Page 7

OPENING NIGHT

I STEP ONTO THE MOONLIT, dew-wet lawn in bare feet, the better to connect myself to the earth. I can still hear the tinny whine of music from the beach, the buzz of the speakers. I close my eyes, release myself from caring. Michelle is on the case.

There’s just one little thing I need to do before this weekend begins in earnest. Another sort of release. A purging. A quick glance behind me to check I’m not being observed.

In one hand I hold the urn containing my grandfather’s ashes. His original wish was to be scattered beside the Orangery where his old Labrador Kipling was buried, but I didn’t want to risk any macabre vibrations beside what is now our treatment center. I’m sure he’d understand. He was pragmatic above everything.

Granmama died before Grandfa and it turned out this place was actually hers. She left it to me in trust. I suspect it was a little redress to Grandfa for his many indiscretions, to my mother for barely setting foot here in adulthood, to my older brothers for running roughshod all over the place. Evidently she saw me as its rightful inheritor.

I suppose she might raise a perfectly groomed eyebrow at my opening the place up to paying guests. But one has to move with the times. Besides, our guests are carefully curated. They’re the right kind of people. That’s why I like to call them our “family.”

I open the jar. In graceful, sweeping motions I scatter Grandfa’s earthly remains into the warm breeze, which carries him out over the cliffs and out to sea.

There. Gone. A weight lifted.

One of the first things I did after darling Grandfa finally went was to get rid of his woodland study. He had his fatal heart attack in it, so it had some unpleasant associations. He went a little odd toward the end, sadly. He spent all his time in there, thinking he was still doing important governmental work. It seemed harmless enough and of course it wouldn’t have been right to shuffle the poor old dear into a home as soon as I inherited... though I did start to apply for planning permission, that sort of thing.

The last time I came down to visit him (and hand-deliver a very special bottle of whisky to a new friend on the local council) he had one particular obsession. “You must keep the birds happy,” he kept saying. “Don’t upset the birds.” Over and over like that. Such a shame: he once had such a great mind.

“Yes, Grandfa,” I told him. Poor old thing. Clearly he’d gone a bit gaga, started believing in local nonsense.

But then he sat up in bed and grabbed hold of my wrist so hard it hurt. “You must not upset the birds. Do you understand?”

“Oh dearie me, Arthur,” his nurse said, coming back in, “not the birds, again.”

I cast the final handful of ash onto the breeze. Check that the jar’s empty. Check again that no one has witnessed my secret midnight ritual. There. It feels ceremonial, fitting. Drawing a line under what has gone before.

I’ve always been good at letting go of the past.