Facing the Light (30 page)

Now she considered the baby and wondered what to name it. The doctor she'd consulted to help her with her grief, because she hadn't wanted to go to Dr Benyon, had been a kindly man called Cyril Rotherspoon, with a practice in Swindon. She'd only been to see him twice, because she realized that all she could do about the grief was live through it, but now he came into her mind. Why not, she thought. I don't want to call her anything, so it'll do. It's unusual at least.
Cyrilla
. It sounds like the heroine of a romance. The baby started to rootle around for the
breast, and Leonora sighed, and allowed the greedy mouth to fasten on her nipple. There was nothing to be done about it. She was weeping all over again. She felt as though her sorrow would go on for ever.

———

Sean stared down at the list in front of him and tried hard to concentrate. He'd spent hours before the shooting started at Willow Court walking through the rooms and deciding which of the canvases fell into the category of ‘absolute musts'. Ethan Walsh hadn't been the most prolific of painters but still, there were at least fifty works on the walls here, to say nothing of the drawings, sketches and unfinished pieces up in the Studio. Sean was so familiar with the pictures by now, and he'd spent days before coming to Willow Court summoning them up at will, working out how he was going to include this one or that one and writing a shooting-script for the programme that would say everything he wanted to say about the artist and his life and work.

The more he learned, the less he actually liked Ethan Walsh. That stuff today about his physical cruelty was interesting, too. I'll have to speak to Leonora about it, he thought, and reluctantly put the inventory of Walsh's works back into its file. Can't rely on Nanny Mouse, who's confused for so much of the time, poor thing. He summoned some of his favourite paintings to mind and marvelled at the contrast between what he was getting to know about the character of the artist and the quality of the work. The luminosity, the elegance, the singing colours, and the air of sadness that seemed to pervade even the sunniest of the canvases didn't match the hard, masculine character that was being revealed to him. Well, art was often surprising, and there were plenty of painters around who hadn't behaved themselves at all well.

Sean was conscious of having to make a particular effort to pay attention to work-related matters. Rilla, he thought, and as soon as he allowed her name to come to the forefront of his mind he felt himself flooded with the kind of elation he dimly remembered from his teens, when a date with a particular girl would render him tongue-tied with excitement and longing. I haven't felt like this for years, he thought, and he smiled as he acknowledged his resentment at having to go down to the village tonight to eat with the crew.

He stood up and started to undress, ready to take a shower before dinner. I want to be with her all the time, he told himself. What's she doing now? And how soon can I make my excuses and come back here? He thought of the wrought-iron and glass gazebo and of how it would look in the dark. He imagined Rilla waiting for him there, on one of the cane chairs, with her hair down. Would she have her hair down? He wanted to touch it. Would he be able to say all the things that he wanted to say? Maybe a failed marriage and a divorce and all the vaguely unsatisfactory relationships of the last few years would have turned him into a clumsy idiot who didn't know how to segue from gentle flirtation to the next stage and then the next. Through the window he saw the sun low over the trees behind the lake. Roll on, darkness, he thought, and wished that time could somehow speed up till he was with her again. Rilla.

*

Ever since she was first married, Leonora had always changed for dinner. It was the custom then, though hardly anyone insisted on it these days, but no one who came to Willow Court complained about it. Even the grandchildren, because they'd never known anything else, realized that when they were here she expected them to discard whatever outlandish outfit they'd been mucking
around in all day and get into something more acceptable for the evening meal.

Leonora was honest enough to acknowledge that one of the reasons she enjoyed the ritual was because otherwise it would have been perfectly possible for her to go through her entire life dressed only in a series of skirts and trousers worn with either blouses or a jumper depending on the season. And I'm vain, she thought, even at my age. Is that normal? She relished choosing, every night, which of her many dresses she would wear, and with which necklace or brooch and which earrings.

She sat down at her dressing-table, still in her dark blue silk dressing-gown. On the wall to her left hung a framed photograph taken on the occasion of her first formal ball, and whenever she felt particularly elderly and tired, she looked at it to remind herself of the old days, when she'd been what was called a ‘bobbydazzler'. The dress looked white in the picture but she remembered clearly that it had really been ice blue. Around her neck were the pearls she still often wore, a present from her father on her eighteenth birthday. And the shoes in the photograph made her smile. They'd still have been the height of fashion if she'd worn them today. And the tiara was beautiful but no one wore such things now, which was a great shame in her opinion. She'd been very proud of hers, which had been Maude's and now lay in a bank vault in town. She turned her thoughts back to the immediate problem of tonight's outfit. Maybe the beige linen with the jade necklace. Her reflection didn't displease her. She smiled to think of how surprised her daughters would be if they knew how often she still thought about sex. As though I've been old for ever and can't remember how it used to be. A vision of Hugh Kenworthy flashed suddenly into her mind. The afternoon she'd spent with him could so easily have become … well, never mind. It was one of the times which still
had the capacity to make her feel guilty, and she made a great effort to push all thoughts of him to the back of her mind. What on earth had made her think of him?

She stroked blusher lightly over her cheekbones, anxious not to overdo the make-up. Nothing worse than mutton dressed as lamb. No, that was all right. Subtle enough to make her look healthy. Perhaps it was seeing Rilla in a state again. With all her feelings about Sean pinned very obviously to her sleeve, her mouth practically hanging open just as it had with Hugh. Funny how one's children never realize how completely transparent they are. Leonora paused with the silver hairbrush in her hand. Was it possible that parents were equally well understood by their offspring? The thought made her blush, because she'd been thinking of Hugh, and she began to brush her hair rather more vigorously than necessary.

*

Leonora wondered whether it was her imagination or whether the conversation tonight really
was
more tentative than usual. It seemed to her that everyone was guarding their tongues, as though they were afraid of what might come out if they allowed themselves free rein. Fiona didn't take her eyes from Efe's face. He smiled at her once or twice when she managed to catch his eye, and it was quite touching and rather sad to see her face opening out like a flower in the sun. For most of the meal, Efe had been uncharacteristically silent, only talking when someone spoke directly to him.

Beth had made the most efforts in that direction. She wouldn't dare to raise the subject of the offer he'd made the night before. That might have provoked a row and Leonora had categorically forbidden rows at dinner times. There were occasions in the past which would have been quite unbearable if everyone had allowed themselves to quarrel at the table. As it was, rows and
unpleasantness were usually private matters between two people and not what she thought of as ‘free-for-alls'.

Beth was trying to cheer Efe up. That was what it looked like, but she was not having much success.

Leonora turned to her elder daughter. ‘You look a little preoccupied, Gwen, dear. Is something the matter?' She took a bite of apple pie. Really, they were very lucky that Mary had such a light hand with the pastry. It was quite delicious, and she could hardly blame Rilla for tucking in when she herself was enjoying it so much.

‘No, Mummy, I'm just going over my list in my head. There are so many things I have to check tomorrow. I'm sorry. Did I miss part of the conversation?'

‘No, not at all. I don't think we've had much of what you'd call “conversation” tonight.' Leonora noticed that every face was suddenly turned towards her and she smiled to show she wasn't blaming anyone. She said, ‘Rilla, I believe you and Sean went down to see Nanny Mouse. How is she?'

‘She was rather well, actually,' Rilla said, dabbing at her mouth with a napkin. ‘She seemed to know who we were for most of the time. But …' she paused. ‘There was one rather interesting thing. She seemed to be saying that Ethan Walsh was cruel to Maude. At one point, she actually thought Sean was Ethan and seemed to cringe back in her chair as if she thought he was going to strike her. She looked quite terrified, poor old Nanny.'

‘I don't think you ought to put too much faith in Nanny Mouse, even at her clearest. I don't remember anything like that at all,' Leonora said quickly, but she found that her heart had started to beat rather fast and her mouth was suddenly dry. She took a sip of water.

Rilla's remarks had certainly got some conversation going, and that had been what she wanted. She was dimly aware of Chloë and Philip and Beth, even Efe, talking all at the same time. The subject of men's violence
against women was obviously one on which everyone had strong opinions. Leonora let the talk flow over her, hearing only snatches of it.
They never reform … don't know why any woman stands it
 …
can't help it … doesn't mean they don't love
 …
funny way of showing
 …
wouldn't catch me … I'd hit him right back
 …
masochism … should be locked up … lost their temper and regret it … not good enough … no excuse
 …
love … love … bastards all of them
.

She fixed her eyes on the shadows behind Rilla's chair at the far end of the table. The lights in this room were deliberately kept quite low because Leonora couldn't bear white dazzle and wanted to recreate a golden candlelight glow. She'd never really thought of herself as old before, but lately the physical world was behaving so strangely that she'd begun to think this was how things were when you were about to turn seventy-five.

Look at what was happening, for instance, to the other end of the table. Rilla – she knew it was Rilla though she couldn't see her properly – her shape, the shirt she was wearing, which was the colour of a heron's feathers, were dissolving. That was the only word for it. Rilla was shimmering and shifting and when Leonora tried to make her out properly, she wasn't there. She'd disappeared and someone else was sitting in her chair. Leonora trembled and blinked. It's Maude, she thought. She opened her mouth to say ‘Mummy' and realized suddenly that she must be the only person in the room who could see what she supposed she ought to call a ghost of some kind.

‘Are you all right, Leonora?' James was speaking to her, leaning towards her looking anxious.

‘Yes, yes, of course. Nothing to fuss about. I just felt a little faint for a moment. Too much apple pie, I expect.'

‘Let's go through to the drawing room for coffee, Mother,' said Gwen. ‘The others can follow us. I'll tell you about the flowers for the tent.'

Leonora pushed her chair back and stood up. ‘Yes, a cup of coffee would be most welcome. Thank you, darling.' She tucked her arm into Gwen's and as they walked out into the hall, Leonora said, ‘I've never really liked the dining room, you know. It's such a cold place.'

‘It used to be,' Gwen agreed. ‘When Rilla and I were young. But you've made it look lovely now. Not a bit cold any more.'

When they reached the drawing room, Leonora sat down in her favourite armchair while Gwen went into the kitchen to organize the coffee. I'd almost forgotten, Leonora thought, why I hate that room. Seeing Maude there – she was wearing her lilac dress with the lace collar – reminded me. They'd let me come in sometimes as a special treat and I couldn't bear it and couldn't tell them why. Maybe I didn't know myself, but I remember now feeling that at any moment Mummy might break into pieces and Daddy might shout, or be very cross. With me or with her.

Leonora closed her eyes. No wonder I don't like the dining room. It used to be full of silences that weren't just people not talking, but huge icy gaps in the air, filled with resentment and anger and some other emotion that she couldn't exactly put her finger on, even after so many years. She sat up all at once, listening out for Gwen, and thought she heard someone sighing, and stifling a sob. Over there by the sofa. The room was in near-darkness.

‘Fiona? Is that you?' Leonora whispered. Fiona had been crying before dinner, she was almost sure of that. No one answered her question, and there was a rustling of something in the dimness near her and a fragrance of lily of the valley.

‘Here we are, Mother!' Gwen put the tray down and switched on the lamp. Leonora looked all around her. Magical electric light had scattered the phantoms. She
said, ‘Can you smell something? Scent … lily of the valley.'

‘No, I can't, I'm afraid. Actually, it's not a perfume I like at all,' Gwen said, matter-of-factly. ‘Maybe Fiona? She does lay it on a bit thick sometimes, but I must say I hadn't noticed it being lily of the valley.'

Leonora shook her head. ‘It doesn't matter, darling. I expect I was imagining it.'

Gwen was busy arranging cups and saucers and didn't answer.
Could
you imagine a fragrance, Leonora wondered. Could a perfume linger in the air for more than sixty years? I'm becoming silly and fanciful in my old age, she decided. A cup of coffee will pull me together.