‘Oof. Whenever I’d say about someone – ‘I wouldn’t wish that on my worst enemy’ – Susie used to say: “I fucking would, that’s why they’re my worst enemy.”’
‘Hah. Sounds Susie-esque. She and my father had quite a lot in common in outlook.’
‘Do you think your dad remembers he and his sister had fought?’
‘No idea. We’re about to find out.’
Fin rings the bell on the canary-yellow door in the townhouse, which, unlike the last door we stood in front of, is in perfect nick. The tall edifice feels like a personification of Aunt Tricia, bearing down on me. We hear footsteps beyond and the door’s thrown open by a woman with close-cropped silver hair. She’s in the semi-official uniform of middle class, ‘liberal arts college’ women over sixty: outsized coral and turquoise Tibetan-style necklace, neutral floaty jersey top with draped jersey cardigan, wide linen trousers.
‘Well, well,’ she says, in a silver-spoon kind of English accent, folding her arms. ‘Après the father, le déluge! Why would you be moved to call on me, after all this time, Finlay? It is Finlay, isn’t it? You were in under-fifteens football kit, last I saw you.’
‘Yes. Hi, Aunt Tricia,’ he says. ‘I’ll explain. This is my friend, Eve. Susie’s best friend, to be strictly accurate.’
‘Wonderful to meet you,’ she says, brusquely, with a quick appraising stare at me, pushing reading glasses up the bridge of her nose. ‘What’s that got to do with me?’
‘We’re looking for my father. We’d heard he’d been to see you and wondered if he’d said where he was staying in Edinburgh?’
‘So you thought you’d simply turn up on my doorstep, after … let’s see. How many years is it?’
‘Twenty?’
‘Twenty-two, but who’s counting? Apart from me. Why not call first?’
‘I didn’t have a number for you.’
‘I’m sure I’m in the phonebook.’
‘Sorry, it just didn’t seem a conversation to have on the phone.’
A moment develops, where our welcome hangs in the balance.
‘Come in, then,’ she says, with an exasperated sigh, and I wilt in disappointment that we’re getting an audience with her. I’d hoped, once she demonstrated her hostility, that this was going to be bloody but brief.
We follow her down a hallway painted with so much brilliant white it’s like stepping into a modern art gallery. The floor is treacle brown and there are moth orchids in glass jars with pebbles on a dark side table. In the high-ceilinged sitting room beyond, everything is again white, apart from two squashy linen-covered sofas, a royal purple. There’s virtually nothing else in the room, bar a wicker basket full of logs for the open fireplace, and a huge floor standing lamp, its bowl-shaped shade a bright chrome.
I have only known Auntie Tricia forty seconds to judge, yet the house already seems a convincing expression of its owner. Blinding migraine-inducing blankness, punctuated by furniture that shouts at you. We’re not offered a drink.
‘Terrible business about your sister,’ Tricia says, though without much sympathy.
‘Awful.’
‘I spoke to Susie a few years ago. After your mother died.’
‘Right.’
‘She said you hadn’t bothered to visit when your mum was sick.’
I glance worriedly at Finlay, who doesn’t flicker.
‘That’s not quite true.’
Tricia snorts.
‘Oh come on, Finlay. Susie said you didn’t make the trip until the funeral.’
‘It wasn’t that I didn’t bother, I didn’t know she was ill. Maybe Susie didn’t know what my parents had or hadn’t told me, but I didn’t find out about my mum’s terminal diagnosis until two months after she’d been given it. Why would I lie?’
‘Oh, er … let me see. To not look like a heartless brute in front of a pretty girl?’ She gestures at me. ‘You’re saying your sister wouldn’t have lifted the phone and talked to you, when your mother was dying?’
‘As I say, I don’t know what Susie thought I knew,’ Fin says. ‘Perhaps she thought I was ignoring her. But no, she wouldn’t. She and I weren’t close.’
‘Indeed. Now you’re haring after your father, from whom you are similarly estranged. Why?’
‘I don’t think he’s safe to be travelling alone, and I want to get him assessed for care home living before I go back to the States.’
‘Do you,’ Tricia says, crossing her legs. ‘Do you? The house would be sold in this scenario, would it?’
I shift in my seat.
‘I guess so. What state was he in when he came to see you?’
‘He seemed with it for the first few minutes, and it slowly dawns he’s quite gaga. He thinks he and I are still young.’
‘Yes that’s it. He’s present when it comes to practicalities that are in front of him, but in terms of his … broader mental architecture, it’s like he’s lost twenty years.’
Fin pauses. ‘Did he say where he was staying?’
‘I wish I could trust your intentions, Fin. I really do.’ Tricia says, picking away imaginary lint on her knees.
‘How does this judgement upon me work, exactly?’ Fin says, frowning now. ‘You had a feud with my father, you cut my family off. But you still blame me for not getting along with them? I’m guilty of exactly the same thing you are?’
‘I couldn’t tolerate your father. I had no argument with your mother and sister. But unfortunately for you, I still have insights into what you put your parents and sister through.’
Fin runs a hand through his hair and looks like he’s concentrating efforts on keeping his temper.
‘You didn’t care about your parents. That’s a fact, I’m afraid. Now that you’re the only one left, if you’re insisting on organising your father’s life, I do wonder if this is about your father’s will.’
Fin goes murderously pale.
‘It isn’t, but it doesn’t look like my word is worth anything.’
I remember my mission.
‘Please excuse me, I don’t know any detail of the historic family conflicts, Susie never told me about them … and neither has he …’ I gesture vaguely at Fin. ‘I’m definitely not in any will, nor do I want to be. But if we don’t find Mr Hart and make sure he’s OK, he could come to all sorts of harm wandering around a big city in his condition. I know Susie would want me to get him home. That’s the only reason why I’m here.’
‘Good cop, bad cop, is it?’ Trish says.
‘I’m not a cop,’ I say, somewhat stupidly. And I don’t understand metaphors! ‘Of any kind. Every word of that is the truth. I only want what’s best for Mr Hart’s welfare.’
Tricia looks at me with pursed lips and I assume I’m going to get hosed with scorn too. I’m taken aback when she mutters, with reluctance: ‘He said he was staying at a hotel, the name escapes me, that’s the truth. Give me your number and, if it comes back to me, I’ll let you know.’