BEA’S TAXI IS PASSING THE BRITISH MUSEUM WHEN IT occurs to her to buy some flowers to take to lunch after all, even though they are unlikely to be much of a match for what she could find in her own garden. But Bea’s garden is three thousand miles away, in New York, at the house by the Hudson in which she had spent a year of her childhood. It has been hers for all of four years, since one of Mother’s aunts died and left it to Bea, along with the funds to live in it. Bea finds it a little sad not to be there in May of all months, but she will be back there soon.
She has spent the winter in Cairo, and is now passing through on her way back, staying with the still-campaigning Celeste, whose friends are growing stranger. Next time Bea will stay at Claridge’s. She went to see Edie in Paris where, having given up on farming in Kenya, she is now living a nocturnal life fuelled, it appears, by champagne, cigarettes and God knows what else. Tomorrow Bea goes north to Clemmie’s where, Clemmie has written, garden and children (including Edie’s Archie) are all growing strong – but not Tom’s mind.
This afternoon, Bea has decided, she will visit Park Lane, or rather drive by. On her last trip through London the traffic jammed not a hundred yards away. There she was, in a juddering taxi, in sight of the house – and of the demolition ball that was swinging into the side of it, right where that lengthening crack had been. As the ball smashed on to the stone, Bea winced and turned away, but looked back to see the wall split along the line. All the house’s secrets were suddenly opened up to the world outside. The ball swung again and, just as Bea had once imagined, the dining room exterior collapsed. The walls inside, Bea could see, were bare. Then the traffic moved on.
They’ve built a hotel there now, Clemmie told her.
Bea raps on the taxi window to stop, and steps out in front of a delightfully pretty shop. The window frame is painted a grey-blue, with the name Museum Flowers curled across the top in navy, and outside are bunches of freesias, lilac, stock, all her favourites, and good ones too. A crowd of magnificent hydrangea heads fill what must be two buckets. She was wrong about not finding a match for her own garden. These are exquisite. Even the roses are of such a delicate salmon pink that she hesitates over them for a moment – but not roses, not today. Bea walks into the shop and stands at the counter watching the florist, who has her back to her as she finishes a bouquet. Bea watches her work, catching flashes of fingers and ribbon and scissors. I wonder what she’s like with hair, she thinks.
By the time the florist returns to the front desk, Bea has wandered behind the central plant display.
‘Can I help, madam?’ the florist calls.
‘The sweet peas are perfectly lovely.’ Bea always surprises herself when she speaks in England. Although back home she is told that she sounds starkly British, her voice has softened enough so that she sounds quite American over here. ‘They remind me of the borders in Sussex,’ she continues, ‘when I was a child.’
‘Oh, Sussex,’ says the florist, sounding a little surprised. ‘They come from Sussex, madam. How many would you like?’
‘Oh, two dozen, blue and white. Don’t make too much of a fuss in wrapping them. Shall I pick some out?’
‘I have some here, madam.’
Bea circumvents the potted palms and returns to the desk. As she approaches she notices that the florist is looking at her strangely and Bea, in return, is feeling a little disturbed that she knows this woman from somewhere and she can’t quite place her. Her mind starts to run through the continents she has visited. But don’t be ridiculous, Beatrice, you haven’t met this woman in Cairo. France, though, it could have been, in the war. She’s just old enough to have been out there with Bea, if she had been able to pay her way on the ambulances. The woman is now avoiding Bea’s gaze, but this makes Bea all the more curious until at last she says, ‘Don’t I know you from somewhere?’
The woman flushes down the side of her face and neck that Bea can see.
‘Yes, I know you,’ says Bea. ‘Where do I know you from? Good God, it’s Grace. The vanishing maid. I’ve found you. How extraordinary.’
‘I’m sorry, ma …’ The florist is flushed pink from her collar, and she dips her head and bobs and stammers out, ‘Yes, Miss Beatrice.’ Then, ‘No, sorry, it’s probably Mrs or Lady now.’
No, Bea thinks, just Miss, and thirty years old. However, an independent life is just what Bea once said she wanted. And if you have a house and land yourself, then you are not so clearly looking for a husband.
Before Bea has time to find a reply, a small boy runs in from the back of the shop. He is no more than five or six years old and near white-blond curls flop onto his face. Bea stops speaking. The boy stops and looks up at Bea. Bea holds her breath as her mind tumbles back twenty years and more, to small ponies and nursery pillow fights and knees scraped green by bushes and trees.
Grace is staring at this little boy as though she too has seen a ghost, but the ghost runs over to the far side of the counter and wraps his arms around Grace’s legs. Having squeezed them tight, he steps backwards and points to his chest. ‘Look at what Uncle Mikey gave me, Mummy.’
Beatrice cannot help but look, too. It is a campaigning rosette. Michael Campbell, it says, Independent Labour Party.
She doesn’t know which to be more stunned by. There are too many connections being made at once to make sense of them, and her head is spinning as she struggles to remember whether she ever knew Grace’s surname.
Uncle Mikey. Grace is looking straight at Bea, reading the confusion and shock that is clearly showing on her face. As Bea puts her good hand on the counter to steady herself, she sees Grace turn to hush the little boy as though she is brushing his words away into a corner.
Almost five years have passed but Bea now has her answer, all her answers. Her stomach clenches. If it was not to be five years ago then how, how could it be now?
Bea needs to leave this shop, Grace and little Edward as soon as she can. She opens her purse and takes out the money to pay for the sweet peas and turns to go. She hesitates, and pulls a card case out of the clutch bag not yet under her arm and takes a card out and presses it down on the counter.
‘For the boy,’ she says, ‘if ever …’ Then she takes a deep breath and adds, ‘There’s no need to pass on …’
Grace nods.
Bea picks up the sweet peas and walks back out on to the London street.