Secrets from the Past. Barbara Taylor Bradford

York, London, Paris, Nice and Bel Air. My grandmother used to say we were like gypsies with money.

      My father, who loved to tease my mother about anything and everything, would point out how proud he was of himself, because he had never felt the need to indulge himself in this way, had never invested money in bricks and mortar, and never would.

      My mother’s pithy answer was always the same. She would point out that despite this, he managed somehow to commandeer most of the closets in their different homes, in which he would then hang his extensive collection of beautiful, very expensive clothes. This was true, and they would laugh about it, as always enjoying being together, loving each other, the best of friends.

      Suddenly, I saw them in my mind’s eye. They were true blue, those two. True to each other and to us, to me and my twin sisters Cara and Jessica, who were eight years older than me and who used to boss me around, albeit in a genial way. My father called us his all-girl team, and he was so proud of us. We were such a happy family.

      That September of 2001 my father was in New York, not off somewhere covering a war, and so was his best friend and partner, Harry Redford. They had been pals since childhood; both of them had been born and brought up in Manhattan, had gone to the same school, become photographers together, then partnered up and roamed the world, plying their trade.

      My father and Harry had founded Global Images in 1971, a photographic agency that was managed by Harry’s sister, Florence, since the two men were not always in New York. My father and Harry were joined at the hip, and he was very much part of the family, loved by all of us. Dad’s compadre, my mother’s protector and champion. And an avuncular presence in our lives, always there for us, no matter what. And these days he was my best friend as well as my godfather. He had always treated me as a pal, was never condescending, and I’d been his confidante since I was eighteen … he told me first when he was getting a divorce from Melanie, his first wife, who was too temperamental, and then again when he got his second divorce from Holly Grey, who was jealous of any woman who looked at him. And many did. He usually brought a girlfriend when he came to Nice.

      The weather that autumn had been glorious. Indian summer weather. Balmy, soft, with light blue skies, sunshine and no hint of autumn.

      Even though we were all angry, shocked and sorrowing because of the brutal terrorist attacks on New York and Washington, we were able to draw enjoyment from each other’s company, and also comfort from being together at this frightening time.

      Cara and Jessica had flown in from Nice, where they lived at the old house up in the hills, in order to celebrate their twenty-eighth birthdays in October.

      Before 9/11 we had been to see Broadway plays and movies, eaten at my father’s favourite restaurants, most especially Rao’s. There was a great deal of family bonding during that period, and now, when I looked back, I was glad we had this special time together.

      My mother’s mother, Alice Vasson, and her sister, Dora Clifford, had come in from California to celebrate the twins’ birthdays with us. The two of them were staying at the Carlyle Hotel, but they were mostly at the apartment during the day.

      My mother, an only child, nonetheless had a great sense of family, and revelled in such occasions. This made us happy, especially my father, and particularly since my mother wasn’t in the best of health during this period. Being surrounded by those who loved her helped to make her feel better, and she was more radiant and happier than I had seen her for a long time.

      My grandmother and great aunt had been instrumental in developing my mother’s career, and, not unnaturally, they couldn’t help boasting a bit, taking bows. They had made her into a megastar, one of the greatest movie stars in the world.

      Their tall tales and antics amused my father no end, and made him laugh hilariously; my mother merely smiled, said not a word, her expression benign. And we girls, well, we just listened, once again awestruck, even though we’d heard these yarns before.

      I sighed under my breath, remembering my grandmother and great aunt, the roles they had played in our lives, and I thought of their deaths, and the other losses over the last few years …

      When someone you love has died, everything changes. Instantly. Nothing can ever be the same again. The world becomes an entirely different place … alien, cold, empty without the presence of that person you love.

      When one quarrels with a loved one, there is often a reconciliation, maybe a compromise, or we go our separate ways. If a friend or relative decides to live somewhere else, in another place, it is easy to reach out to them, speak on the phone, send emails or text. In other words, to remain part of their lives is not difficult at all.

      Death does not offer that consolation.

      Death is the final exit.

      Memories. Those are what I had in my heart, abundant memories that would be with me until the day I died. They were founded on reality, on things that actually happened, and so they were true. And because of this, they offered real solace.

      My father died eleven months ago. I was in total shock, filled with sorrow, grief and guilt. A terrible guilt that still haunted me at times, guilt because I did not get there in time to tell him how much I loved him, to say goodbye.

      I was late because of a missed plane in Afghanistan. Only a paltry few hours too late, but it might as well have been a month or even a year. Too late is exactly that.

      When death came, that sly pale rider on his pale horse, he relentlessly snatched his prize and was gone. Suddenly there was nothing. A void. Emptiness. A shattering silence. But inevitably the memories did come back. Very slowly at first, they were nonetheless sure-footed, and they brought a measure of comfort.

      The book I had been writing for the last few months was about my father. As I delved into his past, to tell his amazing story, he came alive again. He was quite a guy. That’s what everyone said about him. Quite a guy, they told me, admiration echoing in their voices.

      My father, John Thomas Stone, known to everyone everywhere simply as Tommy, was one of the world’s greatest war photographers. Of the same ilk as the famous Robert Capa, who died covering the war in Vietnam when he stepped on a land mine.

      Until my father appeared on the scene many years later, there had never been many comparisons to the great Capa. At least, not of the kind my father inspired.

      For years Tommy cheated death on the front line, and then, unexpectedly, he died. At home in his own bed, of natural causes – a second heart attack, this one massive. He was gone, just like that, in the flick of an eyelash, without warning. No prior notice given here.

      It was the suddenness, the unexpectedness of it that did the worst damage to me. Aftershock. My father, who was given to using military lingo, would have called it blowback, and that’s what it was. Blowback. It felled me.

      My mother, Elizabeth Vasson Stone, died four years ago, and I was devastated. I still grieved for her at times, and I would always miss her. Yet my father’s death affected me in a wholly different way. It crippled me for a while.

      It could be that my reaction was not the same because my mother had always suffered from poor health, whereas my father was strong and fit. Invincible, to me. That perhaps was the difference. I suppose I thought he would live forever.

      My sisters still believed I was our father’s favourite child. Naturally, I’d continued to deny this over the years, reminded them that I was the youngest, and because of this perhaps I was spoilt, even pampered a bit when I was growing up.

      Traditionally, there is always a lot of focus on the baby of the family. But despite my comments, I was well aware they were right. I was his favourite.

      Not that he ever actually came out and said this, to me or anyone else. He was far too nice to hurt anyone’s feelings. Still, he made it clear in other ways that he favoured me, implied I was his special girl.

      He would often remark that I was the most like him in character, had inherited his temperament, many of his quirky ways, and certainly it pleased him that I was the one