The Truth About Julia: A Chillingly Timely Psychological Novel (25 page)

Grace lived in the ground-floor flat of a small white house with a cherry-coloured door in a chestnut-lined side-street in Notting Hill, just far enough from the endless stream of treasure-hunting tourists that congests Portobello market. She opened the door only seconds after I’d rung the bell.

‘It’s lovely to meet you, Clare,’ she said and took my hand. She held it between hers for a long time, and I felt quite overwhelmed by the unexpected intimacy of this act. Grace smelled of lavender, and was perhaps in her sixties or seventies, or even eighties – it was very difficult to tell, since her face was round and kind, and very smooth, as though she hadn’t known much sorrow in her life. Her pale-blue eyes, however, never properly focused on mine – whenever I sought to hold them they flickered across my face and then glided downwards, like tears.

She led me to the living room. The first thing I noticed was that it was populated with hundreds of photographs – they were everywhere, on the walls, on the mantelpiece, on the chests of drawers, on the old grand piano – this was clearly a woman who resided right at the heart of a remarkably wide-ranging network of relationships. When she sat down in a purple armchair, she appeared to me as someone cherished by this multitude of phantoms, as though she was their queen and they her loving subjects. Here was a woman with more than just a cat to accompany her into old age, someone who had chosen people rather than words.

On the coffee table between us stood an old-fashioned porcelain teapot on a candle-lit stove. Two teacups on saucers and a jug of milk and a sugar bowl were also in reach, as well as a plate with a selection of shortbread fingers. The biscuits looked self-made and smelled of honey and burned butter.

A young woman popped her head in and called, ‘Is everything OK, Grandma?’

Grace smiled and waved in her direction. ‘Yes, darling, we’re fine. I’ll be all right. Don’t you worry. You can go now if you want.’

‘Would you mind pouring us a cup of tea?’ Grace asked when the woman had disappeared. ‘And please, do have some biscuits.’

It was only then that I saw that Grace’s hands were resting on a stick. Again I noticed that her gaze was strangely directionless, constantly sinking to the ground, like a limpet with weak suction sliding down a pane of glass. And then it came to me – Grace was blind.

I poured the tea and pushed the cup in her direction. The room was small but cosy – it was dominated by a grand piano with golden feet, flanked by numerous healthy-looking plants. There was a birdcage in the bay window that looked out onto the street, with two bright canaries in it. I realized then I knew nothing about Grace – I hadn’t even done the most basic background check. I stuttered something about my editor and managed to produce a few generalities about my project. Grace’s face was turned in my direction. Her gentle smile made me think of a benign full moon illuminating a clearing in a dark wood. At some point, she closed her eyes.

‘I see,’ she said. ‘Now, tell me, dear. How’s your research been going so far?’

‘Not well,’ I blurted out. I suddenly felt the strong need to share my sorrows with her, unprofessional as this might have been in this particular situation. I just started talking then, incontinently, telling Grace about my doubts and my inability to construct a coherent narrative about Julia in which I could actually believe. Grace listened intently, nodding her head as though what I told her coincided with something she had already concluded herself.

‘I see. I understand your problem,’ she said when I’d finished. ‘But unfortunately, I won’t be able to help you solve it. I didn’t know Julia. I know nothing about her. Nothing apart from what’s been reported in the press. But I saw her. I looked her in the eye. Julia, you see, was the last thing I saw before she took away my sight for good. That’s what I wanted to talk to you about. My last vision. But I’m afraid that’s all I can offer. It’s not really what you’ve been hoping for, dear, is it?’

‘You lost your sight as a result of the bombing?’ I asked. Grace nodded. Christ, I thought. How they must haunt her, her last visual impressions – Julia’s face, her gaze, her movements.

‘Could you describe the day of the attack, Grace? What were you doing in that part of London? How did you end up in the coffee shop at that particular time?’

‘With pleasure, dear. But first, let me tell you a few things about me. I’m a music teacher. Piano, mainly. I taught at various primary schools and now I give private lessons. I’ve always loved being a teacher. I never had any delusions of grandeur, you see? It makes life so much easier. I never saw myself as a thwarted concert pianist, or what have you. I know my strengths and weaknesses. It’s a strength in itself, you see, to realize what you can and can’t achieve in life. And to make your peace with it. And I like to think I’m a rather good teacher, too. I love my students. Many of them have gone on to accomplish great things. But I try not to boast about them. Don’t let me get started on that, dear! I’ve other people I can bore with these tales.’

‘Are you married, Grace?’ I asked without thinking. A bad habit of mine. To associate boredom and marriage, and dusty old tales told too many times.

Grace smiled. ‘I was, for thirty-nine most wonderful years. Then he died, my husband. John. Cancer, you see? I’ve children, though, four. And two grandchildren. And a third on the way. You just met one of them, Samantha. It was Sam I was about to meet on the day of the bombing. She was late, that day. Thank God. Had she been on time, who knows what might have happened. It’s quite likely she’d be dead. There were only five survivors, you see. Yes, thank God Sam was late that day. She said she ran into an old school friend.’ Grace chuckled. ‘That’s her story, anyway. Truth is, Sam’s always late. Couldn’t be on time if her life depended on it. No matter how hard she tries. Some people are like that.

‘I’d seen a student that morning. Bernard. Such a talented young boy. Only twelve, but so very gifted. He’ll go far, I’m sure of that. We spent the entire hour practising Chopin’s “Raindrop” Prelude. Do you know it?’ Grace hummed the first notes, and to my own surprise I did indeed recognize it. ‘We worked on Bernard’s delivery. Timing, you see, is the key. To everything. It’s the secret ingredient, the difference between mere sounds and music. Once my students manage to hit all the right keys, which is just a matter of practice, really, my job starts properly. Deceleration and acceleration, hesitation, tension, teasing, climax, release… but I’m digressing. I just remembered that lesson, because when I left to catch the bus to Covent Garden that day I was struck by the sound of the raindrops pelting the cloth of my umbrella. I kept thinking, what a genius. You see, Chopin had managed to capture their voice so brilliantly. Of course, he must have heard it often, the rain, especially here in England…

‘Anyway, dear. So I took the bus. I had a few errands to run. Nothing very important. I wanted to buy some soft wool to knit a pullover for Alma, my other grandchild. Her second birthday was coming up. I also needed a new blouse. I’d been invited to a student’s concert, a premiere, you see. I really rather dislike shopping. But I didn’t want to end up being a terrible embarrassment to my poor student on her big evening, in my weird old gowns. So I thought I’d better plan something to look forward to at the end of the trip. And I hadn’t seen Sam for a while in any case. She studies on the Strand, you see. Architecture. She wants to be an architect. Isn’t that wonderful? I hope I’ll live to see her first building. Or to feel it, rather. Sometimes I forget. So I proposed we meet in that area to catch up over a cuppa in the afternoon. It was Sam who suggested that particular café. I’d never been to any of the Café Olé branches before. You see, they’re not really my cup of tea, chains like that. They’re so… I don’t know. Generic. Sterile. I like old broken things, with character. Like myself.’ Again Grace chuckled.

‘Of course the poor girl has never forgiven herself for suggesting it. You can imagine, dear. She still feels so guilty. After all these weeks. It breaks my heart. Not a day goes by when she doesn’t bring it up. And I know she thinks of it all the time. I can tell what’s happening behind that furrowed brow of hers. Sam thinks it’s her fault, you see. She’s hardly left my side since the bombing. She visits every day. She does the shopping and the cleaning and what have you. She even wants to move in with me. But I said no to that. Much as I love Sam’s company, I won’t exploit the situation. No. She needs to live her own life. Finish her studies, go to parties, have fun, fall in love, and what have you. Caring for a boring old woman like me won’t do her any good. Once I’ve managed to convince her it wasn’t her fault, I’ll tell her to stop hovering over me like a worried nurse. I’ll send her home. Back to her old life. I’ll tell her she can visit every two weeks. But no more than that. With a heavy heart, but I’ll do it. This isn’t good for either of us.

‘I’m learning just fine to live without eyesight. One of the advantages of being a musician, you see. I always did pay a lot of attention to sounds. They can guide you if you let them. And I’ve many friends. I’ll be fine. You know, dear, actually I
am
fine. It’s Sam who isn’t. I still have quite some work cut out before I can let her go. It’s not easy, banishing someone’s bad thoughts from their minds. Once they’re there, it’s hard to expel them again. They’re strong and stubborn. They suck you dry in no time if you’re not careful.’

Here Grace paused. I filled up our teacups again. I tried one of the shortbread fingers. It was the first morsel of decent food I’d eaten for days, and it tasted like paradise.

‘Where were we?’ Grace continued. ‘Ah yes, the day. Well, I found the wool I was looking for in one of the bigger department stores. That was the easy part. Then I tried on various blouses, but they all looked wrong on me. You see, clothes just don’t hang right on my body. I’m not lucky that way. John always used to tease me about that. My clothes crinkle and pucker in the most curious places. So I very quickly grew frustrated. Eventually, I found something cream-coloured and silken, tent-shaped and what have you. I didn’t like it much. But I bought it anyway just to end my plight.

‘Then I found myself with plenty of time on my hands. I had two whole hours to fill before my meeting with Sam. I wandered around a little. I went to the lovely little street with only music shops on it. Do you know it, dear? I browsed in various shops. In one of them I played a few chords on their display pianos. But they all sounded soulless. A lot of the modern pianos do. Have you noticed? Especially the Japanese ones. Perfect from a technical point of view, but something is lacking. Something important. I can never quite put my finger on it. Then I leafed through the piles of sheet music. I bought a few pieces I thought my students would enjoy. It was still early when I went to Paternoster Square to find the Café Olé branch.

‘I didn’t like it much. Bad music was playing. It was very loud and distracting. But it was almost completely full. There was only one free table, right at the back. Next to the loos. I sat down. I started leafing through one of the free newspapers that was on the table. It contained nothing but gossip: a starlet whose name I didn’t know had fallen over drunk on a night out and flashed her knickers. Another had gained weight. A third had been deserted by her fourth boyfriend in only one year, and so on. I wondered, who
reads
this stuff? Then I went through the music I’d bought. I thought about how to teach it. I added a few pointers in pencil for my students. Most make very similar mistakes – it’s interesting. You can almost predict it, where they will stumble or play too fast or too slow. Then I started to study the other people in the café. Discreetly, of course. People don’t like feeling watched, you see. It makes them nervous.

‘I’ve thought about them quite a lot since. You can imagine. They’re almost all dead now. There was the girl behind the counter. Quick as a weasel. She had fire-engine-red hair. She was always moving and doing things. Her colleague was at the till. She had pencil-thin eyebrows and was languid, like a sleepy cat. There were three young Spanish tourists who were all talking at once. And very loudly. There was a couple in their thirties. They didn’t say much and seemed sad. There was a student with a beard typing into his laptop. A woman with curly hair studying a book on Hieronymus Bosch. A young mother with a baby. She was breastfeeding it under a very colourful African shawl. There were many others. Twenty-nine in total, including myself.

‘And then she entered. Julia. You see, I was watching the door by then. It was now well past the time Sam and I had agreed to meet. Julia came in at seventeen minutes past three. The first thing I noticed was how upright she walked. She held her head high. She carried a dark-blue plastic sports bag. Somehow it jarred with the rest of her look. I remember thinking how pale and pretty she was. Pure, somehow. No make-up, no frills. Just classically beautiful features. High cheekbones, a fine proud nose and snow-white skin. She scanned the room. Her eyes met mine. She ordered something. Peppermint tea, I think. She seemed calm. She took her drink to one of the places at the window. A seat had just become vacant. The student with the laptop got out just in time, bless him. Julia sat down and looked out onto the square for a few minutes. She never touched her tea.

‘Then she went to the loo. With her big sports bag. When she walked past me, our eyes met again. Hers were green, quite a striking colour. I remember thinking, what an interesting face. Quite unusual. Cold, perhaps? But no, that wasn’t really it. Hindsight always twists things, don’t you think? It’s a temptation one must resist. When she came out of the loos again she walked straight towards the exit. Neither fast nor slow. Smooth and graceful, like a panther. Very upright. I watched her. Only when her hand had pushed open the exit did I notice that she wasn’t carrying her bag.

‘“Your bag!” I called out. I had stood up to attract her attention. “You were carrying a bag. You must have forgotten it.”

‘She turned round and then she looked at me for a third and final time. She opened the door and was about to step outside. The rain had stopped. Rather unexpectedly, the sun had come out. Suddenly, she was bathed in rays of light. She looked like an angel, with her white skin sparkling. Then she blew me a kiss. It was the strangest gesture. I didn’t know what to make of it. She didn’t smile. Her face remained completely blank. Deadly serious. And then she disappeared from sight. And my own sight disappeared for ever shortly afterwards. How weird, I remember thinking, how weird. And then I stopped thinking.