The Girl Below(34)

“No, I’m Suki. I came to visit you a few months ago. I used to live downstairs with my parents—Hillary and Ludo.”

“Why are you here?” she said, as though she hadn’t heard me.

“I’m going to help you for a bit while Amanda’s away. She’s coming in later to say good-bye.”

“Forty years on my own, I think I can go to the lavatory by myself. What did you say your name was?”

“Suki. Suki Piper.”

“Aha,” she exclaimed. “I knew your sister. She wore little pink glasses and was always dancing. Do you know she came to stay with us once and wet the bed?”

“I think you’re talking about me,” I said. “I don’t have a sister.”

Her face fell. “Oh dear. I’m so sorry. I just remembered what happened to her.” She took my hand. “Forgive me.”

“Forgive you for what?”

“I forgot your sister died of cancer.”

“She didn’t. But my mother did. Hillary.”

“Hillary had cancer?” She looked confused. “But I saw her a few months ago and she was fine.”

“That was me too, not Hillary.”

Peggy stared for a moment at the stuffed birds in their cage. One was hanging upside down from the perch, its feet bound by twine. “I think I might need an extra cup of tea this morning,” she said.

I was relieved to discover that I had only to escort Peggy to the door of the lavatory, but she insisted on going in alone. To conserve energy, she spent most of her time in a wheelchair, but could walk short distances when it suited her. At half past ten I found her in the kitchen, answering the siren call of her midmorning whiskey. The liquor brought a splash of color to her cheeks, and contrary to what I’d expected, she was much more lucid afterward. “This is our little secret, you hear?” she said, stashing the bottle in an old-fashioned flour bin. “It’s almost all gone, but I shall send you out later to replenish our stores.”

I did not appear to have a say in the matter. Soon after, Pippa arrived amid a bustle of plastic shopping bags, and put away groceries on low shelves where Peggy could reach them—cans of soup, mainly, plus a few packets of mouse-colored biscuits. Mother and daughter air-kissed on both cheeks, their skin not actually touching. Pippa had dyed her hair, I noticed, as did Peggy, who grabbed a swatch of it. “It looks a little brassy,” she said. “Did you do it yourself?”

“Mmm-hmm,” said Pippa, noncommittal.

“It’s the wrong shade for your complexion. Brings out the red in your face.” Peggy puffed out her cheeks to demonstrate. “You must always go to a salon. I have told you this before.”

“Thank you,” said Pippa, straining to be courteous. “Remind me to consult you next time.” She noticed that her mother’s cardigan was fastened incorrectly, and rebuttoned it while Peggy huffed discontentedly. In a schoolteacher voice Pippa added, “Why doesn’t Suki wheel you into the drawing room while I make us all morning tea? You can show her your photographs.”

At the mention of photographs, Peggy perked up. “Don’t push too fast, or it makes me feel giddy,” she said as I steered her out into the hallway. The wheelchair slid easily along the tiled floor, and it was an effort to slow the pace to one that suited Peggy. “I’ve always imagined having a wallah to do this,” she announced as we reached the end of the hall. “Like the maharajahs did in India. I don’t think they minded at all, the wallahs. In fact, I think they rather enjoyed it. So much better to be civilized than living in the jungle eating bananas, don’t you agree?”

She was too old to be dissuaded from her colonial fantasies, so I opted to play along. “Where to now, memsahib?”

She pointed to the far wall. “Over there.”

I had been in the drawing room dozens of times but had never scrutinized the wall of photographs directly opposite Madeline, probably because Madeline herself had always distracted me from doing so. “Did you get rid of the statue?” I asked, hopefully.

“Get rid of Madeline?” said Peggy, outraged that I had even asked. “Of course not. She’s like a daughter to me.” She had stopped in front of a photograph of herself in a feathered headdress looking young and haughty, a small, impish boy trying to climb up her leg. “You remember dearest Harold, don’t you?” she said. “Such a sweet little boy. Liked to hang around backstage, waiting for Mummy to finish.” She pulled me closer to the photo so I could get a better look, then pointed to another picture of Harold in a suit and graduation gown. “So terribly bright. Do you know he graduated from Cambridge with a first class honors? Isn’t he handsome?”