With a grateful smile, Ally gave us a last wave and then walked towards the black limousine that was waiting at the pavement for her and Theo’s mother.
‘We’d better get a move on ourselves.’ CeCe began to walk down the road, but I hung back to watch as the car pulled away from the kerb. Ally, my wonderful, brave, beautiful and – as I had thought of her up until now – invincible older sister. And yet she looked so fragile, as if a puff of wind could blow her away. As I hurried to catch up with CeCe, I realised it was love that had felled her strength.
And at that moment, I promised myself that one day I too would experience both the joy and pain of its intensity.
I was relieved when, a couple of days later, Ally was true to her word and called me. We arranged for her to come round for lunch and to see the apartment, even though CeCe would be off taking photographs of Battersea Power Station for one of her art projects. And that afternoon, I set to work on a menu.
When the doorbell rang the next day, the apartment was filled with what I hoped was the calming smell of home-cooked food. Shanthi had been right, I thought: I wanted to feed Ally’s soul.
‘Hello, darling, how are you?’ I asked as I opened the door and embraced her.
‘Oh, coping,’ she said, following me inside.
But I could see that she wasn’t.
‘Wow! This place is fantastic,’ she said, walking over to the floor-to-ceiling windows to look at the view.
I’d set the table on the terrace, judging it just about warm enough to do so. She admired my makeshift garden as I served up the food and my heart broke as she asked about me and CeCe, when I could see her own heart was breaking over and over again. But I understood that her coping mechanism was to continue as she’d always done, and never ask for sympathy.
‘My goodness, this is delicious, Star. I’m discovering all sorts of hidden talents you have today. My cooking is basic at best and I can’t even grow cress in a pot, let alone all this.’ Her hands gestured to my plants.
‘Recently, I’ve been thinking about what talent actually is,’ I ventured. ‘I mean, are things that come easily to you a gift? For example, did you really have to try to play the flute so beautifully?’
‘No, I suppose I didn’t. Not initially, anyway. But then, to get better, I had to practise endlessly. I don’t think that simply having a talent for something can compensate for sheer hard work. I mean, look at the great composers: it’s not enough to hear the tunes in your head; you have to learn how to put them down in writing and how to orchestrate a piece. That takes years of practice and learning your craft. I’m sure there are millions of us who have a natural ability at something, but unless we harness that ability and dedicate ourselves to it, we can never reach our full potential.’
I nodded, taking it in, and feeling at a loss about my own possible talents.
‘Have you finished, Ally?’ I asked. I could see she had barely touched her plate.
‘I have. Sorry, Star. It was gorgeous, really, but I’m afraid I haven’t had much of an appetite recently.’
After that, we chatted about our sisters and what they’d been up to. I told her about CeCe, her college and how her ‘installations’ were keeping her busy. Ally commented on Maia’s surprise move to Rio, and how wonderful it was for her that at last she’d found happiness.
‘This has really cheered me up. And it’s so great to see you, Star.’
‘And you. Where will you go now, do you think?’
‘As a matter of fact, I might go to Norway and investigate what Pa Salt’s coordinates indicate is my original place of birth.’
‘Good,’ I said. ‘I think you should.’
‘Do you?’
‘Why not? Pa’s clues might change your life. They changed Maia’s.’
After Ally had left, with a promise to return soon, I walked slowly upstairs to the bedroom and pulled my plastic wallet out of a chest of drawers that was shaped in a series of steps – CeCe’s choice, not mine.
I unclipped the card attached to the back of Pa’s letter and stared at it yet again. And remembered the hope I had seen in Ally’s eyes when she had told me about Norway. Taking a deep breath, I finally reached for the envelope with the coordinates that Ally had looked up for me. And opened it.
The next morning, I woke up to see a slight mist hanging over the river. And as I tended to my plants, I found the terrace wet with dew. Apart from my small shrubs and fast-drooping roses, it was impossible to spot greenery unless it was through binoculars, but I took in the changing scents of the season and I smiled.
Autumn was most definitely on its way. And I loved autumn.
Going upstairs, I grabbed my handbag and dug out the plastic wallet from my bottom drawer. And then, not allowing my over-analytical brain to process the path my feet were taking me along, I headed for the nearest bus stop.
Half an hour later, I was once again alighting in front of Arthur Morston Books. I peered into the window, which held a display of antique map books, lying on a faded length of purple velvet. I noticed that the map of South-East Asia that lay open still referred to Thailand as ‘Siam’.
In the centre of the display stood a small, yellowing globe on a stand, reminding me of the one that sat in Pa Salt’s study. I couldn’t see a single thing beyond the display – the day was bright outside, but the interior was as dark as any Dickensian bookshop I’d read about. I hovered outside, knowing that to enter would take me on a journey I wasn’t sure I was ready to embark on.
But what else did I have at present? An empty, aimless life, providing nothing of value to anyone. And I so wanted to do something of value.
I drew out the plastic wallet from my leather rucksack and thought of Pa Salt’s last words, hoping they would infuse me with the strength I needed. Finally, I opened the shop door and a small bell tinkled from somewhere within. It took my eyes a while to adjust to the shadowy light. It reminded me of an old library, with its dark wooden floor and a marble-topped fireplace halfway along one wall, forming the centrepiece around which two leather winged chairs were arranged. Between them stood a low coffee table piled high with books.
I bent down to open one and, as I did so, dust motes flew up and dispersed like minuscule snowflakes into a shaft of sunlight. Straightening, I saw that the rest of the room was taken up with endless bookshelves, their contents stacked tightly.
I glanced around, delighted. Some women might feel the same about finding a boutique full of stylish clothes. To me, this room was a similar nirvana.
I walked over to a bookshelf, searching for an author or a title I knew. Many of them were in foreign languages. I paused to peruse what looked to be an original Flaubert, then moved along to find the English books. I pulled down a copy of Sense and Sensibility – perhaps my favourite of Austen’s novels – and leafed through its yellowing pages, keeping my touch light on the ageing paper.