A Sky Painted Gold

by Laura Wood

  “That’s good, then,” she says placidly, smoothing the hair back from my face. “I was just telling Irene how nice it is that you’re making new friends.”

  A hissing noise comes through Aunt Irene’s teeth, one that makes her sound like an angry cat.

  “Everything was so beautiful, Midge,” I carry on, choosing to ignore the black cloud of displeasure lurking in the corner. “It’s like something from a fairy tale seeing the house all woken up like that.”

  “And did they feed you well?” asks the ever-practical Midge, for whom good food is always the top priority at any social event.

  “They did.” I nod. “And, oh, it was so funny last night. For the party everyone came dressed in white and everything was decorated so beautifully in white and silver, and then at dinner all the food was white, every single course.”

  “Ridiculous!” Aunt Irene spits as if it is the filthiest word she knows.

  “And the party was in the orchard and the place was hung with lights and silver fruit, and there was dancing,” I continue stubbornly.

  “Dancing!” Aunt Irene puts in here, and it seems she has found a dirtier word than “ridiculous”, after all.

  “Yes.” I nod innocently. “Dancing. To jazz music.”

  But this is a bridge too far for Aunt Irene, who visibly swells. “Did you hear that, Midge? Jazz music! Did you hear what she said?” If I was writing Aunt Irene as a character, I’d probably give her a cane that she would slam into the floor at this point for emphasis. As it is, Aunt Irene makes do with flinging her hands in the air.

  “Yes, I heard perfectly well, thank you,” Midge says. “I don’t care for it myself, but according to the children it’s all the rage.”

  “You said you quite liked Jelly Roll Morton when Tom played you the record,” I point out helpfully.

  “Yes, that’s right.” Midge nods. “I remember. It was very jolly.”

  “Midge!” Aunt Irene’s indignation lifts her from her seat and she stands, outraged, in the middle of the room. “How could you? Jelly roll, indeed!”

  I have to stifle a giggle here at the way Aunt Irene says the words “jelly roll”, and her eyes snap in my direction.

  “I don’t see that there’s anything funny about it, Louise,” she barks. “It’s uncivilized is what it is. It’s not proper for a girl like you to be dancing around to that … that sort of music. And I certainly can’t believe that you allow it in the house, Midge.”

  “Oh, calm down, Reeny,” Midge says, clacking away with her knitting needles. “We were all young once … even you, as I recall.”

  “You’re still young, Midge,” I say affectionately because it is the truth, however hard she tries to make out that she is an old matron. The same cannot be said of Irene, who is ten years older than her sister, and looks and acts another ten years older than that.

  “So, you’ve been off dancing and drinking and doing goodness knows what with those troublemakers,” Aunt Irene snaps, turning her attention to me.

  “They’re not troublemakers,” I say, biting back laughter again and thinking that Caitlin would probably quite enjoy the description. “It was just a party,” I add, deciding to leave the more salacious details out until Aunt Irene is gone.

  “Just a party.” Aunt Irene falls back into her seat with a thud. “Their parents must be turning in their graves, the way those children behave.”

  “Did you know them?” I perk up then, interested to hear about Robert and Caitlin’s parents.

  “Not personally.” Irene sniffs. “Though their reputations were absolutely spotless, of course. A credit to the village, they were.”

  “Lady Cardew died when Caitlin was born,” I prompt.

  “That’s right,” Aunt Irene says. “And poor Lord Cardew, left with those two little children on his hands. He never remarried, you know, and it wasn’t because there wasn’t interest, believe me.” Her eyes are gleaming now. Aunt Irene can play the Victorian widow all she likes, but there is little she enjoys more than a good gossip. And Lord Cardew’s decision not to remarry obviously meets with her approval, lifting him up somewhere near sainthood. “He served with distinction during the war, of course, as you’d expect,” she carries on.

  “And when did he die?” I ask.

  “Only a couple of years ago,” Aunt Irene says thoughtfully. “Not long after your dear departed uncle.” Here she lifts a handkerchief to her dry eye, as is her habit when she mentions Uncle Art. Midge and I remain quiet, because to speak too quickly after Uncle Art’s name has come up is to be branded ungrateful, unfeeling, and to receive a sharp lecture on the respectful treatment of one’s elders.

  “How did he die?” I push further, breaking the silence after what I judge is an appropriate amount of time.

  Aunt Irene’s eyes glint dangerously, but fortunately, her love of gossip wins out over her sense of propriety. “I’m not sure,” she says. “Some sort of accident, I believe. Riding, I heard … so surprising, because he was a great horseman. Poor man. We didn’t see much of him around the village after Lady Cardew died,” she adds. “Just the occasional summer holiday with the children. They seemed to lose their enthusiasm for the place after her passing – she was so fond of Penlyn. A real lady, she was, not like those young good-for-nothings.”

  Unfortunately, this reminder of the children brings her back around to her original grievance. “And it isn’t proper for you to be up there at the big house, all high and mighty,” she snaps. “You don’t belong with them.”

  “Those things don’t matter any more,” I say lightly, waving my hand. I try not to let Aunt Irene’s words faze me, but I can’t help thinking about standing on the front steps with Lucky last night. Caitlin and Robert and their friends were so welcoming, but when it came down to it I wasn’t quite one of them. I even know that it’s because of that fact that I was invited … someone new, someone different.

  “Oh, yes, those things do matter, my girl, and the sooner you realize that the better. It’s not right,” Irene says. “If you keep on with that lot, people will think you’re no better than you ought to be.”

  “Irene!” Midge exclaims. “Really, that’s enough.” Even I am surprised by that remark and the accompanying sour-lemon face. It burns me up that crotchety old ladies like my aunt think that just because young people like to dress up and go to parties that they’re somehow loose or morally questionable.

  “I’m only saying what others will think.” Irene scowls.

  “I don’t care what anyone else thinks,” I say mutinously.

  “Oho!” Aunt Irene waves a finger in my direction. “That’s all well and good now, but what about in a few weeks’ time when they all go back to London and leave you behind with your reputation in tatters? What will you do then? You ought to be finding a nice boy to settle down with, not running around with those … those … reprobates.”

  I feel something hard lodging itself in my chest.

  “Leave her alone, Irene,” Midge says wearily. “If Lou likes these people, they can’t be as bad as you think, and they’ve certainly been very welcoming to her. You’re getting yourself all worked up over nothing.”

  “This is all your fault, Midge,” Irene continues, turning on her, getting into her stride now. “You let all those children run wild, getting into mischief and doing whatever they like. It’s a miracle your Alice managed to catch an upstanding boy like Jack.”

  “Alice could have had her pick of anyone, and Jack’s been in love with her since we were children,” I exclaim hotly.

  “Well, more fool him, then,” Irene bites off. “You’re certainly going to have to buck up your ideas if you don’t want to end up an old maid. You haven’t got your sister’s looks to fall back on.”

  Oof. That one hurt.

  “I’m not going to end up an old maid!” I hiss, jumping to my feet. “I’m only seventeen, for heaven’s sake. Just because you don’t remember what being young feels like, there’s no need to try and turn my lif
e into a tragedy.” I am sick of this. Why does the sum total of my ambition have to be getting married, anyway? Doesn’t anyone else think there is more to life? That I have something else to offer?

  “Lou’s right,” Midge says firmly, placing a soothing hand on my arm, and I feel my heart fill with love for her. “And there’s no harm in her having a bit of fun before she settles down.”

  I frown, the hard feeling returning in my chest. I wonder what “settling down” means exactly, and when it is supposed to start.

  Aunt Irene sniffs again. “You’ll see I’m right in the end,” she mutters darkly. “Then you’ll all be sorry.”

  Just then we are interrupted by the door flying open, and Alice barrels in.

  “Where is she?” she screeches, and then her eyes fall on me. “Oh, Lou, I heard you were back … you have to tell me everything! You have to tell me everything right now! I’ve been dying, I tell you, just dying!”

  Aunt Irene lifts her eyebrows. “You see,” she says smugly. “Wild, the lot of them.”

  “Oh, hello, Aunt Irene,” Alice sings sunnily. “Didn’t see you there. You won’t mind if I borrow Lou for a bit, will you?” and with that she is tugging my arm and pulling me from the room back towards the kitchen.

  Freya must have gone on the hunt for Tom, because both she and her book are gone. Alice closes the door firmly behind us so that we can no longer hear the tirade against our abysmal manners that Aunt Irene is pouring into Midge’s ear. I feel a pang of guilt. It’s not fair that Midge has to put up with her sister when she gets on her high horse. Midge might have the patience of a saint but sooner or later even she loses her temper with Irene. Still, selfishly, I am relieved that at least I don’t have to listen to her any more.

  “Thank God for that,” I say, rubbing my shoulder where Alice has nearly pulled my arm from its socket. “I couldn’t stand being stuck with her for another minute.”

  “Is she playing the dragon with you about the Cardews?” Alice asks, perching on the edge of the big kitchen table. “She’s been rattling on about it ever since she found out.”

  I groan. “Is it really all over the village?” I ask, moving over to the stove to boil water and make some tea. I need it.

  “Of course.” Alice grins. “It’s the most exciting thing to happen for ages. Everyone wants to know what they’re up to over there … including me! Now, come on, don’t leave out a single, tiny detail. Dish.”

  “Oh, Alice.” I swoon against the kitchen counter. “It. Was. Amazing.”

  “I knew it!” She claps her hands together. “I knew it would be. Tell me everything.”

  And so I bring over a pot of tea and a plate of biscuits, and I do. Or, at least, I tell her nearly everything. What I don’t tell her is about the tempest of longing that the visit has unleashed inside me. I’ve peeped into that world now and it hasn’t satisfied my curiosity, it has only stirred it to greater heights. I want more; more life, more light, more of everything.

  Alice hangs on every word, and I revel in the feeling of having an appreciative audience. “Will you go back?” she asks finally, cutting right to the heart of the thing.

  I try to look offhand about it. “I think so,” I say carefully. “Caitlin says I have an open invitation to drop in whenever I like.”

  Alice’s eyes are round. “Really?” she asks.

  I nod, taking a sip of my tea. What Caitlin had actually said was that she expected me to be over all the time and that they wanted me for as much of the summer as possible. This was eagerly echoed by the rest of the party, although I couldn’t quite understand why. I mean, I know why the whole thing is exciting for me, but not what I have done to elicit such enthusiasm from them.

  “I don’t know quite what to do, though,” I say. “It wasn’t an actual invitation with a date or time or anything. Do you think I can really just turn up?” I try not to sound too hopeful, but the idea of spending the entire summer in that vibrant, exciting world makes me fizz inside.

  “Hmm.” Alice wrinkles her nose. “I’m not sure. It sounds like they want you around, so maybe?”

  “I think I’m a bit of a novelty,” I mutter then, forcing myself to say the words, thinking back to what Bernie had said about new being interesting, about that feeling of being on display. I don’t really want to dwell on it too much.

  “I suppose that makes sense,” Alice agrees. “I doubt they spend a lot of time with farmers’ daughters.”

  I definitely don’t like that. It sounds too close to what Aunt Irene said.

  “Things like that don’t matter any more,” I say again, though without as much conviction.

  “Well, not as much as they used to, no,” Alice says, and we drink our tea in silence for several moments.

  “Alice…” I begin tentatively. “Do you ever think about, I don’t know, leaving Penlyn?”

  Alice frowns. “What do you mean?” she asks.

  “Well,” I say slowly. “You love clothes so much, you could go and see things, you could work in a shop or for a designer.”

  Alice laughs. “Oh, yes?” She wiggles her eyebrows. “And what about the small matter of my husband?”

  “He could go with you,” I suggest.

  Alice is shaking her head. “Are you being serious?” She looks puzzled. “Jack’s a fisherman, Lou. He’s going to inherit his father’s business. Why would we go somewhere else?”

  “For you!” I exclaim. “So that you could do something exciting!”

  “I am doing something exciting,” Alice says simply. “I don’t want to leave Penlyn. I like it here. What’s got into you, Lou?” Her brow is creased in concern.

  “You’re right,” I say hollowly. “Nothing’s got into me. I’m fine, honestly.” I play with my teacup. “So, you’re happy?” I ask in a small voice.

  “Of course I am!” Alice exclaims, her hands thrown up in the air. “Can’t you tell?” And she’s right, she is happy, and I can tell. She is absolutely glowing with it. She looks just like a newlywed should look.

  “Yes,” I say. “And I’m glad. Sorry, I’m just being silly.”

  “That’s all right,” Alice replies, getting to her feet. “I have to get home, but come over for dinner this week. I’ll get out the candlesticks for you … if you’re not too busy spending time with your new fancy friends to see us little people,” she adds, and there’s something in the way she says it that hangs awkwardly between us.

  “Of course.” I hug her tightly, trying to ignore the strange atmosphere, and then she disappears through the door and out into the night. I slump back into my seat and stare glumly into the bottom of my empty teacup as though I am hoping to find some answers there.

  “Oh, you’re back,” a voice says, and I look up to see Tom standing in the doorway.

  “That does seem to be the consensus,” I sigh.

  “Haven’t seen Freya about anywhere, have you?” His eyes dart nervously from side to side.

  “She was in here a while ago, but I don’t know where she went,” I say. “I heard about the costume, though.”

  He groans. “Oh, well, that’s it, then, if she knows then I’m as good as dead.”

  “I can’t believe you’re afraid of our little Freya,” I tease.

  Tom snorts. “Oh, yes, you can, or would you like me to tell her it was you who ruined her costume?”

  “You wouldn’t dare,” I hiss.

  “Not so funny when the shoe’s on the other foot, is it?” Tom says smugly, before his face falls. “Well, better tell Midge I’m off staying at Harry’s house until the storm passes. A couple of days should do.” Tom strides across the kitchen and vanishes into the pantry.

  “Aunt Irene will love that,” I call. “You disappearing without asking permission or anything. She’s already going on and on about how wild we are.”

  “Is that old crow here again as well?” Tom asks, his horrified face sticking around the pantry door. “All the more reason to beat a hasty retreat. Send up a white flag
when it’s safe to come home, won’t you?”

  “How about I hang a pillowcase out of my window instead?” I ask.

  “Perfect.” He emerges from the pantry clutching a currant bun from which he takes an enormous bite. “Right, I’m off,” he mumbles, turning for the door. “Oh,” he says through a mouthful of crumbs. “I forgot to say. There’s someone here to see you. He’s waiting outside.”

  “What! Who?” I ask, jumping to my feet.

  “Dunno. Some posh bloke.” Tom shrugs. “I can’t pay attention to every little detail, I’m not your butler,” he huffs. “Anyway, see you later.”

  “Oh, hello, Freya!” I say loudly, looking past his shoulder.

  The blood drains from his face and he swings around to find that no one is standing behind him. “That’s just cruel,” he says. “You shouldn’t treat your own brother so badly. I am your flesh and blood, you know.”

  “More bad luck on my part,” I grumble, but Tom is already gone.

  I step outside, and I don’t know why my heart is beating faster or who I expect to see standing there, but it’s certainly not the figure before me.

  “Bernie?” I call out, and he turns around, his light, pale suit easily visible against the navy-blue sky. He sweeps a rather jaunty hat from his head and grins wolfishly.

  “Hello, Lou,” he says.

  “What are you doing here?” I ask, and the question sounds rude, abrupt. “Sorry,” I say quickly. “I just meant it’s a surprise to see you. Is everything OK?”

  His smile grows wider. “Everything is fine,” he says. “I’ve simply dropped around as a messenger. Perhaps you and I can take a little walk?” He holds his elbow out to me, and I hesitate before slipping my hand into the crook of his arm. There’s something so knowing about Bernie that I find it a little unnerving.

  “Caitlin asked me to drop over and invite you to dinner tomorrow,” he says softly as we walk along the coastal path.

  “Oh!” The noise that comes out of me is one of undisguised pleasure.

  Bernie ducks his chin. “Yes, Robert pointed out that you aren’t used to our ramshackle behaviour, and so the hopelessly vague invitation that Caitlin offered up might put you in an awkward spot.”