than she’s letting on. They sit in silence, Alba plucking daisies in the grass, then discarding them. She still hasn’t told her mother about Dr. Skinner, about the betrayal and heartbreak, failing her MPhil, losing her scholarship and, of course, her biggest secret of all. She wonders if Elizabeth already knows and she’s just waiting to be told, the way she used to wait for Alba to confess to things as a little girl.
But it’s Elizabeth who speaks first. “You couldn’t have saved me. You do know that, don’t you? I was always hovering on the edge. And when Charles left there were . . . complications that just tipped me over it.”
What? Alba wants to ask. What happened? But she waits. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry you were so sad.”
“I know, love,” Elizabeth says, “me too. But more than anything I’m sorry I wasn’t a better mother to you.” She sighs and, for a moment, she seems about to say something else, but instead she stands and together they walk on in silence, over hills and through woods, stopping to look at flowers: wild roses, honeysuckle and hollyhocks. They follow the tracks of foxes until they disappear, and listen to birdcalls: doves, magpies, sparrows and the distant bleats of sheep. Alba longs to hold her mother’s hand and squeeze it tight. Instead she turns and looks at Elizabeth, at her blue eyes and blond hair, at her smile and her white dress splashed with poppies, staring until the memory is imprinted forever.
—
Peggy has never been a reader. She can’t focus on words floating in front of her on a page, and prefers films. Her knowledge of these, thanks to Harry, is great indeed. Sometimes they watch them in bed on Sunday afternoons, and on special occasions they return to the cinema. Her favorite film to date is Kind Hearts and Coronets and she’ll never forget the day she met Joan Greenwood, who played Sibella.
The actress visited on the occasion of Peggy’s fifty-fourth birthday. She was rehearsing a new play, she said, and wanted to see the house again, to remind herself of details she’d forgotten from her stay nearly twenty years earlier. The house rule permitted residents to return only if they hadn’t stayed for their full ninety-nine days the first time. And since Joan had spent only a month when she was thirty-one, Peggy could allow her back. They sat in the kitchen upstairs, eating slices of birthday cake. At least Joan did, while Peggy just poked at hers with a fork.
“Would you care to talk about it?” Joan asked in her famous drawl, sending a little shiver of excitement through Peggy. How could she unburden herself to a film star? But she spent so much time taking care of strangers that sometimes she just wanted to blurt out everything to passersby in the street.
“It’s just,” Peggy mused, “I’ve been thinking, about things, choices . . .”
Joan waited, sipping her tea.
“I’ve never been in love,” Peggy said. “I’ve never let myself. Because, if I’m not allowed to marry, then what’s the point?” As soon as she said it, Peggy realized how strange it sounded. She waited for the questions about why she wasn’t allowed to marry, or let a man live at Hope Street, but Joan said nothing. Peggy gave a little sigh of relief, knowing that she’d picked the right person to unburden herself to.
“Sometimes I wonder if I’m missing out,” Peggy continued. “But then I never want to leave the house. And, if that’s the price I have to pay, I suppose it’s all right.”
“We all have to make choices,” Joan said. “Since we can’t have two lives, only one. But, most of those choices we make fresh every day, not just once. So, if you regret something, if you want to change your mind, you usually can.”
“Yes, I suppose so,” Peggy said. “The only problem is when you don’t know what you want.”
—
Alba is bumping along in the backseat of Edward’s brand-new Beetle, gripping the door handle in an effort to squeeze against Tilly’s empty car seat and avoid accidentally knocking into her sister. Charlotte stares stolidly ahead, in a huff because they haven’t taken her Mercedes. She hasn’t traveled at a speed of less than a hundred miles an hour since the day she passed her test, and claims Edward drives more slowly than their dead grandmother.
“Why are we taking this little thing?” Charlotte sniffs, “you’ve got an Audi.”
“It’s in the garage,” Edward says through