“But it couldn’t have helped. Don’t you think the two things were connected? That the cancer took over completely because of all the things she’d lost?”
“No, I think she died because she spent all her adult life puffing on cigarettes non-stop from the moment she woke up in the morning until the moment she went to sleep at night.”
“Well, perhaps you’re right,” said Alice in a conciliatory tone. “Of course, you knew her and I didn’t. Perhaps you’re right,” she repeated. Another long silence followed and I thought we were finished talking about Maude but, no, she had one more thing to tell me.
“I met her once, you know,” she said. “When I was just a child. I was about five or six years old and Max had taken me and Julian over to Dartmouth Square for a meeting with your father. I think it was around the time of the court case. Anyway, I needed the bathroom and went upstairs in search of it but, of course, the house is so large and there are so many floors that I got lost and wandered into what I suppose was her office. At first I thought the house was on fire because the room was simply filled with smoke—”
“Yes, that was her office,” I said.
“I could barely see through it to the other side. But gradually my eyes grew accustomed to it and I saw a woman seated at a desk wearing a yellow dress staring at me and trembling slightly. She didn’t move but just raised her hand like the Ghost of Christmas-Yet-to-Come, pointed in my direction and then she uttered a single word, a question—Lucy?—and I froze, terrified and uncertain what to do. She stood up and walked slowly toward me and although she was pale as a ghost she stared at me as if I was the ghost and when she reached out to touch me I became so utterly terrified that I ran from the room and went screaming down the stairs before charging out the front door. I didn’t stop running until I got to the other side of Dartmouth Square, where I hid behind a tree waiting for my father and brother to reappear. I’m pretty sure I wet my pants in fright.”
I stared at her, astonished and delighted by the story. I had always remembered the strange little girl in the pale-pink coat running through the house as if the Hound of the Baskervilles was after her but had never known what had happened to frighten her so badly. Now, at last, I knew. There was something comforting in laying that story to rest.
“Lucy was her daughter,” I said. “She must have thought that you were her.”
“Her daughter? There’s no mention of a daughter anywhere in Malleson’s biography.”
“She was stillborn,” I explained. “Maude had a terrible pregnancy, I believe. Which is why she couldn’t have children afterward.”
“Right,” said Alice, and I could see that this information was something that might be useful to her in her thesis. “Anyway, that was my only encounter with her,” she continued. “Until I decided to make a study of her work, that is, two decades later.”
“She’d be dismayed if she knew that you had,” I said. “She hated any form of publicity.”
“Well, if it wasn’t me it would be someone else,” she replied with a shrug. “And there will be others. She’s simply too important not to write about, don’t you think? What was she like anyway? Sorry, I’m not fishing for my thesis. I’m genuinely interested.”
“It’s hard to say,” I replied, wanting to move on to other subjects. “I lived with her for the first eight years of my life but our relationship was never what you would call close. She wanted a child, which was why she and Charles adopted me, but I think she wanted one in the same way that she wanted a Persian rug or a light fitting from the Palace of Versailles. Just to have, you know? She wasn’t a bad woman, not really, but I can’t say I ever got to know her. After Charles went to prison, it was just the two of us for a few months but she was already dying by then so we never had a chance to talk as parents and children should.”
“Do you miss her?” asked Alice.
“Sometimes,” I said. “I almost never think of her, if I’m honest. Except when people mention her books. They’ve become so highly thought of that I occasionally get letters from students asking for help with their theses.”
“And do you offer it?”
“No. It’s all there in the books themselves. There’s nothing much I can add that would be of any use to anyone.”
“You’re right,” said Alice. “So why any of them feel the need to talk about their work in public or give interviews is beyond me. If you didn’t say what you wanted to say in the pages themselves, then surely you should have done another draft.”
I smiled. The truth was that I wasn’t a big reader and knew next to nothing about contemporary literature but I liked the fact that Alice did. Maude without the coldness.
“Do you write yourself?” I asked, and she shook her head.
“No, I wouldn’t be able,” she said. “I don’t have the imagination. I’m a reader, pure and simple. I wonder how long I have to stay here anyway. There’s nothing I’d like more than to go home and curl up with John McGahern. Metaphorically speaking, of course.” She blushed almost immediately and reached out to touch my arm. “I’m so sorry, Cyril,” she said. “That was rude of me. I don’t mean I’m not enjoying your company—I am.”
“It’s all right,” I said, laughing. “I know what you meant.”
“You’re very different from Julian’s other friends,” she remarked. “They’re all so boring and vulgar and whenever I’m around them they say things to try to shock me. They think because I’m bookish and mousy that I will squeal at their vulgarities but they’re wrong. I’m actually quite unshockable.”
“I’m glad to hear it,” I said.
“Have you spoken to the Finnish twins?”
“No,” I said. “What’s the point? They’ll be gone by the next time I see Julian.”
“True. Life’s too short to make the effort. And what about you, Cyril? Do you have a set of Finnish twins of your own hidden away somewhere? Swedes? Norwegians? Or just one girl if you want to be old-fashioned about things?”
“No,” I said, feeling a little uncomfortable that the conversation was turning toward my romantic life, or lack thereof. “No, I’ve never had very much luck in that department, I’m afraid.”
“I don’t believe that for a moment. You’re nice looking and you have a good job. You could probably get any girl you want.”
I glanced around. The music was so loud that no one could overhear us. And something inside me felt suddenly tired of subterfuge.
“Can I tell you something?” I said.
“Is it something scandalous?” she asked, smiling at me.
“I suppose so,” I said. “It’s something I’ve never told Julian. But somehow…I don’t know why, I just feel I can trust you with it.”
The expression on her face changed a little, from amused to intrigued. “All right,” she said. “What is it?”
“Promise you won’t tell your brother?”