She’d changed medium, hoping that by going back to painting again she would find it easier to combine form and feeling in the way she desired. Now she painted bones and muscles as though they were not just beautiful abstractions, but also parts of a strong and vulnerable body. Well, that was what she had tried to do, and she still wasn’t at all sure that she had succeeded.
She got up abruptly from the chair and walked over to the window, feeling that she would be sick if she looked at the paintings for one more minute. Alice had said to her once, ‘There are days when what I like most about painting is that you’re making something, you’re left with something solid at the end of it, and there are other days when I hate it, for that very reason.’ She’d been sitting on the floor of her own studio when she said this, surrounded by paintings which she was preparing to put in store. ‘You work and you work and then you’re left with all these things and you don’t know what to do with them. It must be great to be a musician creating nothing more tangible than sound.’
‘And do you really think you’d prefer that?’
Alice had laughed at that. ‘Of course not. I’m only griping because these pictures will take up the last of my storage space, and after that I just don’t know where the hell I’m going to keep my work. I’m also fed up trying to scrape together the money I need to buy paints and canvas, so I can see the appeal of an art form that requires minimal space and materials. But what I love about it too is just that: the energy of things. I like the paradox of it. Strength and frailty, don’t you see? People confuse immortality with the indestructible, but it’s not the same thing at all. Take, say, Vermeer’s Portrait Of a Young Woman in a Turban. What that painting means is beyond words, beyond time. And yet, in purely material terms, it’s a layer of paint a couple of millimetres thick on a piece of canvas.’
‘What you’re saying is that it’s more than a sum of its parts?’
‘No, what I’m saying is that it’s so much more that it’s beyond comprehension, it’s almost eerie. That’s the magic of it, the only magic I could ever believe in. To take things and make something charged with that sort of knowledge and energy. It’s worth devoting your life to that.’
Material permanence: as terrible a concept as perfect memory. Claire ran her finger through the dust on the windowsill. Sea glass, shells, a fragment of bark. Petals that had fallen from a vase of roses. She bent over the flowers and breathed in their deep, heavy scent. Two flat pieces of stone that fitted together like a cut fruit, a fossil of a horsetail fern on either side when you split them apart. How many millions of years?
It was raining outside. She rubbed the back of her hand across the misted glass. When she came into the studio on a winter’s morning sometimes the windows would be iced on the inside, with thick swirls of frost flowers. She would admire them, then put her mouth close to the glass and melt them with a long hot breath. The wind was blowing hard too. It was often stormy in August, but then sometimes the weather would settle down again in September and be calm and fine for a week or so. But in August you could already sense the start of winter: there was a new edge to the cold.
Nuala would be leaving soon. How different people were from each other, and how separate they seemed doomed to remain! ‘Try to see it from my point of view,’ she’d said to Claire one day in the course of conversation, and Claire had known, even without attempting it, that she wouldn’t be able to do it. Certainly they’d got to know each other better during the time Nuala had been there, and she’d become quite fond of her, but Claire knew they would always be isolated from each other at a fundamental level. Maybe it could only be like that. How much of one’s self was it possible to communicate to another person? Probably far less than is generally admitted. Imagine being able to enter into another person’s mind, even for just a few moments. It was bound to be a revelation, particularly if it was someone you thought you knew well, and a shock to see how far one’s perception of a person could be from how that person actually saw themselves.
‘Look at the cut of me!’ Claire’s mother had said the last time she’d visited her. She’d been sitting by a mirror, combing out her faded hair. ‘I’m as grey as a badger. How come I look so old, yet I feel no different to what I was forty years ago? Where’s the sense in that?’ She’d started to laugh, and added, ‘I remember when I was a child, I used to look at my grandmother and marvel at just how old somebody could be; it almost frightened me. And then the other day when I was in town I saw this little girl looking at me and looking at me, and suddenly I realized, “As far as she’s concerned, I’m an old lady.” And so I did a few calculations, and do you know, I’m older now already than my grandmother was when she died. I could hardly believe it, so I told your daddy, and he said, “Well then, that proves it. You are an old lady!”
Claire understood exactly what her mother meant, but it wasn’t the whole story. You did change. Life changed you, whether you liked it or not. You saw options that you’d always taken for granted in life close for ever. You suddenly realized that you were going to die someday. ‘Painting’s a bit like life,’ she’d said to Nuala the previous evening, when their conversation had edged towards this same subject. ‘There’s no point in just sitting there thinking about it. You have to get the paint on to the canvas. You may not like what you end up with; it may fall short of what you had thought or hoped it would be – in fact, it usually does. But at least there’s something there; at least it’s real.’
‘When I was a child,’ Nuala had said, ‘I used to look forward to being grown up. I was always trying to imagine how it would be. And sometimes now I look at my life and say to myself, “Well, now you know.” But it still doesn’t fit, it doesn’t add up. Not,’ she added quickly, ‘that I don’t like my life. No, not that. I’m a very lucky person; it’s a good life. No, it’s not that I don’t like it, it’s … it’s that …’ Her voice trailed away.
‘It’s that you don’t understand it,’ Claire said.
‘Something like that,’ Nuala mumbled, looking at her hands. Claire nodded.
‘And yes, you’re right,’ she added. ‘You are lucky. We all are.’
‘All?’
‘You, me, Kevin: we’re lucky. Our lives are good. Maybe not always what we would want, but good, for all that.’
‘The door of the studio, which had been slightly ajar, suddenly banged shut with a force that made Claire jump up from the windowsill in fright. She listened, and then she could hear Nuala moving about in the kitchen. She must have just come into the house, and in opening the front door created a draught that made the studio door slam. Claire didn’t like unexplained movements and noises in the house. She’d have been ashamed to admit to anyone how nervous she was, even how superstitious … was it superstition? Perhaps she should tell someone about what had happened all those years ago, but she’d never been able to bring herself to do so.
On the first anniversary of Alice’s death, Claire had made a small memorial to her. Because she had been abroad when Alice died and had missed her funeral, she felt she hadn’t had a chance to say goodbye to her properly. She therefore decided to make something for Alice, just for that day. On a table in a corner of the studio, she’d set up what amounted to a secular altar. The painting Alice had given her had formed the centrepiece. She put a white candle on the table, and vases full of cut flowers.
She worked as usual that day, and would glance up at the table in the corner now and again. Years had passed, but it still made Claire shiver to think about what had happened.
Late in the forenoon, the phone had rung. She went into the next room and picked up the receiver, but there was silence at the other end. As she hung up, she heard a crash from the studio.
Something had destroyed the memorial. The painting was still on the table, but the floor was a mess of flowers, water, broken glass, melted wax from the extinguished candle. She knew at once that however much she wanted to, she would never be able to explain this away. No draughts: the studio doo
r was wedged open, every other door and window firmly shut. No one else was in the house; there was no cat to blame. The wreckage was a good six feet away from the table. The flowers and candle had not simply fallen over, they had been swept violently to the floor.
She’d been so frightened and upset that it was hours before she could even bring herself to clear away the mess. There was fear, too, in her reluctance to tell anyone. She didn’t want to disturb things even more. It would vulgarize it to tell people. It would become a story friends would tell friends, ‘I know someone and the strangest thing happened to her.’ It would be exaggerated, embroidered, cheapened. But nothing would explain it. Nothing could.
In succeeding years, she had ignored Alice’s anniversary, tried not even to think about her on that day. Nothing of the kind had ever happened again, but sudden noises startled Claire, even when there was a simple explanation. She turned again to the sequence of paintings. The impact they made when she looked at them this time pleased her more than before, pleased her more than she would have expected.
17
‘MAYBE YOU WON’T LIKE ME for this,’ Nuala said. ‘Maybe you’ll never forgive me, but we probably won’t ever see each other again, so I’m going to risk it.’ Anna smiled and put her head to one side. ‘You already know what I’m going to ask you.’
‘Do I?’ said Anna.
‘Yes, you do. But you’re pretending you don’t, to make it as difficult as possible for me.’
It was the evening before Nuala’s departure, and she had come to say goodbye to Anna. They had been sitting by the fire for over two hours now, and darkness was falling. Anna did not get up to draw the curtains and switch on the lights. On the contrary: it was as though by tacit agreement that they waited for the dark, talking only of inconsequential things while they could still see each other clearly. The only light in the room came from the flames in the hearth.
‘Don’t think badly of me, Nuala. Yes, I know exactly what you’re going to ask me.’
‘And you don’t mind?’
‘Let me just make this condition: that I can ask you exactly the same question, which is this: What’s wrong?’
Now it was Nuala’s turn to smile. ‘You see, you did know.’
‘So answer me. I’m asking you first. What’s wrong?’
Nuala was silent, but Anna didn’t persist. She allowed her the time she knew she needed. The silence stretched out. The clock ticked. The fire collapsed in on itself with a hushed sound, and then the flames began to burn more brightly than before, throwing shadows across the room. There was rain falling against the window, and a wind rising. Nuala didn’t want to answer because she didn’t want to break the peace of the moment, or lose the kindness of Anna’s waiting silence. After a long time she spoke.
‘I’m unhappy because I don’t know how to live.’
Anna did not reply. It was so dark now that Nuala could not see the expression on the other woman’s face at all, just the outline of her where she sat. Nuala felt warm and calm. She listened again to the fire, the rain, the clock, and only gradually did she notice another sound. Anna was crying.
‘Oh Nuala,’ she said eventually. ‘How to live: do you really think that any of us know that?’
Anna insisted on keeping her side of the agreement, even though Nuala kept saying that it didn’t matter, afraid that Anna would become even more upset.
‘I’m going to tell you,’ Anna said. ‘I promised I would and I try to always keep my word. I probably should have talked to you like this a long time ago.’
‘Well then,’ said Nuala, ‘when you’re ready.’
Slowly and very quietly Anna told Nuala about how her marriage had broken up, and how Lili blamed her for it. She told her that she’d heard over the summer that Lili had had a baby. She hadn’t even told Anna she was pregnant, and she couldn’t bear it that her own daughter was so cold to her – that she hated her so much.
Nuala said nothing while Anna spoke, and listened patiently to the end.
‘Well,’ she said eventually, ‘you’re right about one thing at least: you should have talked about this before now, to me, or to somebody. You shouldn’t have kept it bottled up ail these years. Because you’ve got it all completely wrong, don’t you see?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Lili doesn’t blame you. I’d bet my life on that.’
‘But she does, I know. She’s told me so.’
‘And you deny it every time. The one thing you insist on is that it’s not your fault. So she knows you don’t blame yourself. Then who does she think you do hold responsible?’
‘My husband, of course.’
‘No Anna,’ Nuala said. ‘Not your husband. Lili thinks you blame her.’
‘Lili? But it’s not possible, it’s ridiculous. You don’t understand. She was a child of ten when it happened.’
‘Precisely.’ Nuala paused to let this sink in.
‘But she’s never said this to me, never in all these years.’
‘Well, she wouldn’t, would she? Because if she did, you’d have denied it, just as you’ve denied it to me right now. So she’s been waiting for you to make the first move and you never did. You’ve only ever defended yourself, and she’s given up waiting.’
Anna was still having trouble taking this in. ‘Just think about it,’ Nuala said. ‘You’ll see I’m right. Anna, I’m being very blunt with you. Maybe you have left it too late. Maybe she’ll never forgive you. But then again, she just might. There’s no knowing.’
‘So what should I do?’ Anna said.
‘You’re going to have to make the first move,’ Nuala said, ‘and you’re going to have to take it very gently. You could buy something nice for the baby here in Ireland, and then send it to her when you get home, with a card or a letter saying that you want to be on good terms with her. Explain that you see now how she must have felt. Ask her to forgive you.’ She could see Anna balk at this, and added quickly. ‘I didn’t say this would be easy. Remember it’s not just a question of swallowing your pride. Don’t make any approach to her until you’re reasonably convinced that what I’m saying is correct. And don’t expect miracles. Maybe she won’t want to have anything to do with you. Even if she does, it’ll probably take her a long time to thaw out. Just go gently, and give it lots of time.’
‘Do you think it’ll work?’ Anna said timidly.
‘I wish I could say yes,’ Nuala said. ‘But I just don’t know. I hope it does. Will you write and tell me?’
‘Yes of course,’ said Anna. ‘And you must write to me too, to tell me how things are.’
Nuala smiled to herself, again grateful for the darkness. She had gone down to the beach that afternoon and thrown her teaspoon into the waves. Maybe it would be washed up on the beach and someone would find it. They’d wonder how a spoon from a hotel in Dublin came to be on a beach in Donegal. They’d never guess.
Nuala was surprisingly decisive about her departure. She insisted on going back to Dublin as she had arrived, rather than have Kevin travel up to Donegal to collect her. Anna offered to drive Nuala into town to catch the bus, an offer which was accepted.
‘Please don’t wait to see me off,’ she said to Claire. ‘Go and start your work as usual, I don’t want to hold you back.’ Claire went along with this, keen to avoid sitting around with her for twenty minutes or so, with their goodbyes made and nothing else to do but grow tense and awkward with each other. Relieved, she went upstairs to her studio.
Over the course of the summer, Claire had stopped painting the view from the window, and started to draw a still life every morning instead. For the past week now she had been drawing the same apple over and over, trying to catch its essence as quickly and simply as possible. This morning, she deliberately worked slowly, waiting to hear Nuala leave the house. She knew she wouldn’t be able to settle to her real work today until she was alone, even though she hadn’t been bothered by Nuala’s presence all summer. She drew a line with a soft penci
l, then smudged it with her finger, and put her eye close to the sketch book. The paper was soft and fuzzy, like the skin of a peach; the pencil mark was pearly.
She wouldn’t see Nuala any more often than she had done in the past, but through her family she would always know how she was, and what she was doing. It struck her as absurd that this should be so, while she would probably never hear of Markus ever again or know where he was, or what he was doing; and yet she still thought about him all the time. She had dreamt about him the night before, and remembered when she woke that what she had dreamt of had once actually happened, but she had forgotten it until now.
They’d travelled a lot during the time they were together, mainly in Germany and France. One hot afternoon, they had sat at a pavement café in Paris, drinking wine. At the gates of a nearby church, an old woman was begging. The passers-by ignored her: no one gave her anything, and most of them looked straight through her, as though her age and her poverty had rendered her invisible. Claire looked at her face: it was hard to imagine that she had ever been young.
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