Sea of Memories (Page 45)
There’s a tap at the door. A nurse pops her head round and I turn to meet her bright, professional smile with a polite one of my own.
‘All okay here?’ she asks, her voice softer than usual, out of respect for death’s hushed presence in the room. The open door allows in a waft of nursing-home air, which smells of the plug-in air-fresheners that spit a venomous, chemical scent at each passing pair of legs to mask the underlying perfume of urine and disinfectant. It mingles with the scent of the white lilies in a vase on the chest of drawers in the corner of the room. I brought another bunch with me when I last came to visit. They’re past their best now, the pure white petals turning to parchment as they decay.
I nod, smile again at the nurse and turn back to my grandmother. Ella’s breathing is faint, a shallow, staccato sip on the inhalation; an impossibly long pause; a faint sigh on the exhalation.
I wish I’d known Ella’s story before, so that I could have been a better granddaughter to her than I have been. But at least I came to understand it before it was too late. At least her story can now be told. I hope my mother will understand too, now, before it’s too late for her to make her peace.
My heart was in my mouth when I’d finished writing; the day I brought the finished manuscript to Ella’s room. What would she make of it? Had I done her story justice?
She had been awake, but she asked me to read it aloud to her, saying, ‘I’m too far gone these days. My eyesight is so poor, and my memory wanders so if I try to read anything myself. But they do say that hearing is the last of the senses to go. So, read it to me, my dear. Let me listen to my own story one last time.’
There’s been an unspoken sense of urgency these past few days. Every time I came to visit her to read her some more of the manuscript, she’d drifted a little further away. She would fall asleep sometimes as I was reading to her and then I’d mark the place carefully and tiptoe away, hoping that she was dreaming of the Île de Ré, or the beach at Arisaig, and the two men who have loved her as she has loved them.
And this final day, with the last words read, I sit in silence, watching her smile as she lies there with her eyes closed. And my heart swells with happiness that I’ve done her story justice and with sadness that, now that it’s told, there’s a sense of another ending that sits heavily in the hot, artificially scented room.
I wonder whether I should leave her to sleep, but suddenly her eyes open wide, the misted sea-green of them clearing so that, for a few moments they are the colour of the deepest ocean once again. Viridian.
‘Thank you, Kendra,’ she says. ‘I knew you would tell my story well. That you would understand. That you would write the truth of it all.’
‘I’ll give it to Mum,’ I reply. ‘I know she’ll see things differently too when she reads the whole of the truth.’
Ella nods and then reaches her age-spotted hand towards the bedside cabinet, pointing to the fine, deep-blue ceramic bowl shot through with a vein of purest gold like a lightning bolt.
‘It’s the kintsukuroi bowl, isn’t it Granny?’
‘Caroline gave it to me when Angus and I left the island.’ Her voice is a faint whisper now and I have to lean in close to hear what she’s saying. ‘She asked us to call in at the gallery on our way past, just as we were setting off for home. We walked in and when Angus saw the painting, Neptune’s Locket, he looked at it for a good long spell. Then he nodded, and said, “He loved you the way I love you – body and soul.” It felt as if he was laying to rest the spectre of Christophe that had haunted him throughout our marriage. A bit of closure, I suppose. And then Caroline said that she had something to tell us. Which was that Christophe had left the painting to me.’ She frowns, struggling to remember.
‘At that news, Angus’s expression flickered – just the tiniest bit, but I noticed it. And in that moment I understood that his acceptance had taken courage and generosity of spirit, but that having the painting there the whole time would have been too much, even for him. So I said to Caroline that I didn’t think there was room for it above the mantelpiece in Morningside. Can you imagine how out of place it would have been in that setting? I told Caroline that the painting belonged where it was, in the gallery, so that people could still come and see it. And that was the right thing to say because I saw the look of relief on Angus’s face. But then he said, “And we will come back every summer to visit it, and you can show me this island which has been the other love of your life.” So, that’s what we did.’
‘Where is the painting now, Granny?’
‘Why, Kendra, it’s there!’ Sudden joy flickers across Ella’s face. ‘Caroline is still alive; she lives on the Île de Ré. She has help, of course. Do you remember Sandrine and Benoît, who used to manage the house for the Martets? Whose daughter cared for Christophe through his illness? Well, they are long gone, but their granddaughter runs the gallery in Saint Martin for Caroline. And Caroline herself still goes there most days to supervise things, despite her age. She’s quite famous in the art world and still has the keen eye for beauty she always had . . .’
Ella’s voice tails off and her eyes close for a moment as her memory drifts from its course. But then she opens her eyes again, focusing on my face with an effort. I sense she’s struggling now.
‘Anyway, where was I? Oh yes, the bowl. So, there we were in the gallery, about to come back to Edinburgh. And Caroline took it from its plinth and said, “Do you remember what I told you? About the philosophy behind this? That something which is unique has its own beauty that can never be destroyed; that it’s always worth mending, even when it’s broken; and that the fractures and the scars become part of the beauty too, making the piece even more remarkable, even more precious.” And then she said, “Heal your heart, Ella. Let Angus help you. Mend your marriage with veins of the purest gold and remake it, better and stronger than before.” And we did. Because, you see, Kendra, I fell in love with your grandfather all over again. Caroline was right: our love was worth mending. In the end, we made the scars part of the beauty of our marriage.’
She pauses, smiling, remembering. Then goes on, her voice growing a little stronger for a moment. ‘And Christophe was right too. He was my first love, but Angus was my lasting love. I’d always thought I wanted a second chance with Christophe, that life had cheated me of it. But, in fact, the second chance I got was with Angus. How lucky I am, to have loved and been loved by two such good men.’
For a few moments she’s lost in her thoughts again, her mind wandering where the tangled skein of her memories takes her.
But then, once more with an effort, she pulls her attention back to the bowl on the cabinet beside her bed. ‘When you give Rhona the manuscript, give her the bowl as well. Tell her that I’m sorry for the damage I did, but show her that it can be mended. Tell her that I know it will be, even if it’s after I’m gone.’
I pick up the bowl carefully and stir the collection of white shells that lie within it with my forefinger.
‘And the shells, Granny? Is the one that Christophe gave you in here?’
She smiles again. ‘But of course it is! And the one Angus gave me is too. Along with other shells I’ve collected on Atlantic beaches as reminders of perfect days. And shells my children found and gave me, which are some of the most treasured ones of all. Souvenirs. Memories. Such richness . . .’
Her voice is growing weaker once more, her eyes misting as her mind fades again. I bend close to her to hear the words she whispers.
‘Keep them for me, Kendra. The shells. Add them to your own collection of memories and keepsakes. With Dan and Finn. To remind you to find the beauty in your life, even in the most difficult times.’
‘I will. And I’ll be back tomorrow, Granny,’ I promise. Before I go, before I kiss her forehead one last time and smooth back the fine white hair – hair that was once the sun-kissed blonde of the grasses that grow amongst the sand-dunes on that wind-swept island – I whisper another promise to my grandmother.
‘I’ll tell her, Granny Ella. I’ll give Mum your story to read. And I’ll make sure she understands as well.’
I stand to leave, gathering up the manuscript, and the bowl of shells which I wrap in my winter scarf to keep safe.
In the doorway of her room, I hesitate for a moment, listening to her soft breathing. It’s changing, slowing: a shallow sip; a pause; a sigh.
She’s beyond my reach now, slipping further away with each breath. I hope she’s with them, the ones who have gone before. If they are holding her in their arms again at last, then maybe I can bear to let her go.
2015, Île de Ré
There’s no hint of what lies ahead as we skirt La Rochelle, passing a chaotic jumble of ugly signs advertising the offerings of the superstores that flank the city’s by-pass. But then I realise that there are subtle changes all around us: there’s a new freshness in the air as Dan winds down the window to let the early summer warmth wash into the car; the vegetation has changed too and the road is now lined with scrubby pines and silver-leafed shrubs that are tough enough to withstand the scouring of a salt wind. And the light is different all of a sudden. It has a clarity which heightens the colour of the tamarisk trees with their plumes of rose-pink froth and paints the heads of the bulrushes that grow in the ditches alongside the road a rich velvet brown, as they dance in the slip-stream of the passing cars.