The announcement, later in the evening, came as a surprise.
“We are all family here, after all,” said Iris, looking with undisguised irony from Julia to James, who paused, arrested in the act of reaching for another macaroon. Her eyes slid over Gwen, who was sitting primly, hands folded in her lap, and came to rest finally on Julia again, who was refilling Philip’s water glass.
“As everyone’s assembled I would like to say something important. I’ve decided I’m selling the house.”
“You always say that, Granny.”
“There’s no need for you to move just yet, is there?” Julia asked.
“It’s not a question of need. I’m moving. I’ve got a good buyer, a developer. She’s the right person.”
“What do you mean, you’ve found someone already? When?”
“As it happens we exchanged this morning. She’s happy not to dawdle, which was exactly what I asked for. There’s really very little to do, if I’d known how easy it would be, I would have done it years ago. I want options, and I want to be in a position to—who knows what the future holds.”
Nobody spoke. Philip, Julia saw, looked stricken. He said nothing, but was now gazing down at his hands, their joints stiff and swollen, though he would rarely admit they bothered him. She felt an urge to defend him but could think of nothing to say that would not diminish or shame him. He did not move or look up. Eventually Gwen said, “But, Granny, I really don’t think it’s a good idea for you to move; everyone loves your house, and you’re so close to us.” More quietly, “And it’s where Dad grew up. Don’t sell it. I think you should think more about it.”
“Where will you go?” James asked.
“I’ve found a flat in St. John’s Wood. Well, off the Finchley Road, in actual fact. Really, I don’t know why you are all gawping at me; you can’t have thought I’d stay in this enormous house forever and I’m not waiting until I’m wheeled out of it. I want to be able to walk to Regent’s Park. I want to be closer to town. I liked Giles’s flat in Bayswater before he gave it up; it was convenient, and I want to have a management committee to deal with the roof and the hallway carpets. I want the financial freedom to be able to— I don’t intend to spend my seventies enslaved to the running of a house, I have far better things to do.”
“But it’s your seventies, Iris, not your nineties.”
“Regardless,” said Iris, primly.
Beside her Philip still had not spoken. It seemed he’d known as little as anyone else. Surely this house was his, too? How could Iris just sell it without his consent? And why? Strolling through Regent’s Park was not a convincing argument when she currently lived on Hampstead Heath. Gwen had not understood what it meant to exchange contracts, Julia saw with exasperation, and it would have to be broken to her that her grandmother’s house was all but gone, and further discussion pointless. Gwen needed support and stability to face the choices ahead, not further upheaval and insecurity. At that moment, Gwen scraped her chair back.
“I’m desperate for the loo,” she announced unnecessarily, and then trotted out into the hall, one hand cupped against an invisible bump.
Iris tutted. “What a mercy she reminded us all she’s pregnant, we’ve been talking about something else for all of twelve seconds. How remiss of us.”
Julia caught James’s eye and began, despite herself, to laugh. James shook his head; he, too, was fighting a smile. Just as Julia felt that giggles might overwhelm her Gwen returned and James straightened his face and stood up, abruptly. “It’s been a great night, thank you. Le shana haba’ah be Finchley Road. And it’s getting late. Philip, shall I give you a ride back?”
Julia and Iris looked up at him in surprise. Gwen stood in the doorway yawning, widely.
“That would be lovely, thank you,” said Philip. He had not joined in the laughter. He leaned heavily on the table and rose, slowly, to his feet.
• • •
WHEN THEY WERE ALONE, back in their own kitchen, James asked Julia, “Did you know she was doing that? Philip seemed stunned, in the car.”
“I don’t understand; surely it’s half his. She can’t just sell without asking him. He bought it before they even married, I think.”
“It must be in her name.”
“But whoever’s name it’s in, doesn’t common courtesy require you to at least ask your former husband about selling the family home? Your best friend, supposedly? She’s been there”—she began to estimate—“Giles lived there with her for a few years after he sold his flat, I think, before he moved to France.” She allowed herself a small smile here, at the phrase, but did not pause to explain and, in any case, in this instance she was referring to his actual move to France. “And before then all those years with Philip. Daniel was born in that house. What an awful thing to announce just like that. It’s classic Iris. You know that for ages we didn’t even know if they ever actually got divorced? They made it impossible to ask. And then in the end it turned out that the divorce came through exactly around the time she and Giles were breaking up anyway. It was all part of their act, you know, how unusually civil it all was. Oops! We almost forgot to divorce.”
“It’s not very civil to make unilateral decisions.”
“No.”
At that moment the phone rang. “It’s Granny,” Gwen shouted, from upstairs. “She wants you, Mum.”
Julia picked up the kitchen phone.
“You needn’t have looked at me like I’d grown a second head this evening,” Iris snapped, without preliminaries.
“I’m sorry, I was just a bit surprised.”
“Well, lots of things are surprising. I was surprised to discover that my sixteen-year-old granddaughter thinks it’s reasonable to have a baby, but I’ve adapted,” said Iris, shortly. “Now I’m equipped for bribery and corruption—art college, a gap year, whatever her little heart desires if only she abandons this insanity. And if she does have the bloody thing, it won’t have to be dragged up by its bootstraps, not that I will tell her that at present.”
“Oh, Iris, surely that’s not—”
“I have several reasons, none of which I owe it to you to explain. It’s my house, to do with as I wish.”
“Of course, I know that. But I really hope it won’t be necessary—”
“So you say, and yet the days pass and nothing changes. I dearly hope I’m wrong. Thank you for coming this evening,” Iris finished, stiffly. This formality was intended to be wounding. “Tell Gwendolen I’ll call her over the weekend. I sincerely hope this family therapist person knows her onions.” She rang off and Julia shrugged, in response to James’s look of inquiry. Her mother-in-law’s self-righteousness, her generosity, her ominous prophesies—Julia could not face discussing any of them.