It makes sense that there’s some kind of trust to look after Granny’s paintings, but I can’t help feeling uncomfortable. I barely know Guy and I don’t think Mum and Archie do, either. Sure, they al spent a summer together years ago but that doesn’t real y count. Does it? And I wish I didn’t, but I object to the idea of him eyeing up these things in the house at the funeral. Poking around in Granny’s studio. Picking up the pair of Juno vases on the mantelpiece, the Clarice Cliff teapot, and clicking his tongue with pleasure. I glare at Louisa, but she is oblivious, and so I glare at Guy instead. He smiles at me in a friendly way, and I want to hit him. Now is not the time to be picking over the house for the juiciest bits, like the carcass of a chicken.

‘Where’s your mother gone?’ he asks. ‘I haven’t seen her for – gosh, ages. It’d be good to catch up with her about al of this.’ He pauses. ‘And Archie too.’

‘They were there—’ I look round for them but they’ve disappeared. Instead I see Jay in the corner, now talking to Julius. ‘They’re probably in the kitchen. Excuse me,’ I say. ‘Good to see you again.’

‘Oh,’ Guy says, obviously surprised at my abruptness. ‘Right, see you soon then.’

I reach Julius and Jay, who are standing against the wal , clutching their glasses, not real y saying much.

‘How you feeling?’ Jay asks me. ‘Fine, fine,’ I wave him away. ‘Hi, Julius.’

‘Er—’ Julius scratches his face. He is looking bored. ‘Sorry about you and – er – Oli.’ I don’t know if he’s shy or if he genuinely can’t remember his name. ‘So – what happened? He slept with someone else?’

‘How did you know that?’ I say.

Julius shrugs. ‘Good guess. That’s usual y why, isn’t it?’ Jay, standing next to him, rol s his eyes. Julius is our relative, it’s weird to think of it. He is kind of vile.

‘Yes, he slept with someone else,’ I say. ‘But—’

But what? Exactly. I look over at my mother and bite my lip. I stil haven’t even talked to her about this, and it feels wrong. Not because I usual y tel her everything, in fact, I usual y tel her nothing, but she’s my mum. I should talk to her first.

‘Anyway.’ I change the subject. ‘I was just talking to your uncle. Do you think it’s appropriate he’s here?’

‘Why shouldn’t he be here?’ Julius says, unperturbed by my question. ‘He was her nephew, you know. He flew al the way from San Diego for the bloody funeral, damn nice of him, considering.’

‘Not your uncle Jeremy,’ I say, annoyed. Julius flusters me. ‘Your other uncle. Guy. Your mother’s brought him down here to – to basical y do a valuation on al the stuff in the house. Just think it’s a bit rich.’

Julius doesn’t even blink. ‘You’ve got to pay for the nursing home your grandfather’s going into,’ he says.

‘Come on,’ I say. ‘That’s rubbish. There’s – there’s money. Mum and Archie can sort it out.’

‘With what?’ Julius says. ‘With al the money each of them has floating around?’ Jay stiffens and I frown. ‘There’s nothing, they’ve spent it al ,’

Julius says flatly. He sticks his thick, rubbery lips out, like a child, and like a child I hate him again. I am sharply reminded of how he would push me against the rocks down on the beach, and laugh, and my back would be grazed with a repeating rash of brown beady scabs, for the duration of our holidays together. In truth I didn’t real y know him or Octavia that wel , we didn’t see each other for the rest of the year and I wasn’t used to aggressive, boisterous boys like him. He scared me, it wasn’t the picture of Summercove I wanted in my head. I watch him now. He hasn’t changed al that much. ‘You’re bloody lucky my mother’s sorting al your crap out for the lot of you, you know.’

‘What business is it of hers anyway, al this—’ I wave my hands round, trying not to get angry. ‘She’s acting like Granny was her mother, like it was her house, she’s organised it al , it’s completely . . .’ I trail off, not wanting to go on, surprised at the force of the rage I’m feeling.

‘Who the hel do you think would have done it if it wasn’t for her?’ Julius says, half angry, half laughing, aggressively. You stupid little girl, the tone of his voice says. ‘Your mother? Oh, yeah, sure. There’d be no funeral and your grandfather would be out on the streets, or dead in a couple of weeks after your mother forgets that he can’t actual y get up the stairs or buy food himself any more.’ He is working up a head of steam, and he turns to Jay. ‘And hey. At least Guy won’t try and sel the stuff himself and pocket the profit.’

There is a terrible silence after he says this. What’s worse is Julius doesn’t look at al embarrassed by what he’s just said. As though he knows he’s right. Jay and I stare at each other, then at him. A dark red blush stains Jay’s cheeks.

‘Fuck off, Julius,’ he says. ‘You’re real y out of order. OK?’ Julius doesn’t look abashed. ‘Come on. They’ve always been like that, the pair of them. Everyone knows it.’

And he walks over to where Octavia is chatting to an old lady.

Jay and I are standing there staring at each other. Jay breathes out, whistling slowly. ‘Nice to see Julius again, isn’t it?’

‘Yes,’ I say. I put on a faux-serious BBC announcer voice. ‘And it’s a sad day, but it’s lovely to see the family again. Al gathered together, reunited once more in the same place.’ I’m trying to sound jokey, but it’s scary. This is what we’re like now Granny’s not here. It’s al changed, and I don’t know how, or why.

Chapter Eight

It’s a while before the final cluster of guests starts to leave: old neighbours, a few artists who have retired down here, a magistrate, a wel -known writer and her husband – they know each other and aren’t in a hurry to get back anywhere. I stand at the door of the sitting room, watching people disperse, looking around, thinking. A draught of cold air whistles past my back and I shiver, turning to see Jay waving goodbye to Mr and Mrs Neil who live up the lane. They have been there for thirty years and wil miss Granny as much as us, I don’t doubt. They saw her every day which is more than I did. Yesterday, as I was trying to sleep, I realised I hadn’t seen her for three months, since November, when she came up to go to an exhibition at the Royal Academy and we had lunch in the café, where other old ladies and gents gather for a cup of coffee before getting their trains back to the Home Counties.

I wondered, as we sat there, if any of them realised who this stil strikingly beautiful old lady was, that she had exhibited here, was in fact an RA, a Royal Academician. That she was sort of famous, in her day, appeared in the Picture Post and Life magazine, the famous bohemian painter and her exotic husband in their house by the sea with their mixed-race children, though everyone was too polite to mention that, of course, and if they did, they said it was terribly interesting. I wonder if they knew, if Granny knew what Mum once told me in an unguarded moment, that before the train left every term, my mother would dash to Boots the chemist in Penzance to buy a pack of disposable razors, to shave the black hair on her dark arms.

Jay comes towards me. ‘Hey.’ He looks round the empty hal way, the dresser and table littered with paper plates and half-empty champagne flutes, and says cautiously, ‘Thank God, those people are starting to go.’

We both look at our watches. It’s seven and the sleeper leaves at nine. ‘How are you getting to the station?’ he asks. ‘I’l drive you.’

At this exact moment, as if she’s been waiting for this conversation, Octavia appears in the hal way. She strides towards us, her heavy, sensible black shoes loud on the floor. ‘Are you talking about the trains?’ she says. ‘I’m going back tonight actual y too. I have a meeting at the MoD

tomorrow, just found out.’ She waves her BlackBerry authoritatively, her thick ponytail swinging out behind her head as she nods at us.

‘Should you be tel ing us this information?’ Jay says. ‘Won’t we have to kil you now?’

‘Ha,’ says Octavia, ignoring him and turning to me. ‘How are you getting to the station?’

‘I’ve booked Mike the taxi,’ I say. ‘He’s coming in an hour.’

‘I’l get a lift with you then,’ Octavia says. She adds, almost under her breath, ‘If that’s al right.’ There is no way I can say, No, it’s not al right, I hate you and your horrible brother! I don’t want you coming back with me! Which is kind of what my eight-year-old self would want me to say to her.

I nod instead. ‘Of course,’ I say. ‘Have you booked a cabin?’

‘Yes, just now,’ she says. ‘Don’t worry, Natasha, I won’t make you share with me like the old days,’ and she runs her hands awkwardly through her fringe and I feel a pang of guilt, for that is exactly what I was thinking.

‘Wel , that’s great. I’m just going to find Mum then,’ I say, and I touch Jay on the shoulder and dash towards the kitchen. Mum is talking to Guy, the Bowler Hat’s brother. Her hands are on her hips, she is leaning over him as if she’s about to spit at him. They both jump as I stride in.

‘There you are,’ Mum says, standing upright. Her jaw is set, her green eyes flinty; she is staring at Guy with something approaching loathing and I know the signs. She’s about to blow. She blinks, rapidly, as if calming herself down, and she says, ‘Nat – darling, my darling, how are you?

We need to talk, don’t we?’ She winds some hair round her finger.

I look suspiciously at Guy. ‘Everything OK?’

‘Yes, absolutely,’ Guy says smoothly. ‘It’s fine. I was just asking your mother about the . . . stuff in the house.’

‘The stuff in the house,’ I say careful y, because I don’t want to be rude. ‘Look, I said this to your brother already, and please don’t take this the wrong way, but do you real y think now’s the time to be poking around valuing things here?’ He is turning red. ‘It’s not great timing.’ I’m surprised to hear my voice shaking. ‘Perhaps you should come back another day.’

Guy turns to my mother, who is staring at her feet. There is a chicken vol-au-vent on the linoleum floor. ‘Why doesn’t she know?’ he says.

Mum says nothing.

‘Know what?’ I ask.

‘That’s why it al seems rather abrupt, Natasha. Your grandparents agreed it years ago, that when Frances died something should be established in her name. A charitable foundation, or a gal ery. You know, she hasn’t had an exhibition for years. It’s a disgrace, a painter of her stature. But she’s never let them. There was a big show planned for the autumn after Cecily, after she died.’ He stops and col ects himself, and I remember he must have known her too, that summer. I hadn’t thought of that before. ‘The country hasn’t seen Frances Seymour’s work, apart from the two in the Tate Modern and a few in America, for wel over forty years.’

I blink, trying to take it in. ‘So?’

‘Now she’s dead, the terms of her wil say the foundation should be established as soon as possible. Miranda,’ he says crossly. ‘You should have told Natasha. She’s one of the trustees, for God’s sake.’

‘ Me? ’ I say. ‘I don’t know anything about painting. I never saw her paint, anyway.’

‘It’s nothing to do with that. She wanted you to be one of the trustees. You, your mother, and me—’ He clears his throat, awkwardly. ‘I – I don’t quite understand what I’ve got to do with it, but—’

‘Look,’ says my mother, her throaty voice cutting across Guy’s. ‘I get it, OK? I get the whole thing. Al I’m saying is, Archie and I would also like to make sure that the house and furniture are sold in the right way. You know, we have got bil s to pay out of al of this. And Arvind’s nursing home.’

She twists the big jade ring she’s wearing, and this seems to give her momentum. ‘You know, Guy, you’ve got a bloody nerve, showing up here, trying to tel us what to do, after al these years. I was going to tel Natasha, but you know it’s been a busy day.’ She shakes her hair, pursing her lips and staring at him in fury, and she does look rather magnificent. ‘After al these years,’ she says, more quietly. ‘You should know that.’

‘Fine,’ Guy says. He holds his palms up towards her. ‘I understand. You’re right. We’l discuss it another day.’ He looks up and chews his little finger. ‘Look, I’m sorry – I didn’t think—’

‘It’s fine,’ I say, looking to Mum for confirmation. ‘Thank you, Guy.’ She is staring at me, but I interpret this as tacit approval of my actions. She’s useless at confrontations, though she acts like a diva the whole time.

‘Goodbye, Miranda,’ Guy says, turning to her. ‘It’s been a sad day, but it was real y lovely to see you again.’