The Pearl Sister (The Seven Sisters Book 4) by Lucinda Riley (28)

28

I woke the following morning and watched the sun starting to appear over the top of Mount Hermannsburg like a shy toddler hiding behind its mother’s legs. I checked my watch and saw it wasn’t even six o’clock yet, but I felt full of excitement for the new day. I noticed my calves had been turned into dot paintings by mosquitoes, and I pulled on a pair of trousers, not wanting the critters to eat any more of me before I’d had my own breakfast.

As I opened the door of my bedroom, a smell of freshly baked bread wafted from the kitchen. Sure enough, my grandfather was placing a loaf on the table outside, along with butter, jam and a coffee pot.

‘Good morning, Celaeno. Did you sleep well?’

‘Really well, thanks. You?’

‘I’m a night owl. I have my best thoughts after midnight.’

‘Same here,’ I said as he sat down. ‘Wow, that bread smells amazing. Didn’t know there was a bakery round here,’ I said.

‘I bake it myself. My wife bought me the machine ten years ago. Often, I’ll be out here for some time, and she wanted to make sure I had something to eat in case I was unable to shoot a passing kangaroo.’

‘Have you ever shot one?’

‘Many times, but that was long ago. Now I prefer the easier option of the supermarket.’

He placed a slice of warm bread onto a tin plate for me. I smeared butter and jam on top and watched as it melted into the soft dough.

‘This is delicious,’ I said, taking wolf-sized bites. He cut another slice for me. ‘So you’ve really lived out in the Bush? With no hut to come back to?’

‘Yes,’ he said. ‘I first went, as all Aboriginal boys do, when I reached manhood, around the age of fourteen.’

‘But I thought you were brought up as a Christian?’

‘I was, but the pastor respected our traditions and made no move to stop them. We at Hermannsburg were luckier than most. Pastor Albrecht even learnt to speak Arrernte and had a Bible commissioned in the language, so that those who did not speak English or German could read it and enjoy it too. He was a good man, and it was a good place. We came and went as we chose, but most of us always returned. After twenty years in Papunya, so have I. It’s home. Now, what are your plans?’

‘I came out here to find my family, and I found you.’ I offered him a smile. ‘I haven’t thought beyond that yet.’

‘Good. I mean, I was wondering if you’d like to stay with me for a while? Take the time to really get to know each other. And paint, of course. I was thinking that perhaps I could act as a gentle guide, maybe help you discover where your medium of art really lies. I taught at Papunya for many years.’

‘Er . . .’

He must have seen the expression of fear on my face, because he said, ‘Really, don’t worry about it. It was just an idea.’

‘No! It’s a fantastic idea! I mean, wow, yes! It’s just that, well, you’re so famous and everything, and I’m just worried you’ll think I’m rubbish.’

‘I would never think that, Celaeno, you’re my granddaughter for a start! Perhaps, having made no contribution to your life so far, I can make one now and help you find your way forward.’

‘Maybe you should see my work before you agree to help me.’

‘If it’ll make you feel happier, then I will. If we’re to stay here for a few days, we should drive to the Alice and purchase supplies and while we’re there, we can drop into the gallery that has your painting on the wall.’

‘Okay,’ I agreed, ‘although you’ll probably think it’s rubb—’

‘Hush, Celaeno.’ Francis put a finger to his lips. ‘Negative thought brings negative action.’

We cleared away the breakfast, sweeping every crumb from the table until it was spotless. My grandfather told me that even a sniff of the tiniest morsel would bring in an army of ants before we returned. Then we headed to the back of the stable, where an old pickup truck sat in the shade of a mulga tree.

We arrived in town three hours later, and my grandfather led the way to a supermarket so we could stock up. It was a slow process, as time and again someone came to slap him on the shoulder and say ‘g’day’. One woman even asked to take a photo with him and he stood awkwardly in front of the meat counter, looking embarrassed. As this continued through the town, I began to realise that my grandfather – even if he wasn’t Clifford Possum – was certainly a major celebrity here. This was confirmed as I trailed after him into the gallery and every artist inside stopped what they were doing and stared at him open-mouthed. They clustered round him, speaking in another language, and Francis answered them fluently. After more photos and a few signed slips of paper, my heart pounded as he asked Mirrin on reception where she had hung his granddaughter’s painting.

‘Your granddaughter?’ Mirrin gazed at me, looking flustered, then shook her head. ‘Sorry, it isn’t here any more.’

‘Then where is it?’ I asked, panic surging through me.

‘It was only hanging up for an hour yesterday before a couple came in and bought it.’

I stared at Mirrin, wondering if she was just covering her tracks because she hadn’t got round to having it framed yet.

‘So, now I owe ya three hundred and fifty dollars!’

‘Well now, that’s the best reason I ever heard for not being able to see your work,’ my grandfather said, with what sounded like pride in his voice.

‘Celaeno’s got talent, Mister Abraham. I’ll buy anything else she paints, okay?’

A few minutes later, with the first cash I had ever made from my painting stuffed into my back pocket, we left the gallery. As I walked down the street next to Francis Abraham, renowned artist, and my grandfather, I felt genuine elation.

* * *

‘Right, I’ll leave you to it,’ my grandfather said, as he tightened the last nut on the easel that I’d bought out of the proceeds of the sale. ‘You have everything you need?’

‘Yeah, and the rest.’ I raised an eyebrow. On the fold-out table next to me sat a new selection of watercolours, oils and pastels, along with a range of brushes.

‘You’ll know which to use,’ he said, placing a hand on my shoulder. ‘Remember that panic stifles your instincts and makes you blind.’

He lit an insect repellent coil next to my legs to ward off the flies, then he left and I stared at the blank canvas in front of me. I’d never felt such intense pressure to perform. I opened tubes of orange and brown oils and mixed them together on the pallet. ‘Here goes,’ I breathed. Then I picked up a shiny new brush and started to paint.

Forty-five minutes later, I’d torn the canvas from the easel and thrown it to the floor because it was terrible. Next, I tried paper and watercolours, using Mount Hermannsburg as my subject in an attempt to replicate the painting I’d done a few days ago, but that was even worse than the canvas so I discarded that one too.

‘It’s lunch!’ Francis called out from the hut.

‘Not hungry,’ I called back, hiding the first canvas under my chair and hoping he wouldn’t notice.

‘It’s only a ham and cheese sandwich,’ he said, coming onto the veranda and plopping the plate onto my lap. ‘Your grandmother always said that an artist needs brain food. Don’t worry, I’m not going to look at anything you paint until the end of the week. So you’ve got plenty of time.’

His words – and a really great sandwich – temporarily calmed me down, but by the end of the day I was ready to collect my rucksack and hike back to the Alice to drown my sorrows in a few stubbies. It didn’t help that when I walked inside to cool down by the fan, I glanced at my grandfather sitting on a stool with a huge canvas in front of him. I watched as he mixed colours on his palette, then took a brush and filled in another section of intricate dots. Somewhere in the gorgeous mix of delicate pinks, purples and greens, I could see the shape of a dove, barely visible and made up only of a series of tiny white flecks.

He’s a bloody genius, and I can’t paint the wall of a kitchen, I thought as I put my face close to the fan to cool down, then got my hair entangled in the blades and nearly scalped myself.

‘Your painting’s brilliant. Just awesome – ouch!’ I said as Francis worked to extract my now considerable head of hair from the fan blades.

‘Thank you, Celaeno. I hadn’t worked on it for weeks, wasn’t sure where I was going with it, but seeing you sitting there outside gave me an idea.’

‘You mean the dove?’

‘You saw it.’ Even though I couldn’t look at him because he was still wrestling with my hair, I knew he was pleased I’d noticed. ‘I think I might have to cut the last shreds out.’

‘Okay, do it,’ I encouraged him, as my neck was really beginning to crick badly.

‘Right.’ He came back brandishing a large pair of kitchen scissors. ‘You know what it is that holds every human being back from fulfilling their full potential?’

‘What?’ I felt his hand tug gently at the clump of hair and then wield the scissors very close to my right ear. Van Gogh came to mind, but I put the thought away.

‘Fear. You have to cut out the fear.’

With a snip, the scissors closed in on my hair.

* * *

I didn’t know if it was some kind of weird voodoo my grandfather had performed on me, but I woke at sunrise feeling calmer.

‘I’m heading out to Jay Creek,’ he told me as we cleared away the remains of breakfast. ‘I’ll be back late. Any problem, I’ve left my mobile number on the fireplace, okay?’

‘Is there any signal here?’

‘No,’ he said with a smile. ‘You can get a couple of bars down by the creek sometimes.’ He pointed below us. ‘See you later.’

I watched him drive off in his pickup truck until he became a speck in the distance. ‘Right, Cee,’ I told myself firmly as I placed the biggest canvas I had on the easel and screwed it into place. ‘It might be a disaster, but we’re going to be brave and have a go.’ Then I angled the easel away from the view of Mount Hermannsburg, because I was going to work from memory . . .

Much later, I came to and saw the sun was setting and the pickup was making its way up the slope. I looked at what I had done so far – I only had an outline and a small painted corner, but instinct told me I was on the right track. As the pickup drew nearer, I unscrewed the canvas from the easel and hurried it into my bedroom, because I really did not want my grandfather to see it yet. Then I closed the door behind me and went to put the kettle on.

‘How did it go?’ he asked me when he arrived on the veranda.

‘Oh, okay,’ I said, pouring him a cup of coffee.

‘Good.’ He nodded but said no more.

The following morning, I was up at the crack of dawn, simply because I couldn’t wait to get started. And so it was for the next few days. Francis would often be out during the day, but would return at sunset with something good to eat. After supper, I’d disappear into my room to study my painting and think about where I should head with it the next day. I lost track of time as one day fed into the next, helped by the fact that my mobile had zero signal up here.

It did cross my mind that Chrissie might be thinking I’d been eaten by a dingo or, more logically, didn’t want to know her after what had happened that fateful morning, and that Star might be worried about me too. So I wandered down to the creek in search of a signal, found a couple of bars and texted them both.

My fingers hovered as I wondered whether to add PS Staying with my grandfather, but I decided against it and just wrote:

Then before my mind could go wandering off to reality, I went back to my painting.

* * *

I put my brush down for the final time and stretched, feeling my right arm pulse with indignation over the way I had abused its muscles. I stared at what was in front of me, tempted to pick the brush up again and add a little dab here or there, but I knew I was hovering in the dangerous territory of over-painting something that was as near perfect as I could get it. I dragged my eyes and body away from it and went inside to make myself a strong cup of coffee, then lay down on my bed in the cool of the fan, feeling totally out of it.

* * *

‘Celaeno, can you hear me?’

‘Yup,’ I croaked.

‘It’s half past eleven and you haven’t moved since last night when I came in and found you asleep.’

I looked at the bright sun pouring in through the window and wondered why it was still shining at eleven o’clock at night.

‘You’ve slept for almost fifteen hours.’ My grandfather smiled down at me. ‘Here, I’ve brought you some coffee.’

‘Jesus! The painting! Is it still outside?’ I jumped out of bed, almost knocking the mug of coffee to the floor.

‘I brought it in for you – good job I did, as we had some rain in the early hours. Don’t worry, I averted my eyes and put a sheet over it as I carried it in.’ He put a warm hand on my shoulder. ‘Doctor Abraham diagnoses post-painting exhaustion. I got it too after I went on a “painting bender”, as Sarah used to call it.’

‘Yeah, well, I’ve no idea what I’ve produced, whether it’s good or bad or—’

‘Whatever it is, it’s a week of your life that will not have been wasted. If you feel like it, we’ll take a look together after you have had something to eat. I’ll leave you to have a wash and get dressed.’

‘Can we look at it now? I can’t take the stress!’ I explained as I followed him into the sitting room.

‘Of course.’ He indicated the easel with a white sheet thrown over the canvas upon it. ‘Don’t worry, I checked that it was dry first. Please, unveil it.’

‘You’ll probably hate it, and . . . I don’t know if it’s good or what, and—’

‘Celaeno, please, may I just see it?’

‘Okay.’ I walked over to it and, with a big intake of breath, I pulled off the sheet. My grandfather took a few steps back – it was a big canvas – and folded his arms across his chest as he studied it. I went to stand next to him and did the same. He then took a step closer and I followed behind him like a shadow.

‘Well?’ He turned to look at me, his expression telling me nothing. ‘What do you think of it?’

‘I thought you were the one meant to be telling me?’ I replied.

‘First, I want to hear what you have to say about it.’

His words immediately reminded me of being back in art class, when a teacher would employ this method of selfcriticism before he or she then tore the entire painting to shreds.

‘I . . . like it. For a first try, anyway.’

‘That’s a good start. Please, carry on. Explain it to me.’

‘Well, I had this idea about taking the landscape I painted a couple of weeks ago, but instead of using watercolours, using oils and dots.’

‘Right.’ I watched as my grandfather moved closer to it and pointed to the ghost gum and the piece of gnarled bark. ‘That looks like two eyes to me, and up there, in the cave, is a tiny cirrus of white, like a spirit entering it.’

‘Yup,’ I said, delighted that he’d noticed. ‘The idea came from Merope – the seventh sister; when the Old Man’s eyes are watching her as she enters the cave.’

‘I guessed it was something like that.’

‘Good.’ I couldn’t stand it any longer. ‘What do you think?’

‘I think, Celaeno, that you have created something unique. It’s also beautiful to look at and it’s actually – for a first go with dots – very well executed. Especially the ghost gum, which even though it’s made up of dots and painted in oil, definitely has “luminosity”. It shines out of the painting, as does the cirrus of white.’

‘You like it?’

‘I don’t just like it, Celaeno, I love it. Yes, the technical side of the dots where they fade from one colour to the next could be improved, but I can show you the best technique to do that. The point is, I’ve never seen anything quite like this before. And if this is a first try, I can only imagine what you could do in the future. Do you realise that you have spent six days painting?’

‘To be honest, I’ve lost all track of time . . .’

‘“In six days, the Lord made the heavens and the earth, but on the seventh day, he rested.” Celaeno, you’ve found your own unique “world” this week, and I’m so very proud of you. Now come here and let me give you a hug.’

After that, and a few tears shed by me, Francis disappeared outside and came back with two beers. He handed one to me. ‘I keep a few at the bottom of the water barrel for really special occasions. And this is definitely one of them. Cheers.’

‘Cheers!’ We bashed our bottles together and took a sip.

‘Jesus! I’m drinking before breakfast!’

‘You forget that it’s almost lunchtime.’

‘And I am starving,’ I said, casting another glance at my painting and feeling a serious surge of pride.

Over lunch, my grandfather and I discussed it in more depth, and after we’d eaten, we sat side by side in front of a fresh canvas as he showed me his technique for painting the dots and then softening their edges so that from a distance, they didn’t look like dots at all.

‘Everyone has their own personal way of painting, and their own techniques,’ he said as I gave it a go, ‘and I’m sure you will develop yours. It really is a case of trial and error, and there’ll be a lot of the latter. It’s a part of the process as we improve.’ Then he turned and stared at me. ‘The most important question to ask is whether the painting style itself – never mind the result – felt right?’

‘Oh, it did, definitely. I mean, I really enjoyed it.’

‘Then you have found your metier. For now, at least, because an artist’s life is all about finding new ways of expressing themself.’

‘You mean, I might have a weird Picasso moment at some point?’ I chuckled.

‘Most painters do – including me – but I always came back to the style I felt most comfortable with.’

‘Well, I’ve certainly had a few of those moments in the past,’ I said, and told him about my weird installation last year.

‘Don’t you see that you were just using real objects to study shape and form? You were learning how to position the components on a canvas. All experimentation teaches you something.’

‘I’ve never looked at it like that before, but yeah, you’re right.’

‘You’re a natural-born artist, Celaeno, and now you have taken all those important first steps towards finding your own style, the sky is the limit. Just one thing, I noticed you haven’t signed the painting yet.’

‘I never do usually ’cos I don’t want anyone to know it was painted by me.’

‘Do you with this?’

‘Yeah. I do.’

‘Then you’d better get practising your signature,’ Francis advised me. ‘I promise that it’ll be the first of many.’

Later that afternoon, I took a thin brush and a tube of black oil and stood in front of the painting, readying myself to sign it.

Celaeno D’Aplièse?

CeCe D’Aplièse?

C. D’Aplièse . . . ?

Then a thought struck me and I wandered over to my grandfather, who was sitting on the veranda, whittling at a piece of wood.

‘What are you doing?’

‘Having a “Picasso moment”,’ he smiled at me. ‘Seeing what shapes I can create. It’s not going well. Signed your picture yet?’

‘No, ’cos the thing is that “Celaeno D’Aplièse” is a bit of a mouthful and I get really irritated when everyone pronounces the “D’Aplièse” wrong.’

‘You’re asking me if you should have a nom de plume?’

‘Yeah, but I don’t know what.’

‘I wouldn’t mind at all if you took my surname, even though that was a made-up one.’

‘Thanks, but then I’d be trading on your name and being your granddaughter and all and . . .’

‘You want to do it by your talent alone. I understand.’

‘So, I was thinking that, if your biological father had married your mum like he wanted to, your surname would have been Mercer?’

‘Yes, it would have been.’

‘And my mum’s, at least until she got married.’

‘Correct.’

‘So what do you think of “Celaeno Mercer”?’

My grandfather stared into the distance, as though his thoughts were flying back across all the generations of our family. Then he raised his eyes to mine.

‘Celaeno, I think it is perfect.’

* * *

When I woke up the next morning, I felt really odd. Like my time out here was over – for now – and there was somewhere else I needed to be, but I couldn’t think where. And having that thought meant I had to let reality begin flooding back in to help me decide on what exactly I was going to do with my life from here. I didn’t even know what day it was, let alone the date, so I walked into breakfast and asked Francis, feeling really embarrassed.

‘Don’t worry, losing track of time simply means you’re fully engaged in what you’re doing. It’s the twenty-fifth of January.’

‘Wow,’ I said, feeling amazed that less than a month had passed since I’d left Thailand, and at the same time wondering where the time had gone.

He stared at me quizzically. ‘You’re thinking where do you go from here, aren’t you?’

‘Yeah, I am a bit.’

‘I don’t need to tell you how much I’d like it if you stayed for a while. Not in this hut, of course – I have a very comfortable house in the Alice with plenty of room for the two of us. But maybe you have other places to go, other people to see . . .’

‘The thing is . . .’ I rubbed my palms on the top of my trousers, feeling agitated. ‘I’m just not sure. There’s a couple of situations that are a . . . bit confusing.’

‘I find in life that there always are. Do you want to talk about them?’

I thought about Star, then Ace and Chrissie, and shook my head. ‘Not right now.’

‘Fine. Well, I was thinking that I’d probably head back to the Alice later today, as long as you don’t want to stay here any longer. Even I’m looking forward to a decent bath!’

‘Yeah, that sounds really good,’ I agreed, trying to force a smile.

‘I also have some photograph albums there which I could show you.’

‘I’d love to see them,’ I said.

‘For now, why don’t you take a walk? That’s what I always do when I’m having to make decisions.’

‘Okay, I will.’

So off I headed, and as I walked, I imagined going back to London and, with my newfound style, standing in my beautiful apartment and painting every day all by myself. Granted, Star would be only a train journey away, not living on the other side of the world, but I knew she would never be coming back for longer than maybe an overnight stay, so we could catch up on each other’s lives. Ace was also in London, locked up in some scummy prison amongst murderers and sexual deviants. At the very least, I felt I owed him an explanation, and a show of support. Whether he believed me or not, it didn’t really matter. It was just the right thing to do.

Then there was home-home – Atlantis, and Ma, both of whom I hadn’t visited for almost seven months, but I couldn’t imagine my future there. Even though one day, I did want to paint the view across Lake Geneva with the mountains behind it.

That was Europe. So, what about Australia, the country I’d always been too terrified to visit? Yet, the past weeks had been the most amazing of my whole life. It was cheesy to even think it, but it felt like I’d been reborn. Like all the bits of me that hadn’t fitted in Europe had been stripped down and rearranged so that they – I – was a better ‘whole’. Just like my installation. I’d never managed to get it perfect, but then I’d never be perfect either. But I knew I was better, and that was good enough.

My grandfather, Chrissie . . . they were here too. So far, I hadn’t had to earn their love, because it had been offered to me unconditionally, but I knew I wanted to in the future.

And as I stood in the middle of this huge, open space with the sun beating down far too hard on my tender head, I realised there wasn’t a decision to be made.

I turned tail and walked back to the hut.

* * *

‘I belong here,’ I told my grandfather as we sat in a restaurant in the Alice a few hours later, eating my new favourite – kangaroo. ‘It’s as simple as that.’

‘I’m glad,’ he said, the inherent joy in his eyes telling me just how much he was.

‘Although I do have to go back to England to sort out some stuff, you know?’

‘I do know. You need to tie up loose ends,’ he agreed. ‘Maybe it’s the streak of German in us that makes us want to put our house in order before we can move on,’ he said with a smile.

‘Well, talking of putting houses in order, I’m planning to sell mine. I think I told you I bought an apartment overlooking the River Thames in London with my inheritance. It’s all been a bit of a disaster.’

‘Everyone makes mistakes, it’s part of the human learning curve, as long as you do learn from them,’ he added with a sigh. ‘If you want to come back here, my home is yours for as long as you need it.’

‘Thanks.’ I hadn’t seen his house here in the Alice yet. After arriving, we’d gone straight to eat. ‘As well as putting my apartment on the market, I also need to see my sister to make things right there.’

‘Now that really is a reason to go back,’ he agreed. ‘People are more important than possessions, I always think.’

We finished our food then got into the truck to drive to his house. It turned out to be just on the perimeter of the town, in a line of pretty white chalet-style houses with big verandas at ground and roof-level.

‘Ignore the garden. Keeping plants in order really isn’t an interest of mine,’ he remarked as we walked to the front door.

‘Star could sort that lot out in a few days,’ I said as he put the key in the lock and opened up.

Inside, I immediately got the impression that whoever had designed the interior had wanted to bring a little piece of England to the Outback. It was definitely very feminine, with pretty flower-sprigged curtains hanging at the windows, hand-embroidered scatter cushions adorning an old but comfortable sofa and scores of photographs lining the two bookshelves that sat on either side of the fireplace. The lighting was soft too, the golden glow emanating from lampshades set on brass stands.

All in all, despite the fact it had that musty smell that houses get when they’re not properly lived in, I felt cocooned and comfortable here.

‘I put the water heater on a timer last time I was here, so it should be piping hot. I’m off to run a bath for you,’ said my grandfather.

‘That’s great, thanks,’ I said, thinking of the last time I was in a bath, covered in rose petals, with a pair of gentle hands wrapped around my waist. How far I had come since then . . .

After a long and seriously fantastic soak in the tub, I stepped out and saw the water was mud-coloured, with all sorts of small insects that must have embedded themselves in the crevices of my body and hair while I was out at the hut. It felt good to be clean, except I only had dirty clothes to put back on. I padded back to the sitting room in a towel.

‘Do you have an old T-shirt I could borrow? My clothes stink.’

‘I can do better than that. Your grandmother was not far off your size, and there’s a wardrobe-full in our bedroom.’

‘Are you sure you don’t mind?’ I asked him as I followed him along the corridor and he turned on a light in the room, before pulling an old cedar-wood wardrobe open.

‘Of course not, I can’t think of a better use for them. I was only going to give them away to the charity shop anyway. Take your pick.’

Feeling a bit weird about raiding my dead granny’s wardrobe, I looked through the rack of stuff. Most of it was paisley-patterned cotton dresses, dirndl skirts and blouses featuring lace collars, but there were also a couple of long linen shirts. I put one on and walked back to the sitting room. My mobile phone had found a signal again, and there was a message from Talitha Myers, the solicitor in Adelaide. I listened to her telling me that she’d discovered the name ‘Francis Abraham’ in the ledgers and I felt proud that I’d got there before her.

Francis was now in the bath himself, so I amused myself by looking at the silver-framed photographs. Most were of him and a woman, whom I had to presume was my grandmother. She was small and pale and neat, with her dark hair fastened in a coil on top of her head.

Another was of a bright-faced little girl of about three, grinning cheekily at the camera, then another of the same child at maybe eleven or twelve, sitting between my granny and grandpa. ‘My mother.’ I swallowed hard. I couldn’t see any of her older than fifteen or so, and was just wondering about this when Francis appeared in the room.

‘You’ve seen the photographs of your mother?’

‘Yes. What was her name?’

‘Elizabeth. She was a lovely little girl, always laughing. Looked just like her mother.’

‘I saw. And as a grown-up?’ I probed.

Francis sighed. ‘It’s a long story, Celaeno.’

‘Sorry, it’s just that there’s still so much I don’t know or understand.’

‘Yes. Well, why don’t I go and make us both some coffee? Then we can talk.’

‘Okay.’

He was back within a few minutes, and as we sipped our coffees in silence, I could feel he was garnering the strength to tell me.

‘Perhaps it’s easier to go back to where we left off,’ he said eventually.

‘Whatever you feel is best. I’d love to know what happened to Kitty, and Charlie and Drummond.’

‘Of course you would, and it was through Kitty that I met my wife, Sarah . . .’