Chapter 52
FIFTY-TWO
As had become her weekly habit, Beatrice was perched on the stairs with her laptop on her knees. The balustrade had been stripped and varnished all the way up now; under her hands she could feel the smoothness of the freshly sanded stair she sat on. She and Orla had been looking at carpets earlier – Beatrice wanted blue but Orla had said grey would be more versatile and Beatrice suspected she was right.
Beatrice sensed that Orla was approaching their relationship in the same way she was – tentatively, yet with a growing sense of trust. She’d told Orla details of her childhood, yet Orla had so far declined to be introduced to Beatrice’s mom and dad over Skype, saying it was too soon for her and probably also for them. Orla had unearthed a box of old photographs in the cellar and shown Beatrice pictures of her own parents and her grandmother. Sometimes Beatrice stood and looked over Orla’s shoulder while she painted, admiring her skill but reluctant to interrupt her work by speaking.
Before she went upstairs to bed, Orla would say goodnight to Beatrice and, just a few days ago, she’d leaned over to drop a kiss on Beatrice’s cheek. The imprint of it seemed to linger there, so precious that Beatrice had been reluctant to wash off her make-up.
The stairwell was as warm now as it had been back in summer – although now it was thanks to the new boiler and radiators that had been installed all through the house. The repair of the roof was complete and the attic rooms above her were dry and empty, waiting to be converted into bedrooms and a proper studio for Orla. A new bathroom was being installed there too – Luke’s final job before he moved out.
Livvie, too, had given Orla notice and was leaving before Christmas. After that, it would be only her and Orla living here.
Beatrice heard the familiar acoustic modem handshake as Skype on her computer reached out to Skype on her parents’, and seconds later their faces appeared on the screen. They were downstairs in the living room today, not in her dad’s office, and Beatrice could see the Christmas tree behind them, laden with glass baubles in shades of red and gold and sparkling with white lights.
‘There you are, honey.’ Her dad beamed. ‘You’re looking well.’
‘I hope you’re getting plenty of rest now you’ve got some time to yourself,’ her mom said.
‘We just wish you were going to come home for Christmas,’ said her dad.
‘I know.’ Beatrice smiled. ‘I’m going to miss you both, and Sligo. I sent gifts for you all. But I wanted to spend a bit more time getting to know Orla. And – well, there’s this boy I’ve kind of been seeing. Neil. I’d like to get to know him better, too.’
‘Oh, sweetie.’ Her mom’s face fell. ‘You know we were worried you’d fall in love with someone out there.’
Beatrice laughed. ‘Take it easy, Mom. I’m not in love with him. You don’t need to start thinking about grandchildren just yet.’
‘And what about your – what about Orla?’ her dad asked.
‘Like I said, it was awkward at first,’ she said. ‘But we’re getting to know each other now, and we’ve got lots in common. She keeps a journal – she calls it Morning Pages – and every time she needs a new notebook she spends ages choosing a special one, just like I would. She’s a really gifted artist. She’s been doing some sketches of me and they’re beautiful – she’s asked me to sit for a proper portrait and I think I will.’
Her mom sighed. ‘So it sounds as if it’ll be a while before we see you again.’
‘I think so.’ Beatrice knew so, but she’d been planning to break it gently to them. ‘I could get another job as a nanny easily, but I think I’d like to study, or do some work experience in early years education. Maybe even a course in counselling or a master’s in social work. I could – I thought, I’d love to work with children who’ve been adopted, like me.’
‘I understand.’ Beatrice’s dad reached over and took his wife’s hand. ‘I guess we’d better start planning a trip out to London then, hadn’t we, Ruth?’
‘That would be so cool! You can meet Orla and Neil, and see the house.’
‘Did you say Orla went to art college in Dublin?’ her father asked. ‘Was it the IADT?’
‘No, I don’t think so. She hasn’t been back to Ireland since – you know. She doesn’t talk about that time much.’
Beatrice felt her mind turning over the conversations she’d had with Orla, all the details she’d gleaned about her past. She’d spoken at length about her childhood – the huge grey house where she’d spent holidays with her grandmother, surrounded by fields where horses grazed; the terms at boarding school, where teenage Orla had rebelled and been expelled; the turbulent relationship between her glamorous mother and hard-drinking, feckless father.
But Orla was vague about the time surrounding Beatrice’s conception and birth. It was understandable, she thought – eventually, Orla would open up more about what must have been a deeply traumatic period in her life.
‘And you told us she never got to see you after you were born,’ her mom was saying. ‘Poor woman.’
‘It was a Caesarean section,’ Beatrice said. ‘And they took me away from her right after. It sounds brutal. But then I got to go home with you, didn’t I?’
‘You sure did.’ Beatrice’s dad smiled.
‘Well, mind you come home again,’ her mom said. ‘I feel for Orla, losing you. Really, I do. But that doesn’t mean we want to lose you too.’
‘You won’t,’ Beatrice reassured her. ‘I’m only a flight away and there’s plenty of me to go around. More than enough for you and Orla.’
And Neil , she thought.
Then the internet connection began to drop as it often did and Beatrice said goodbye, promising to Skype again on Christmas Day, after her parents had got back from church.
‘Love you, Mom. Love you, Dad. Tell Sligo I love him too.’
Her parents’ answer broke up into crackling and the screen went blank. But that was okay – Beatrice knew what they’d been saying.
She put her computer back in her room and went downstairs.
Orla was in the kitchen, sitting at the table with the cat on her lap. She was writing in a notebook – not one of the special ones she used for her Morning Pages but an ordinary spiral-bound one from the newsagent. Beatrice could smell soup – carrot and coriander, maybe. She didn’t mind eating Orla’s vegetarian food so much now – she no longer felt she had any point to prove.
‘Hello.’ Orla smiled. ‘Everything all right with your parents?’
One day , Beatrice thought, maybe one day she’ll say, Hello, darling. Just not yet.
‘All good.’ She sat down across from Orla. ‘They’re not thrilled about me staying here over the holidays, but they understand.’
‘They’ve had you all your life, and now it’s my turn?’ Orla smiled.
‘Something like that.’
They both laughed, even though neither had said anything particularly funny. Beatrice relished the moment of connection – one of many moments there had been over the past couple of weeks as they’d grown to understand each other – tentative at first, but growing more confident with familiarity.
Then Orla said, ‘Beatrice. There’s something I want to speak to you about.’
Beatrice felt her stomach turn over anxiously. Had she done something wrong? Had something happened to disturb the fragile accord she was building with Orla?
‘It’s nothing bad. It could end up being a good thing.’
But the churning didn’t subside. ‘Go on.’
‘It’s about this house,’ Orla said, looking down at her notebook. Beatrice could see columns of figures on its lined pages – that and a doodle of a robin on a sprig of holly. Orla always drew when she was thinking, Beatrice had learned.
‘What about it?’
‘Yesterday I had an estate agent come round and value it. The renovation’s almost done, you know, apart from extending out down here and putting in a proper kitchen to replace this mess. And I can’t afford to do that now, because all the money from that grant’s been spent.’
‘It doesn’t matter,’ Beatrice said. ‘I like this kitchen.’
‘So do I.’ Orla smiled. ‘But the rest of it – it’s too big for just the two of us, you know. And now the heating’s in it’s going to cost a fortune to keep warm. The estate agent said – well, he said lots of things, they always do. But he said it’ll be worth a lot of money.’
‘You’re thinking of selling this house?’ Beatrice couldn’t keep the shock from showing in her face.
‘Just thinking ,’ Orla said hastily. ‘I haven’t made a decision yet. But I wanted to talk to you about it because – well, it’ll be yours one day. The house or the money I sell it for.’
‘I don’t want money. I don’t want to even think about – you know. That.’
‘I’m not going to drop dead any time soon.’ Orla looked up from her notepad and her steady hazel eyes met Beatrice’s. ‘Please don’t think that. But although you’re welcome to live here for as long as you want, it won’t be forever. You might want a place of your own. You might want to go back to America. And I can’t be rattling around here on my own.’
‘You could get more lodgers,’ Beatrice said. ‘Like me and Luke and Livvie.’
‘Believe me, I’ve thought about that. But much as I’ve loved the past few months, I’m not sure I can face doing it again.’
Once again, there was that moment of connection, and they both laughed.
‘I get that,’ Beatrice said. ‘But I’m still here. I’m not going anywhere.’
‘Not yet. I hope not for a long time. But you will.’
Beatrice looked around the cosy, shabby kitchen – the only thing left of the dilapidated wreck Orla had inherited. She knew, now, what it had cost to bring it all back to life – not just in terms of money, but in terms of Luke’s labour, Orla’s anguish and Livvie’s heartbreak. And as for her – only now did she realise how precious number five Damask Square had become to her. It was here that she’d confronted truths about herself, come face to face with the mother she had lost and left behind the child she had been.
‘Don’t,’ she said. ‘Please don’t sell it, Orla.’
‘I won’t right away. I promise. It – and I – will be here for as long as you need. But eventually, it’s something I’ll have to consider.’
‘There’s a way.’ The idea came to Beatrice all at once, fully formed. ‘My dad – he teaches history of art at a private university. His students are all from wealthy families, and every summer they come out to Europe on their grand tours. They come to London first and visit the National Gallery and Tate Modern and everything, and then they go off to Paris and Florence and Vienna and whatever.’
‘Go on,’ Orla said, her face intent.
‘Well, when they’re in London, they’d need somewhere to stay,’ Beatrice went on. ‘Somewhere comfortable, with someone who can help them plan their travel itinerary and introduce them to London. Someone who knows art.’
‘Someone like me,’ Orla said.
‘Exactly! They’d pay a fortune – much more than we’ve been paying. And they wouldn’t stay long so they wouldn’t have a chance to – you know.’
‘Become annoying?’
They laughed for longer this time, in shared silliness and relief.
‘It’s a good idea,’ Orla said. ‘It really is. We’ll talk about it some more in the new year.’
Next year , Beatrice thought. Next year, I’ll still be here.
‘Shall I get a couple of bowls for our soup?’ she asked.