Chapter 7 Aunt Julia Softens
‘I’ll be with you in a moment!’ Julia had been putting away some shopping when I knocked. ‘The ice cream might melt.’
‘I’m sorry to have interrupted!’ Jess was sniffing about my ankles, but she knew me now and quickly retreated satisfied to her basket. ‘I’ve just been to see Kyle, but he’s busy now so I thought I’d nip up and say hi.’
‘You’re not interrupting,’ Julia said, returning to her task.
A scuffling, the sound of the fridge door closing, then she came through, removed a newspaper from her chair and bid me sit in the other.
‘Usually Kyle does my shopping, but he hasn’t had time today.
You’ve not come about that book he found, have you?
Nasty things, that Jary woman said about the family. So unnecessary.’ She glared.
‘You’d seen the book before?’ I asked, realizing my task would be harder than I thought.
‘Someone showed it to my mother when it was published. My cousin Christopher was most put out. Wouldn’t have it in the house.’
‘I can see it might have been upsetting,’ I said gently. ‘I think Kyle’s just trying to understand his family history.’ I took a deep breath. ‘And she wrote about my family, too.’
‘What d’you mean?’
I’d got her attention now and quickly explained about Betty and Eric working at the brewery.
Her face clouded. ‘I hardly remember John Rutherfurd, my grandfather. I was seven when he died, but I do recall being frightened of him. My mother used to bring me to see him and I knew instinctively he didn’t understand young children.
I was a nervous little girl. Once I knocked a vase of flowers off a table and he harrumphed at me.
Like a camel.’ She made such a funny face that I couldn’t help laughing.
And that made her laugh too. It made her look much younger.
‘Do you remember his wife, your grandma?’
‘Ann? Yes, she was the sweetest thing, but she never stood up to him. And she didn’t change much after he went. Sad really.’
Her eyes softened as she thought about the past.
‘Have you any more photos of the family?’ I enquired carefully ‘I mean, I know there are the paintings downstairs, but they’re quite formal.’
Julia hesitated for only a moment. ‘I suppose there’s no harm,’ she said to herself.
She rose and went across to a glass-fronted bookcase by the window and bent to open a dark-wood cupboard at the bottom.
I watched her ease out a large, leather-bound photograph album, which she brought over, sitting down with it in her lap and putting on her spectacles.
Slowly, she turned the pages. It was so old that some of the photographs had come loose and she struggled to keep them in place.
She arrived at the page she wanted and angled the album towards me.
I leaned to see what she was pointing at.
A photograph of John Rutherfurd in his mayoral chain, scowling beneath his receding hair.
Another of his wife sitting in a garden chair, a large sunhat shielding her face.
A picture of Julia’s mother Diana, very young in a ball gown, her square face a feminine version of her father’s, the skin so smooth I knew the photo had been touched up.
I took the album from her and turned the page and my eyes widened.
Here were several different shots of a young woman who was obviously Bird.
She was sitting on a rug on the back lawn – I recognized Farthington House in the background – with her arm round an elderly spaniel.
Her pretty smiling face and cloud of fair hair made her instantly recognizable, but here she didn’t look as much like me.
‘What happened to Bird?’ I asked Julia, showing her the pictures with the dog.
‘I never met her, you know,’ Julia murmured with a frown. ‘When the news came that she’d died…’
‘She died… of course.’ Or she’d be over a hundred now, like Margaret Jary.
‘They’re all dead,’ Julia said wistfully. ‘Mummy, Uncle Andrew, Christopher… I’m the only one left.’
‘Apart from Kyle,’ I corrected gently.
‘Yes, Kyle.’ Her face softened and I could see that she liked her distant cousin, even if she disapproved of his plans for the house.
‘When did Bird die?’ I urged.
Julia’s gaze sharpened. ‘I remember exactly. It was Mummy’s fiftieth birthday – 1968. The news put Mummy in a rage. Said it was just like her sister to ruin her special day. That she’d ruined everything else.’
I stared at her, shocked. ‘That sounds… I’m sorry… a bit harsh.’
‘My mother was a very… bitter woman,’ Julia stumbled over the words, ‘but there was much good in her too. People didn’t always see that.’
‘What had made her so bitter?’ I asked gently.
Her answer was to lean towards me and turn back a page of the album. She tapped her finger on the photograph of her grandfather John Rutherfurd and an unpleasant feeling arose in me. She said, ‘Bird was his favourite child and Mummy resented that.’
I stared at the picture and saw again John’s likeness to Diana.
The square jaw, the determined expression.
I glanced at Julia. She too could be stubborn and determined, but whoever her own father had been she’d inherited his looks rather than her mother’s.
I wanted to ask about who he was, but she’d stood and started fussing about, talking to her budgies as she fed them. Now wasn’t the moment.
When I turned the final pages of the album, a sheet of writing paper sailed onto the floor. I picked it up and saw it was written over in biro. I found further sheets tucked untidily behind a flap inside the back cover.
Julia was still attending to her birds so I studied the paper in my hand, making out the spidery handwriting.
‘It’s time I set everything down,’ the first phrase read, then, ‘It’s difficult to know where to start.
’ The next few words had been crossed out.
Below was written the words ‘Earliest Memories’, then ‘Who am I writing this for???’ How curious.
I eased the pile of paper out from the flap and squared the pages, twenty or thirty of them, written on both sides. I flicked through, reading a name or two I recognized: ‘Rutherfurd’, ‘Andrew’, ‘My sister, Esme…’ It was a kind of personal account – it might tell me more about Bird.
Julia returned to her seat and I glanced up her enquiringly. ‘I don’t mean to pry, but what is this?’
Julia bent to see and an odd light came into her eyes. She reached, snatched the pages from me and held them close. ‘That’s private,’ she said, glaring at me.
Suddenly I understood. ‘Did Diana write it?’
Julia hesitated then took a deep breath.
‘Mummy died in 1999, but she was housebound in her last year. She liked to rest in the sitting room and watch the birds in the garden or read or work tapestry. She grew very deaf so it was difficult to have much conversation. Instead, she started writing. I didn’t know how much she’d written until after her death.
She never showed me, you see. I found all this in her sewing bag.
I read it, of course, but it’s disturbing.
I couldn’t bear to see it so I put it away, but forgot where. ’
‘Could I read it?’ I begged. ‘I wouldn’t do anything with it. I want to know more about Bird.’
‘Why?’
‘Because I look like her and… I don’t know why exactly.’
I watched her consider my request then come to a decision. She handed the pages back to me. ‘Take it. Take it away and read it.’
I stared down at the wodge of paper, my pulse quickening with excitement. I could hardly believe the trust that this stubborn old woman had just placed in me. She’d been so suspicious to begin with. How different she’d become.
‘I haven’t forgotten what you do for a living,’ she snapped, as though she’d heard my thoughts. ‘I’m trusting you to keep this to yourself.’
‘You can trust me—’ I began, but she broke in.
‘You’ve a right to know.’
‘A right to know,’ I echoed, not understanding, but Julia hurried on.
‘Yes. And Kyle thinks well of you. He can’t take his eyes off you!’
I don’t blush easily, but my face grew hot at that.
Watching me, she laughed and suddenly I saw that some heavy burden had been lifted from her.
‘Can I show it to Kyle?’
‘Read it first, then… maybe.’ She sighed deeply, then pushed herself up from her chair, calling the dog for its walk. Our meeting was over.
I followed them down the winding backstairs and through the house to the front door.
Here I paused and got out my phone. ‘I’d better tell Kyle I’m leaving,’ I told her and she nodded.
Jess was whining, eager to be off, so we said goodbye and the front door closed behind them.
I texted Kyle asking if he still wanted me to pop back, then waited in the quiet of the hall for a response.
The cleaner had departed, but the house felt watchful.
Perhaps the ghost of a uniformed maid might appear, or a whiskery gentleman in a frock coat.
Instead, the only movement was a petal falling from the vase, the only sound a distant buzz of a passing motorcycle.
My phone remained silent. Kyle must still be busy.
This was actually a relief. Julia had been reluctant to show him her mother’s account and it felt wrong to turn up with it and not be able to tell him.
There was a further reason for my relief.
A sort of shyness. Julia’s comment about his interest in me had struck a tender spot.
I’d been wounded by a recent rejection – a writer I’d met through work – and didn’t feel brave enough to risk another just yet.
I would email Kyle later, I thought, once I’d read Diana’s memoir.
Best to keep our relationship cool and professional.
My phone pinged and I looked at it uncertainly, but it was only Dad wondering where I was. I replied that I was coming and let myself out into the gathering darkness.
‘I was worried, Amy.’ I found Dad in a fretful mood and in some discomfort so I quickly handed over the painkillers.
‘I was okay, Dad,’ I said gently. Since what had happened to Mum, he feared the worst if someone was late. This could be annoying, but was perfectly understandable.
‘The roads can be slippery this time of year. It’s the leaves.’ He swallowed the pills with some water and I hurried off to make dinner. He liked to eat early and I was hungry, too.
As we ate chicken stir-fry, I told him about my afternoon and about Diana’s papers, still making a bulge in my handbag.
I brought them out and showed them to him.
He reached for his spectacles, looked at the first pages and shook his head.
‘The writing’s very quavery, but I’m sure you’ll make it out. ’
‘I’d like to go through it tonight,’ I said. ‘Would you mind?’
‘Of course not. I’ve a bit of admin to do myself if you’ll let me use my own study.’
‘I think I could allow that.’ We smiled at one another. He seemed less in pain and more cheerful and naturally I was glad.
Once I’d stacked the dishwasher, I made us both coffee, fetched the handbag and my laptop and retreated upstairs.
My room, under the eaves, could be chilly, but I loved the sloping ceiling, the double bed and the rosebud wallpaper I’d helped Mum choose for when I came to stay.
I switched on a heater and climbed into bed, sitting with the bedside light trained on Diana’s memoir, laid against my raised knees.
After the first page, Diana had continued hesitantly. For every phrase she’d let stand, another had been crossed out. I turned a couple of pages, grateful that she’d numbered them, and saw with relief that she was starting to get into her stride.
‘Who am I writing this for?’ I read again. This uncertain start might be tedious, but I could see her point; Julia, her own child, had seemed worried by the account and hadn’t wanted to show anyone. Perhaps Diana had thought there had been no one who wanted to hear her story! If so, that was sad.
A phrase near the start of the second page startled me, though. ‘The child was,’ it read. What child? The next paragraph had been firmly scribbled out but then the narrative began more confidently.
‘I was born on 10th November 1918, the day before the First World War ended, into a house of mourning. My Uncle Stephen had been killed the previous year, leaving his widow pregnant.’ After that was more crossings out. I turned the page and read on. Diana’s story had begun.