Twenties Girl - Kinsella Sophie - Страница 93
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I can’t help shooting Uncle Bill a steely gaze at this point. He’s sitting upright next to Dad, dressed in a bespoke suit with a carnation buttonhole, his face quite a lot gaunter than it was on that beach in the south of France. It hasn’t been a great month for him, all told. He’s been constantly in the news pages and the business pages, and none of it good.
At first, I wanted to ban him from this altogether. His publicist was desperate for him to come, to try to redress some of the bad PR he’s had, but I couldn’t bear the idea of him swaggering in, stealing the limelight, doing his usual Uncle Bill trick. But then I reconsidered. I started thinking, why shouldn’t he come and honor Sadie? Why shouldn’t he come and listen to how great his aunt was?
So he was allowed to come. On my terms.
“We should honor her. We should be grateful.”
I can’t help looking meaningfully at Uncle Bill again-and I’m not the only one. Everyone keeps glancing at him, and there are even a few nudges and whispers going on.
“Which is why I’ve set up, in Sadie’s memory, the Sadie Lancaster Foundation. Funds raised will be distributed by the trustees to causes of which she would have approved. In particular, we will be supporting various dance-related organizations, charities for the elderly, the Fairside Nursing Home, and the London Portrait Gallery, in recognition of its having kept her precious painting so safely these last twenty-seven years.”
I grin at Malcolm Gledhill, who beams back. He was so chuffed when I told him. He went all pink and started talking about whether I’d like to become a Friend, or go on the board, or something, as I’m clearly such an art lover. (I didn’t want to say, “Actually, I’m just a Sadie lover; you can pretty much take or leave all those other pictures.”)
“I would also like to announce that my uncle, Bill Lington, wishes to make the following tribute to Sadie, which I will now read on his behalf.”
There is no way on earth I was letting Uncle Bill get up on this podium. Or write his own tribute. He doesn’t even know what I’m about to say. I unfold a separate piece of paper and let a hush of anticipation fall before I begin.
“It is entirely due to my aunt Sadie’s painting that I was able to launch myself in business. Without her beauty, without her help, I would not find myself in the privileged position I occupy today. During her life I did not appreciate her enough. And for this I am truly sorry.” I pause for effect. The church is totally silent and agog. I can see all the journalists scribbling hard. “I am therefore delighted to announce today that I will be donating ten million pounds to the Sadie Lancaster Foundation. It is a small recompense, to a very special person.”
There’s a stunned murmuring. Uncle Bill has gone a kind of sallow putty color, with a rictus smile fixed in place. I glance at Ed, who winks again and gives me the thumbs-up. It was Ed who said, “Go for ten million.” I was all set to ask for five, and I thought that was pushy enough. And the great thing is, now that six hundred people and a whole row of journalists have heard him, he can’t exactly back out.
“I’d sincerely like to thank you all for coming.” I look around the church. “Sadie was in a nursing home by the time her painting was discovered. She never knew quite how appreciated and loved she was. She would have been overwhelmed to see you all. She would have realized…” I feel a sudden rush of tears to my head.
No. I can’t lose it now. After I’ve done so well. Somehow I manage a smile, and draw breath again.
“She would have realized what a mark she made on this world. She’s given so many people pleasure, and her legacy will remain for generations. As her great-niece, I’m incredibly proud.” I swivel to survey the painting for a silent moment, then turn back. “Now it simply remains for me to say: To Sadie. If you would all raise your glasses…”
There’s a stirring and rustling and clinking as everyone reaches for their cocktail glasses. Each guest was presented with a cocktail as they arrived: a gin fizz or a sidecar, especially mixed by two barmen from the Hilton. (And I don’t care if people don’t usually have cocktails at memorial services.)
“Tally-ho.” I lift my glass high, and everyone obediently echoes, “Tally-ho.” There’s silence as everyone sips. Then, gradually, murmurs and giggles start to echo round the church. I can see Mum sipping at her sidecar with a wary expression, and Uncle Bill grimly downing his gin fizz in one, and a pink-faced Malcolm Gledhill beckoning the waiter over for a top-up.
The organ crashes in with the opening bars of “Jerusalem,” and I make my way down the podium steps to rejoin Ed, who’s standing next to my parents. He’s wearing the most amazing vintage 1920s dinner jacket which he paid a fortune for at a Sotheby’s auction and makes him look like a black-and-white-movie star. When I exclaimed in horror at the price, he just shrugged and said he knew the 1920s thing meant a lot to me.
“Good job,” he whispers, clenching my hand. “You did her proud.”
As the rousing song starts, I realize I can’t join in. Somehow my throat feels too tight and the words won’t come. So instead I look around at the flower-laden church, and the beautiful outfits, and all the people gathered here, singing lustily for Sadie. So many diverse people, from different walks of life. Young, old, family members, friends from the nursing home-people that she touched in some way. All here. All for her. This is what she deserved.
This is what she deserved. All along.
When the service finally ends, the organist launches into the Charleston (I don’t care if memorial services don’t usually have the Charleston), and the congregation slowly files out, still clutching their cocktail glasses. The reception is being held at the London Portrait Gallery, thanks to lovely Malcolm Gledhill, and helpful girls with badges are telling people how to get there.
But I don’t rush. I can’t quite face all the talking and chatter and buzz. Not just yet. I sit in my front pew, breathing in the scent of the flowers, waiting until it’s quieter.
I did her justice. At least I think I did. I hope I did.
“Darling.” Mum’s voice interrupts me and I see her approaching me, her hairband more wonky than ever. Her cheeks are flushed and there’s a glow of pleasure all around her as she slides in beside me. “That was wonderful. Wonderful.”
“Thanks.” I smile up at her.
“I’m so proud of the way you skewered Uncle Bill. Your charity will do great things, you know. And the cocktails!” she adds, draining her glass. “What a good idea!”
I gaze at Mum, intrigued. As far as I know, she hasn’t worried about a single thing today. She hasn’t fretted that people might arrive late, or get drunk, or break their cocktail glasses, or anything.
“Mum… you’re different,” I can’t help saying. “You seem less stressed. What happened?”
I’m suddenly wondering if she’s been to the doctor. Is she taking Valium or Prozac or something? Is she on some drug-induced high?
There’s silence as Mum adjusts her lilac sleeves.
“It was very strange,” she says at last. “And I couldn’t tell everybody this, Lara. But a few weeks ago, something strange happened.”
“What?”
“It was almost as though I could hear…” She hesitates, then whispers, “A voice in my head.”
“A voice?” I stiffen. “What kind of voice?”
“I’m not a religious woman. You know that.” Mum glances around the church and leans toward me. “But, truly, this voice followed me around all day! Right in here.” She taps her head. “It wouldn’t leave me alone. I thought I was going mad!”
“What-what did it say?”
“It said, ‘Everything’s going to be all right, stop worrying!’ Just that, over and over, for hours. I got quite ratty with it, in the end. I said out loud, ‘All right, Mrs. Inner Voice, I get the message!’ And then it stopped, like magic.”
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