by Judy Croome
‘You’re a snob, Zahra.’ There’s no real venom in Barry’s statement. ‘That’s the way the world is. People are different.’
‘Of course. Some are common. Some aren’t.’
‘This time you’re wrong.’ He huffed as he contradicted me. ‘Enoch is not a common man. In fact, I’ll go so far as to say he’s an uncommon man.’
To my vexation, Little Flower agreed with him. I felt her, tender as she was before her Great Error marred her fragility. She reached out towards the silent sea song of the stranger and the sting of an age-old disquietude clenched my jaw until a muscle jumped in my cheek. I never lost my temper. No, never, not since Little Flower discovered she carried anger so deep it went beyond rage and slipped into the cunning heart of an ezomo.
‘You can say what you like,’ I said politely. ‘He doesn’t belong here.’ An almost imperceptible quaver revealed that I had a secret. It gave Barry power. I could see him flex his mind around the taste and feel of it. The stranger made me vulnerable and, like an animal foraging for food, Barry sniffed around.
He moved to stand in front of me as I sat in the plush velvet-red armchair, my book open in front of me. I no longer even pretended to read but I refused to let his stance intimidate me. If I did, he would sense I was afraid. And Zahra would not show Little Flower’s fear. Not ever.
‘You haven’t visited Mother this week,’ he said.
After all our years of marriage, he still tried to outwit me. He thought he was so clever, but I sensed the trap and defiantly faced my ezomo.
‘That’s right,’ I agreed. ‘Why don’t you telephone her and ask her if she’ll come for tea tomorrow.’ I gestured towards the bulky black handset; ugly like so much of the world after The War was ugly, but too convenient not to have. Then I struck. ‘You should ask her boarder to come as well.’
Confusion, or perhaps disappointment, flitted across Barry’s pale eyes and, as tentative as a butterfly’s original flight, he asked, ‘Enoch?’
‘Who else but Enoch?’ I raised my brows. A sibilant flap, so soft and slow it gave Barry no clue how much effort it cost me to appear relaxed, and another page was in front of me, the lines a black blur. I consoled myself that the pain in my chest was heartburn from a luncheon too full of rich sauces. I could manage indigestion, but I suspected this was worse. Much worse: Little Flower had heard the name of her beloved. Deep within the waters of my soul, my essence, she stirred and I was unable to calm the ripples disturbing her torpid presence.
• • •
The rose garden was in full bloom, but this time I went myself. There I stood and scanned the bay. White caps danced innocently on a jade surface and a yearning to experience more than a good view of the sea filled me.
Since the birth of my son, Barry the Third, I was unsettled and filled with strange fancies. The vista across the bay was what made this old mansion such a valuable piece of property. Why would I want to lose it by moving closer to the ocean, when I never swam anyway? A breeze from the bay brushed my face, but didn’t answer my question.
‘Ma’am Zahra?’ Elijah, dressed in his chauffeur’s hat and jacket, appeared silently at my elbow. I almost destroyed a rose in my surprise as his shuffle, along with his persistent cough, usually warned one of his coming long before he arrived.
‘Yes, Elijah?’ My irritation at the intrusion showed. He blinked that long slow blink of his, so like an artless child. Yet age and sorrow lined his face.
‘I have brought you this.’ He handed me a basket for the flowers. I filled its empty womb with the few roses I’d picked, nodding my thanks even as my gaze swung back to the sea.
I thought he’d gone, until he coughed again, an old man’s cough that spoke of age and death. My Daddy had the same cough, even though the senility made him forget what caused it.
‘The sea, she is a good woman,’ Elijah said. ‘Ma’am Zahra must listen when she speaks.’
‘Stop speaking nonsense! The sea isn’t alive; it can’t speak.’
A sudden gust of wind, no longer gentle, but sharp, tugged the ends of my braid as it brought a stronger smell of salt, perhaps even a hint of rain yet to come. It made me nervous enough to turn away from the sea and cut the roses more quickly. I wanted to fill the house with them. For artistic effect, I told Barry over breakfast, but Little Flower knew otherwise.
Elijah, unasked, followed me. Every time I cut another flower, he held the basket out.
‘The ocean lives in all of us,’ he said suddenly. ‘But sometimes it sleeps, and then you think it’s dead inside.’
Oh Spirit King! As if Grace’s rambles weren’t enough, Elijah was also becoming as incomprehensible as she was. ‘What are you talking about?’
‘The sea.’
‘The sea can’t live inside a person,’ I said, with a fair attempt at patience.
‘It lives,’ he insisted. I ignored him. He should have retired long ago, so we could hire a new young driver, but Barry refused. If Elijah became as bad as Grace, seeing angels and the Spirit King, I decided, he’d have to go. One of them was enough to cope with.
The wind curled around my legs and whipped my skirt around my knees as invisible claws scratched loose wisps of my hair from my braid. I walked faster. Wherever I went, Elijah followed, the basket and its bounty held in both hands. On occasion, he would place it on the lawn so he could cough into a large white hankie he kept in his trouser pocket.
His cough was worse. I would have to take him to the doctor. That’s what Grace would have done, when she managed the Templeton mansion. I made sure I never did less than any previous Templeton wife would have done and, especially, not less than Grace.
That’s why I put so much effort into the local charities. I had chaired the Feed The War Unwanteds Fund for five years, and would chair it for a few more years. My next goal was to take the chair of the Animal Rescue Response. In this town, masquerading as the Mother City—with its pride in its bloodlines and the dominating sweep of its bay—those were the two prestigious charities. I worked hard for them, and for the people of the Court of St Jerome.
I placed another rose in the basket. Its fragility reminded me of Grace. Grace, who never gave a minute to any of the charities to which I dedicated my life. And still the people did not call me Mrs T, as they did their beloved Grace Templeton.
• • •
‘I’m too busy for all that politicking,’ she said when I asked her to join the committees. We had moved into the mansion, and Grace had come to inspect the changes I’d made. ‘The ones who really need help always seem to find me.’
‘We help people,’ I said, and launched into a description of all the fund-raising functions Barry and I attended.
‘Yes, dear,’ she agreed. ‘But I prefer to meet people, ordinary people, face-to-face. I do so enjoy a chatty visit. That’s when I hear all about what’s happening in their lives.’
Perhaps Grace had an interest in the lives of ordinary people because she had always lived a life of privilege. I had lived an ordinary life and had no wish to return there.
I’d replaced the old wooden balustrade with an ornate wrought-iron one. Grace stroked a hand along it; her eyes dimmed with the memory of what was until a spark of a more recent memory flitted into her head. ‘Johnny Maswera’s wife had twins yesterday,’ she said. ‘I must call on them.’
‘Johnny Maswera?’ asked Barry. ‘The name’s familiar, but I can’t place him.’
‘He’s overseer at the farm, dear,’ Grace chided. ‘He started before your Father crossed over.’ She blinked rapidly to hold back her tears, as she spoke of Barry senior’s death.
Barry shrugged, and said no more, his farm manager’s ordinary existence already forgotten. Grace did not forget her little people as quickly. ‘You should visit them, Barry. You and Zahra.’
‘I can’t, Grace,’ I said. ‘We’re in the middle of organising the Annual Hunt Ball for The War Unwanteds Fund. This year’s event will be superb!’
‘I’m
sure it will be, dear,’ Grace smiled, ‘but will the animals think so?’
She was rambling again. I ignored her, and said to Barry, ‘Diarise the sixteenth, darling. We’ll be at the top table as usual.’
‘The sixteenth? But that’s weeks away!’ Grace brightened. ‘You can take me to visit Johnny’s twins.’
‘All the way out to that hospital? No,’ I said. ‘I don’t have the time. Elijah can drive you. Barry will use his new car to go to the pharmacy.’
Grace shrank a bit, in the way old people do when they’re tired but not admitting it. She closed her eyes and leaned back in the chair. ‘You will send him a present, though, won’t you?’
‘Of course I will.’
I did, but later—when we saw the Maswera’s at court—they fell all over Grace, and barely thanked me, despite the expensive pewter picture frames I sent, one for each twin.
Annoyed, I nodded at their specious gratitude and walked ahead. I left Grace cooing over the red-faced infants.
Later, she joined me, flushed with excitement.
‘Zahra,’ Grace said, with that breathless hiccup she had when pleased. ‘You’ll never believe what’s happened!’
I guessed. ‘The baby smiled at you.’
‘Oh yes, and so sweetly too!’ Grace agreed. I prepared myself for a long description of a toothless, gummy smile and wondered, behind gritted teeth, if I was the only Mrs Templeton in the long and distinguished bloodlines of previous Templeton wives who suffered from such intolerable boredom.
Grace surprised me. ‘But that’s not my news,’ she said.
‘Don’t tell me they’re speaking already?’
‘Zahra, dear, don’t tease! Johnny and his wife—they asked what my birth names were.’
I should have guessed what her surprise was, I told myself later as I discarded the shredded tissue I’d been holding, but I didn’t.
‘You’re Mrs Templeton to those people,’ I said.
Grace had firm views on equality. ‘Our hearts are one and the same, dear,’ she often said. ‘Despite the unfortunate differences the world imposes.’
Soon she would expect my son to play with this worker’s children. ‘You mustn’t let them become too familiar, Grace. Those sorts always take advantage.’
‘Oh, no, dear! They’ve done me a great honour.’ Her eyes, despite her age, were as blue as Barry’s once were, while his dimmed the longer we stayed married. How did she keep her youthfulness? ‘They want to name those adorable little babies after me! Grace and Obinna.’
It ambushed me. My envy surged from my depths and consumed me. I caught it in time, before the blackness spewed out my mouth and devoured the silly Grace who stood there in front of me, beaming, as though she’d received the greatest gift.
She has, Little Flower whispered. You’re jealous, because they don’t want to name one of the babies after you. They want to name them after her. After Grace. Saint Grace.
Sometimes I hated Little Flower. I wished I could reach into my breast and hack her out of my being, for she would not stay dead and silent within me.
I could never exorcise her, and so I did what I did best. I drowned her in the murky sediment that filled the depths of my heart.
‘Is that wise?’ I asked Grace with a sharp, pleasant smile. ‘Allowing such familiarity?’
She fluttered and rambled in confusion. A sign—I’ve told the worried Barry—of advancing age. Another reason, I convinced him, to move Grace into a small place of her own. With two-bedrooms, even though it cost us extra cash to buy, so she could have her waifs and strays to stay while we found a better use for the old family mansion.
I pushed the blackness back, squeezed some affability from somewhere, and tried again. ‘Try not to encourage them to rely on you, Grace. Soon they’ll want you to pay for your namesakes’ education. Or pay for their weddings.’
‘Oh, Zahra!’ She relaxed and laughed. ‘You can be so funny sometimes! Why would they expect that?’
Funny? A tremor rippled beneath my feet and sent me off balance. Wanting to find my centre again, I answered quickly. Too quickly, for I revealed more than I should have in my haste to deny the image she had of me. An image that turned me into something I was not: a weak and vulnerable woman.
‘Because those people always do,’ I snarled. ‘They’re not prepared to fight for what they want out of life. They just take it from those who work hard.’
The echo of my words jeered at me in the silence before Grace answered.
‘Oh, Zahra, dear,’ she sighed, and touched my cheek with exquisite gentleness.
With that single gesture, the old woman grew in stature. From being Barry’s mostly inconvenient mother, she became Mrs T. The same Mrs T whom everyone flocked around every Holy Day at court.
Even as we spoke, they waited for their turn with her. As they waited, they whispered amongst themselves, about the new war, about what Mrs T would say about the latest casualties or about their child’s school marks and scraped knee.
Like beggars aching to touch the garment of a master in the hope of salvation, they hovered around us. They watched as she cupped the curve of my cheek, so naturally, so fluidly, I realised that one couldn’t learn such grace. No, not if I practised and practised until, exhausted, I almost let Little Flower weep and wail.
‘It’ll be all right, dear,’ Grace murmured. The papery dryness of her wrinkled thumb smoothed across my cheek and sucked up the threatening moisture, so at least I could keep my public dignity. ‘I won’t let them hurt you.’
Her words, as they so often did, made me angry. ‘You don’t have to worry about me!’ I stepped back to dislodge her touch and reached into my handbag for my Book of Songs. ‘I worry about you, Grace. You’re too soft, too kind. People always take advantage of you.’
‘No, Zahra, dear, no! Gentleness isn’t weakness.’ Her hand, suspended in midair, trembled with emptiness and fell to her side. ‘How easy it is to be bitter or angry; that’s when you’re at your weakest! But when you choose to be kind, to forget your hurt, that’s when you find within the greatest strength of all.’ She smiled, oh, a smile of such ancient wisdom, her face shone with love. She waited, but when I wouldn’t smile back, she walked past me.
My throat too tight to speak, I wondered what Grace knew of weakness. Or of the need for strength. I watched her people flock to her. They touched her and asked her this or told her that and, gazes heavy with love, called her Mrs T. I waited until she disappeared into the darkness of the courthouse, before trailing in her wake. Walking under the oppressive stone arch, I crossed over the threshold leading into the cool Court, home to Saint Grace, but never home to Zahra.
• • •
Thoughts of Grace were still with me as I reached the rose-covered arch that led us back into the driveway. Elijah trailed behind me, the cumbersome basket, its belly swollen with roses, hampering his movements. I tried to regret harvesting so many. I’d planned to use them for the Annual Hunt Ball, but that day I wanted the mansion to overflow with roses. Enoch was to visit. I had asked Grace to tea; he would bring her and, when he saw the banked roses filling the house with their sweet smell, he would see my surrender last week as an empty victory. Generosity is easy when one has plenty to give and my impulsive gift of the roses had meant nothing, because I had so much.
‘Take the basket to the scullery.’ I stripped off my gardening gloves, and placed them on top of the flowers, careful not to harm any blooms. ‘No one must touch them. I’ll arrange them later.’
Elijah had no breath to reply, so he blinked in what I took to be agreement. To be certain, I clarified: ‘The girl mustn’t touch the roses, not even to take the thorns off.’ I found the hard action of swiping the blade down the prickly stem soothing; I liked to clean the cut roses myself, leaving the white buds so tender and vulnerable, before arranging them in the crystal vases I kept stored in the pantry.
Elijah blinked and, helped by the wind that followed us up the driveway, staggered of
f to the back entrance. When he was out of sight, I swayed towards the sea, for one last glimpse of the bay. The whitecaps, more angry than innocent, tumbled faster as the wind hastened on its way. Enoch is coming, it whispered in my ear. Are you ready? The scent of freedom gave Little Flower—that damned Little Flower who would not die—a new strength, one I was not certain Zahra would be able to withstand as Little Flower answered his call.
‘Yes,’ she murmured. ‘I am ready.’
• • •
As I finished the last flower arrangement, I heard Barry’s car and did my usual visual check. The table: my silver sugar shaker in the right place. My mahogany cupboard: all my most precious possessions securely locked inside. Myself: perfect. I had neatly recaptured my braid and changed into an elegant navy slacks-suit. I looked my best: a gracious young matron, awaiting the arrival of welcome guests.
A murmur, overlaid with the tap-tapping of Grace’s cane on the floor, filtered through. She was ill, if she used her cane, and I hoped she wouldn’t prattle embarrassingly on about angels and the Spirit King as she had the previous week. A small consolation was that it was only us for tea, and Enoch, who shouldn’t have mattered, but somehow did.
As prepared as I would ever be, I walked with careful elegance to the door. They were busy greeting the young servant girl. As they gave her their hats and coats to store until they needed them, I was, for a few precious seconds, an unseen watcher.
Barry fussed over his mother. He held her cane as he slipped off her coat. ‘Be careful of your cane on the marble floor, Mother,’ he said. He checked the bottom, then handed it back. ‘The rubber tip is secure. You should be safe if you don’t walk too fast.’
She let him fuss, and then reclaimed her cane. She walked to the walnut table, secure in its place adjacent to the far wall of the vast entrance hall. A beautiful eighteenth century piece, it made an impressive welcome decorated with a lavish display of white roses. Grace, as slight as she was, didn’t have far to bend to bury her face in the blossoms. With a deep breath, she absorbed their subtle fragrance.