Chapter Twenty-Two
Evelyn
‘Oof. Perfect. Very good,’ says Evelyn with an admiring whistle as Miranda squeezes the hire car into a tiny parking place on the edge of Fiskardo.
‘For once, the god of parallel parking is on my side,’ she says, switching off the engine. ‘Whoever that might be.’
‘Well, Hermes is the god of travel,’ Evelyn says thoughtfully.
‘Thank you, Hermes,’ says Miranda with a little salute.
‘Or maybe it’s Tyche, goddess of success, fortune, luck and prosperity,’ Evelyn goes on.
‘She sounds like someone you want to be on the right side of,’ Miranda comments. She unclips her seatbelt, then puts her hands together as if in prayer. ‘Thank you, gracious Tyche. Much appreciated.’
The two of them emerge from the car’s air-conditioned confines into the warmth of the day. The sun beats down on Evelyn’s bare head and she finds herself wishing she’d thought to bring a sunhat like Miranda’s. Her white hair has thinned over the years and it’s not pleasant to imagine her scalp, pink as a side of bacon, turning crispy with the heat. The last thing she wants is sunstroke when she’s saying her final goodbye to Rose, she thinks, her hand tightening round her bag strap. Are you ready in there? I’m not sure Iam, you know.
They set off down a street of colourfully painted Venetian-style houses. According to the local history website she read the night before, this village was one of the few places on Kefalonia to be unaffected by the terrible earthquake back in the fifties, which makes the houses here some of the oldest on the island. What must it have been like for the local people at that time, she wonders, to have heard about the hundreds of deaths and injuries elsewhere on Kefalonia, as well as reports of so many other islanders having had their livelihoods reduced to rubble, utterly destroyed? If you were one of the few whose home and family remained unscathed, would you feel lucky to have been spared, or plain old guilty?
‘This is gorgeous,’ Miranda says, and Evelyn decides to keep her dark thoughts to herself. ‘So you came here before, on your honeymoon, you said?’
‘Yes,’ Evelyn replies, remembering how they’d hiked up to the old Venetian lighthouse together through the fragrant pine trees, the sea glinting below. She has an image of Rose walking beside her in a full-skirted summer dress, yellow with a splashy print of red and white flowers, and white trainers. They’d held hands, the rings they’d bought each other for the civil partnership ceremony glinting whenever they caught the sun. Oh, Evie, I’m so happy that we’re here, that we’ve done this, she’d said, and Evelyn had felt as if her heart might overflow with joy.
‘Are you all right?’ Miranda asks, and Evelyn crashes back into the present day, with Rose mere ashes in a bag. ‘You look very faraway.’
‘Just reminiscing,’ she replies with a sigh. Coming back to a place where she’s been with Rose always makes her feel as if time has concertinaed and she’s simultaneously experiencing the past and present. It’s a dizzying sensation, as if the ghostly figures of their younger selves are still here, trapped in some kind of time echo, and all she has to do is turn her head quick enough and she’ll be able to see them. If only.
She and Miranda head down a flight of stone steps to the harbourside, which is lined with restaurants and cafés, while yachts butt up against the quay. There are ice cream stalls and souvenir shops, the smell of coffee and fresh bread, the occasional flap of a sail from a mast whenever there’s a breeze. They’d had lunch somewhere along here, Evelyn remembers, and— Oh. She stops walking.
‘Are you sure you’re okay?’ she hears Miranda say.
‘Ijust. . .’ She’s remembered something else: that they had an argument here that day. That their happiness had soured like old milk. What had they argued about? Vague fragments turn in her mind. . . an unpleasant little scene here on the harbour, with Rose squaring up to a man, and Evelyn trying to pull her away. That was it– there had been a homophobic comment thrown at them, perhaps after they’d kissed in public. Evelyn had been upset and dropped Rose’s hand immediately, whereas Rose was defiant, snatching it back, gripping it so tightly, in fact, that it had almost been painful. ‘Oh dear,’ she murmurs under her breath, recalling a miserable lunch in the immediate aftermath, with Rose furiously eating a salad and lecturing Evelyn about standing up for herself, being true to herself. She had completely forgotten that until now but suddenly she is right back there, poking a fork at a bowl of spaghetti and feeling as if she might cry for being such a disappointment to her new wife.
‘Evelyn, what is it? You’re worrying me,’ Miranda says. ‘Shall we sit down in the shade and have a cold drink, maybe? You look a bit wobbly.’
‘Yes, let’s,’ Evelyn says faintly, dismay cascading through her. Well, she can’t leave Rose here then, she decides. Not when it’s the site of an unhappy memory. She hugs her bag close as Miranda steers them into a nearby restaurant, where they take seats under a big umbrella. ‘Sorry,’ she says, seeing Miranda’s look of concern. ‘I’ve brought you here, and I’m already wondering if it was a mistake to come at all. I. . .’ She hesitates but can no longer hold back the truth. ‘I’m meant to be scattering the last of Rose’s ashes somewhere on Kefalonia, you see. I’m on this kind of. . . quest. This is my last stop.’
‘Wow,’ says Miranda in surprise. ‘What a lovely thing to do for her. What, and you’re going to scatter them here, in Fiskardo?’ Her eyes narrow. ‘Or not?’ she adds perceptively.
Evelyn sighs. ‘Originally, Ithought this would be a good spot, but. . .’ She trails off as a waiter approaches, and then orders herself a bottle of mineral water, while Miranda opts for a double espresso.
‘Ijust remembered that we had an argument here,’ Evelyn continues after the waiter has vanished again. ‘Me and Rose, Imean. And I’m just not sure Ican bring myself to leave her in a place where she told me Iwas a wet lettuce.’
Miranda splutters. ‘You? A wet lettuce? Never,’ she declares.
‘Compared to her Iwas,’ Evelyn replies. She remembers arriving at the hotel where they’d stayed, and Rose insisting on them walking up to reception hand in hand, magnificently facing down anyone who so much as gave them an odd look. You could tell that the place was a bit old-fashioned because the twin beds that they pushed together every night would be firmly separated again by the cleaners by day, but nobody questioned them aloud, probably because of that I-dare-you glint in Rose’s eye. ‘She was always much braver than me,’ she continues. ‘Much better at standing up for injustice, for civil rights, for the oppressed. She was a proper firebrand, Rose. That was what was so awful about her wasting away at the end, being so. . . so. . . weak.’ She gives Miranda a rueful smile. ‘But when you’re married to a firebrand, sometimes you end up getting a bit scorched, Iguess. One of the small prices we pay for love.’
Miranda nods, takes off her sunglasses and puts them on the table. Her eyes are a lovely conker brown, beneath delicately arched eyebrows. ‘Ilove hearing you talking about Rose,’ she says. ‘Even if Idisagree profoundly with her wet-lettuce allegation. And from all that you’ve said, Itotally get that you want to find the right place to scatter her ashes. But you don’t need to apologise for bringing us here. We can try other places. I’ve got the car all week; Idon’t mind driving you around, if that helps.’
‘Oh, Miranda,’ Evelyn says, touched by the offer. ‘You don’t have to do that. It’s very generous of you but Icouldn’t possibly impose on your holiday in such a way.’
‘Why not? Honestly, Idon’t have anything better to do. Besides, Icould do with carrying out a good deed here and there, to see if Ican get karma back on my side.’ She pulls a funny face but there’s a sadness about her too. ‘Might even keep me out of trouble,’ she adds, a little forlornly.
To think Evelyn had found Miranda so stand-offish at first when the truth is that, beneath all of the trappings and attitude, she’s really just a girl who’s lost her way. Not that she’d thank Evelyn for any such pitying observations, mind you. ‘Well, if you’re absolutely sure and not just being polite, then Iwould be delighted to take you up on that,’ Evelyn tells her. The waiter returns and sets down their drinks, and she sips her water. How can she convince the other woman that she is an ally, to be trusted? Tell me, she wants to say. Confide in me. She’s old enough to know by now that you don’t turn your life around by squashing your troubles into dark hidden corners– they need to be brought out and aired, like washing on a line. But you can’t force someone to open up to you just because you think they should. ‘Don’t forget by the way, seeing as you’re driving, that I’m paying for these– and for lunch too, when we get to that,’ she says instead. ‘No arguing!’
Miranda’s lips twitch in amusement. ‘God, no, Iwouldn’t dream of arguing with a wet lettuce,’ she teases, raising her tiny espresso cup in the air. ‘Cheers, Evelyn.’
‘And cheers to you too, Miranda. And FYI, as the young people say, Iwill be writing up an extremely glowing commendation for whoever’s in charge of karma.’
‘Please do,’ Miranda says fervently. ‘Ineed all the help Ican get.’ She wrinkles her nose. ‘Have you ever googled yourself, Evelyn? Because if you google “Miranda Vallance bitch” or “Miranda Vallance ugly” or “Miranda Vallance shit”, you’ll discover there are literally thousands of people out there who seem to think I’m the worst person alive.’
Evelyn’s mouth drops open in disbelief. There’s so much of this little speech she simply cannot fathom. ‘Why on earth,’ she begins, ‘would you google “Miranda Vallance bitch”? Please don’t do that again. What good can come of it? You’re not a bitch, you’re not ugly, you’re not shit. There– I’ve saved you the bother of ever having to look those things up again.’
Miranda responds with a smile but it’s not a proper one. She shrugs. ‘It’s just. . . Idon’t know. Kind of a self-hatred itch that you need to scratch sometimes, Iguess. Everyone famous does it.’
‘Do they? Iknow lots of insecure famous people too, but they never go in for quite such brutal self-flagellation,’ Evelyn says. ‘Please, Miranda, I’m serious. Iknow it’s a free world and you’re entitled to do what you want, but that seems a particularly masochistic path to take. We were always told never to read our reviews. Deliberately seeking out negativity seems to me—’
‘Wait a minute,’ Miranda interrupts. ‘Who’s “we”? Are you an actor too?’
‘No, not an actor. A musician. Iplayed the cello,’ says Evelyn. ‘A long time ago now, obviously.’
‘But. . . professionally? Famously?’
‘Iwouldn’t say “famously” but yes, professionally, for lots of orchestras around the world. For the London Symphony Orchestra for many years,’ Evelyn says, her thoughts spinning back to some of the more memorable evenings she spent performing: at the wonderful Concert Hall in Lucerne, the Musikverein in Vienna, and of course the concrete unloveliness of the Barbican in London, which will always hold a special place in her heart.
‘Wow, Evelyn, you are such a dark horse,’ Miranda says. ‘What a fantastic career to have had. All those lives you must have touched, all those hearts you must have gladdened. . .’
‘Well, Idon’t know about that,’ Evelyn demurs, but she’s pleased nonetheless. When you get to eighty-two, people tend to look at you and write you off as old and feeble; they can’t see that you have decades of vivid, glorious experiences stacked up behind you. Adventures. A career. Audiences in auditoria rising to their feet in applause.
‘Ibet loads of people have fallen in love, listening to you play,’ Miranda goes on, warming to her theme. ‘Marriages proposed, babies conceived. . .’
‘Not at the Barbican, Ihope,’ Evelyn says severely, but she smiles, amused to imagine how appalled Gregor, their terrifying conductor, would have been at the suggestion.
‘Well, you never know,’ jokes Miranda. ‘If the mood takes you, then the mood takes you, Evelyn. . .’
The waiter, arriving at the table to see if everything is okay, seems a bit taken aback to find the two women hooting with laughter. ‘ Efcharisto ,’ Evelyn says, still chuckling. ‘We’re fine, thanks.’ Her lips twitch again. ‘Dear me. Babies conceived indeed. There’s a thought.’
She’s still clutching her handbag, she realises, and sets it down on the ground, looping the strap round her chair leg. It looks like her beloved Rose has a stay of. . . hmm, execution is the wrong word under the circumstances, she thinks, screwing up her face– but they will at least have a little longer together, now that she’s ruled out Fiskardo as her final resting place. And that’s fine, she decides, exhaling. It’s taken her this many years to deliver on the promise she made her, after all; there’s no rush to finish the job. She’ll know the right place to leave Rose when she finds it. In the meantime. . . well, she has a feeling she’s going to rather enjoy herself with Miranda as her companion. Who would have thought?