فصل 27

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Dear Louisa Clark,

My name is Vincent Weber – grandson of Margot Weber, as I know her. But you seem to know her by her maiden name of De Witt.

Your message came as a surprise because my dad doesn’t really talk about his mom – to be honest, for years I was led to believe that she wasn’t even alive, although I realize now that nobody ever put it in those exact terms.

After I got your message I asked my mom and she said there had been some big falling-out way before I was born, but I’ve been thinking and have decided that’s really nothing to do with me, and I would love to know some more about her (you seemed to hint that she’d been unwell?). Can’t believe I have another grandma!

Please email back. And thank you for your efforts.

Vincent Weber (Vinny)

He came at the agreed time on a Wednesday afternoon, the first really warm day of May when the streets were full of abruptly exposed flesh and newly purchased sunglasses. I didn’t tell Margot because (a) I knew she’d be furious and (b) I had a strong feeling she would simply go out for a walk until he had left. I opened the front door and there he stood – a tall blond man with his ear pierced in seven places, wearing a pair of 1940s-style baggy trousers with a bright scarlet shirt, highly polished brown brogues and a Fair Isle sweater draped around his shoulders.

‘Are you Louisa?’ he said, as I stooped to pick up the flailing dog.

‘Oh, my,’ I said, looking him slowly up and down. ‘You two are going to get on like a house on fire.’

I walked him down the corridor and we whispered a conversation. It took a full two minutes of Dean Martin barking and snarling before she called, ‘Who was at the door, dear? If it’s that awful Gopnik woman you can tell her her piano playing is showy, sentimental tripe. And that’s from someone who once saw Liberace.’ She started to cough.

Walking backwards, I beckoned him towards the living room. I pushed open the door. ‘Margot, you have a visitor.’

She turned, frowning slightly, her hands resting on the arm of her chair and surveyed him for a full ten seconds. ‘I don’t know you,’ she said decisively.

‘This is Vincent, Margot.’ I took a breath. ‘Your grandson.’

She stared at him.

‘Hey, Mrs De Witt … Grandma.’ He walked forward and smiled, then stooped and crouched in front of her, and she studied his face.

Her expression was so fierce that I thought she was going to shout at him, but then she gave what sounded like a little hiccup. Her mouth dropped open a half-inch and her bony old hands closed on his sleeves. ‘You came,’ she said, her voice a low croon, cracking as it emerged from somewhere deep in her chest. ‘You came.’ She stared at him, her eyes flickering over his features as if she were already seeing similarities, histories, prompting memories long forgotten. ‘Oh, but you’re so, so like your father.’ She reached out a hand and touched the side of his face.

‘I like to think I have slightly better taste,’ Vincent said, smiling, and Margot gave a yelp of laughter.

‘Let me look at you. Oh, my goodness. Oh, you’re so handsome. But how did you find me? Does your father know about …?’ She shook her head, as if it were a jumble of questions, and her knuckles were white on his sleeves. Then she turned to me, as if she had forgotten I was even there. ‘Well, I don’t know what you’re staring at, Louisa. A normal person would have offered this poor man a drink by now. Goodness. Some days I have no idea what on earth you’re doing here.’

Vincent looked startled, but as I turned and walked to the kitchen I was beaming.