie’s defences had completely crumbled. Once she started crying, she couldn’t stop. She remembered her father quietly leaving the table and returning with a small whisky in a tumbler. Her mother simply held her hand across the table. Maggie had talked and they’d listened, without judgement. Later, she and her mother had walked along the river to the same spot Maggie was in now. She remembered how they’d sat on the rock, her mother telling her how much they loved her, and that Maggie mustn’t lose faith in life.
‘Keep going,’ she’d said. ‘Things will get better, I promise.’
Maggie looked down into the deep waters before her. She’d got so used to living with a feeling of sadness, like a dull ache. Some days were worse than others – passing babies in prams was always hard to bear, even now – and there were times when she’d wondered if she would ever feel truly happy again. But she’d held on to her mother’s words and that sadness didn’t seem to hurt quite as much as it used to.
She thought about her mother’s request, realising it would be churlish to say no. Even if she had no idea who this woman was, it was in the South of France! At the very least she’d be able to see a place she’d always dreamt of. And a change was as good as a rest, as her mother always liked to remind her. Then again, what if a job came up when she was away? Turning down work wasn’t something she could easily afford to do.
Maggie glimpsed a flash of silver underneath the surface. She could just make out the shape of a salmon resting near the bottom of the pool. She watched as it moved gently. Then, with a flick of its tail, it was gone.
‘Keep going,’ she whispered.
By the time Maggie got back to the house it was golden hour and, as ever, her parents were sitting in their usual seats in the garden overlooking the river.
‘Make yourself a drink and come and join us,’ said her father.
‘I will,’ called Maggie. ‘I’m just going to grab a jumper.’ She went into the kitchen, the smell of their supper wafting from the range. The table had been cleared, a pile of plates with some cutlery placed on top of their faded old linen napkins at one end. She poured herself a glass of wine from the chilled bottle of Macon Villages she found in the fridge door and grabbed her jumper from the back of the chair. Stepping outside to join them, she was hit by the familiar scent of lavender and lemon balm hanging in the air.
‘How was your walk?’ Her mother lifted the brim of her old straw hat.
Maggie sat on the grass between them and was soon joined by the dogs, Juno leaning against her body with his full weight as Labradors do. ‘It was so lovely. There wasn’t a soul to be seen down by the river.’
‘See any fish?’ asked her father.
‘One, actually. Quite big, too. Can I do anything to help?’
‘No, it’s all done. Just keeping it warm until we’re ready to eat. Did you have a think about running that errand for me?’ Her mother looked at Maggie hopefully.
‘Errand?’ Her father raised his eyebrows.
‘I told you, Michael. The box of my mother’s things.’ Sylvie smiled at him.
Maggie could tell from her mother’s measured tone that she’d obviously told her father more than once.
‘Oh yes, I remember.’ He nodded but Maggie didn’t think he remembered at all.
‘Tell me about her and Allegra again, Mum?’ Maggie hoped this would save her father from having to ask what she was talking about.
Sylvie took a sip of her whisky and soda. ‘If I remember rightly Allegra was a beautiful American, very tall with auburn hair. My mother on the other hand was quite short with thick dark hair; apparently they made quite a pair. Spent most of their time hanging about in the best jazz clubs in town. Not that my mother’s parents knew that of course.’ Sylvie laughed. ‘This was a time when you had all the greats playing in Paris from John Coltrane to Charlie Parker and my mother was mad about her music. I grew up on those jazz records thanks to her time in Paris.’
‘Have you still got any of them?’
‘Yes, they’re all in the cupboard in there.’ She gestured to the conservatory.
Maggie loved how her parents still listened to vinyl, oblivious to how on trend they were. ‘What brought them back here?’
‘I’m not entirely sure. I know they left quite suddenly because there was some unrest in the city. There were lots of protests going on at the time.’
‘Student protests?’ Maggie sat back on her elbows, stretching her legs out on the grass.
‘No, this was a few years before the student uprising. Something to do with the Algerian war. I know she was devasted to leave. She adored Paris. Where are you going, Michael?’
‘To put one of those records on. I’ll turn the speaker into the garden.’
‘Not too loud, darling. We don’t want to upset the neighbours again,’ Maggie’s mother called after him. ‘Last time I went out in the evening and left him alone, the neighbours on both sides messaged me to ask us what was going on. I got home to find The Allman Brothers blasting from the speakers. I don’t think he realised how loud it was. They weren’t cross really, just worried.’ She sighed.
Maggie reached for her mother’s hand. ‘I’m so sorry, Mum. It must be so hard. I wish I was here more to help.’
‘You being here now is enough.’
The sound of a piano, trumpet and double bass soon drifted from the house into the garden, carried on a gentle breeze.
Maggie thought of her grandmother, imagining her dashing around Paris with her friends. She’d never even been to a jazz club. She took a sip of her wine and listened to the music, wishing for adventure of her own. If only she was brave enough…