The Way from Here by Jane Cockram

Author:Jane Cockram
Language: eng
Format: mobi
Publisher: HarperCollins
Published: 2021-12-31T00:00:00+00:00

28

Susie, 1998

Even Isabel sensed that something crucial had just passed between David and Susie. She sat up and extricated herself from David’s embrace. The bed was in shadow, but the late-afternoon sun formed a patch of warmth on the old oak boards where Susie stood.

“What?” she asked, looking from David to Susie in turn. “What does that mean?”

David had gone stiff. His face was pale.

“I don’t know, Isabel,” he said slowly and carefully. “Susie—what does it mean?”

“My grandmother was called Nellie.” The words were spoken quietly.

“Lots of women were in those days,” David said. For a moment he looked like he might sit up, and then he changed his mind. From a prone position, he could keep his eyes trained on the ceiling and not have to make eye contact. That suited Susie; she needed a minute to think things through as well.

Only Isabel was energized by the development. She pointed at David—“Your mother had a precious childhood nanny called Nellie”—and then at Susie—“and your grandmother worked in London and was called Nellie. Do you think they’re the same person?” She clapped her hands together. “David, you have to ask your mother!”

“It’s not happy families yet, Isabel,” David muttered.

Susie walked to the window and pretended to concentrate on the view. Her mind was running at a million miles per hour.

“It does make sense,” she said, deliberately slowing down the thoughts as they moved from her brain to her mouth. “Her letter said that the painting belonged to the family she used to work for, and, David, you said your family had some sketches by the same artist. Maybe she was a little confused and got the sketches and the painting mixed up. David, what are the sketches like?”

David was still looking up at the ceiling. He seemed to be weighing up his options.

“David?” Isabel cut in. “Is it the same artist?”

“I wasn’t entirely truthful about the painting,” he said finally. He picked some dirt out of his nails from the earlier gardening.

Susie felt her hopes drop. “Your family didn’t own the sketches?”

“No,” David said. “They didn’t.” The old house shifted in the heat. A beam cracked above them.

“Oh well,” Susie said. “It would have been a bit of a coincidence, anyway. As you say, there were a lot of Nellies around in those days.”

David sat up. He looked toward his mother’s dressing table as if he were waiting for something. Finally he stood up and walked over to it. Moving a couple of Lucinda’s publicity photos out of the way, he found what he was looking for. An old sepia photograph, framed in an ornate brass frame. He brought it over to Susie and handed it to her wordlessly.

“What is it?” she asked. It was a photo of a young child dressed in frilly bloomers, her cherubic face framed by pale curls. She was holding a small wooden pony and standing in front of a large painting of a horse. The horse from the National Gallery. “Is this your mother?”

“Yes.”

“At the gallery?”

“At her family home in Devon.

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