Page 38 of Annabel and Her Sisters

I was stunned though, actually, as I left her house.

I’d expected her to dismiss it as the ranting of a sick woman, but there was clearly something to it: something in the past, and it was obviously to do with Joan and Piers.

That photo of Joan and two young men in dinner jackets.

One of them had been Piers, I’d recognized him from the hunting photo.

As I drove away I tried to remember what Mum had told me about their younger days: about a rather sweet, innocent childhood and adolescence in my grandparents’ rambling country home near Hull.

Up in the hills, a few miles away from the city, where Grandpa ran a factory.

So trade, not smart gentry– oh, it mattered in those days, particularly up there.

Grandpa had made his own way up the ladder: working class but clever, a grammar school boy, but he hadn’t been allowed to go to university, because my great-grandparents were too poor to manage without him– he was the eldest son– so he’d eventually managed, and then bought, a shoe factory.

‘How funny, my grandfather did that,’ Max, Polly’s boyfriend, had said, when I mentioned it. ‘Came over on the Windrush , worked his way up, took over and eventually bought a stocking factory, in Stockwell.’

‘No!’ Polly and I had been delighted at the parallel, Max too.

We particularly liked the stockings going into the shoes.

And just as Max’s father had sent his sons to Westminster, Mum and Joan had gone to a local private school, and in the holidays, ridden ponies and gone fishing, with lots of dog walks by the river with Granny and Grandpa– a bit like my own childhood in Somerset in a way– with no brothers, so quite a lot of helping with the animals, logging, that sort of thing.

Granny tried to launch her daughters, as she put it: she threw a party or two for them, which some boys from North Yorkshire, who were much cooler, might deign to attend.

And Joan, I knew, was fast, as it was called in those days.

Liked to show off, out-drink and out-smoke the boys.

A bit of a goer, apparently, although the mind boggled now.

She would have been pretty, I supposed– not beautiful like Mum, but in an athletic sort of way, she could have been rather like Clarissa in her youth.

Suddenly I went hot. I slowed right down on the Fulham Palace Road, so much so that a white van behind me honked impatiently.

I quickly put my foot down again. Just like Clarissa.

Who was so unlike Ginnie and me. And only fifteen months older than Ginnie.

Not unusual in those days, when contraceptives were less available– but…

all at once it struck me like the truck behind was likely to do if I wasn’t careful.

Was Clarissa’s Joan’s daughter? And Piers’s? No. It couldn’t be.

But my mind raced on regardless. Could that be what my mother had been talking about in the hospital?

Was it possible that Mum, who was younger but married, had taken on her sister’s child to bring up, instead of her unmarried, wayward sister?

No, surely not. All this would have come out by now; they’d have told Clarissa, all of us, we’d know.

My father– and my mother– were both entirely honest and straightforward; they would never have let that go undisclosed.

And yet… Clarissa wasn’t like my mother…

she wasn’t even like my father. My father had been slight, quiet, dignified and intellectual.

My hands felt sweaty on the steering wheel.

I took a deep breath. No. I’d been reading too many novels recently, watching too much Netflix, making up too many stories for a living.

An active imagination was my trade, after all.

Even Ginnie would pooh-pooh this, it was absurd.

My mother had suffered a urinary tract infection; it had sent her a bit– you know– dotty.

But why had Joan said ‘ask Pammy’ if there was nothing to know?

Obviously, it was the first thing I did when I got home.

No sign of André, thank goodness, just a plumber, and Polly was working upstairs; I could hear her moving around.

I didn’t even race upstairs and thank her for all the hard work she’d put into organizing Joan’s house; I just dug my phone out of my pocket, scuttled down to the kitchen, shut the door behind me and rang Mum’s best friend.

I hadn’t spoken to her for ages. Indeed, it was Pammy who’d be more inclined to ring me, on my birthday, on both the children’s birthdays.

She was so good at remembering everyone, not just Clarissa, whose godmother she was: more guilt.

But Pammy was a cheerful, happy soul who never bore a grudge and she was delighted to hear from me.

‘You’re coming down, darling?’ she cried, before pausing for a puff– Pammy was a heavy smoker.

‘But that’s wonderful, Annabel! I’d adore to see you!

You haven’t seen my little place yet, have you?

I’m passionate about it, it’s even got a garden.

And the gel next door likes a drinky-poo at six, just like me, so we pop through a little gate– I’m in heaven! Ted’s been so clever!’

Ted and his sister, Flora, had taken the initiative early and persuaded Pammy into this retirement community a few years ago. I had an awful feeling it might have been more than a few years.

‘Four,’ she told me happily. ‘Tomorrow.’

‘Oh Pammy, that’s terrible– I should have been before…’

‘No, no, don’t feel guilty. You young are so busy and I’ve been busy, too, doing it up. It’s bigger than most, I have a spare room. Would you like to stay?’

‘I won’t, thanks– just for lunch. I’d love that. Shall we go out?’

‘Yes, why not! There’s an Italian round the corner. And Leanora too?’

‘No, Mum… well, she’s not been too well. Waterworks. But fine now.’

‘Oh Lord, poor Lea. I thought I hadn’t heard from her. I had that last year– not drinking enough, the doctor said. Well, enough water anyway– plenty of the hard stuff. Lost my marbles briefly. Shall I ring her? Is she still with Clarissa? Hard to get her there, I have to wait for her to ring me.’

‘No, she’s with Ginnie, and– actually Pammy, she’s a bit under the weather. I’ll explain when I come down. Is Tuesday OK?’

‘Perfect! When you’re my age you have very little in the diary. See you then, my darling, and worry not, I’ll leave your ma in peace until I’ve seen you. I can’t wait!’

Neither can I, I thought, pocketing my phone.

And it was only the day after tomorrow. But it couldn’t come quickly enough as far as I was concerned.

I couldn’t wait to get this mad idea out of my head.

Couldn’t wait for Pammy to dispel it in an instant, with a wave of her heavily bejewelled hand, red nails flashing, laughing it out of court with her big, throaty guffaw.

Meanwhile, I hurried to my desk and my computer and made to lose myself in Antonia’s woes; to get her away from Giles, the sexy but wicked blacksmith, and towards Ludo, the sensitive antique dealer with less obvious charms but a much kinder heart, to make her life all right, even if there was still so much wrong with mine.

Later on, Polly came down, covered in dust. She gave me a shock she was so grey. She grinned.

‘Sorry, it’s the clay. Finished though. Even got her nose.’ The grin turned to a beam.

‘Oh good , darling! And you’re happy?’

Silly question. She grimaced. ‘As happy as you ever are.’

We communed with a knowing eye-roll. There was always more, or sometimes less, one felt one could do to a creation. But eventually a point was reached where it at least felt complete, and ready to leave alone.

‘Come on,’ I got to my feet, Giles’s tangled web of lies forgotten. ‘Let’s have a drink to celebrate Nefertiti’s nose.’ I headed towards the kitchen and the fridge.

‘Oh Mum– I’m meeting Max. But you can come? Luke and Hannah are coming too, to the Ship?’

I turned in the doorway. ‘Luke and Hannah?’

‘Yes, he finally managed to persuade her to give him another go.’

‘Oh!’ I realized she knew so much more than I did. ‘Was it a struggle?’

‘God, yes. He was beside himself for months, seriously depressed, but he’s finally cracked it.’

‘Good for her,’ I said admiringly.

‘Oh, it wasn’t tactical. She wasn’t playing games. Just knew he was a player and it put her off. Plus she was still missing her ex… Are you coming, Mum?’ She glanced impatiently at her phone. ‘I’m going to be late and I need to have a shower.’

‘No,’ I said to her departing back as she turned and legged it back upstairs in a cloud of dust. ‘But thank you, darling. And give Luke my love.’

I watched her disappear. I’d been to the Ship before.

Too young for me. But nice to be asked. A player.

Was that what my son was? Or had been, clearly.

But maybe not now. And depressed I didn’t like, but on the other hand, the young never said sad, did they?

It had to be more serious. If I voiced this, they would counter it was brutal of me when we discussed that sort of thing around the supper table, but I’m sorry: I knew Luke, he was my son, and as far as I was concerned he’d had a knock– a necessary one– and was now less sad.

Back on his feet. Ah, but you didn’t have social media, they’d argue.

It was different in your day. It was, I’d agree, we didn’t have to see our ex at parties– actually we did, but not on a screen– or OK, in Bali, with another girl.

But what about not looking? What about a bit of self-control?