destination. Thank you for travelling with First Great Western. May we wish you a pleasant onward journey,’ a voice intones over the loudspeaker, and there is the usual rush around me as I rub my eyes, tasting something sour in my mouth. Still in a daze, I jump up, stretching, and climb off the train, nearly bumping into someone on the platform. I look up and around me. I am here.
You can smell the sea in the air. It is warmer than London, though it’s still February and the wind is sharp. I huddle into my coat as I reach the end of the platform, wondering who’s come to meet me. Mum said she or Archie would. People saunter past; there’s no bustling and jostling like Paddington. It still does always remind me of The Railway Children.
‘Nat?’ A voice floats across the hordes of people. ‘Natasha!’
I glance up.
‘Natasha! Over here!’
I look behind me and there is Jay, my beloved cousin. He is striding towards me, so tall, smiling sort of sheepishly. He folds me in his arms and I close my eyes, sinking into his embrace. When Jay is here, everything is always a bit better. He’s one of those people who leaves a gap when he exits a room.
‘It’s good to see you,’ he tells me, dropping a kiss onto my head.
‘You were on the train?’
‘I looked for you, then I fell asleep. I had a late night, we were working through.’ Jay is a website designer; he works crazy hours, but he stays out crazy hours too. ‘I had to get some sleep.’ He squeezes me tight. ‘This is a sad day.’
I nod and link my arm through his as we walk outside, into the fresh air.
The car park is next to the harbour, where ships and boats of every kind over the centuries have arrived and disem-barked, spilling out silks and spices and foods and wines from the furthest corners of the world. The riggings clatter against the masts, tinkling loudly in the gusting breeze. Seagulls shriek overhead.
‘Jay! Sanjay! Over here!’ We look up to see my uncle Archie, leaning against his car, waving coolly at us.
I always forget when I first see him how much my uncle reminds me of those older male models, the kind you see in ads for cruises and dentures. Like my mother, he was very handsome when he was younger: I’ve seen the photos. Now, he’s like someone from a bygone era; suave, international, at ease in any situation. Today he’s in a dark suit but his usual uniform is a blazer, dark trousers, immaculate pressed pink or blue checked shirts with big gold cufflinks. He has a signet ring. His Asian father and English mother have given him a dual citizenship, also like my mother, with which he struggled when he was younger, but has now embraced extremely enthusiastically. It’s almost his badge. He speaks with a posh English accent but at home his wife Sameena cooks the best Indian food you’ll find in Ealing, a million times better than most of the ropey curry houses on the main drag of Brick Lane.
Jay and I are very similar, but I love how his dad and my mum, the twins, half Indian, went different ways. With me, my Indian heritage is hardly visible beyond my dark hair and olive skin, thanks to a mother who uses it in a lazy cross-cultural way when she wants to show off, and thanks to a father who I assume is white, although who knows? Whereas Jay goes the other way, the reverse of me. He is almost wholly Indian, and slips easily back into that culture, thanks to Sameena, then back into the world of Summercove, as if he’s changing from one pair of comfortable shoes to another. I envy him that ability, and I love him for it.
Jay is waving back at his father. ‘Look at him,’ he says, as Archie sneaks a look at his reflection in the car window, staring intently at himself for a brief second. ‘He’s looking more and more like Alan Whicker every day. Hey, Dad,’ he says.
‘Aha, Natasha, my dear.’ Archie hugs me enthusiastically, gripping my shoulders. His moustache tickles my face as always and I have to tell myself not to shrink away. ‘It’s wonderful to see you. Jay. Son.’ He gives his son a walloping great slap on the back. Jay rocks back against me.
‘I’m sorry about Granny,’ I tell him. ‘I am too,’ Archie says soberly. ‘I am too.’ He scratches the bridge of his nose vigorously, suddenly, and turns away. ‘Let’s be off.’ His hand is on the boot of the car. ‘Bags?’
‘No bags,’ I say.
Archie looks at me as if I’m insane. ‘No bags? Where are your things?’
I take a deep breath. ‘I can’t stay tonight, unfortunately,’ I say.
He stares at me. ‘Not staying? Does your mother know? That’s crazy, Natasha.’
‘I know,’ I say, trying to sound calm, collected. ‘I’m really sorry, but I’ve got a meeting tomorrow I can’t get out of.’ I wish I could tell them why. But I can’t. They mustn’t know, not yet.
‘I should have thought . . .’ Archie mutters, trailing off. Jay, who is watching me intently, jumps in.
‘The sleeper’s much better and if you have to get back for a meeting, there it is.’ His father frowns at him, opens his mouth to say something, but Jay presses on. ‘Come on, Nat,’ he says, slinging his rucksack into the boot. ‘We’re cutting it fine anyway, aren’t we? Let’s go.’
Suddenly, I remember Octavia and Julius. ‘I saw Octavia and Julius on the train. I mean, think I saw them,’ I amend. ‘Should we—’
‘Oh,’ Archie says, ruffled, he hates any interruption to his plans, to being told what to do by anyone except my mother. And indeed, our cousins are emerging from the station and looking around. ‘I’m sure they’ll have made their own arrangements . . .’
But they haven’t, it turns out. Octavia and Julius are the kind of ruthlessly efficient people who expect others to be at their beck and call. They’re like the answers to those survival guide questions: both of them could survive on a raft floating on the Indian Ocean with only a mirror and a comb for days, I’m sure. But they’d never think of getting round to booking a car or a taxi. They assume that someone else will have got the train down too and will furnish them with a lift. And they assume rightly, of course.
‘I must say, it’s extremely strange we didn’t bump into either of you on the train,’ Octavia says, as Archie drives off along the harbour. ‘I suppose you two were sitting together.’ She makes it sound as if we were planning a high-school shooting.
‘No,’ Jay says simply. ‘Meeting you all is a lovely surprise on this sad day.’
‘Jolly sad. So,’ Julius, already red in the face, looking more than ever like a fatter, less patrician version of Frank, his father, asks, ‘what’s the order of things today? Straight to the church? Or nosh first?’
Squashed next to Octavia in the back of the car, Jay and I dare not exchange looks. It’s as though we’re children again.
‘Hrrr.’ Archie clears his throat, self-importantly. ‘The funeral is at two, so we’re going straight to the church,’ he says. ‘Don’t have time to stop off beforehand and we couldn’t have it any later, some people –’ he raises his eyebrows – ‘some
people came down last night and are going back to London this evening.’ I nod politely.
‘We’ll meet the others there, then?’ Jay says. ‘Yes, yes,’ Archie says briskly, as though he’s got it all under control
