The Full Legacy Read online

  She exhaled slowly as she turned and spotted me, wrapping herself in a haze of smoke.

  Face to face with my girlfriend’s mother for the first time, I was glad I hadn’t leapt into the room like some crazed knife-wielding assassin. I tried to picture the signature on the paintings... Waters... Joyce Waters...

  ‘Hi,’ I said stepping through the doorway, with my hand outstretched. ‘I’m Gill.’

  ‘I gathered.’ Her eyes glinted at me as she ignored my proffered hand. ‘Unless my daughter has more than two women on the go at the moment, that is.’

  The comment stung, as, I’m sure, it was meant to. My hand slumped down and crept into my pocket, embarrassed.

  The family resemblance was quite stunning now that she was facing me. Even her voice reminded me of Turner’s. It was slightly huskier, due to the cigarettes probably, and there was the faintest trace of an American accent, but there was no doubt of the family heritage – mother and daughter inhabited the same tonal range.

  I suspected that she didn’t like the idea of me very much. And maybe that was understandable if she blamed me for the breakdown of Turner’s marriage. She unnerved me though, looking at me like that. I found myself tongue-tied, staring at my feet like a naughty schoolgirl who had just been hauled into the headmistress’s office.

  ‘Where’s Turner?’ I asked eventually, in desperation.

  ‘She’s speaking to her husband on the phone.’

  ‘Oh?’ At ten past one in the morning? ‘Nothing’s wrong, I hope?’

  Joyce Waters raised an eyebrow as she considered me standing there. Then she picked up a cut glass ashtray from the mantelpiece and flicked her cigarette into it.

  ‘I imagine it’s all sorted now.’ she said coldly.

  She didn’t elaborate and I felt that I couldn’t ask anymore. I wondered if I should just excuse myself and slink off to bed.

  Then a hand was on my shoulder and Turner was beside me, taking charge.... up to a point.

  ‘Gill,’ she said. ‘This is my mother. She’s just come from London.’

  Turner looked across at her mother. There was something strange in the look that passed between them. Like each of them was trying to fathom something out in the other.

  ‘Well,’ said Joyce Waters, exhaling smoke again and sitting down in one of the fireside chairs. ‘Isn’t this cosy?’

  She balanced the ashtray on the chair arm and crossed one leg over the other.

  A long silence followed.

  ‘I wonder if I could speak to my daughter alone?’ she asked me eventually. It felt more like an order than a question. And Turner didn’t step in to ask me to stay.

  ‘Yes... yes, of course.’

  I left the room immediately, pulling the door shut behind me. A couple of steps later I heard it click and creak ajar and an uneasy curiosity led me to hover in the hallway and listen.

  ‘So?’ asked Turner’s mother. ‘Is that sorted now?’

  ‘Strangely – yes. How did you manage to swing that one?’

  ‘I just appealed to his better nature – as a friend.’

  ‘Adam doesn’t have a better nature Mum. And he doesn’t really have friends either.’

  ‘Adam has always tried very hard with you.’

  ‘Okay Mum, have it your own way. I don’t really expect any different anymore. And, thank you anyway. I think he could have made things pretty unpleasant for me.’

  ‘Indeed... And who could have blamed him in the light of your current activities. I must say, this latest diversion has come as quite a surprise to me.... Is it because of that teacher?’

  ‘No... of course not....’ I heard Turner’s words hang, mid-sentence as she realised the implication of what her mother had just said. ‘And how on earth did you know about that?’ she demanded.

  Self consciously, I stepped closer to the door, straining to hear.

  ‘One of your friends realised what was going on and phoned me. Samantha something or other... She told me that Miss.... what was her name...?’

  ‘Christie,’ said Turner, infusing the name with all of the contempt I’d heard when she spoke about the woman earlier.

  ‘Ah... yes, that’s right. That Miss Christie had caught you up to some kind of mischief, and was blackmailing you into providing ‘favours’ for her. I must say, it never occurred to me that you might have actually encouraged the woman.’

  ‘Jesus!..... Mum... I never.... truly!....’

  I was aware how appalled Turner would be at the thought of that. I wondered if that was why her mother had said it; subtly punishing her for the mess she’d caused.

  ‘So why didn’t you tell me?’ demanded her mother.

  ‘Because I knew you’d be like this about it!’

  And then it was as if someone had turned the volume down. Turner had obviously walked across the room to stand or sit by the fireplace, closer to her mother, and their voices became so low and intermingled, I had no idea who was saying what to who anymore.

  ‘So what did you do?’ asked one.

  ‘I did what I had to do to make it stop...’ said the other.

  I gave up trying to make sense of the conversation and headed wearily up the stairs to the bedroom.

  It was around 2am when Turner slid under the covers and snuggled up to my back. I turned my head to kiss her.

  ‘Are you okay?’ I asked.

  ‘Not really.’ I could feel her breath against my neck. It felt ragged. I wondered if she’d been crying.

  ‘Do you want to talk about it?’

  ‘No... I’m just worried about my mum. There’s something not right there. I mentioned what happened to Mary and she just suddenly became really upset. I mean... she’s normally so cool. I didn’t expect it. And then when she’d composed herself, she told me she loved me.’

  ‘Well, that’s good... isn’t it?.... surely?’ Though how should I know? My mum told me she loved me all the time. Me.... random friends.... total strangers....

  ‘No. It’s not normal for her... There’s something seriously wrong. I can feel it.’

  ‘D’you want to try to talk to her again?’

  ‘No – She’s gone to bed. I’ll have a word in the morning. I just feel like she’s hiding something from me... that’s all.’

  I knew she wasn’t going to say any more than that. And for now, at least, it was enough to feel the warmth of her body and her arms around me, slowly slackening their hold as we drifted together into sleep.

  Shattered

  By 3am, I was wide awake again, reeling from a whole battery of nightmares, my flesh crawling with a sense that something somewhere in that house, that night, was profoundly, unutterably wrong.

  I slid the door shut behind me as I crept out into the corridor carrying the sweatshirt and my jeans and trainers. I was jumpy as hell as I pulled them on just outside the door where I wouldn’t disturb Turner. Then I almost knocked over the dried flower arrangement at the end of the corridor as I slipped past the silent doorways – one bedroom, the broom cupboard.... aware that I had no idea at all where Turner’s mother was supposed to be sleeping.

  The shadow joined me at the base of the attic stairs. It stayed with me then as I climbed, sometimes just slightly behind me, sometimes close by my side.

  The door to the studio was ajar. I pushed my way in.

  The light from outside was clearer than it had been last night. Through the huge, slanting windows I could see the sky, indigo and heavy with cloud above the moving shadows of the tree tops.

  At the far end of the loft space, Turner’s mother sat at a work bench writing by the light of an anglepoise lamp. She was wearing a thick black dressing gown. Her long neck looked ghostly white against it. She looked up as I came into the room, and for an instant I thought she looked disappointed. ‘Oh,’ she said. ‘It’s you.’

  ‘Yes,’ I felt sick with apprehension, but I knew I had to stand my ground now.

  ‘Could you just excuse me a moment?’ she asked. ‘I need to finis
h this before I talk to you.’

  I stood quietly and waited.

  Eventually, she put the pen down and looked up.

  ‘It’s ironic,’ she said. ‘But many years ago, I corresponded with your father. I wanted him to contact my sister... after she died, of course.’

  I felt as if she had punched me – knocked all the air out of me.

  ‘How the hell did you...?’

  ‘Know the connection?... I make it my business to know who’s trying to get their claws into my daughter.’

  ‘Well, you didn’t do a very good job with Adam!’ I said.

  She laughed bitterly. ‘Adam is a good man,’ she said. ‘But that tart of a secretary, now she slipped under my radar for a while, not being blessed with the right equipment, so to speak.... Do you know what your father wrote back to me?’

  I figured she was about to tell me.

  ‘He said “Our thoughts are things...”’

  The line flooded back to me. ‘... “and as their currents run, they can become crimes or miracles”.....’

  It was a quote from Edgar Cayce. I remembered how my Uncle Bob had read it at the funeral. I went there without telling my mother and I shouldn’t have done. But I was glad I did for Bob’s sake. I remembered his voice wavering out over the almost empty crematorium - The tears in his eyes for his once-glittering younger brother. He hugged me after the service, pathetically grateful that I’d turned up. ‘Please keep in touch,’ he’d begged. So I promised that I would. I meant to. But it was difficult, and I never did.

  ‘You sound bitter!’

  ‘I just think that people should practice what they preach.’

  She shook her head. ‘Oh Gillian, haven’t the last couple of weeks taught you anything? You of all people should know that these things are never so clear cut... Take Turner for instance. The things she does. But it’s not her fault. I was so cold with her. I never really could look at her without knowing how much she’d cost me.... Your father was a great man, Gillian. Don’t ever forget that when you’re learning how to manage the gift he passed on to you.’

  I didn’t comment. I was sick of how transparent I appeared to be to this family.

  ‘I think I know what happened,’ I said. ‘With your sister... and Turner.’

  ‘Ah, yes, well I thought you might when I realised that you’d been reading my private letters.’

  I felt guilty immediately, which was a bit rich, considering that she’d obviously had a private detective on me.

  ‘They were just there, on the bookshelf,’ I said.

  She softened. ‘I’m sorry. I can be very prickly, I know that. I don’t mean to be. And if you’ve read the letters, you already have some idea of what Sylvia was like. She was my baby sister. Ten years younger than me.... a bit of an afterthought with my parents, though they always adored her. She was pretty and sweet natured and incredibly talented.... Much more so than me. I’ve always been a good draftswoman... I know the techniques. I could recreate a 19th Century Masterpiece perfectly and probably get away with selling it at most auctions as an original. But Sylvia was the real deal. She was so creative and clever.... And she suffered from the downside of that too. Her shifts of mood were just awful. She would become more and more exuberant and euphoric and extreme and then she’d crash into the deepest, darkest places. I guess she’d be on Lithium now, but back then there wasn’t much of anything anyone could do except try to keep her stress levels down, wait it out and let the rollercoaster run its course.’

  She was talking very quietly. I moved closer, so that I could hear more clearly.

  She continued...

  ‘I suppose in the early sixties, in London, at art school, and reckless and chaotic as she could be, it was inevitable that she’d go and get herself pregnant.

  The father... I guess I may as well use his name as you know it anyway... Per... was a waster... an armchair anarchist and third-rate poet. He thought that all you had to do was fling words at a page... the cruder the better... and then just sit back while everyone gasped in amazement. He picked Sylvia up when she was heading for one of her manic phases and seduced her in some sleazy Earls Court bedsit with the Beat poets and enough cannabis and alcohol to send her completely off-beam. He was already an alcoholic. He had the shakes when she introduced him to me in London. He couldn’t wait to get to the bar for ‘a hair of the dog’. I guess he just couldn’t face his utter lack of talent sober. I could see that he was already starting to back off too... He had that shiftiness about him that I’d seen so many times in Sylvia’s boyfriends as the full enormity of her condition started to dawn on them.’

  She paused and gazed out of the window, towards the sky. The blue light played on her upturned face, dappling and moving down into the whiter pool from the anglepoise.

  ‘I tried to intervene as soon as I realised what was happening. But it was too late. Sylvia was already pregnant. Per was horrified when she told him. He said he’d pay for an abortion but, as far as he was concerned, that was where his responsibility ended.... And then he did a runner. We couldn’t find him anywhere.

  Sylvia was in pieces. However pathetic the man was, she loved him. And she couldn’t bear the idea of terminating the pregnancy.’

  ‘Which is when you suggested that you and Stephen could adopt the baby?’

  She shrugged. ‘It seemed like the perfect solution at the time. We wanted a child so desperately and there didn’t seem much hope anymore of that ever happening naturally for us. I was getting older and more tired, and the miscarriages had taken their toll, emotionally as well as physically. So when Sylvia turned up at our door carrying a child she hadn’t planned and would never be able to properly care for it seemed like heaven had sent us the perfect solution.... But it wasn’t an adoption as such. We were afraid that would take too long. And we didn’t want our parents to know. They would have been embarrassed and ashamed to have their unmarried daughter pregnant. So Sylvia signed up with a private consultant under my name. Turner was born that summer. Sylvia didn’t even need to take time off college. She was sad when she handed Turner over to us, of course she was. But she knew that she would always be a massive part of her life... Her Auntie Sylvia... The two of them would have had such wonderful times together. We never would have deprived either of them of that. Never would have wanted to.’

  ‘But then she changed her mind?’ I knew that she must have, or things would never have gone so badly wrong.

  She nodded. ‘Per changed her mind. Turned up at Sylvia’s door begging forgiveness, asking her to marry him, demanding his daughter back. Maybe Sylvia wanted it too. She was so sad when she handed Turner to us.... and I’d been worried when I saw her beginning to spiral down into depression. But we all thought that was just natural – hormonal even – and she’d get over it.

  Anyway, she told me the day before the christening. I didn’t believe it at first. Couldn’t believe that she would go back on her word and betray us like that. The house was full of guests and I was terrified that someone would hear, so I suggested that we went up to the church to check the flowers for the next day. I thought we could talk properly in the car.... That I would be able to make her see sense. I pleaded with her. But she was so cold. I tried to reason with her. Asked her how she thought she could cope with a baby when she was ill. She said that Per would look after them both, which was just laughable really. All I could see was my precious baby girl starving in some filthy hovel while Per smoked pot and drank himself to oblivion. I knew he wouldn’t let us see her. He’d already cast us as the villains of the piece, using our unearned wealth to buy the child we couldn’t have by rights. I tried to get across to her what it would be like. Told her how distraught Mom and Dad would be. Told her it would break Stephen’s heart. But she just shook her head and said, “I’m sorry Joyce, but she’s our kid... mine and Per’s.... And you’ll just have to give her back.” I knew that stubborn stupid look of hers, and I knew she’d made up her mind.

  In that inst
ant, I thought I knew what I had to do. I was driving Stephen’s Bentley. I slammed down on the brakes and pretended that I’d hit a rabbit. She always loved animals. Couldn’t bear to see them hurt...’ Her voice wobbled as she remembered.... ‘And when she got out of the car to see if she could do anything, I put my foot on the accelerator and ran over her. Just like that. I remember her face through the windscreen as I hit her, that look of utter terror and disbelief. I regretted it instantly. Almost fell out of the car to help her. But it was too late. Her neck was broken. I held her and I heard myself wailing like a madwoman. Shaking her as if she might just be unconscious and I could wake her up and it would all be okay. One of the local farmers came round the corner on his tractor and found me like that. It’s funny you know, in the end, it was so easy. Just one moment of insanity and it’s done and no amount of praying or tears or remorse can change it.... And all I could think was “This will haunt me all the days of my life”.... I don’t expect you to understand.’

  But I did. I pictured her in the dust at the side of the road, cradling her sister in her arms, blood on the pretty summer dress she’d put on so happily that morning. All her hopes, her dreams, her sense of herself as a good person, destroyed. And my heart went out to her.

  I wish I’d told her that.

  ‘Did Turner’s father know what you’d done?’ I asked.

  She laughed bitterly. ‘Which one?.... Per was in London. He was too much of a coward to come here and support Sylvia in doing his dirty work. He made a big show of himself at the funeral, but he never attempted to claim paternity once Sylvia was gone.... And Stephen..? Yes, I’m sure he suspected, but he never asked me and I never told him. It was probably because of his family connections here that the police never looked too closely at the car. I told them it was a hit and run. That Sylvia had got out of the car and someone had come too fast round the corner, throwing her against the front of mine and then racing away without stopping. I’m sure if they’d examined our car properly they’d have been suspicious but they were too caught up in the tragedy of it all and too keen to earn brownie points with the local squire to do their jobs properly.’