look very like her. Perhaps her skin was darker, so was her hair, but the face – the face is the same . . .’ He gives a deep, shuddering sigh, almost too big for someone so tiny, and his voice cracks. ‘Cecily. Cecily Kapoor. We don’t talk about you, do we? We never do.’
He is nodding, and then he mutters something to himself. ‘What did you say?’ I ask. ‘No, it doesn’t matter. Here. Wait.’
Suddenly, like an old crab, he shuffles over and pulls open the top drawer of his bedside table. He is surprisingly agile.
‘It’s right.’ He leans forward and takes something out. ‘What’s right?’
Arvind moves back to his side of the bed again. I move forward, to plump up his pillow, but he shakes his head impatiently. His face is alive, his dark eyes dancing. ‘Have this. It was your grandmother’s. She wanted you to have it. I think you should take it now.’
Like a magician, he opens his fist with a flourish. I peer down. It is the ring Granny always wore, twisted diamond and pale gold flowers on a thin band, Arvind’s family ring, the one his father sent over for his son’s new bride all those years ago. I know it so well, but it is still startling to see it here, on my grandfather’s palm and not on Granny’s finger.
‘That’s Granny’s,’ I say, stupidly. ‘It’s yours now,’ he tells me. ‘Arvind, I can’t have this, Mum should, or Sameena, or Louisa—’
‘Frances wanted you to have it, she told me quite clearly.’ Arvind’s voice is devoid of emotion, and he’s staring out at the thick brocade curtains. ‘You’re a jeweller, she was very pleased with your work. She knew you loved this. We planned everything, we discussed everything. You are to have it.’
I don’t know what to say. ‘That’s very sweet,’ I begin, falteringly. Sweet – such an insipid word for this, for him. ‘But I’d rather not take it from you.’
‘You are to have it, Natasha,’ Arvind says again. ‘She gave it to Cecily. Now it is for you. This is what she wanted.’ He puts it on my hand, his thin brown fingers clutching my large clumsy ones, and we stare at each other in silence. Arvind has never been the kind of grandfather who whittled toy soldiers out of wood, or mended your tricycle, or let you try the sausage on the barbecue. He is frequently obtuse and it is hard to understand what he means.
But while I don’t know what his final aim is, in this moment, looking at him, I know each of us understands the other. I put the ring on, sliding it onto the third finger of my right hand, like a wedding. My granny had strong, large hands, so do I. It fits perfectly. The flowers glint gently in the low light.
‘Thank you,’ I say softly. ‘It’s beautiful.’
‘Would you be very kind and please open the curtains,’ he says, after a moment. ‘I would like to see the sea. The moon is also out tonight. I don’t like to be shut in like this. They must understand this, in the new place. I want to see the moon. It will remind me of home.’
I get up and draw the heavy fabric back. The moon is out and it shines, like the midnight sun, low and heavy on the black waters, golden light rippling towards the horizon. It is calmer now, but as a dirty cloud scuds across the surface of the moon I shiver. Something is coming. A storm, perhaps.
I open the window, breathing in the scent of the sea, fresh, dangerous, alive. The gold of Granny’s ring is warm against my fingers. I stare into the water, into nothing.
‘It’s a mild night,’ I say after a silence. ‘There’s something brewing,’ he says simply. ‘I can smell it in the air. That’s what happens when you’re old. Peculiar, but useful.’
I smile at him, and go back towards the bed. I notice the drawer of his bedside table is still open, and I lean over to push it shut. But as I do, I see something staring up at me. A face.
‘What’s this?’ I say. ‘Can I see?’
I don’t know why I say this, it’s none of my business. But the idea that Louisa is going to go through this room, that everything is ending here at the house, emboldens me, I think.
‘Take it out,’ Arvind glances at it. ‘Yes, take it out, you’ll see.’ I lift it out. It is a small study in oils, no bigger than an A4 piece of paper, on a sandy-coloured canvas. No frame. It is of a teenage girl’s head and shoulders, half-turning towards the viewer, a quizzical expression on her face. Her black hair is tangled; her cheeks are flushed. Her skin is darker than mine. She is wearing a white Aertex shirt, and the ring that is on my finger is around a chain on her slender neck. ‘Cecily, Frowning’, is written in pencil at the bottom.
‘Is that her?’ I am holding it up gingerly. I gaze at it. ‘Is that Cecily?’
‘Yes,’ Arvind says. ‘She was beautiful. Your mother wasn’t. She hated her.’
I think this is a joke, as Mum is one of the most beautiful people I know. I look again. This girl – she’s so fresh, so eager, there’s something so urgent about the way she is turning towards me, as if saying, Come. Come with me! Let’s go down to the beach, while the sun is still high, and the water is warm, and the reeds are rustling in the bushes.
‘Where did – where was it?’
‘It was in the studio,’ Arvind says. ‘I took it out of the studio, the day after she died.’
‘You went in there?’
Arvind puts his fingers together. ‘Of course I did.’ He looks straight through me. ‘I never did before. She never went back in there, either. The day after she died, yes. I told myself I had to. She asked me to. To get what was in there. But it wasn’t all there any more.’
‘Get what was in there?’ I don’t understand.
I look at my grandfather, and his eyes are full of tears. He lies back on the pillows, and closes his eyes.
‘I am very tired,’ he says. ‘Yes, I’m sorry,’ I say. But I don’t want to put her back in the drawer, out of sight again, hidden away.
‘I’m glad you’ve seen her,’ he says. ‘Now you can see. You are so alike.’
This is patently not true, this beautiful scrap of a girl is not like me. I am older than she ever was, I am tired, jaded, dull. I stand up to put the painting back. As I do, something which had been stuck to the back of the canvas – it is unframed – falls to the ground, and I bend and pick it up.
It is a sheaf of lined paper, tied with green string knotted through a hole on the top left corner, and folded in half. About ten pages, no more. I unfold it. Written in a looping script are the words:
The Diary of Cecily Kapoor, aged fifteen. July, 1963.
I hold it in my hand and stare. There’s a stamp at the top bearing the legend ‘St Katherine’s School’. Underneath in blue fountain pen someone, probably a teacher, has written ‘Cecily Kapoor Class 4B’. It’s such a prosaic-looking thing, smelling faintly of damp, of churches and old books. And yet the handwriting looks fresh, as though it was scrawled yesterday.
‘What is this?’ I ask, stupidly.
Arvind opens his eyes. He looks at me, and at the pages I am holding.
‘I
