The Elephant Girl(9)

‘She said nothing about that. You told me she was Catholic.’

Jason had never discussed Cathy with him and hadn’t been the one to tell him she was pregnant, but what was the point in arguing about it? What was done, was done.

Instead he said, in a voice marred by both pity and disgust, ‘I’ve always suspected what sort of man you are, but now I know. Owning other people is the only kind of love you understand, and you’ll do anything to keep us all under your thumb. Even if it leads to the slaughter of an innocent child.’ And he’d stormed out of the room but not before he’d seen his father turn pale.

Since then he’d had only casual girlfriends and very few friends in general, careful not to leave himself exposed to the same kind of manipulation again.

It was working with young offenders at a music recording studio which showed him a way forward. He became passionate about helping people who were less fortunate than himself, and, if he had to be completely honest about it, it was also a way of getting up his father’s nose. When annoying his father slowly became less important, Jason knew he’d finally found something to do with his life which truly mattered. Somewhere he could make a difference.

Derek had only given in about the house because he’d played him at his own game, but it seemed to be the only language he understood. Jason sensed a grudging respect, but the victory felt hollow because he didn’t want to be respected for the part of himself which he loathed the most.

The part that was like his father.

After the sweet air in Goa the smells of London were like an assault on the senses. Helen checked into a hotel in a cheap but bustling part of town and slept off her jet lag.

Aggie’s Kensington home was a Victorian semi-detached house covered in white-painted stucco. The roof of a summer house could just be seen over the top of the walled garden, and yellow climbing roses spilled over the iron railings that bordered the small paved area outside the entrance. The front of the house was almost entirely covered in a trailing wisteria, its flowers resembling succulent grapes. The air was heady with their perfume, and if she turned her back on the traffic and shut out the noise, Helen could almost imagine herself back in Goa.

Almost.

She’d called beforehand because with Aggie you didn’t just ‘drop in’, and the voice on the phone, a secretary perhaps, had told her to come at eleven. It galled her that her step-grandmother had lured her back from India and then expected her to schedule a meeting like some office junior, but sometimes you had to play by the rules to get what you wanted.

And Helen wanted something very specific – answers.

On the front step she stopped with a feeling of déjà vu. Same time of the year with the wisteria in bloom, clutching her mother’s hand and staring up at the house which she’d thought belonged to a witch. She wore a rose-pink velvet dress made by someone called Laura. Her mother had been particularly fond of that dress and told Helen it made her look like a little princess, so it became her favourite too. They referred to it as ‘Laura’s dress’, and for years she’d believed this Laura was a friend of her mother’s until she’d walked past the Laura Ashley store on Oxford Street, and the penny dropped.

The woman who opened the door now was unfamiliar, but Helen wasn’t surprised. When she last saw Aggie’s housekeeper Mrs Ingram, seven years ago, the old lady had looked ready to drop.

‘Yes?’ She looked Helen up and down, took in the scuffed Doc Martens boots, the ripped jeans and the long tie-dye top, and wrinkled her nose. ‘We don’t buy or sell at the door.’

‘I’m here to see Mrs Ransome.’

‘I doubt it.’ The woman made to shut the door.

Helen stopped it closing with her boot. ‘Excuse me, but I have an appointment to see my step-grandmother. Unless she’s popped her clogs or moved out, I suggest you let me in.’

The woman opened the door reluctantly as if she still suspected it to be a con. ‘Why didn’t you say so in the first place?’

‘You didn’t ask. Anyway, who are you?’

‘Your grandmother’s nurse. You can call me Mrs Sanders.’

Hard as nails, this one. ‘Nurse, you said. Is my grandmother ill?’

‘When did you last see Mrs Ransome?’

‘About seven years ago. Why?’

Mrs Sanders sent her a sly look. ‘Well, then I’d say you’re in for a surprise.’ She motioned for Helen to follow her across the chequerboard hall floor to the lounge facing the garden. Helen clomped after her with some misgivings. Aggie normally received visitors in the front parlour. Things had obviously changed since she was last here.