Page 87 of All Our Missing Pieces

‘So do I.’ Orla smiled. ‘But the rest of it – it’s too big for just the two of us, you know. And now the heating’s in it’s going to cost a fortune to keep warm. The estate agent said – well, he said lots of things, they always do. But he said it’ll be worth a lot of money.’

‘You’re thinking of selling this house?’ Beatrice couldn’t keep the shock from showing in her face.

‘Just thinking,’ Orla said hastily. ‘I haven’t made a decision yet. But I wanted to talk to you about it because – well, it’ll be yours one day. The house or the money I sell it for.’

‘I don’t want money. I don’t want to even think about – you know. That.’

‘I’m not going to drop dead any time soon.’ Orla looked up from her notepad and her steady hazel eyes met Beatrice’s. ‘Please don’t think that. But although you’re welcome to live here for as long as you want, it won’t be forever. You might want a place of your own. You might want to go back to America. And I can’t be rattling around here on my own.’

‘You could get more lodgers,’ Beatrice said. ‘Like me and Luke and Livvie.’

‘Believe me, I’ve thought about that. But much as I’ve loved the past few months, I’m not sure I can face doing it again.’

Once again, there was that moment of connection, and they both laughed.

‘I get that,’ Beatrice said. ‘But I’m still here. I’m not going anywhere.’

‘Not yet. I hope not for a long time. But you will.’

Beatrice looked around the cosy, shabby kitchen – the only thing left of the dilapidated wreck Orla had inherited. She knew, now, what it had cost to bring it all back to life – not just in terms of money, but in terms of Luke’s labour, Orla’s anguish and Livvie’s heartbreak. And as for her – only now did she realise how precious number five Damask Square had become to her. It was here that she’d confronted truths about herself, come face to face with the mother she had lost and left behind the child she had been.

‘Don’t,’ she said. ‘Please don’t sell it, Orla.’

‘I won’t right away. I promise. It – and I – will be here for as long as you need. But eventually, it’s something I’ll have to consider.’

‘There’s a way.’ The idea came to Beatrice all at once, fully formed. ‘My dad – he teaches history of art at a private university. His students are all from wealthy families, and every summer they come out to Europe on their grand tours. They come to London first and visit the National Gallery and Tate Modern and everything, and then they go off to Paris and Florence and Vienna and whatever.’

‘Go on,’ Orla said, her face intent.

‘Well, when they’re in London, they’d need somewhere to stay,’ Beatrice went on. ‘Somewhere comfortable, with someone who can help them plan their travel itinerary and introduce them to London. Someone who knows art.’

‘Someone like me,’ Orla said.

‘Exactly! They’d pay a fortune – much more than we’ve been paying. And they wouldn’t stay long so they wouldn’t have a chance to – you know.’

‘Become annoying?’

They laughed for longer this time, in shared silliness and relief.

‘It’s a good idea,’ Orla said. ‘It really is. We’ll talk about it some more in the new year.’

Next year, Beatrice thought. Next year, I’ll still be here.

‘Shall I get a couple of bowls for our soup?’ she asked.

FIFTY-THREE

10 DECEMBER 2005

I can hear the shower running and Beatrice singing. Don’t Cry for Me Argentina – she has sung it while she gets ready almost every morning since she moved in. I wonder what it is about that particular song that appeals to her? Is it a favourite of her mom’s – that musical woman who has a baby grand piano in her front room and sings in the church choir?

Perhaps someday I will ask her. If I did, she would probably look at me in surprise, unaware of this habit she has.

Then she might become self-conscious and stop doing it. And I don’t want her to stop – I don’t want to make her feel anything other than at home in this house. Having lost her for so long, I don’t want to do anything that might frighten her off.

Even my portrait of her I am working on in snatches – a few brush strokes here, the adjustment of a line there – because I do not want to ask her to sit still for too long lest she becomes restless and makes a run for it.

It reminds me of those early days when Maud turned up at the house and I tempted her with tasty food and warm places to sleep, but always left a window open for her so she could come and go as she pleased.