whenever I felt homesick, I read my grandfather’s books, and imagined I could hear him speaking the words to me.
I was homesick that Saturday morning in May, when the first phone call came.
Dressed in my pyjamas and dressing gown, I’d decided to laze around my tiny flat in Perth, Scotland, drinking too-strong black coffee and nibbling on endless pieces of toast, until I felt better. But instead, I found myself moving around the flat restlessly, a copy of Going Home in my hand, absorbing a page or two at a time before my own memories overtook me.
Nathaniel always claimed that the house in the story wasn’t Rosewood, the same way that Biding Time wasn’t about him and my grandmother, Isabelle. But as with all his books, every time I reread them, I found another hint, another clue, that led me towards the truth. Like a treasure hunt Nathaniel had laid out for me, he hid patches of his own history, his own life, in his fiction, waiting for me to find them.
Like the house. However much he denied it, the description of Honeysuckle House in Going Home matched Rosewood to the letter. Not just the honey-coloured brick, symmetrical Georgian design, or the twelve chimneys, or even the white-marble steps leading up to the front door. There was something about the feel of the place – the way he described the sun on the terrace when the gin and tonics were being poured, or the coolness of the middle room when the rain came down outside – that made it feel like home to me.
I flipped a few pages through the book again, pausing at a description of Honeysuckle House:
When the afternoon sun alighted on the windows, the whole house lit up, as if it were night and every light inside had been left on. Inside, the house could be cold – Grace’s mother had decorated it in the latest styles, with lots of white and sharp edges. But she couldn’t cool the natural warmth of the house as I looked upon it, or sharpen the corners of the worn golden brick exterior. And when the house filled with people… Ah, that was when Honeysuckle House came alive. And so did Grace.
I put the book aside. I didn’t need Agnes’s descriptions of Grace’s house – not when I had my own memories of Rosewood. Of the Rose Garden, the Orangery, the sweeping staircase that dominated the main hallway. Of Nathaniel’s study, every inch crammed with books and papers.
And of Nathaniel, most of all. The way his voice boomed and echoed around Rosewood, or how he poured his drinks too strong, or how every meal became story time, somehow. How every little event of his day became a hysterical monologue by the time he’d finished telling it. And how he knew to listen, sometimes, and just be there – a warm, comforting, reassuring presence I’d relied on my whole life.
I’d always have my memories. It was just hard to imagine not knowing when I’d next be there in person. When I’d see my family again.
The phone rang, and I put my book aside, reaching past my empty coffee cup to answer it.
“Saskia? It’s your grandfather.” As if I couldn’t tell from his voice. “Now, tell me, did you see the ridiculous invitations your grandmother picked out for this Golden Wedding thing? You have to come home and help me through it.”
I frowned. “Golden Wedding?”
“Fifty years of wedded bliss and she wants another damned party.” Nathaniel’s voice dropped low, as if he were afraid someone might be listening. “Don’t worry, I’ve got something in mind to fire up the festivities. You really don’t want to miss it, Kia.”
It wasn’t as if I didn’t want to go home for my grandparents’ Golden Wedding anniversary. Isabelle and Nathaniel Drury knew how to throw a party, after all, and this was sure to be a big one. The sort of shindig people talked about for decades to come. In fact, people still told stories about the first ever party they held at Rosewood, back in 1966. There were reports in the society pages. Couples met at Isabelle’s parties, or got engaged – or even pregnant. But they weren’t the sort of parties I imagined when I thought of the sixties – I’d seen photos. Isabelle’s parties required full evening wear, champagne, important people – and enough drama to keep people gossiping for weeks afterwards.
There hadn’t been a party at Rosewood since Ellie’s wedding, as far as I knew. I didn’t want to miss it – and I really didn’t want to be the person at the hypothetical future dinner table saying, “I don’t know, I wasn’t there,” when someone asked, “And do you remember the bit when…”
I just didn’t know how welcome I’d be when I got to Rosewood.
“I didn’t get an invitation,” I said, as lightly as I could manage. “But I take your word for it that they’re awful.”
“Hideous,” Nathaniel said, with an audible shudder. He paused, then asked, “Did you really not get one?”
“Nope.” I ran my hand over the cover of Going Home. Apparently, I wasn’t. Isabelle knew every tiny detail of party etiquette, and obeyed it all, when it suited her. If she’d wanted me there, I’d have received an invitation. The fact that I hadn’t – or even any notice that the party was happening at all – told me exactly how welcome I’d be.
“Well, that’s stupid,” Nathaniel said. “You should have done. Consider this call your invite.”
I gave a small laugh. “I’m not sure that’s quite how it works.”
“It is now. It’s my party too, isn’t it?”
“Not really.” I was pretty sure that, in Isabelle’s head, the man she married was entirely incidental to the party she was throwing to celebrate that aforementioned marriage.
“Then I’m reclaiming it. And you’re invited.” There was a rustle of paper on the other end of the line, and I leapt on the noise as a way to change the subject.
“What are you working on?” I asked, trying to be interested in his answer. It had to be better than thinking about how my own grandmother didn’t want me there for a family party.
“I’ve been thinking about the nature of truth in fiction,” he replied, instantly distracted, as I’d known he would be.
“Truth in fiction?” I echoed, topping up my coffee. That sounded like a fairly epic procrastination exercise. I wondered what Nathaniel was supposed to be writing that required such distraction; he never liked to talk much about his works in progress until they were shiny and published and winning awards.
“Are all stories just reflections of ourselves? Are even the fictions we write based on the truths of our own lives?” I tried and failed to come up with a satisfactory response to what I hoped was a rhetorical question. “Take your work at the paper,” Nathaniel went on, apparently not noticing that I hadn’t responded. “How much do your own life and your life experiences colour the reports you write?”
Since most of what I wrote for the Perth Herald was based entirely on press releases, and my main concern was getting them all in on time, probably not a lot. But, on the other hand, I didn’t want Nathaniel thinking that I wasn’t properly investing in my artistic side, so I said, “Probably more than I know,” in what I hoped was a thoughtful voice.
“Exactly my point! So, the conclusion I’ve reached is that it is only through knowing ourselves, understanding our true selves, that we can hope to create anything meaningful in fiction.”
“That’s… interesting.” Did I
