‘Valentina, do sit down, dear. A cup of coffee? I always think that’s the best way to start things off.’ Maadar-Bozorg set the cup on a table.
Valentina tossed her mane of thick dark hair and laughed. ‘Si, si! In our family, we say . . .’ She looked at Ella. ‘Your family, tesora. We say that the first cup of coffee is not just a cup of coffee, no. It is a communion with the gods.’ She jabbed a finger at the ceiling.
‘Is that so?’ Maadar smiled and pulled out a chair. ‘Sit. Sit, my dear. That’s right.’
Ella drew out a chair for herself and hauled Grace onto her knee. She let herself look again, more slowly this time, at the woman now perched on the opposite side of the table. The small hands with their long fingers wrapped around the white coffee cup, the wild brown hair, the soft curves of her figure under the black cashmere sweater.
Inside her head, she had the strangest sensation of something shifting and sliding into place. It was as if, as she looked at this woman, she was looking at herself.
‘My aunt? Really? You’re my aunt?’ She felt a smile spreading over her face. ‘But, um, I’m sorry if this sounds rude. It’s just that I didn’t even know that I had one –’
‘I know!’ Valentina banged her cup down on the table so forcefully that Grace let out a nervous giggle. ‘Me too, carina. I knew nothing about you. All these years. But I just found out. Because until last month, I didn’t even know that I had a brother! Stupid, no? And that is why I had to come here. To find you.’ She grinned again and her teeth flashed white against her tanned skin. ‘And now I have. And I am so . . . so –’ She flung her arms wide again and searched the ceiling for the right word. ‘I am so happy! So very happy!’
*
‘You’re wearing make-up.’
‘Yes. Just a bit.’
Bryony spooned potatoes onto Ed’s plate. She speared the broccoli with the tip of her fork and raised it to her lips.
‘You know I’ve never really liked that on a woman. I don’t know why you feel like you have to do that to yourselves. All that faffing about.’
Bryony felt the familiar anger begin to push its way up inside her. These days, it never seemed far from the surface. Everything Ed did, everything he said seemed to stir things up in her.
‘Ed,’ she said uncertainly, laying down her fork.
‘Yes? What is it, love?’ He swigged water from his glass, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. For the first time, Bryony realised that he looked worried, uncertain of himself.
Bryony knew then what she had to do. She’d been rehearsing this moment in her head for weeks now. Ever since the scene at Ella’s party. She hadn’t thought she was ready. She’d told herself she’d give it a little more time. Just a few months or so, until things were a bit more settled. But now it was all coming out of her in a rush.
‘Ed, I’m sorry. There’s no easy way to say this but I don’t think it’s been going that well between us, recently. It’s not your fault. Not at all. It’s just that I’ve changed. I’m still finding my way, since . . . well, since I was ill. And I don’t think I can change back again. I’m different, a different person now. And so I’ve been thinking . . . I wonder if it’s best if you move out? There’s no rush, of course. You can take all the time you need. But I think in the long run –’
‘You what?’ Ed’s face had turned the colour of beetroot. Bryony saw that he was genuinely shocked. He’d really had no idea.
For a brief moment, she felt that familiar feeling of panic. That fluttery feeling inside her chest as if a thousand tiny wings were beating against her breastbone.
‘Bloody hellfire, Bry.’ Ed looked down at his plate. Then in one movement he sprung to his feet and picked it up. She thought he was going to throw it – maybe at her – but instead he took it, still mounded with roast chicken and potatoes, and crossed the kitchen and dumped the lot into the bin.
‘Well,’ he said, wiping his hands on the back of his trousers. ‘That’s that then.’
At the kitchen door he turned to her with a look of disdain. It was the kind of look that, only months ago, would have finished her off.
‘Just don’t come crying to me when you’re all alone and desperate,’ he said. ‘Your new friends won’t want to know when you’re back in there.’ He jabbed his thumb over his shoulder. ‘When you’re back with all the nut jobs. When you’re just a lonely, old madwoman.’
Bryony sat quietly at the table, her hands folded in her lap. Above her head, she could hear Ed opening drawers and cupboards, banging things around. Then she heard his feet thudding down the stairs, heard him take his coat off the hook by the door, throw her key into the dish on the hall table.
The front door slammed. He was gone.
It was only then that the tears came. Big shuddering sobs. Sadness, yes, but mostly a sense of relief, as if she’d been carrying something very heavy for a very long time and had finally put it down.
*
‘So where is she now then, this surprise aunt?’
Billy was dangling Grace upside down as she swiped at his knees and laughed hysterically.
‘Billy, don’t. You’re getting her all giddy right before –’ Ella stopped mid-sentence. She’d made a promise to herself that she’d try to be a bit more relaxed about these things. But it was still difficult. Billy always seemed to rub her up the wrong way.
‘Sorry,’ she said. She slid the last book from the new delivery into its rightful place in Snow and smiled. ‘Valentina? She’s gone to a hotel. She insisted. Maadar-Bozorg offered to share her room with her. There are still two beds up there, after all. But Valentina said that she wanted to give me some space. That I needed some time to get used to it all. She was so . . . so totally sweet, Billy. So lovely. I just know that you’ll like her. I’ve invited her for dinner tomorrow night so that you and Mamma can meet her then.’
Billy frowned.
‘What about your mum? Do you think she’ll be OK with it all? I mean, it’s a big deal, isn’t it, this relative of your dad’s just turning up out of the blue after all these years?’
Ella nodded. ‘Yes, but I think she’ll be delighted. After Pappa died, she lost touch with the Italian side of the family. We moved around so much. And I don’t think there was any love lost between Pappa and his parents. And then . . . It’s a really tragic story but my dad’s mother . . . that is, my Italian grandmother, Billy . . . Just think of that. Well, she passed away shortly after my dad. And then my grandfather remarried. That’s where Valentina comes in. She’s Pappa’s half-sister, to be accurate. But to think that Pappa never even knew that she existed. Valentina says that her father – my grandfather – was a very distant, bitter old man by the time she was old enough to remember him. He never even mentioned his son. It was only when he died, a couple of months ago, that she was going through his papers and discovered some letters – and that led her to us.’
As she talked, she realised that Billy was watching her, a smile twitching at the corners of his mouth.
‘Are you laughing at me?’ She frowned.
‘No. No, it’s just . . . Well, you look . . . I don’t know. You look sort of different somehow, El. I don’t really know how to describe it . . . You just look more –’
‘Relaxed? I have been really trying.’
‘Maybe. A bit. But just more . . . Well, more you, I suppose. More yourself than I’ve seen you in a long, long time. It’s great.’ He reached for her hand and squeezed her fingers.
Grace attempted to clamber up his thigh.
‘Daddy. Da-ddy!’
He caught her and threw her above his head, unleashing a storm of giggles.
‘Honestly, you two.’ Ella smiled. ‘You know, it probably sounds weird. I mean, I’ve only just met her, this Valentina person. But I feel a bit like there’s been this piece of me that’s been missing for so long and now, finally, I’ve found it. She’s an artist, Billy. She paints. And she lives . . . wait fo
r it . . . in Venice, for goodness’ sake. Venice! And she runs these art history tours for tourists. She’s so creative and . . . and interesting and vibrant and I feel as if I just clicked with her. As if, well, as if I finally belong. Like somehow I fit. Like something about me finally makes sense. Does that sound really melodramatic?’
‘No more than usual.’ Billy grinned again.
‘Seriously, Billy. She’s like . . . um, like –’
‘Like an Italian-speaking, extra-caffeinated version of Ella.’
Maadar-Bozorg stood at the bottom of the stairs, her eyes twinkling. ‘Just wait until your mother sees her. She won’t believe her eyes. And to think that your grandfather never told anyone about you. You know, your mother wrote to him. Several times. I know that much. But he didn’t want anything to do with her. He always blamed Farah for your father’s death.’ She shook her head and pushed her hair back from her face. ‘Families. Always so darn complicated.’
She sighed. ‘Anyway, I’m really happy for you, child, that Valentina has come along. Our roots are important. I know that much.’ She clapped her hands. ‘Now then, little great-great-granddaughter. How about you and I go and get you into your pyjamas and let your mummy and daddy have some time together?’ She looked at Ella. ‘OK?’
Ella blew Maadar-Bozorg a kiss over the top of Grace’s head. ‘Thank you,’ she mouthed silently.
She listened to Grace’s babble fade out across the courtyard and then stood and watched Billy slosh hot chocolate into a mug from the jug still steaming on the cafe counter top. He turned. ‘Want one? For old time’s sake?’
Ella smiled and shook her head. ‘I think I’ve outgrown hot chocolate.’
Billy pulled his face into a mock pout. ‘But not me, I hope?’
She laughed. ‘Billy?’
‘Yes?’ He looked at her over the rim of his mug, wiggling his eyebrows.
‘No, be serious for a minute. There’s . . . There’s something I’ve been meaning to tell you.’
Billy’s face dropped. ‘Sounds ominous. But come on then. No secrets, right?’
Ella’s hands clenched. She felt her fingernails dig into her palms. They were still being very polite with one another, careful, edging around each other.
‘You know the other day, when I went up to Miss Mary’s cottage? With Bryony and Maadar-Bozorg?’
‘Yes, did you have fun?’ He grinned. ‘Not really your thing, is it, healing herbs and all that stuff?’
‘No, well. But it’s not that. It’s just . . . Well, whilst we were there, I saw –’
She stopped, the words caught in the back of her throat.
‘What? You saw what?’
‘I saw –’
‘Tesora. Billy. Darlings, I’m sorry to interrupt . . .’
Fabia stood at the bottom of the stairs. ‘Sorry. I didn’t know you were in here. I just needed a bigger pair of scissors. I know there are some in this drawer somewhere.’ She crossed to the shop counter and began to rummage behind it. ‘Sorry. Forgive me, darlings. Won’t be a moment. Don’t mind me.’
Billy reached for Ella’s hand. ‘So what were you going to ask me?’
Ella felt her cheeks flush. ‘Oh, it’ll wait,’ she said, glancing pointedly in Mamma’s direction. ‘Nothing important.’
‘OK. Good.’
He picked her up and swung her onto the edge of the counter top.
‘Billy. Not now. I’m not sure I –’
‘Buona notte, darlings.’ Fabia waved her hand at them, already halfway up the stairs again. ‘I’m turning in early.’
The Tale of Little Red Riding Hood
Maadar-Bozorg turned the page. Grace squirmed on her lap.
‘Go back, Granmamma. You missed a bit.’
‘I did?’ Maadar-Bozorg pushed her glasses up her nose. Goodness knows why the child was so attached to this story. Well, in fact, she did know or, at least, she could guess. It was the kind of story that three-year-olds liked the world over. A little girl in a red dress. A cottage in the middle of a wood. A grandmother who was not quite what she seemed. Lots of repetition, as in all the most popular folktales. Grandmother, what big eyes you have! Grandmother, what big ears you have! Grandmother, what big teeth you have! And so on.
Add in a sprinkling of magic and just the right amount of scary and you had a potent recipe for enchantment.
But really, Maadar-Bozorg thought, as she flipped the page back again, she was getting a little weary of this Red Riding Hood character. She didn’t seem to have much backbone. A lot of the Western stories were like that, she’d noticed. Little girls doing what they were told. All very obedient.
Here was Little Red Riding Hood, standing at the end of her Grandmother’s bed, just before the Wolf threw back the bedclothes and tried to eat her up. The illustrator had drawn her with her hood pushed back and an expression of wide-eyed innocence on her face. Maadar-Bozorg found it rather irritating.
‘Look, Grace!’ She pointed at the little girl in the picture. ‘Little Red Riding Hood jumps on the bed, puts her hands on her hips like this.’ Maadar-Bozorg demonstrated. ‘And she shouts, as loud as she can, “You don’t frighten me, Wolf!” Can you hear her?’
Grace craned her neck to get a better look at Maadar-Bozorg’s face. Her eyes were filled with confusion. Then she giggled and shook her head.
‘Oh. So you don’t believe me?’ Maadar-Bozorg smiled. ‘Watch this . . .’ She turned the page again. ‘Look, here’s the Wolf leaping from the bed. R-ROAAARRR! He tries to scare Red Riding Hood but she holds on to the bedpost and tickles the Wolf under his big, hairy nose like this.’
Maadar-Bozorg tickled Grace experimentally.
‘And, after a few more attempts to make Red Riding Hood afraid, the Wolf gives up. “Oh, OK then,” he says. And he pulls off his big furry wolf skin . . . Ooof, oof . . . Just like this . . .’
Maadar-Bozorg pretended to pull a mask from her face.
Grace stared at her, wide-eyed.
‘And then Little Red Riding Hood sees that the wolf isn’t a real wolf after all but actually . . . Can you guess? He is her own grandmother!’
Grace frowned. Her tiny hand batted impatiently at the page.
‘And then Little Red Riding Hood asks her Wolf-Grandmother to teach her everything she knows about the woods: how to open her eyes wide and see into even the darkest places; how to run faster than the wind; how to sniff out any danger at one hundred wolf-paw paces; in fact, everything that a girl needs to know to live an exciting life.’
Grace swung her legs and sighed indulgently. ‘That’s not the ending, Gran-mamma.’
‘Oh, isn’t it?’ Maadar-Bozorg smiled. ‘Are you absolutely sure?’
‘Yes,’ said Grace, nodding. ‘That’s not how Daddy reads it to me.’
‘Ah, but didn’t you know, Grace, that we can change stories in any way we choose? We can make them end in any way we want to. And this is the ending that I prefer.’
Maadar-Bozorg closed the book. Grace slithered off her lap and ran across the floor, delighting in the way that her feet in their pink wool tights slipped and skidded on the polished boards.
I suppose I should tell you to be careful, Maadar-Bozorg thought. Pay attention. Don’t get carried away. Don’t fall.
But there was plenty of time for all that. For now, she was happy to see Grace run free, her hair flying out around her head in a dark tangle, her arms and legs scissoring the air.
‘Watch me, Granmamma,’ she yelped as she tried a pirouette. ‘Watch me!’
*
Fabia threw up the sash of the kitchen window and breathed in the cool night air. Up here, under the eaves, she could feel the city moving, the river rolling in its sleep. She could hear all the night sounds that were still so familiar to her: the pigeons shifting on the roof above her head, the restaurant owners along Petergate rattling their canopies closed as they locked up for the night, taxis swishing past on the wet road and, very fain
tly, floating up from the river bank, the sound of the geese settling themselves.
She pressed her cheek against the window frame and watched the orange flush from the street lamps seeping above the rooftops. She could just make out the west wing of the Minster and, above its floodlit angels and gargoyles, a handful of faint stars.
She tried to relax her mind to that single, still point, to let her breathing quieten, her body open itself to the night.
‘Shhhh.’ The Signals whispered from the corner of the room. ‘Shhhh. Listen.’
She had laid the dowry cloth carefully across the kitchen table. Now she stood above it, taking in its colours, smoothing it with the palms of her hands, letting her fingers learn its flow, the places where the pattern was a little more raised, the tiny ridges where the colours changed and the threads had been woven in on themselves.
Gently, she lifted the fabric to her face and breathed in its richly layered scent. There were the fragrant spices from Maadar-Bozorg’s kitchen, cinnamon and cardamom, essence of rose and the faintest hint of ripe pomegranates. There were the many-layered scents of the cloth itself, the imprint of the women who had woven it with quick and confident fingers, who had washed and dyed the yarn itself, combing it out, leaving it to dry in the shade. She could smell their perfume and, beneath that, the scent of the trees that had cast that shade – cedar and pine – and the loamy scent of the river where the yarn had been washed and the lingering scent of the dyes – turmeric, used for its deep red, and saffron for its yellow.
And then here, at the base of it all, was another scent, impossible to define. A hint of soap, perhaps, rosewater or eau de cologne and then, beneath that, what she could only describe as the scent of a powerful longing. And that, she thought, must be the scent of her mother.
From down the years, she heard a voice, the voice of her Aunt Mahdokht, the eldest of Maadar-Bozorg’s sisters. She was a young girl again, standing in the dim salon of the sisters’ house in Tehran, the doors open to the courtyard and her aunt was standing over her, her breath tickling her ear. ‘Listen, little one.’ Her voice was no more than a whisper, caressing her cheek, reaching down inside her. ‘Listen, Farah. You must learn to listen to the fabric itself. What does it already know? What does it want to be?’
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