Sleeping Embers of an Ordinary Mind (15 page)

“You could have told me.”

The silence stretches, and Toniah pours another whisky.

“Was she trying to tell us . . . You know, before she died?” says Poppy.

“Probably. But if anyone knows the full story, it’s Hildi. That is, if she’s still alive.”

The nursing home, which overlooks a large South London park, is a gleaming Edwardian villa; original art-nouveau stained glass embellishes the wide entrance door and both bay windows. Toniah has always preferred Edwardian houses to the older Victorian houses in London’s suburbs. Edwardian homes were built on larger plots of land, and their interiors are more airy, with generous entrance hallways, often oak-panelled. They’re more welcoming than Toniah and Poppy’s own Victorian house.

This particular Edwardian villa is close to Toniah’s fantasy. She has long dreamed that one day she’ll have her own study in the upstairs bedroom of such a house, overlooking such a park—a park with a wide blue sky and the sounds of children playing. She can imagine herself taking a break from her desk, jogging across the park, gaining the type of inspiration that a good jog can stimulate.

Today there’s a game of football in progress in the middle distance. Toniah is surprised that the players’ calls, and foul language, can reach them from so far away.

Eva has stayed home with Carmen for the morning, and this brief excursion feels like a treat—two sisters out and about on a Saturday, unencumbered. They may even grab time for a coffee before returning home.

They stand in the driveway of the nursing home, taking stock.

“It’s not a bad place to end up,” says Poppy.

They’re ten minutes early, so they take a seat on a bench positioned under the canopy of a large ceanothus tree; cascades of blue flowers surround the two sisters.

“I feel bad we didn’t know Hildi was in a home,” says Poppy.

“Me, too. We let things slip, didn’t we?”

“Well, it was a bad time for everyone. Her brother should have told us she’d moved here.”

“He didn’t actually know us, Poppy. Hildi just talked about him.”

Poppy laughs, “That’s right. The invisible . . . what was his name?”

“Peter. No . . . Pieter.”

Every Mother’s Day without fail, Hildi joined them at home for a special lunch. She didn’t have children of her own, and Toniah is touched, looking back, that Nana included her in their Mother’s Day celebrations. Hildi continued to join them after Nana Stone died, but her visits stopped once their mother died.

The senior care assistant leads them to Hildi’s room. “She’s expecting you, and she’s fairly bright this morning.”

“It’s ten years since we last saw her,” says Poppy.

“I shouldn’t worry. Hildi has a loose grasp of past and present. She was a great one for posting videos, and she’s reaping the benefit now. She watches them over and over. And she paid extra for an avatar of her twin—”

“Pieter?”

“That’s right. Did you know him?”

“No, we never actually met, but she talked about him.”

“He died soon after Hildi came here. She sits him in an armchair all day.”

“So she’s not too lonely,” says Poppy, hopefully.

“His conversation was limited at first—Hildi only had one recording. But she was stronger back then, and she told Pieter lots of old stories. So he repeats them back to her. He’s a godsend, really.”

The care assistant opens the door to Hildi’s room.

“We have visitors, Hildi!” says the avatar. “We’re so excited to have a visitor, aren’t we, Hildi?”

Hildi lifts her head and smiles. Her hands are lifeless in her lap.

“Pull up some chairs,” he says.

“I’ll leave you to it, then,” says the assistant, raising an eyebrow. “I hope Hildi gets a word in edgeways.” She closes the door behind her.

“We’re here to speak with Hildi,” says Poppy firmly.

“It’s such a fine day,” he says. “And the forecast is for clear skies until Thursday, with possible thunderstorms on Tuesday.” He laughs. “Two hot days and a thunderstorm. Isn’t that right, Hildi? The definition of a British summer.”

They pull up two chairs, and Toniah is tempted to place her bag on Pieter’s chair, but she refrains. She takes Hildi’s hand, and they sit quietly for a moment. She looks Hildi in the eyes to see if Hildi is registering who they are. “It wasn’t easy to find you, Hildi. We had to trawl Mother’s contacts, but in the end, we asked around in your old neighbourhood. The hairdresser told us where you were.”

Hildi nods her head. “Well, it’s a lovely surprise to see you both.”

Poppy sits forward. “We wish we’d visited sooner but . . . Anyway, here we are.”

“I’d know you anywhere,” says the avatar. “I’ve seen seventeen photographs of Toniah and fifteen of Poppy.”

Poppy throws a withering look towards Toniah.

“How is it here?” says Toniah.

“They’re all very kind. And I have Pieter.”

Poppy says, “Next Mother’s Day, we could pick you up and bring you home for lunch. Like old times. And you could meet my little girl, Eva. She’s started school already, and you’ve never met her.”

Hildi smiles. “That might be too much for me. I’m an old bird now.”

“Then I’ll bring Eva next time.”

Toniah worries that Hildi might tire quickly this morning, and wonders if they’ll need to visit a few times to dig into Nana Stone’s past. She jumps in. “Listen, Hildi, we don’t want to tire you out, but we thought you’d like to talk about Nana Stone. You must have memories of happy times. We’ve brought some photographs.”

“Excellent,” says the avatar. “Have you any—”

“Pieter, now you’ve seen the girls, let me have a quiet chat.” Hildi blinks him off. She tries to sit up straighter; Toniah rearranges the cushions behind her back.

“We never met your brother before now,” says Toniah.

“A very kind man. He
always
has been,” she says.

“How did you and Nana meet, Hildi?” says Poppy. She knows the answer, but it seems a good place to start.

“I met Leah at school.” Her eyebrows begin to dart. “She was always the one getting into mischief.”

Poppy brings an envelope from her bag and carefully empties out the photographs. She shows them in turn to Hildi, who nods at each one—photographs taken on Mother’s Day at intervals across the years, with Toniah and Poppy inching from infancy to early teens.

“And we found one particular photograph we’d like to show you. We’re hoping you can tell us something about it,” says Toniah. The photograph is cupped in her hand. She offers it to Hildi. For a moment, Toniah believes Hildi has fallen asleep, but then she murmurs, “This was taken . . .”

“When was it taken, Hildi?” says Toniah gently.

She doesn’t answer.

“Who is the little boy in her lap?” says Poppy.

Hildi’s hands are no longer still. She smacks one hand with the other.

Toniah says, “We’re sorry to spring this on you, but we think you’re the one person who can tell us, Hildi.”

“Leah didn’t want to talk about it.”

Toniah steels herself. “Can you tell us anything at all about this little boy?”

“He’s her son, Max.”

“But I don’t understand, Hildi,” says Toniah. “You’ve known this all these years, and yet . . . did Mother know?”

She shakes her head. “I loved the boy, but Leah wouldn’t . . .”

“So you knew him, Hildi. But what I don’t understand is . . . who was the father?” says Poppy.

“She didn’t want a husband. She used a donor.”

Toniah puts her hand to her forehead and sighs. Another incomplete story. It’s Poppy who has the appetite for more. “Well, that’s strange, Hildi. Why didn’t Nana use a donor again? Why did she go parthenogenetic to have Mother?”

Toniah prays that no one comes in; she’s embarrassed—grilling Hildi like this. Again, it’s Poppy who nudges: “Why didn’t she use a donor again?”

“She didn’t want another boy.”

No one speaks. In the absence of questions, Hildi eventually continues. “She said she couldn’t love another boy as much as she loved Max. She only wanted a girl.”

“And the way to guarantee that,” says Toniah, disbelieving, “was to have a parthenogenetic conception.”

“It was a new procedure then, Hildi. Wasn’t she worried?” says Poppy.

“She was always the daredevil,” says Hildi, with a tinkle of laughter. “She didn’t give
two hoots
.” The emphasis charms Toniah.

Toniah takes a tissue from her pocket and dabs the old woman’s eyes. “Sorry, Hildi.” There’s a knock at the door, and a care assistant wheels in a trolley. “Tea, anyone? Where’s Pieter? Was he talking too much, Hildi?”

When the care assistant leaves the room, Toniah says, “Hildi, I’d like to ask you something else. Nana used to say, ‘Don’t talk to me about men.’ What did she mean by that? Did something happen?”

“That’s probably . . . Yes, that’s about her father.”

“She never spoke about him.”

“He walked out when Leah was eight years old. He didn’t show his face again.”

Toniah now wishes she hadn’t asked. She prefers her childhood horror-fantasy that Nana Stone was jilted at the altar. The plain facts aren’t half so satisfying.

Poppy brings out her photographs of Eva, but Hildi’s eyes become heavy. Toniah glances at her sister. “I think we should perhaps let Hildi have a rest.” She takes Hildi’s hand. “We’d better go . . . But now we know where you are, we’ll come back with Eva. And thanks for telling us about Max.”

Poppy leans forward. “Hildi? Did Leah tell you anything about the donor? Did she have any information about him?”

Hildi’s eyes widen. “Oh, we knew the donor. It was Pieter.”

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

London, 2015

It’s peculiar, to Toni’s mind, that people travel across the world to visit London’s National Gallery to see all the famous paintings—which were probably stolen from their own countries in the first place—but as soon as they see the copyist in the Venice room setting up her easel, they forget about the old paintings; they want to watch what she’s doing. They probably think they’ll learn how to do it, how to paint a masterpiece. But copying a masterpiece is not the same as painting the masterpiece in the first place. It’s self-evident to Toni, but she thinks it’s not clear to
some
people. They believe that if they had the knack and the correct equipment, they’d face only one simple question: What to paint?

Most people, she’s convinced, would choose to paint a sunset. She knows she’s being a bit harsh, and she tells herself to be a bit more . . . What’s that religious word her mum used to use? Charitable. She should be more charitable.

When they arrived at the gallery, Toni asked her dad if she could go straight to the coffee shop. She remembered from her last visit that the coffee shop had an old-fashioned, steampunk feel—polished brass rails, black wall panelling and gaudy stained glass. But her dad wanted her to go with him to the Sainsbury Wing so she’d know where he’d be for the next two or three hours. She waved the gallery floor plan at him, saying she could easily find her way around, but he insisted. So she traipsed behind him through the Dutch rooms and now into the Italian.

She suddenly realizes that the oldest paintings, which are all Italian, are the brightest and happiest paintings. Perhaps Italians are more cheerful because of the better weather. She has a weather app, and she still has Florence as her first page; it’s always sun, sun, sun, sun, sun for the five-day forecast. Well, nearly always.

They reach Room 54, and without pausing to look around, her dad strides towards the bench in front of
The Battle of San Romano
and sits himself down, right in the middle. He places his backpack to his left and pats the bench to his right. Toni sits with him, and they sit quietly. The painting fills almost the entire end wall. She can tell her dad is concentrating; he sits in a slouch—he doesn’t care what he looks like—with his knees apart and his hands loosely clasped. His eyes blink rapidly. After a couple of minutes, he opens his backpack and pulls out a long tin, which holds his sketching pencils, putty rubber and a crafting knife, which he always uses to sharpen his pencils.

“What’s the plan? Pencil sketches?” she says.

“Pencil for starters. Then I’ll use pastels to record the palette of colours.”

“So, no painting today?” She hopes not; she reckons he’ll finish sooner if he sticks to pencil and pastel.

“Sadly, no one is allowed to use paints in the Sainsbury Wing, not even to make colour notes.” He looks over his shoulder. “The gallery assistant might complain about the size of my sketchbook. You get the odd one who’s a real stickler.”

“There might be a poster in the shop for this painting? You could copy that.”

“I’ve already bought it online.”

“What? So why bother coming to the gallery?”

“I’m a pro. The colours are never right in a poster.” He opens up his sketchbook on his lap. “And you definitely miss things.”

“Why’s that?”

“It’s a bit of a mystery, really. I think the true colours change how you see the painting. So if the colours aren’t exactly correct, you misunderstand the composition. And you always lose detail in the darker areas.” Toni reckons if she keeps distracting him with questions, she’ll never get away.

“And it’s important to appreciate the size of the work, how it feels to stand in front of the real thing. Here’s a good example.
The Battle of San Romano
nearly fills this end wall, doesn’t it? It’s a powerful statement. But look at that painting on the right—
Saint George and the Dragon
. It’s small and feels more intimate. But if you saw them reproduced in a magazine, or online, you might think the paintings were the same size. Go and read the text panels for the two paintings.”

She yawns as she wanders across to the battle painting. She reads the panel, turns, and as she walks along the end wall, across the battle scene, she pretends she’s holding a lance and lunges. She reads the second panel by the smaller painting.

“Well?”

“They’re by the same artist. Paolo Uccello.”

“Surprised?”

“Suppose. He should have painted the dragon picture much bigger, don’t you think, Dad?”

“It was probably made to measure, for a niche somewhere in a palace. And, interestingly, Andy Warhol appropriated that painting for a series of screen prints.”

“Can I go to the coffee shop now?”

He hands her a pen, and she writes
54
on her wrist. She looks at him, raises her eyebrows.

“One hour,” he says. He pulls some coins out of his pocket. “
Don’t
leave the building.”

Typical, she thinks. The coffee shop is at the opposite end of the building. She wants to rush through the gallery rooms, but people are dawdling, and one elderly couple, Japanese, she thinks, comes to a halt right in front of her so that she almost crashes into them. They’re holding black handsets, listening to the guided tour, and the recorded voice has,
evidently
, told them to stop and look at a particular painting. As she sidesteps, she notices the painting they’re staring at, and she, too, stops in her tracks. It’s a painting of stones and twigs. She dodges in front of the couple to take a closer look. It’s like the grey rocks in the Shanghai hotel—the grey rocks in the glass tanks. She giggles aloud. Someone else thinks a rock is interesting. The title says
Rocks, Tree Trunks and Branches
, which doesn’t seem right; it definitely looks more like stones and twigs.

She jumps two steps at a time down the long staircase to the ground-floor coffee shop and slips past a group of suited men, beating them to the queue. She orders a banana milkshake, and while she waits by the counter, her phone pings. It’s a notification saying that Mai Ling has pinned a photo to the project “Toni’s History Project—People Unknown.”

That’s the eleventh pin: target exceeded, total success. She touches the app icon, but it doesn’t open; the free Wi-Fi is pathetic. She wonders if Mai Ling remembered to write one interesting thing about her dead relative. And it now occurs to Toni that her request for a micro-snippet of information is a bit rude. It shouldn’t be possible, she thinks, to reduce a lifetime to a single sentence. What could she say in a sentence about her mum, or about her dad, or Natalie? One day, far in the future, someone might abbreviate
her
life. Toni Munroe . . . a renowned embroiderer of vintage denim.

She takes her milkshake to a long, marble-topped counter and perches on a bar-stool. She faces three large Georgian windows with wooden shutters folded back—the shutters match the room’s head-height wood panelling, which is painted black. This would make a great movie set, she thinks, for a spy thriller. She’s scanning the coffee shop, working out where two spies would make a live drop, when the hulking men in suits walk across the room with tiny cups of espresso and sit directly opposite her, blocking her view. She feels she’s sitting in the middle of their group, but they don’t seem to notice her—she’s an invisible junior member of the species.

She frowns at her phone as though a crucial email has just
that second
landed in her inbox. But it’s hard work maintaining the frown, so she pushes her phone into her pocket; it’s not as though she ever receives world-redefining communications. She lifts the straw to the top of the milkshake and sucks off the bubbles. Maybe she’ll ask her dad how many earth-shattering emails he receives in a year, but on second thought, she drops the idea. After her mum died, he didn’t check his email for at least a month.

She’s not sure why. It seemed to
her
that email would be the least painful way of dealing with people. But, oddly, her dad talked with anyone who telephoned—he didn’t even let the answering machine take a message—even though he always cried when he talked about her mum. She overheard Natalie telling him to put an out-of-office notice on his mail. So Toni sent him an email to see what he’d written. He wrote that due to a family bereavement, he was taking extended leave.

It was all right for him. He made
her
go back to school even though the long summer holiday started only three weeks later. He said it would be best if she went back before the holidays, but she thought he was wrong about that. She should have stayed home to look after
him
. The house got into a mess, and she suspected he spent half the day in bed.

Anyway, she reckons that the subject of earth-shattering emails would make a brilliant feature article for a Sunday newspaper. She’d ask famous—no, she would ask
nonfamous
people—to recall the most important email they had ever received. “The Email That Changed My Life.” She’d tell them she wanted happy stories. She’d pitch the feature as a New Year special, full of optimism for the coming year. In any case, why go out of your way to write sad stories? she says to herself. Unless it’s a historical feature; then it’s bound to be
all
misery.

Toni stands at the entrance to Room 54. She watches her dad at work and spontaneously feels the warmth of reflected glory, for two young men—art students, she guesses—are whispering to one another and taking sideways glances at her dad. Toni strolls past them, stands by her dad and puts a possessive hand on his back. “How’s it going, Dad?”

“Fine. Not so difficult, this one. Uccello’s approach is straightforward. It’s just a coloured-in drawing. Not like the Venetian school.”

“Hmm. How much longer will it take?”

“Bored already? Why don’t you find a painting you like?”

As she leaves the room, she steals a backwards glance at the two students. They’re looking at her. They must be wondering what it’s like to have an artist for a father. She wants to tell them it’s pretty amazing. Her dad takes her to loads of artists’ studios. In fact, she doesn’t know any other teenager who goes to open-studio weekends, and her favourite part is seeing her dad drinking beer from the bottle with his art mates.

What’s more, he’s made her realize that all these paintings are
her
paintings; all the big museums belong to
her
, and she can regard them as her own treasure trove. And years ago he taught her this: in a big gallery, you don’t study everything. All you do is pick one painting in each room for a closer inspection.

In the next room she picks a small painting—the one that
isn’t
a Madonna and Child. There’s a man on a horse in a landscape full of animals—hounds, deer, stags, a heron, swans and two ducks. The stag has a crucifix growing out of his head, though Toni has absolutely no idea what the artist is trying to say.

The next room is utterly dismal. She sighs. It’s a Dutch room, full of portraits of miserable people. She looks down at the wooden floor and moves on to another Italian room where the sun is shining in all the paintings. She’s surrounded by bright blues, startling reds and happy, skipping angels.