by Debby Holt
Anna came back in a state of high indignation. ‘I found a member of staff and he said he’d have to find someone to help him. How difficult can it be to help an old lady to change her clothes?’
‘I don’t want to change my clothes,’ Ivy said.
‘You don’t need to, Gran,’ Anna said, returning to her seat. ‘You look so pretty in your dress.’
‘Marilyn gave it to me,’ Ivy said. ‘She’s in love with Tony Curtis at the moment.’
Anna nodded. ‘I bet that will end in tears.’
‘You’re right,’ Ivy said. ‘I said to her, Marilyn, don’t do it. Read a book instead.’
‘I quite agree,’ Anna said. ‘Books are better than men any day.’
Three members of staff came in and bore down on the frail old lady who was whimpering quite loudly now. One of the men said, ‘Hello, Iris, let’s sort you out, shall we?’
What followed was straight out of a horror film. The gentle old lady turned instantly into a snarling, biting dervish. She kicked and scratched and yelled and was eventually carried out by the three now battered and bruised carers.
Freya and her daughters exchanged horrified glances. Ivy gave them all an understanding smile. ‘Don’t worry about her,’ she said. ‘She likes to make a fuss.’
Afterwards, they walked out to the car in silence. Anna looked at her mother and said, ‘Are you all right, Mum?’
Freya swallowed a large lump in her throat and said, ‘I feel so ashamed that I’ve put her in a place like that.’
Anna grasped her mother’s hand. ‘It’s clean, the staff are kind and, quite honestly, Gran has no idea how awful it is.’
‘I know,’ Freya said. ‘It just seems so unfair. And I can’t understand how a woman who was an expert on Anglo-Saxon literature can spend all her waking hours talking to Marilyn Monroe.’
‘It could be worse,’ Anna said. ‘Imagine if she were talking to Mother Teresa or Margaret Thatcher.’
They arrived home at six. Felix took one look at Freya and announced he wanted presents and champagne now. Freya protested it was far too early for alcohol but Felix said, too bad, it was his birthday.
Later, as they sat outside eating his favourite meal – steak, new potatoes and spinach – Felix told himself he was truly blessed. He did that a lot these days but tonight he almost believed it. It was a perfect summer’s evening with no sound other than the distant hum of a plane in the sky. And there around him were the three most important people in his life: Anna, with Freya’s heart-stopping eyes and the easy assurance he used to long for, little Tess whose infectious laugh he heard too rarely these days and, lastly, Freya, so beautiful in her floral dress and pale pink cardigan, and so full of energy and a determination to extract every last bit of experience from each and every day. He hated what he was doing to her, he hated that she tried so hard to be calm and understanding. He worried about all of them. Both his daughters were troubled. He had no idea why but he recognised the signs. He’d say nothing to Freya of course. Heaven knew, she had enough on her plate at the moment. But now, tonight, he could almost convince himself that all was well. Perhaps if he tried hard enough, it would be.
He raised his glass and cleared his throat. ‘This has been a quite spectacularly satisfactory birthday. Thank you, girls, for making the effort to come here this weekend.’
‘We wouldn’t miss your birthday,’ Tess said.
‘I appreciate that,’ Felix told her. ‘I feel very happy.’
Freya felt happy too, happy and full of love for Felix and their daughters. She beamed at them all.
‘We have another celebration soon,’ she said. ‘On September the sixth, we’ll have been married for thirty years.’
‘Will you have a party?’ Anna asked. ‘You’ll have to have a party.’
Freya glanced expectantly at Felix and just for a moment he looked back at her. He looked…How did he look? Awkward? Defensive? Taken aback? Then he turned away and reached for the wine.
‘We don’t want a party,’ he said. ‘There’s nothing more smug or sanctimonious than inviting one’s friends and family to marvel at one’s perfect marriage. A quiet dinner at home will do very well.’
‘Sounds dull to me,’ Anna said. ‘What do you think, Mum?’
So nothing had changed. Or rather, everything had changed. This wasn’t one of Felix’s sessions, this was something different, something permanent, and she had no idea how to deal with it. Felix didn’t want a party, because he didn’t want to celebrate his marriage. For the first time, Freya felt scared. She forced a smile to her lips.
‘I certainly don’t want a party if Felix doesn’t. That wouldn’t be fun at all.’
CHAPTER TEN
Eliza had been determined not to meet the ugly little man again. Curiosity was her downfall. She wanted to know if he really would turn up at his self-appointed position in front of the Pissarro in Room 44. She couldn’t believe that any man, especially a diminutive monkey-like man, would seriously expect a woman he’d only just met to agree to meet him in a place and time of his choice.
She had intended to slip into Room 44 and slip straight out again. Her plan was immediately derailed. No sooner had she stepped into the room than a surprisingly loud voice rang out from the other end, ‘I’m here!’
Everyone looked at her as if it were her fault that the cathedral-like calm of the place had been interrupted. In the circumstances she felt duty bound to walk quickly over to the man before he shouted again. She did murmur in a fierce whisper that it was quite unnecessary to yell at her.
‘Never mind that,’ he said. ‘Just look at this painting! Isn’t it beautiful?’
Behind him was a picture of a wide country road under a wide blue sky. She had to admit it was special. It was called The Avenue, Sydenham and she could almost imagine she was standing by the artist, gazing beside him at the rural lane and the ancient church. It looked singularly enticing, and enticing was not an adjective she would use about most parts of south London.
‘Why did he come here?’ she asked. ‘He was a great Impressionist painter. Why come to Sydenham?’
‘I presume he thought it was more congenial than eating rats in Paris. He fled to England when the Prussians decided to invade France in 1870. They laid siege to the capital and, within months, people were reduced to eating their household pets. Even the two elephants at the Paris zoo were made into elephant cutlets. I’m sure you know all the stories.’
Eliza gave a neutral sort of nod. She was irritated by his easy assumption that she knew as much as he did. She gazed at the painting. ‘It looks so real,’ she said.
‘Pissarro was one of the first artists to leave his studio and set up his easel in the open air. But you knew that already, I expect.’
‘No,’ Eliza said. ‘I didn’t know.’ The man’s knowledge about everything was one reason why she had vowed she wouldn’t see him again. It was also the reason why in fact she returned for more. He was infuriating and interesting in equal measures.
And so now here she was on her way to her fourth assignation with him. Assignation was hardly the right word to use since it implied something furtive and sexually suggestive and there was nothing even remotely sexy about the man at the National Gallery. Eliza supposed it was a sign of her great age that given the choice between a romantic lover and her annoyingly bumptious art expert she would definitely go for the latter.
In fact, there was little sign of bumptiousness today. He was unusually subdued, possibly because the painting they were looking at clearly moved him. It depicted Gainsborough’s young daughters chasing a butterfly. For once it was Eliza who did most of the talking. She commented on the discrepancy between the somewhat sinister backdrop of a dark forest and the almost unearthly radiance of the two children. She mused on the title – The Painter’s Daughters chasing a Butterfly – and wondered if Gainsborough was trying to make a comment on the fleeting nature of childhood and innocence.
Her companion made an effor
t to rouse himself. ‘I don’t know. Perhaps it was simply a literal record of an incident he observed. It’s interesting though: it’s almost as if he knew what lay in store for them.’
‘What did lie in store for them?’
‘Their lives were difficult. They were daughters of one of the most fashionable artists in the eighteenth century. He regularly carried out commissions for the royal family. So the girls had access to high society without being properly accepted by it. Mary married a musician but the marriage broke down and the sisters ended up living together. I believe Mary suffered from prolonged bouts of mental instability.’
‘That’s so sad.’
‘Yes, it is.’
Eliza waited for him to say more but he had lapsed into silence again. She was worried. It upset her to see him without his usual energy and enthusiasm. She could see she had been wrong to find him conceited and patronising. He was simply a man who loved art and had a wish to share that love with others. Today, that had gone. Something wasn’t right. She said hesitantly, ‘I know you have to rush off. Please don’t…’
‘I don’t have to rush off any more.’
The statement was all the bleaker for being made without expression. She made a sudden decision. ‘In that case, will you allow me to buy us both a coffee?’
She took him to the espresso bar and bought coffee and a flapjack. They sat opposite each other and she was at a loss as to how to proceed with the silent, preoccupied stranger in front of her. She cut the flapjack in half and offered him a piece but he shook his head.
‘This is our fourth meeting,’ she said. ‘I really think we should introduce ourselves. My name is Eliza Sample.’
He gave a formal nod of his head. ‘I am Dennis Woodward.’
‘Now that we are introduced,’ Eliza said, ‘I hope you won’t mind if I say that you seem a little sad today. It’s so unlike you.’
Dennis took a sip of his coffee and then set his cup down on its saucer. ‘My sister died three days ago. She’s been ill for some time. Every Thursday for some months now I’ve gone to Bromley to visit her after coming here. Of course, at my age, I am used to the deaths of relatives and friends. But Barbara and I were close and today I feel a little lonely as a result of her absence.’
‘I’m sorry.’
‘I am grieving for me not my sister. She was always frightened of death. Last week she told me she welcomed it. She told me she was impressed by the cleverness of Nature. “I feel sick all the time,” she said. “Why should I want to go on living when I feel sick all the time? You don’t need to feel sorry for me when I die.” So I don’t. I just feel sorry for me.’
‘That is quite understandable.’
‘Thank you. I’m afraid I am not very good company at the moment.’
Eliza nodded. ‘Let us talk about next week. I think we need to see something that will rouse your spirits and I know exactly the picture that will do it.’
‘If you are thinking of one of the religious paintings, I should tell you…’
‘Certainly not.’ Eliza took one of the flapjack halves and bit into it, aware that she had at last won his complete attention. ‘We shall see The Execution of Lady Jane Grey by Paul Delaroche. It never fails to lift my spirits.’
‘You like that painting?’
‘I love that painting. Why? Don’t you like it?’
‘No, I do not. Do you want to know why?’
‘I would very much like to know why.’
‘I’ll tell you. Apart from the fact that it’s sentimental tosh …’ Dennis proceeded to give a withering assessment of the qualities of Delaroche and, as he did so, Eliza observed with great satisfaction that he picked up and ate the other half of the flapjack.
Maggie left Sheila at the surgery after agreeing to meet later for coffee. Sheila had given up driving after a minor collision with a parked car in Galashiels, and Maggie was happy to act as chauffeur this morning. Katherine had offered to come too but had been diverted by a phone call from her sister in Fife.
Maggie always enjoyed coming to Melrose. In their first year in Scotland she had found communal life difficult. She and Philip would escape to Melrose for lunch together. Philip would sit her down with a large glass of red wine and listen while she ranted about Katherine’s tactlessness and Derek’s tendency to take an hour to load the dishwasher. After Philip’s death she had thought she could never face Melrose again. In fact, she discovered it was here she felt closest to him.
Today, she spent a pleasant half-hour perusing knitting patterns in the fabric place and picture frames in the antiques shop before making her way up to the market square.
She saw Jamie Lockhart walk into the bank. The last time she’d seen him was at Flora Macdonald’s birthday party in Kelso, almost a month ago. For a moment she thought about calling out to him. By the time she decided she would, it was too late. He had already gone in. She walked on across the wide square, past the Mercat Cross and entered the distinctive green door of Randall’s coffee shop.
Sheila sat at a table by the window, her glasses halfway down her nose, her ever-present notebook in front of her, ready to receive ideas for poems or stories. Maggie had known Sheila for sixty-eight years. They had helped each other through teenage crushes, miscarriage (Maggie), extra-marital temptations (Sheila), career disappointments, maternal worries and bereavement. Now they helped each other through their final years.
‘I’m sorry I’m late,’ Maggie said, sitting down opposite her and unbuttoning her jacket. ‘Have you been here long?’
‘Only a few minutes. I’ve ordered coffee and shortbread. You look a little discombobulated.’
‘I suppose I am. How was the doctor?’
‘I have to stay on the blood pressure pills. Are you going to tell me what’s wrong? Were you worried I might keel over in the surgery?’
‘I’ve just seen Jamie Lockhart go into the bank,’ she said.
‘He’s Tess’s admirer?’
Maggie nodded. ‘I nearly called out to him.’
‘Why didn’t you?’
‘Well…’ Maggie hesitated, already aware that Sheila would find her response pathetic. ‘It would look so odd.’
‘I don’t see why.’
‘There’s a great difference between striking up a friendly conversation on the pavement and yelling from halfway down the street. He must know that I watched him monopolise my grand-daughter at the party. I would hate him to think I wanted to interfere in some way.’
The waitress arrived with their order and made a point of admiring Sheila’s earrings. While Sheila began one of her interminable direction speeches – the earrings had been purchased in a small shop in Edinburgh and if the waitress could follow Sheila’s instructions she was a brighter woman than Maggie – Maggie glanced across at the bank and berated herself for her indecisive attitude towards the Jamie question.
Once the waitress had gone, Sheila put her elbows on the table and rested her chin on her hands. ‘I’ve often thought that where your family is concerned, you don’t interfere enough. And besides, in this case you would be intervening rather than interfering. And anyway, why is it so bad to interfere? Why are we so rude about busybodies and do-gooders? They are busy bodies and they do good. If there were more of them we wouldn’t need social workers or dating agencies or therapists. Why is it wrong to want to improve someone’s life?’
‘Because,’ said Maggie, ‘I’m not sure I would improve it. Suppose I encouraged Jamie to see Tess in the summer and suppose she fell in love with him and suppose he broke her heart – I’d never forgive myself.’
‘Suppose Jamie is her soulmate and you do nothing to help them? I think you were meant to see Jamie this morning. You think about that while I go to the Ladies’.’
Maggie did think about it. She cut her piece of shortbread into four neat columns and took a sip of her coffee. Sheila was a great believer in Fate. Fate was a regular participant in her short stories. As far as Fate was concerned, Maggie was an a
gnostic. She could not believe her meeting with Jamie was written in the stars. She often saw Jamie in Melrose. He lived in Melrose after all. She sighed and looked out onto the Mercat Cross. A woman sat on the octagonal base with a little girl. The little girl reminded Maggie of Tess. She had the same wild auburn curls and thin little legs and was laughing. Tess used to tell Maggie long, involved jokes that she could never finish because she’d start giggling helplessly and Maggie would laugh too and feel quite weak. It had been a long time since Maggie had seen Tess laugh like that.
‘Maggie?’ Sheila had returned. ‘You were miles away.’
Maggie looked up and, as she did so, she caught sight of Jamie Lockhart talking into his phone by the Cross. ‘Sheila,’ she whispered, ‘that’s him!’
The two women stared across at him and then, as he met their eyes, they both waved sheepishly in unison.
‘Well, that was embarrassing,’ Maggie said. ‘For God’s sake, Sheila, stop staring at him, he’ll think we’re both completely mad.’
‘Perhaps he likes mad people,’ Sheila said, ‘because I’m pretty sure he’s coming over to see us.’
Sheila was right. In a matter of seconds, the young man had entered the café and was telling Maggie how very nice it was to see her again.
‘It’s very nice to see you too,’ Maggie said. ‘This is my friend, Sheila. Sheila, this is Jamie Lockhart.’
Jamie reached across to shake Sheila’s hand. ‘Mrs Cameron and I were at the same party a few weeks ago. I met her grand-daughter there.’
‘We’re all so fond of Tess,’ Sheila said. ‘We’re so thrilled she’ll be up here for the summer.’
‘Will she? Is she coming up to do research?’
She’s got a holiday job in Gasterlethen,’ Sheila said. ‘She’s going to work in a clothes shop there. I’m sure she’ll fit in some research though.’
‘That’s nice,’ Jamie said. ‘I shall try to call in on her. Do you know when she starts her job?’
‘I believe,’ Maggie said carelessly, ‘it’s July the twenty-first.’