Miss Mary's Book of Dreams

by Sophie Nicholls

  ‘Well, that’s certainly true, child.’ Maadar-Bozorg smiled. ‘You are, without doubt, your mother’s daughter. Seeing you now makes me remember so many things about her, things that I thought I’d forgotten. You have so many of her expressions.’ She patted the back of Fabia’s hand. ‘Yes, you really do. But fortunately, you also seem to be much more firmly rooted than your mother ever was. You seem to be so much more sure about who you are in the world. And for that, my own heart is glad.’

  Maadar-Bozorg lifted Fabia’s hand from where it lay against her chest and pressed it to her own. ‘You know, Farah . . . I hope I can still call you that? Because to me, my dove, my dear one, that is who you are.’

  Fabia nodded. ‘Of course.’

  ‘Farah, I want you to know that you make me so proud.’

  ‘I do?’ Fabia swiped at her face with her other hand. ‘Oh, but Maadar, I’m so lost right now. I don’t feel that I know who I am at all.’

  Maadar-Bozorg smiled again. ‘Ah, but this is only a very temporary thing. This is normal, child. When you are as old as I am, you’ll learn that this feeling soon passes.’

  ‘Does it? If only I could be so sure.’ Fabia pushed her hair out of her eyes.

  ‘So why don’t you tell me what’s on your mind? Maybe I can help?’

  ‘That’s just what I said to Ella, earlier.’

  Maadar-Bozorg nodded. ‘And it is the hardest thing, being a mother. But she’ll find her own way too, that one. You’ve done an excellent job, my dear. She has her head screwed on right.’

  ‘I know. She’s such a good girl. A very good girl. I’m not sure how much of that I can take any credit for. Sometimes I wish that she hadn’t always been so good, so sensible. That she’d had her little teenage rebellion. You know, perhaps she felt that she had to take care of me in some ways, because it was always just the two of us. Perhaps if she hadn’t been so responsible, if she’d had a bit more fun, or maybe even if she’d had more sense of Enzo . . . I always tried to keep her father present for her, you know. I talked about him all the time, told her stories of how we met. I used his favourite words, cooked his favourite meals. But I just wish now that she’d had more connection to her roots, to her family, to where she came from. We all need that, don’t we, in some way? And maybe then she wouldn’t be left with this longing, this constant wondering?’

  ‘Tsk. Maybe. Maybe not.’ Maadar-Bozorg clicked her fingers in the air. The amethyst in her ring sent light dancing over the kitchen ceiling. ‘Who knows?’ She smiled again. ‘But it sounds to me, my dear, like you might be talking about yourself?’ Her eyes twinkled.

  Fabia shrugged. ‘Yes, probably I am. I can’t say that I haven’t thought that too.’ She felt again that cold, gelid feeling wriggling its way up her spine. ‘Oh, I don’t know what’s wrong with me. Maybe it’s just the time of year. It always gets to me. The leaves turning. The nights drawing in. It makes me feel nostalgic for the past.’

  She gestured around the room.

  ‘You know, this is where I began again, where I found myself, learned who I really might be after everything had crumbled around me. This little room, the shop. It became my world.’

  ‘I can see that. And you did it all brilliantly. No one could have done better.’ Fabia felt Maadar-Bozorg’s eyes fix on hers. ‘You do know that, child, don’t you?’

  ‘Yes. Yes, I think I do. What I don’t really understand is why I threw it all up in the air again. Followed David halfway round the world, to a place I didn’t even know, in order to start all over. And you know, Maadar, I think I’m tired. I’m tired of starting again, of not belonging. I’m scared that I might not be able to do it properly this time.’

  ‘And so?’ Maadar-Bozorg pulled her shawl around herself. ‘What do you want to do?’

  ‘That’s just it. For the first time ever, I really don’t know anymore. Maadar, I’ve never said this before, and I don’t know why, but there’s not a day that’s gone by when I haven’t thought about you, wondered where you were, what you were doing. Missed you.’ She reached across the table. ‘But you know, I had to leave Tehran back then. I had to travel all this way, through Paris and then Dover and then all the way here, to these three little rooms and a shop in the middle of some godforsaken city where it’s always either snowing or raining, just to discover who I really was. Without you. Without the aunts. Even without the ghost of my mother.’ She smiled. ‘I had to make my own story. But what I found was that we carry our stories with us everywhere. They’re in our blood. They’re in the air that we breathe. You were so right about that. The past is with us everywhere. The people we’ve loved. The words we grew up with on our tongues. They’re in here.’ She pointed to her heart again. ‘And I worked so hard to shape them into something that felt right for me, something that would be good and true and . . . and just right. But now.’ She threw her hands in the air. ‘I don’t feel like I fit anywhere anymore. It’s gone. All gone. It’s as if, whenever I find what I think I want, it’s not enough. I have to move on again. And now I’m so tired. So goddamn tired . . .’

  ‘And what does David think of all this?’

  Fabia felt her heart twist.

  ‘Well, that’s just it. I haven’t exactly told him how I’m feeling. I don’t think he has any idea.’

  ‘Ah, yes. Of course.’ Maadar-Bozorg’s eyes twinkled again. A smile played around the corners of her lips.

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Nothing, child. Except that this was always going to be a problem.’

  Fabia felt her body bristle. Maadar-Bozorg could be infuriating at times. She remembered what she’d felt like as a young girl all those years ago, when she’d first told Maadar that she was going away to Paris. She’d rehearsed the words over and over inside her mind, wondering about the best way to share her news and then, when they’d finally come tumbling out, one evening as they cleared away the remains of dinner, Maadar had simply looked at her, just like that, with that little teasing half-smile and said, ‘Of course, child. You were always going to have to leave. I’ve known that for a long time.’

  Now she sat back in her chair and stretched the sleeves of her cardigan down over her hands.

  ‘Go on, then,’ she said. ‘Tell me what you already know about David and me.’

  Maadar-Bozorg frowned. ‘I’m sorry. I don’t mean it to sound like that at all. It’s just that . . . Well, Farah, I wouldn’t underestimate David. He probably knows at least a little of how you’re feeling. He seems like a very . . . intelligent kind of man. And that time when you brought him to see me in Tehran, it was so obvious that he’s madly in love with you. Any fool can see that from a mile off. So there was always bound to be a sticky bit, a moment of reckoning, if you like. Because . . . Well, because you don’t love him quite as much as he loves you, do you?’

  Fabia felt the words like little knives between her ribs. Stab, stab, stab. Was that true?

  ‘He’s asked me to marry him,’ she said.

  ‘And you don’t want to?’

  ‘I just don’t know, Maadar. I feel terrible about it. He’s so lovely. Most of my single friends would jump at the chance. I feel ungrateful and unkind and –’

  ‘Confused?’

  Maadar-Bozorg reached up and smoothed Fabia’s hair. ‘You’re right, child. David is wonderful. But so are you. And it’s not your friends who are making this decision. It doesn’t really matter what I or anyone else thinks.’ She smiled again. ‘Just don’t decide anything out of fear, that’s all. Fear is the very worst reason to do anything. Fear and, of course, the past. The past is over.’ She snapped her fingers in the air. ‘Done. That story is already told. You know, it is a beautiful thing, the way that you honour the past. The way that you take these lovely clothes and restore them to their original beauty. The way that you’ve always kept the memory of Enzo alive for Ella, in the language you use together, the food you taught her to love. It is truly beautiful.’ Maadar-Bozorg sighed. �
��But I can’t help thinking that this, child, this precious time we have, right here in this moment, is what we must remember to celebrate too.’ She swept her arm around the tiny kitchen. ‘Look. You see? This is where we get to make a new story.’

  Fabia spread her hands on the table. She looked into Maadar-Bozorg’s eyes. ‘I wish I could let go a little. I used to be much better at that. When did I learn to be so anxious all the time? So . . . so disconnected?’

  Maadar-Bozorg’s nose wrinkled. ‘Ah, I wish I knew the answer to that one. But I think that’s just how it is, child. For most of us, anyway.’ She stood up and pushed back her chair. ‘But I have something for you that I think might help . . . One moment . . .’

  When she reappeared in the doorway, she was holding a rectangular package in both hands.

  ‘I’ve just been waiting for the right time to give this to you. It was your mother’s and I wanted to make sure that it found its way to you. Because, well . . . This might be the last time . . .’ Her voice trailed off. Fabia saw her look into the air above her left shoulder. She shivered. ‘Here, child. Take it.’

  Fabia laid the parcel on the kitchen table. She could feel that it was some kind of cloth – a scarf, perhaps – wrapped in layers of pale blue tissue paper. She undid the thin yellow ribbon and peeled back the layers of paper, one by one.

  There on the table was the most beautiful piece of fabric that she’d ever seen. She heard herself gasp as she held up one corner of it, very gently, between her finger and thumb and shook it out. It spilled in soft folds over the entire surface of the table.

  Fabia traced the weave of the cloth with expert fingers. Its surface was richly textured but it was also incredibly light, spilling through her hands.

  ‘Oh!’ she said, holding her arms wide so that the light from the kitchen lamp shone through it. ‘Oh. It’s just . . . just exquisite, Maadar.’

  Maadar-Bozorg smiled. ‘I knew you would appreciate it.’

  ‘It’s wool . . . with silk, I think? And each colour is a natural vegetable dye? You can see the difference immediately. Hours and hours of work . . .’

  Maadar-Bozorg nodded. ‘It’s very old now. Incredible, really, that those dyes have held their colours so well. Especially the reds and ochres, here. See? They haven’t faded at all.’

  Fabia followed the pattern with her fingertips. The five-pointed star shapes repeated themselves in shades of scarlet and gold. In between, undulating lines moved like waves in blue and green. At intervals, the tightly woven rows were sewn with tiny semi-precious beads – chips of garnet, agate and topaz – so that the cloth shimmered gently in her hands.

  ‘And there are birds here too. Here in each corner . . .’ She traced the feathered shapes. ‘How strange.’ She folded the fabric over her arm and stroked it. ‘Isn’t it a dowry piece?’

  Maadar-Bozorg nodded. ‘Yes, I think so. It was made in the mountains, not far from the house. There are only a few women now who still know how to make these cloths. And you’re right. They were made to demonstrate the skills of the woman to be married, but each family of women developed their own techniques, ways of telling little stories through the patterns. You see here, where these colours undulate like waves . . . And then here, what looks like leaves . . . Your mother loved it. And the birds, of course. It was given to her when she was a little girl – not much older than Grace is now – by Sara, who lived in the village and sometimes came to the house to take care of things for a week or two when I had a paper or a chapter to work on. Your mother kept it on the end of her bed and she loved to look at the patterns.’ She smiled. ‘Sometimes we’d try to guess at the stories, at what it might be that the weaver was trying to tell us . . . I remember that your mother once asked Sara to tell her what it all meant, but she never would. She just laid her hand against the side of her nose, like this, and said, “It’s whatever you want it to be, my dove . . .” When your mother died, I put it away. I couldn’t bear to look at it. But it’s a piece of your past, a good piece. And now, perhaps, you can make it into something for your future . . .’

  ‘Oh, I don’t think I could bear to cut into it.’ Fabia held it out again, feeling how alive the fabric became as it caught the light. ‘It would be a sacrilege . . .’

  Maadar-Bozorg shook her head. ‘Quite the opposite, child. These fabrics were made to be fashioned into something. The bride would take them with her to her new husband’s house and she’d use them – often many times over – as a bedspread or as a covering for a table. But she’d also cut them to make special garments – clothing for herself or her first child or, in time, even a wedding dress for her own daughter. This fabric needs to be given new life. And, when the time is right, you are the person to do it.’

  22

  To delight the senses: Burn bridewort in the hearth or strew it on the floor.

  – Miss Mary’s Book of Dreams

  ‘So this is it.’

  Ella stopped the car at the top of the narrow lane and helped Maadar-Bozorg to unfold herself from the cramped back seat. Bryony already had her hand on the garden gate.

  Miss Mary’s cottage stood silent. Ella felt that faint crackle in the air again, a buzz of green static fizzing through the damp. Maadar-Bozorg met her gaze and nodded.

  ‘There’s certainly something here,’ she said, pulling on her leather gloves.

  There was no sun this time. In the little orchard at the back of the house, the branches of the apple trees were bare against the winter sky and apples lay black and rotten on the ground.

  Ella’s nose wrinkled. The smell of decay was everywhere – in the mulch of leaves and apples and in the mist that clung to the walls of the abandoned house.

  On their last visit, the house had seemed almost homely. Despite the gaping windows and the door hanging off its hinges, she’d almost been able to imagine smoke curling up from the chimney, a smell of baking drifting from the kitchen hearth. Now she stuck her head around the door and shivered. The rooms were dark and sinister-looking, the stone walls greenish-black with moss and soot. There was a dripping sound in the narrow hallway and, as the door creaked, she heard something scurrying off into the shadows. The toe of her trainer skidded on the slippery stone floor. She backed out again, breathing hard.

  ‘It’s just as I imagined,’ Maadar-Bozorg said. ‘So European. Like the witch’s house in Hansel and Gretel.’ She unfolded a small canvas bag from her pocket and began to poke around in the long grass outside the kitchen door, parting the tangled fronds to reveal clumps of leaves.

  ‘This is witch grass,’ she said, nipping a sample from a plant with smooth, pale leaves and speared tips and dropping it into the bag.

  ‘And here’s sage.’ Bryony rubbed the leaves between her finger and thumb and held them to her nose. ‘I love that smell. Incredible to think that Miss Mary might actually have planted this, centuries ago. It’s very resilient. Goes rampant, if you’re not careful.’ Her voice was taut with excitement. ‘To think that we’re looking at the traces of what might have been Miss Mary’s cure-garden. But I’d like to find some bridewort. She talks about that a lot. I think it was one of her favourites.’

  ‘It’s a wild plant, isn’t it? Queen of the Meadow. I imagine it will be out there somewhere.’ Maadar-Bozorg swept the horizon with her hand. ‘Maybe in that field. She would have used whatever she could find around here. Do you know what it looks like?’

  Bryony nodded. ‘I looked it up. It has dark green leaves with a downy-white underside and sometimes a bright orange fungus on the stem. It won’t be in flower, of course. It’s the wrong time of year.’

  She’d strode off, pushing her way through the broken fence into the field. Maadar-Bozorg followed, her long trousers brushing the wet grass. At the fence she turned.

  ‘Coming?’ she called to Ella and smiled when Ella shook her head. ‘Well, we won’t be too long, I imagine.’

  Ella watched them now, two distant figures
in the middle of the field, dipping and bending, silhouetted against the fading afternoon light.

  She stood at the end of the garden where the orchard petered out. There was a little stream that cut its way through the bottom corner of the field and, behind that, the moors, rising up against the cold, grey sky. She turned to look west, where the hills stretched themselves, their bulk half lost in the mist. She could just make out the shape of a solitary farmhouse, way up there, in the dip of one of the hills, but, apart from that, no sign of another living soul. Miss Mary must have liked her own company to live alone out here – or perhaps she didn’t have much choice?

  Behind her, she could almost feel the house watching. The empty windows seemed to follow her as she moved around the garden. She felt a prickling on the back of her neck – a quiver of green, a shiver of silver. At first, she thought it was Bryony, that she’d circled back through the field behind, come for something she’d forgotten in the car, but when she turned around there was no one there.

  She made her way back to the house and found a late-blooming yellow rose growing in a sheltered spot on the west wall. Bryony would be pleased. She could take some of the petals for the spells in Miss Mary’s book. Rose seemed to feature heavily in many of them. Ella reached out to touch the velvety petals but immediately snatched her hand back. A thorn had pricked her finger. A single drop of blood beaded there on her fingertip. She wiped it on the grass. Tetanus. You could get that from a rose thorn, couldn’t you? She shivered again. This place gave her the creeps. The sense of the clouds gathering over her shoulder, the air bunching up around her. She straightened up and began to wave at Bryony and Maadar-Bozorg in the field. Their backs were turned. They couldn’t see her. She wished they’d hurry up now. Maybe she’d go and wait for them in the car.

  ‘Hello?’

  Her heart skipped a beat. The voice was clear, clipped, authoritative.

  ‘Sorry. Didn’t mean to make you jump. Gosh, it’s Billy’s wife, isn’t it? Sorry. I can’t remember your name. I’m dreadful with names.’