by Adele Geras
She thought back to how they had laughed together, she and Rosalind, while they were arranging and adjusting the rags suitable to the part.
“Do you want to be a clothes horse?” Papa asked. “A model? It seems a singularly limited ambition.”
“No, I should like to be the one taking the photographs. I’m learning from Miss Templeton all the time. Ladies can work in photographic studios. Miss Templeton herself does. And more and more people, Papa, go and have their photographs taken.”
“I cannot imagine why.”
“Yes, you can, Papa. Think how a photograph reminds you of someone when they’re not there, with you.” She hesitated, wondering whether she dared to mention the daguerreotype of her parents in the parlour. Nothing ventured, nothing gained, she told herself. “For instance…” She hesitated.
“Yes? What did you want to say?”
“I still go and look at Mama’s picture every day. It’s the only thing that can remind me of how she used to be. Without that portrait, I’d have lost her face for ever. Think how dreadful that would be.”
Papa stood up and went to kiss Cecily goodnight. “That’s quite true. Dear child, you are right. I, too, look at that picture every single day and it does bring her back in some small measure.”
“Imagine if we had a whole album of photographs of Mama…just as she was. Fixed for ever.”
“I see her sometimes in my dreams, as clear as clear.” Papa was silent for a few moments and Cecily could see that he was thinking carefully about what she’d said. Finally he smiled at her and said, “One does forget…and one should not, if that can be helped. You tell your Miss Templeton that we would like to be photographed as a family. I’m willing to pay the proper rate for the sittings, of course. And you’re right. Lizzie will be enchanted with such a thing as a birthday present and I, too, will be glad of a memento of your childhood, yours and Sam’s, when I’m an old man and you’re both quite grown up. Not to mention a picture of myself in my prime which I can look at when I am grey and infirm and confined to a basket chair with a rug over my knees. Goodnight, my dear. Sleep well.”
After her father left the room, Cecily noticed that moonlight was coming through the gap in the curtains and filling the room with a silvery light. She got out of bed and went to the window. Looking up, she saw that the moon was almost at the full and she smiled. The nursery rhyme “Hey diddle diddle” was one of Sam’s favourites, and the part about the cow jumping over the moon was nonsense, of course, but Cecily still liked to imagine another sort of world up there, far off in the dark, dark blue…how many miles away? She would ask Papa, who was bound to know the answer. She drew the curtains properly and went back to bed, pulling the covers up round her shoulders. Tomorrow, she’d be able to visit Rosalind again. How fortunate it was that Papa had changed his mind.
“It would be more suitable, I think,” Rosalind said, “if I were to come to your house. With family portraits, it’s always better to place subjects in a setting they know and feel comfortable in. Not everyone is as willing to pose as you and Amy, you know.”
Cecily felt happier than she’d felt for a very long time. She was sitting in the Templetons’ parlour. Mr. Templeton was hidden behind his newspaper. She’d just explained to Rosalind about Aunt Lizzie’s birthday and how she would be visiting them for the day on the 18th of May to celebrate.
“If I may call on you on Sunday,” Rosalind said, “when your papa is home from his work, then we can discuss which room and what kind of clothes and so forth, and then the following week, I shall bring the camera and all my equipment. Will that suit?”
“I’ll ask Papa,” Cecily answered.
Mr. Templeton emerged from behind the rustling pages of his newspaper and said, “Your family might consider a portrait…a painted portrait. I would be delighted. Of course, I charge somewhat more than my daughter, but then I have to work much harder and employ far more artistry, to say nothing of skill…craft…call it what you will. All photographers have to do is look and squeeze something and hey presto, the picture is there!”
“Now, Papa, stop that at once! The picture is not immediately there, as you’ve said. I have to develop the film. It’s a long and quite complicated process. Poor Cecily does not wish to be impolite, I’m sure, so I will point out to you some drawbacks in what you propose. Sam, who is only six, won’t be able to pose without moving for sitting after sitting. And then there’s the cat, Mossy…”
“The one we rescued?”
“The very same. Now much grown, I feel quite sure. Cats, as you know, never do what you want them to.”
“Cats are, indeed, altogether unbiddable. Perhaps you’re right. I doubt Mossy will even permit herself to be photographed,” said Mr. Templeton, and he sighed loudly in mock-distress as he picked up his newspaper again. “Never mind!”
On the day that Rosalind came to call to discuss the photograph of the Bright family, Miss Braithwaite was also visiting, and Cecily wished she was not. She suspected, though she didn’t know for certain, that Papa had asked his friend to be there especially, as a kind of protector, because he was a little nervous of Rosalind. This irritated Cecily greatly, and because Amy wasn’t there for her to complain to, she fumed inwardly. There were many reasons why she was angry, but the main one was this: Rosalind was almost bound to think that her papa and Miss Braithwaite had an understanding. They did not, she was almost sure of it, though not completely certain. Perhaps, she thought, I should ask him, but what to say? I don’t want to put the idea of loving Miss Braithwaite into his head, if it isn’t there already. Cecily had seen no real evidence of such feeling, and decided to keep silent on the matter for the moment.
Everyone had gathered in the drawing room, and Miss Braithwaite was pouring the tea that Florrie had just brought in and behaving, Cecily thought, exactly as though she were the mistress of the house. She was wearing a fawn-coloured dress with a paisley-patterned shawl over it and Rosalind sitting beside her looked even prettier than usual. Her dress was of a shade between violet and blue and had cuffs trimmed with lace. Her hair was twisted up into a complicated arrangement at the back of her head and held in place by a silver clasp. She had a bag at her feet which contained something rather large and Cecily could see Sam eyeing it with interest.
“We’re all very excited,” Miss Braithwaite said, “about the proposed photographic session. I was photographed once myself, when I was bridesmaid at a cousin’s wedding. One ought to welcome new inventions, I’m sure. It is quite astonishing how lifelike the images are, is it not?”
Cecily felt like screaming. Why was Miss Braithwaite speaking and not Papa, who was surely the one who ought to be having a conversation with Rosalind? Rosalind said, “I have brought with me a portrait I made of Cecily recently…as a gift for the whole family but most of all for you, Cecily.”
She reached into her bag and took out something about the same size as a book, but flat. “It’s Cecily posing as Miranda, from The Tempest.”
Papa took the proffered image and Cecily went to stand beside him to have a look.
“Oh!” she said, lost for words. Was this really her? Could it be? Cecily had seen some other photographs that Rosalind had taken of her, and had grown more used to seeing her own image magically transported to a piece of stiff paper. But this portrait was beautiful. She looked quite unlike herself in some ways and very like in others. She was staring towards the edge of the frame. Her hair seemed to be streaming out behind her, because of the skilful way Rosalind had arranged it on the cloak. In the background, the painting of rocks and seashore looked wonderfully lifelike, and Cecily was amazed by the emotions that the expression on her face conveyed: she was sad and full of longing, and looking towards the horizon as though she expected something astonishing to be there, in the distance, almost out of reach. “Thank you!” she added, rather inadequately, and Rosalind smiled at her.
“You are very welcome,” she said.
“It’s a remarkable portrait,
Miss Templeton,” said Papa. “I am very grateful and it will have pride of place in the parlour, I promise you. I am more than ever convinced that Cecily’s idea of a family portrait as a gift for my sister is a good one.”
He placed the photograph on the mantelpiece and Miss Braithwaite made some indistinct noises meant to convey approval. Sam, bored after too many minutes of grown-ups talking, had started to kick the carpet with the toes of his shoes. Cecily said, “May I take Sam to the nursery?”
“An excellent suggestion,” Papa replied, and Miss Braithwaite turned to Rosalind and added, “Cecily is so good with her little brother. She’s a great help to her father.”
Rosalind said, “Sam, dear, I will come up and see your nursery when I’ve finished talking to your papa. Agreed?”
Sam nodded, then ran to Rosalind and flung his arms around her and kissed her on the cheek.
“Why, Samuel!” Miss Braithwaite said. “I’m sure Miss Templeton doesn’t wish to be mauled in that fashion.”
Sam said, “What’s mauling? I’m kissing Miss Templeton because she’s so pretty!”
Laughter followed the children out of the room. “Clever Sam!” Cecily hugged her brother. She felt certain that Miss Braithwaite would not have been pleased by Sam’s behaviour. She’d visited their house on many occasions and her brother had shown not the slightest interest in kissing her. Cecily didn’t think Sam had ever exchanged more than a couple of words with Miss Braithwaite.
“Will Rosalind come and see us?” Sam wanted to know.
“She said she would, so she will,” Cecily answered, but part of her worried that she might forget, or else be held fast in the drawing room by Miss Braithwaite. She could not stop thinking of the picture of herself as Miranda. This image pleased her better than any other she had seen, and Rosalind must have liked it too, to choose it for a gift. It occurred to her that perhaps Rosalind had chosen the picture because Miranda, like Cecily, was motherless. Maybe that was why it was such a successful portrait: because she herself had felt at ease pretending to be that particular heroine.
Chapter Nine
Rosalind and the Doll’s House
“And this,” said Rosalind, “must be the dining room. How lovely!”
She’d sat down on the carpet to look more carefully at the doll’s house, without giving any thought to what might become of her dress. Cecily knew that Rosalind was careless of her clothes, as her blouses were frequently marked with paint, or a streak of colour from one of her props. Once, when Cecily had stared at a pale streak of chalk on the sleeve of one of her garments, Rosalind had smiled and said: “It’ll come out in the wash, Cecily…it’s of no consequence at all.” She’d added, “I never care how I look, only how what I’m looking at looks. That’s a great many ‘looks’ in one sentence, is it not?” and then they’d laughed together.
“This is,” she told the children, “a very fine house indeed. Did you say your papa had made it?”
Cecily nodded. “I helped him, too,” she said. “I stuck the wallpaper on in most of the rooms. Papa brushed the back of the paper with paste, and I held the pieces against the walls.”
“The clothes are so well-made! Who made those?”
“My Aunt Lizzie…the one we’re making the portrait for. She’s very clever with her needle.”
Sam held out the toy soldier he was clutching to Cecily. “Can General Bones come and sleep in the doll’s house?” he said.
“He can go in the guest room,” said Cecily. “Put him there.”
While Sam was settling his general into the empty bed in the guest room, Rosalind said, “If you’d like them, I’ve some scraps left of a lovely new wallpaper…my bedroom was redecorated last year. It’s a pattern from Mr. William Morris’s factory called Willow…”
“New paper?” Cecily was taken aback. She’d never imagined that anything in the doll’s house would change, but it was true that the paper was a little shabby and coming away from the corners in some rooms. How wonderful if her doll’s house could share the same paper as Rosalind’s bedroom! She said, “Thank you! I’d love that.”
Rosalind wanted to know the names of each and every one of the da Pontes. After Cecily had recited them, she added, “My parents went to Venice on their honeymoon, and the da Pontes were a real family they met there.”
Rosalind nodded. “I don’t think you ever grow out of doll’s houses, do you? I love them, and this one is particularly fine. I had one myself, but it’s in the attic now. Such a pity. Perhaps I’ll take you up there one day…” She moved Mama da Ponte from her place at the head of the tiny table to an armchair in the drawing room and took Paolo and Maggie into the nursery where she laid them in their beds.
Sam was growing impatient. “Have you finished looking at the doll’s house? I want to go in the garden now.”
“Oh, Sam, why the garden? There’s nothing for Rosalind to see there,” Cecily said. How tiresome little brothers could be! Just as she and Rosalind were beginning to talk about personal matters. She felt that within a few minutes, the subject of her dead mama might have come up and she could have poured out her heart to such a sympathetic listener! Now here was Sam, distracting Rosalind. Perhaps she’d say she had no desire to see anything outdoors?
Cecily stifled a sigh, but before she could say anything more, Rosalind had taken Sam’s hand and jumped up, smoothing down her skirts.
“Delightful! Cecily, there’s no need for you to come if you’d rather stay here or go back to the drawing room. Sam will show me everything, I’m sure, and we’ll be back very soon.”
“Very well.” Cecily knew that she oughtn’t to feel jealous of her brother, but she did. Why, she asked herself as they left the nursery, doesn’t Rosalind ask me to go as well? Is she tired of my company? Does she like Sam better than she likes me? She kneeled down beside the doll’s house and moved Papa da Ponte out of the kitchen – who had placed him there? – and put him to sit next to his wife. Most of the time, when she played with the dolls, she was soothed by them and they made her feel more cheerful, so why could she not concentrate on their lives now? It was, she knew, because she wanted to be down in the garden with Sam and Rosalind and hadn’t had the grace to say so when she had the chance.
I can go there now, she thought, and ran to the window. Looking out, she could see most of the lawn. Sam and Rosalind were under the walnut tree… Sam won’t tell Rosalind about Aunt Lizzie and how she’d grown it from a nut, Cecily thought. She made her way quickly downstairs and out of the back door. The sun was shining now, and Cecily put her hand up to shade her eyes from the brightness.
“Sam! Are you climbing? You know you’re not allowed to, when Papa isn’t there to watch you.”
“I am! I can!” Sam cried. Rosalind was looking up at him. He’d clambered on to the lowest branch and had put out a hand to reach for another, slightly higher one. He stretched out, standing on the tips of his toes. He can’t do it, Cecily thought, staring at him. If he puts a foot out and tries to get up there, he’ll fall. She felt herself turning cold all over. Should she shout at him not to move? Go and stand under the tree? Move to help him? Perhaps if she climbed up too, she could persuade him to come down with her… All this went through her mind in seconds and before she could decide what was best, Sam fell from the tree.
“Oh, oh Sam, dear!” Cecily shouted and began to run to where her brother was lying, very still…too still…on the ground. Before she could reach him, Rosalind was there, cradling the little boy’s head in her lap and smoothing his brow.
“Sam?” she said. “Sam, open your eyes, dearest! Come now, where are you hurt?”
“I haven’t hurt myself,” Sam said and sat up. “My foot’s a bit sore, but I’m not a baby.” Cecily was so relieved to hear him speaking, and in a voice that sounded quite normal, that she burst into tears. “Cecily’s the baby!” Sam said triumphantly.
“She most certainly is not! She was worried about you,” Rosalind said. “And so was I. There’s nothi
ng broken, I hope?” She began to run her hands over Sam’s arms and legs, to check that they were indeed unhurt.
“Papa will be so angry!” Cecily said. “You know you’re not allowed to climb the tree when Papa is absent. You know that very well.”
“You won’t do it again, will you, Sam?” Rosalind leaned down to hear Sam’s reply. He was now standing up, looking a little shaken. “I think we ought to go inside, don’t you?”
Nanny Mildred appeared at the garden door just then, and bustled as quickly as she could to where Rosalind and Sam were standing. “Have you been up that tree again, young man?” she said, frowning. “You are naughty, indeed you are! What have I told you about climbing up there? Come along now…come with me to the nursery this minute.”
She took Sam’s hand and almost dragged him away. He looked back at Rosalind as he went, and waved happily at her.
“Poor Sam!” Rosalind said. “But this walnut tree is so beautiful. Maybe we could pose the family here for your portrait, if the day is fine?”
“Oh, that would be wonderful! I should have thought of that myself. My Aunt Lizzie planted the tree when she was a girl. The year my father was born…”
“How very appropriate! I will consult with your father of course. I think he’s expecting an indoor photograph, and we discussed the possibility of his study, but this will be much more…interesting. The light outside…” She examined the tree with renewed interest.
“Sam really likes you, you know,” Cecily said. “Look, he’s waving to us from the nursery window.”
“I’m very pleased he does,” Rosalind said, waving back. “He’s a lovely child.” Cecily said nothing and Rosalind, noticing her silence, put an arm around her shoulders and squeezed her close. “And you, Cecily, are lovely too…you know I think that, do you not?”
Cecily nodded, feeling happiness spread through her as though it were a growing plant. If only Rosalind could stay here for ever, she thought. If only we had a mother like her, Sam and I. She thought this, and as she did, an idea came into her mind.