Stone Angels

by Paula R. C. Readman

  “No— please, not again,” she wheezed as the straps rattled. I held the back of her head while gently pressing the pad onto her face. After a brief struggle her head dropped and rested against the chinstraps. I winched her back into place and set to work again.

  It saddened me how quickly Candela’s beauty faded. I had hoped both Candela and Bella’s beauty would remain long after their death like that of the butterflies. Neither Candela nor Bella had died at my hand. Their lives were snuffed out as a by-product of my creativity. I hadn’t physically harmed them. Like my father’s bell jars, my paintings are a way of capturing a thing of beauty forever.

  The loss of Candela had shocked me. Once the painting was completed, I no longer needed her for inspiration. While lowering her onto the daybed, I noticed how clammy her skin felt to the touch. I checked for a pulse and found a shallow one. Once the chloroform wore off completely, I was sure she would recover. After wheeling the bed through to the storeroom I unfastened the clips from her eyelids. She moaned as her eyes closed. Next, I removed the chinstrap. Deep red lines showed it had dug in. I gently massaged her neck and chin to get the circulation moving before peeling the white silk gown from her shoulders. Carefully I freed her arms from the sleeves of the dress and rolled it down over her stomach and off her legs. After hanging the dress on a mannequin, I unfastened the body harness, starting with the straps on her shoulders. I rolled her onto her side and covered her with a sheet and a blanket. I checked her breathing again. She wheezed slightly, but the rise and fall of her chest told me she was okay. Before leaving the room I placed a small table next to the bed, with a glass of water and a bowl of cut fruit within easy reach for her.

  For days I abandoned sleep and barely ate as I added little dabs of colour here and there to the painting to create the difference between the light and the shade. Finally, unable to keep my eyes open any longer the brush fell from my hand onto the discarded palette. I staggered from the studio, down the stairs, to my bedroom. Without undressing I fell into the bed.

  I’m not sure what woke me but I was ready to start work. I headed for the bathroom, stripped and stepped under the hot water. Refreshed, I hastily threw on fresh clothes, eager to prepare my studio for the arrival of my next angel.

  In the studio I placed the wet painting into the drying rack then began to clean my brushes and palette, sorted out the paint tubes, discarding any used-up ones and made a mental list of what needed replenishing. Satisfied that the studio was now reorganised, I went through into my storeroom to collect the paints I needed.

  On opening the door a blast of cold air hit me, followed by an overwhelming stench. I gagged and covered my mouth and nose. Light cutting through the darkness revealed the white dress hanging on the mannequin, like some watching angel. On the daybed I could just distinguish an unrecognisable lump.

  “Oh dear God.” I dashed to the bed, knocking over the table. In the half-light a dark stain fanned out across the white sheet that covered the lower half of a body. Retching, I backed from the room. On the balcony I inhaled deeply. In the garden below, the stone angel beckoned to me and I knew what I needed to do.

  In the garden I hunted among the fallen gravestones until I found a suitable one. Half hidden among the branches of a huge rhododendron bush stood a large tabletop grave. The roots of the shrubs had lifted one side of the tomb slightly, revealing a cavity within. I placed my shoulder to the lid, but it was far too heavy to lift. With no other choice, I went to the shed to fetch a spade to dig a grave.

  I decided the spot under the bush would be an ideal site and began to dig. As I lifted the first shallow spade full, I noticed that the lid of the tomb had a lip. I dropped to my knees and took a closer look. With the spade flat, I inserted its blade under one corner of the tomb’s lid. Then, using the spade’s handle as a lever, I lifted the lid easily. Though pleased with my discovery, I realised there was a second problem. I needed to keep the lid where it was, because I hadn’t the strength to lift it back into place on my own. I returned to the shed to hunt for inspiration.

  Back at the gravesite I placed a straw bale next to the tomb. The bale was the right height to support the tomb lid once opened but I feared it wouldn’t support its weight. Sweat ran down my back as I inched the lid over enough until it rested on the bale. The clearance gave me enough room to be able to peer in. The torchlight showed the coffin had imploded leaving a chasm at the bottom of the grave. I checked the straw bale, it held the weight. I increased the size of the gap, eager to get the body out of my studio.

  I brought Candela to the grave using the wheelbarrow, not wanting to handle her. With unexpected ease, I slipped her through the gap. After collecting a barrow full of compost from Old Bill the gardener’s heap, I covered her, and was able to give her a decent burial. With a bit of a struggle I replaced the lid.

  It wasn’t pleasant finding Candela dead. Her lack of beauty in her demise had disappointed me. I had seen death as a beautiful thing after witnessing the expiry of father’s butterflies. No unpleasant smells, leaking liquid, or faeces. Once they settled onto the bottom of the killing box, they looked as beautiful as in life. Mother’s passing had been the same.

  The day before she died, mother had been radiant in her beauty. In my childish innocence, I had wanted to capture that moment forever like father did with his butterflies. As a child, I loved hunting for them with him. Later I observed, in silence, as he gassed the delicate creature. With fascination, I watched as they beat their fragile wings against the glass, frantic in their desire to live. As their beating slowed, I held my breath until my chest heaved. Once they became still, father lifted them out, and then flattened them. From a box, he took a shiny silver pin and stabbed each one through their belly before pinning them to a board to dry. Now their beauty was captured for all to see.

  On my seventh birthday, I heard the best news ever. Even father looked excited as he hugged me. “James, I have some wonderful news. Your mother has finished her painting and will join us in the garden for your birthday party.”

  “Mrs P. Oh Mrs P, Guess what!” I dashed into the kitchen and threw my arms around her waist. With flour still on her hands she laughed and dusted the end of my nose with a fingertip. “I know, James, I know. Now if you help me, we will soon have your birthday tea ready.”

  I assisted Mrs P in the kitchen by helping her to make some little jam tarts. While rolling out the pastry I prayed nothing would spoil the day. By the afternoon, the sky was so blue I wanted to cry with relief. In the warmth of the sunshine the heady smell of honeysuckle perfumed the garden. Father decided to set the table and chairs up in the sunken Italian garden under the arbour. While I helped to carry the things we needed out, I constantly watched the sky terrified that a black cloud would appear from nowhere.

  “Come on boy, what are you waiting for?” Father said on his return with a tray loaded with plates and cutlery.

  “I don’t want anything to stop mother from coming to join us.”

  He knelt before me, his hands resting on my shoulders. “You’ve nothing to worry about today. She’s very happy. It’s your birthday and, of course, she’ll want to help you celebrate it. Now we mustn’t leave everything to Mrs Page, there’s more to bring out.”

  Once the table was set I took my seat, leaving the one next to me free. Mrs P brought out a cake with candles, and the small tarts along with the rest of the party food. While father went to fetch mother, I sat with my hands clasped saying over and over, “please come, please come.” Between watching the path from the house I swatted the wasps and flies to keep them away from the food.

  Mrs P reappeared carrying the small teapot for me and wine for the adults. As she waited with me, I saw her lips move as though she was saying a silent prayer too.

  “Is everything all right, Mrs P?”

  “Of course, Master James.” She patted my hand. “Now, don’t you go worrying about your mother. She wouldn’t want to let you down after all the help you’ve given me. N
ot once have you asked about your birthday presents. Most children I know would have wanted theirs straight away, made a right scene about it.”

  “I just want to see my mother and for her to share just one day with me, and not to be locked in her room where I can’t see her.”

  “Ay I know, lad. I know you do. We’ll give her a little more time. Your father told me this morning when I arrived that your mother had finished her painting, and she’s very pleased with it. So I’m sure she’ll join us.”

  Father suddenly appeared on the path, with a dazzling smile. I’d never seen him looking so happy.

  “She’ll be here in a moment, Mrs Page.” He glanced back along the path. “She’s just finishing getting ready. I’ve put a film in my camera, so if you’ll be kind enough to take a picture. It would be lovely having one of us three together. Lydia and Robert will be joining us later, but for now, it’s just us.”

  “How do I look, Donald?”

  Father swung round at the sound of mother’s voice. Her footsteps had been so light that none of us had heard them. Tall and elegant, she floated in a cloud of pale, shimmering yellow, reminding me of a glorious Clouded Yellow butterfly in my father’s collection. Her long black curls hung around her shoulders, and her face was bright with happiness. I wanted to rush up to her, and throw my arms around her narrow waist, but I couldn’t move. All I could do was breathe in the honeysuckle perfume that filled the air.

  “My darling, you look so beautiful.” Father stepped forward and took her small hand in his. He leant forward to kiss her, but she turned her lips away and offered him her cheek instead. Father’s smile dropped and then, aware that I was watching, he recovered himself and kissed her lightly on the cheek. He tucked her hand under his arm and led her over to the seat beside me.

  “Hello, James.” She fixed me with her smile as she settled in the chair, her voice thin and breathy.

  Mother’s dark green eyes left me dumbstruck as the sweetness of her cologne enveloped me.

  Chapter Seven

  Death of a Clouded Yellow Butterfly

  1944

  “A glass my dear.” Father poured out the blood-red wine.

  “Yes please, my darling.” Mother squeezed my hand gently. “We have much to celebrate today, haven’t we, James?” Mother’s voice flowed smoothly like the drink. “Are you ready for your present?”

  I nodded, unable to speak.

  The wine bubbled and sparkled in the sunlight as it flowed into the shimmering crystal glass and dazzled me. I blinked back my tears of happiness as mother’s gentle fingers caressed my arm. I couldn’t take my eyes off her.

  “I had your gift specially flown over from America, didn’t I, Donald?” She smiled at father.

  “Yes you did, my dear.”

  “Well go and fetch it, Donald.” Mother’s sudden harsher tone clouded her face and the softness was gone.

  Father looked at me. The hurt in his eyes was clearly visible as he passed her the wine glass, and then hurried indoors. I wanted to say something, but the words wouldn’t come. Mother sat glass in hand, looking straight ahead. When father returned with a large rainbow-coloured gift, Mrs P came with him carrying a tray of sandwiches. Father placed the gift gently down in front of mother. No words passed between them.

  Mrs P handed around a plate of sandwiches. Mother took one and placed it on the edge of her plate. Father sat down and helped himself to a couple of sandwiches. And with a nod he dismissed our housekeeper. Mrs P paused and picked up the camera, but he shook his head, waving her away. The tension between my parents grew. Father took a bite of his sandwich while mother twirled the fluted glass in her hands, swirling the wine around inside. She looked over its rim at him and a dark shadow crossed her face.

  I didn’t understand what was going on so I bit into my sandwich, just happy to have them together. To me, it was far better than any silly present.

  Father shook his head as his mouth twitched slightly. “Please, Jane, not now, for your son’s sake.”

  “Pleeeaasse…” Mother drew the word out sarcastically. “For your son’s sake—” she echoed his words and then turned to me, her face radiant.

  “James is happy, aren’t you, darling? You have what you’ve wished for, Mummy and Daddy playing at being Mummy and Daddy. My little darling, things are never quite what they seem. Real life isn’t like pretty pictures. Oh, we artists can create a world of our own because, in real life, we don’t always get what we want, do we, Donald?” Her lips tightened.

  “Please, Jane, it isn’t the child’s fault,” father said with a tight-lipped smile.

  “So you keep telling me, Donald. It’s the war. Well, it’s not the bloody war.” She raised her glass to her red lips and took a gulp of wine.

  “Jane, don’t you dare!”

  As mother’s lips began to tremble, she raised one bejewelled hand to her mouth and wiped her lips as she placed her glass back on the table.

  “Mummy—” I tried to stop myself from crying. “I made these jam tarts.” I reached for the plate of oddly shaped golden tarts. “Mrs P showed me how to cut the pastry. Please try one. We picked the blackberries to make the jam, too.”

  “Did you, darling?” She turned to father. “What a clever boy we have here, Donald. Or is he just my son?” She looked at me, her eyes burning like fire under her heavy lids.

  I looked from her to my father, confused by her words.

  “Don’t, Jane. Leave the child alone for God’s sake. It’s his birthday. Please just give him our present.”

  “Our present!” She held out the gift. Disdain passed over her features. “This is from your father in America.” She glared at father.

  I jumped out of my seat and threw my arms around her neck, not caring about the present. I wanted them to stop whatever it was they were doing to each other, and for her to know how much I loved her.

  Father’s hand shot across the table as a dark red stain raced across the white cloth towards mother. She pushed me away like a discarded rag doll. I fell backwards against the chair just as the red wine landed in her lap and cascaded onto her yellow satin shoes. She leapt up and lifted her wine-soaked dress as if she was about to curtsy. “You stupid, stupid boy!” Baring her teeth, her eyes wild now, a pair of soulless pits, she leaned over me. “Get up!” Her spittle sprayed my face.

  I pulled myself to my feet, too frightened to take my eyes off her face. The glass. Why hadn’t I seen the glass of red wine? A sob lodged in my throat and closed my eyes as a warm sensation trickled down my leg mixing with the red wine and covering the beautifully wrapped gift at my feet. Mother snatched up the present and grabbed my wrist. Her face twisted out of all recognition, her hair a tangled mass of black curls while her dress and shoes looked blood stained. With a violent yank she dragged me along the path towards the house. I stumbled, unable to match her long stride. All the time she called me names, some I didn’t understand. “You dirty little bastard!” was one of them.

  “In the name of God, Jane, let the child go!” Father hurried after us.

  The kitchen door burst open and Mrs P appeared, teacloth in hand. Her eyes widened as she took in the situation. I reached for her but she did nothing. Mother tossed the birthday present at Mrs P. It hit her leg causing her to step backwards.

  “So this is what you’ve been teaching my child,” mother screeched as if a demonic creature had taken her place, her gentle tone gone. “This filthy wretch,” Her long red nails dug into my upper arm as I tried to pull away, “has disrespected me by urinating all over his birthday present.” She shook me hard as she began to raise her free hand.

  “Don’t hit the boy, Jane!” father demanded.

  Ignoring his plea, she landed me a stinging slap across my cheek causing my head to snapped back.

  “Dear God, Jane.” Father tried to stop mother, but she pulled me towards her. I tried desperately to stand.

  “What I do with my son is my business, not yours!” she gave me another hard shake
before pointing a bony finger at Mrs P. “And certainly it has nothing to do with this woman, your mistress!”

  Father straightened, his eyes dull and distant. “You take that back, Jane,” he said, his tone measured. “Apologise to Mrs Page. You can say and do whatever you want to me if that makes you happy, but leave the boy and Mrs Page out of it. What in God’s name has the child ever done to you apart from love you?”

  Mother shoved me. I covered my face as I fell backwards, fearing another slap. I crawled towards the kitchen door too scared to stand up in case she lashed out again. Mrs P swept me up into the safety of her strong arms and carried me away. Over her shoulder, I saw my distraught mother lashing out at father as he held her at bay.

  By the time Mrs P had bathed and dressed me in clean pyjamas, peace had descended on the house as my parents’ raised voices and slamming of doors receded. Lydia and Robert, my half-siblings never came to my party. I knew they wouldn’t, as they feared mother’s outbursts too. My birthday had passed for another year. The day dissolved into nothingness. I lay in bed restless, with my eyes shut, listening for Mrs P’s gentle footsteps on the stairs. I hoped she would come and read me a story before I fell asleep. I guessed she was busy preparing a meal for father. Mother would be back in her studio working on another painting. As I lost the fight to stay awake, something heavy rested on the side of my bed. I opened my eyes to find Mrs P smiling down at me.

  “Master James, you are still awake. Are you ready for a story?” she asked, picking up a book. I shook my head. My face still stung from mother’s slap. “Why doesn’t mother love me or daddy?”