Read Shooting Butterflies Online
Authors: Marika Cobbold
Shooting Butterflies
Marika Cobbold
To Jeremy (My son the doctor.)
Light is energy, making visible anything that produces it;
also anything that receives and is illuminated by it, such as the moon
and virtually any other object we see.
The Remarkable thing about this morning was not that it was Grace's birthday; after all, that occurred once a year so by the time you got to forty you should have ceased to be surprised. Nor was there much to say about the day itself; she walked down Kensington High Street to get the paper and it was muggy and overcast, the air so heavy with pollution you felt like offering it a hand to rise.
Back home, there was nothing odd about the toaster malfunctioning, Grace's two slices of white bread getting caught and having to be prised out piece by piece, nor about the tea turning cold before she remembered to remove the teabag. And she had expected cards; she had friends, after all, and Mrs Shield. No, what gave the day its unusual quality was that the postman, when he arrived, handed her a present from her dead lover.
She tore open the tattered brown paper parcel with its US stamps, thinking it might be a present from her Aunt Kathleen. Inside was a picture. She lifted it out and turned it the right way, gazing at the painting as if she had found a pink, breathing baby beneath a heap of rags. Outdoors, it was murky; leaden sky, charcoal asphalt, and the dirty white of the 1960s concrete building opposite. Indoors, the picture brought its own light.
There was an envelope hidden in a pocket of the wrapping. It had been opened and sealed again with a couple of bits of tape. On it was written simply
Grace
. It was his writing. She put the envelope down on the table, shook herself and then she looked again. It was still his writing. She picked the envelope up and tore it open. Her heart was hammering in her chest as she read on, but her hands remained steady; it was her training.
My darling Grace,
I came across this painting on my walk this morning. You were working and I was strolling through Chelsea, frightening passers-by with the stupid grin on my face as I thought of seeing you in just a little while. I found it at the back of a small antiques shop and I knew you would love it. I was told it wasn't for sale. I thought I recognised the building in the background and when I saw Northbourne House actually written next to the signature I knew I had to have it. Don't ask me how I managed to talk them round, but I did.
And don't ask me what the sea is doing not far from that house â artistic licence, obviously â but I wonder if the figure at the edge of the painting is your âghost'
.
I'll send the painting to you when we are far apart, as an emissary of my love. Poor ghost, I know how he feels as he gazes at the girl on the beach; I know how he longs to be with her.
I love you, always and for ever,
J.
She read the letter three times and with each reading her heart beat faster and she grew dizzy and short of breath and had to sit down. She was in her kitchen, surrounded by familiar things; the sky-blue painted cupboards and the old gas cooker that she never got round to replacing because there always seemed to be something more urgent, or at least more interesting, to do with the money. There was the small tray with bottles of olive oil and vinegar, the jars of different teabags, her pot of honey. In front of her was the battered oak table that was too big for the room and on the wall behind hung the double row of black and white photographs, each of the same forlorn seascape, each taken at a different time with the sea in a different mood. She looked at it all, disconnected, floating like a leftover balloon in a factory sky.
The painting was the kind of gift â remarkable and utterly right â that he would send her; but two years after his death? Grace was not one of those people who discounted miracles; she just didn't think them likely. He was dead and, this being life, there would be no resurrection.
She propped the picture up against the back of one of the kitchen chairs. She looked at what he had looked at; there was a time lag of over two years, but they were sharing a view: the house brooding in the background, the dark-haired girl seated by the water's edge, the figure gazing at her with such longing, and all washed in a light so clear it might have been sieved through a fine muslin cloth. The sea was playing in shades of blue and, beyond, the horizon was endless. Grace had seen such light and such horizons in the past, in other places, but never from a window at Northbourne House. And A.L. Forbes, who was he? She had never heard of a painter of that name, yet this was not some amateur effort but the work of a true artist.
She turned the letter over in her hand and it was then she noticed the scribble on the back.
Well, Grace, I found this touching little note and the accompanying âartwork' while going through the last of his stuff. As I can't believe even the thrift shop will want it, I am passing it on to you. Maybe he had second thoughts about giving it to you; an
unexpected lapse into good taste, perhaps. But that we'll never know now, will we? I wish you joy of it.
Sincerely yours,
Cherry McGraw (Mrs)
Grace arrived at her stepmother's in time for tea. Mrs Shield said, âYou look like you've seen a ghost.' Grace laughed so loudly and for so long that Mrs Shield decided her stepdaughter must finally be having that nervous breakdown.
They went for a walk in the grounds, Mrs Shield casting little searching glances in Grace's direction. Mrs Shield could not stand being left out. And Grace was trying to think of a way of telling her about the painting without getting emotional. It was not that Mrs Shield would not understand, because she would. She would cluck and pat and fuss and fret and put the kettle back on, and that was all right for a bashed toe or a mislaid wallet but not for the really serious stuff; for that you needed space and time and silence. So Grace said nothing and Mrs Shield was left to worry as the sun shone across the lawns where rabbits played, not just at dusk but in the middle of the day, in broad daylight.
Evangeline Shield had only recently moved back to Northbourne and the purpose-built development on the edge of the village. The change had been prompted by her discovery, one spring morning, that her windows were a disgrace. The final decision to move had been taken when, at their usual Tuesday bridge tea, her dear friend Marjory pointed out that the little black grains in the cake were not cardamom but mouse droppings. Soon afterwards, Mrs Shield became a resident of the newly opened Northbourne Gardens, modelled on the Golden Agers Village in Florida. What were now sixteen small flats and twelve purpose-built bungalows, all so bright you could smell the paint, and set in grounds as stiffly immaculate as a dowager's bouffant, had once been the home of the Glastonbury family, the stately Northbourne Manor with its stables and extensive grounds. The Glastonburys had departed in a hurry long before Grace was born and for years the once-magnificent house had been left to decay, its famous gardens turned into thorny wilderness. But now it was all part of what the new owners described as
Dedicated Living for
Active Seniors
. Apart from the actual accommodation, there was a cafeteria-style restaurant in the main building
for those days when you're too busy enjoying life to cook
, a swimming-pool, a gym, an arts centre, the
village hall
and a
village store
selling food staples, stamps, newspapers and support hosiery.
Mrs Shield had said to Grace at the time of her move, âAs you can see, it's a world away from one of those
old
people's places.'
Now she said, âThe gardens are looking wonderful, don't you think?' gesticulating at the neatly undulating borders of asters and tea roses. âQuite restored, they say.' But she still kept her eyes on Grace.
The next morning however, Mrs Shield forgot all about Grace's âqueer look' as she opened the Sunday papers. âOh my goodness! Really, I never thought anything would come out of it.'
Grace vaguely registered her stepmother speaking from behind the arts supplement, but it was the fifth time in as many minutes that Mrs Shield had muttered some comment or other so she paid little attention. Mrs Shield, never a respecter of other people's space, reached forward and gave Grace a sharp poke with the index finger of her good hand. âGrace, you're not listening.
Where Are You Now?
'
Grace assumed a look of infinite patience; she had not realised how old her stepmother was getting. âI'm here, Evie; right opposite you.'
âDon't be daft, Grace. I know where you are. It's
this
.' She slapped Grace on the knee with the paper. âThere, see for yourself.
Blighted promise: the heavy prize of success
. Prize with a z; it's a pun, I think.'
Grace took the paper. âThank you, Evie, for explaining that.'
The shortlist for Britain's biggest photography prize, the Unibank Award, had just been announced and the newspaper's arts editor, Nell Gordon, was taking a look. The prize, awarded every two years and worth thirty thousand pounds, was said to make a photographer's career. Other than in the case of the last recipient, Grace Shield. It's true that for the couple of weeks that constitutes an eternity in the world of the media, Grace Shield had been everywhere and called everything from
shutter babe
to
voyeur
, from
remarkable talent
to
exploitative pervert
. But after that nothing was heard of her. So whatever happened to all that controversial talent? Let's do a profile, try to find out. August was the silly season. A chunk of misery, a hint of scandal and some promise lost must have seemed like a godsend. It was not as if Grace was entirely unprepared for the attention; she had been contacted by the paper a few days earlier, but she had believed that her short polite, âI have nothing to say, but thank you for asking,' would be the end of it.
âAt least it's a
serious
paper,' Mrs Shield said. âThat's what I thought when they called. As long as it isn't one of those dreadful tabloids, I'm quite happy to help. And they had talked to your cousin Patricia in Ireland already â fancy going to all that trouble â and all sorts of other people. I said to them, “Of course, I know Grace is very clever, but I didn't appreciate that she was
this
important.”'
âYou talked to them. This ⦠this
rubbish
is your doing?' Grace felt a sudden urge to leap at Mrs Shield like a rabid monkey and grab her plump neck and squeeze. Instead she took three deep breaths: in through the nose, out through the mouth. Mrs Shield, a large woman with tiny features assembled close together in the middle of a moon-face, shrank and her pale blue eyes filled with tears as she twisted her broad hands in her lap. âI'm sorry, dear.'