Red is for Rubies

by Linda Mitchelmore

  Might it appease Lydie’s conscience a little that she hadn’t been there in Ralph’s final moments, if she were to take on the care of her father in his latter days?

  ‘You can go. Count me out.’ Grace folded her arms across her chest, tucking her hands in firmly beneath her armpits.

  ‘But where will you stay if I sell? Jonty doesn’t pay much, does he?’

  ‘That’s for me to know, Mum. But Jonty did say, before my accident, that he knew someone with a flat to rent. It’s not healthy, you and me being together, is it?’

  ‘Not even for a little while? Until I sell?’

  ‘Why sell? From what I’ve seen of the books, Dad was making a real go of this. Take those nude paintings. They sold fast. Marianne somebody. I found her number on a pad and rang her. She seemed in total shock when I told her about Dad. She said she’d only seen him that afternoon, that he seemed fine. More than fine, she said.’

  ‘Oh. Are you sure? I thought your dad was here, in the gallery.’

  ‘No. Don’t you remember? That woman from the council, what’s her name? – Margot something? She was at the funeral. She said Dad came back with Marianne’s paintings. Quite late. And that he was in a good mood. I’m glad, aren’t you, that he’d had a happy last day?’

  Grace began to cry then, still with her arms wrapped tightly around her. She made no attempt to wipe away her tears but stood, eyes staring ahead into nothingness, thinking.

  Lydie went to her, picking up a tissue from the box on the table as she went. How many they’d got through lately – boxes and boxes of them. A threat to the rainforests Grace had joked.

  ‘Oh yes,’ Lydie said. She reached out and gently wiped Grace’s tears from her cheeks, from the sides of her neck where they were running along her collar bone. ‘Yes, yes I am. It’s going to be hard to forgive myself for not being here, so it’s a comfort to think he’d had a good day.’

  ‘I wasn’t here either, Mum.’

  ‘How could you have been? You’d had the accident.’

  ‘I hated this place. So much. It wasn’t Bath, it wasn’t the restaurant, it wasn’t Justin. It was a step backwards for me coming with you. But I’m glad I did come.’

  ‘Because?’ Lydie asked, knowing exactly what the answer would be.

  ‘Because I’ve found something I really like doing. Something I’m good at. Jonty said he’d teach me to throw pots so I can do the whole process from there right through to decorating and firing. Well, before the accident he did. I hope he’s not going to go back on that.’ Grace took the tissue from Lydie and rubbed frantically at her moist eyes. ‘I think I’ll go over and see him. Now.’

  ‘No!’ Lydie said. She could feel the colour draining from her face. It has to be now. I have to tell Grace the truth now.

  Lydie reached out a hand to stop Grace who had turned away and taken a step towards the door.

  ‘Yes!’ Grace said. ‘Let me do this my way.’

  ‘I must stop you. Listen. Sit down. Please, Gracie.’ Lydie tightened her grip on Grace’s arm.

  ‘Ouch! That hurts. For God’s sake, pull yourself together, Mum. I’m as sad as you are about Dad, and I have to sort it my way. Which is by going back to work. Doing something. I feel the need to be painting right now.’

  She tried to shake her off but Lydie grasped even tighter; she could feel her nails beginning to dig into Grace’s skin through her jumper.

  ‘Mum!’ Grace yelled.

  ‘Please, Gracie, sit down.’

  ‘Why? Why are you calling me Gracie all the time? You hardly ever do that. That was Dad’s name for me. Not yours.’

  ‘It’s your dad I want to talk to you about. Sit down. Please?’

  The two women sat, Lydie with her hand still holding firmly onto Grace’s arm.

  ‘Okay. But then I’m going. Five minutes. You can’t run my life for me any more. You can’t make me run The Gallery or go back to Bath to suit what you want of me.’

  ‘No. But there’s something I have to tell you. Ralph was your dad and always will be. But Jonty is your biological father.’

  There, she’d said it, and in the saying she let go of Grace’s arm before folding her own hands meekly in her lap. She knew Grace would not want her anywhere near her now. But she’d faced the truth, told Grace herself, rather than risking Jonty having to do it, which would have hurt Grace even more.

  ‘Tell me this is grief talking, Mum,’ Grace said. ‘A joke.’

  ‘I can’t.’

  ‘Jonty?’

  ‘Yes.’

  There was an almost endless silence in the room then. Although Lydie could hear outside noises; the ferry clanking as the landing platform hit the cobbles on the shore, gulls shrieking, a car’s horn and the drone of a plane high in the sky.

  ‘Did Dad know?’ Grace said at last.

  ‘No. I don’t think so. I never told him.’

  ‘Well, thank God for that, because there’s no thanks to you, is there? I didn’t have you down as devious, Mum, although there’s always been a sort of shell around you, I suppose. Dad all jokey and happy and hugging you, and you just stood there taking it, giving nothing much back. I often wondered why. Now I know. You bitch. You complete and utter bitch for doing that to Dad. And me, I suppose, although I think it is the lowest possible thing you could have done to him.’

  Grace had lowered her voice quite considerably, although by accident or design Lydie couldn’t tell. She knew only that it was rather threatening, and that she deserved to be threatened.

  ‘I know. I know. You can call me what you like and it would all be true. I’m sorrier than you will ever know, but those were different times. Your …’

  ‘Shut it! Don’t even try to make excuses for yourself.’

  ‘I’m not. I’m just trying to explain.’

  ‘Well, don’t waste your breath. You’ve had three decades to explain but never managed to find the moral fibre to tell either of us.’

  ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘I don’t think you can begin to understand the meaning of those words.’

  ‘But you do believe me?’

  ‘About?’

  ‘About Jonty being your biological father.’

  ‘I don’t know. But I’m going to find out. In a way it all adds up. Our hair is the same. Our gestures. We both flick our hair back over our foreheads far more than is really necessary. Drew mentioned it. We even draw the same way, did you know that? No, don’t bloody bother answering that. Of course you did. And now I’m going to go and find out what he has to say about all this.’

  Grace jumped up, ran for the door, but Lydie ran after her.

  ‘Wait! He didn’t know you were his daughter when you went to work for him. Don’t blame him. Gracie…’

  ‘Don’t ever call me Gracie again. That was Dad’s name for me. How many times do I have to tell you that? Never, ever call me Gracie, it would be an insult to Dad. You’ve lost that right, to use my pet name. And is it the truth that Jonty didn’t know who I was?’

  ‘Yes. Not until we met at the hospital, he didn’t.’

  ‘Well, that explains why he hasn’t bothered to ring and see how I am, I suppose.’

  ‘I expect he hasn’t rung because he was waiting for me to tell you what I just have.’

  ‘I’ll save you the bother of doing that, then. I’m going now, okay? Don’t try and stop me because I’m just not interested in anything else you have to say at the moment.’

  ‘I love you,’ Lydie said, not knowing what else to say, although it was the purest truth.

  ‘Love?’ Grace said, stopping only to turn and stare at her mother. ‘I don’t think you know the meaning of the word. Just don’t expect me to reciprocate, because I don’t think I even like you at the moment. Cut tomorrow for going back to work, I’m going now!’

  And then Grace was gone and Lydie stood still in the room not moving for a very long time, so that when she did at last move she felt weak and faint. And cold. Very, very cold.


  Grace pushed open RED’s heavy door. It squeaked as usual, a grating squeak that jangled Grace’s already jangled nerves. What was she going to say? Driving up from Dartmouth she’d had about a dozen different screenplays running through her mind – none of them would have made comfortable viewing. Yet, strangely, she’d felt very calm, in control.

  ‘Drew?’ Grace called quietly into the silence.

  Someone had been working here since the accident. The hoist had a new fixing; wire to replace the hemp rope that had snapped when Becca had lost it completely and caused the accident that had put Grace in hospital.

  Grace touched her forehead with a forefinger, feeling for the scars which were receding daily now. The doctor at the hospital had told her she would have just hairline scars, like recently healed scratches, with any luck. And that if she kept out of the sun they would hardly show.

  And Grace could see that there were some new sculptures waiting to be packed ready for shipping – a child-sized figure sat hugging her knees; a head and shoulders of a young woman; a dog of indeterminate parentage, ears drooping, tail held low, trailing the ground almost.

  Just like me, that dog, Grace thought – father unknown. So someone had been busy in the time between her accident and now.

  ‘Drew?’ she called again. She wanted it to be Drew she saw first. It would be easier to have Drew around – if not in the same room – when she talked to Jonty.

  But there was no answer. She pulled the door shut behind her and its squeak echoed in the high-ceilinged studio. But still no one came to investigate the noise.

  Picking her way carefully over the shards of pottery that seemed to always litter the floor Grace made her way to the decorating room, touching a pot here, a bowl there as she went. She could easily pick out the pieces she had decorated as opposed to the ones Drew had done. And it felt good to have had a part in making such beautiful things. Would Jonty still want to show her how to throw pots now?

  But neither Drew nor Jonty was in the decorating room. There was a large bowl, an old-fashioned wash bowl size and shape with the drawing completed, sitting waiting to be decorated. Grace found some brushes, selected some glazes; not the usual colours and shades that Jonty insisted the bowls be decorated, but deeper shades, denser shades. She began to carefully fill in the drawn leaf shapes. Purples and rusts, deep turquoises and maroons – the colours slid easily over the smooth surface as Grace worked. Jonty had to be here somewhere if the door was open, she would simply carry on working until he turned up. But although she listened hard for sounds of him walking in the flat overhead, or moving things around up there, there was only the sound of the brush on the side of the jam jar of water as she cleaned it, and the soft shush of her own breathing for a very long time.

  ‘Grace?’

  Grace did not look up; she wasn’t ready to face Jonty yet.

  ‘Hi,’ Grace said, ‘I hope you don’t mind but I simply had to do something. Paint, you know. I know these aren’t the usual colours but I like them. I’ll pay for the finished product, don’t worry. I’d like to keep this one anyway. A sort of souvenir.’

  She knew she was gabbling, stalling, putting off what she wanted to say, to ask of Jonty. Her father.

  ‘Souvenir? You’re leaving?’

  ‘Not if you don’t want me to,’ Grace said. She selected a deep yellow ochre, outlined the stem of a spray of oak leaves, doing it very slowly, very carefully, taking her time.

  Jonty seemed to be waiting for her to finish, or maybe he didn’t want her to work for him any more – it was impossible for Grace to tell from the silence which it might be.

  ‘We have to talk, Grace,’ Jonty said.

  ‘Mum’s already told me. Just now. She took her time.’ Grace carried on painting. Deftly she made delicate yet strong strokes of yellow ochre. She cleaned her brush, mixed two glazes together to create a colour all her own. How calm she was; she felt her power as the wronged half of this tableau. ‘That you’re my biological father,’ she finished, so that there would be no doubt what she was meaning.

  ‘Can we talk about this somewhere else?’ Jonty asked, his voice – to Grace – seemed anxious; anxious that she would say no.

  ‘There’s no one here to hear us,’ Grace bridled. ‘Where’s Drew?’

  Grace tried out her newly created glaze on a scrap piece of dried clay, stalling for time. Here she was in control, but upstairs in the flat it was Jonty’s personal space and the conversation could go all his way. She didn’t want platitudes and excuses – already the truth was hurting enough.

  ‘Drew’s still in Birmingham. Amy’s had her op. But we’re not talking about Drew and Amy, are we? We need to talk about you.’

  ‘Not upstairs though,’ Grace said. ‘I want to be outside.’

  ‘Okay. The river? We can walk up along the Dart, it’ll be quiet there.’

  For answer, Grace slid from the chair, grabbed her bag and hoisted the strap onto one shoulder. She began walking towards the door. By the new sculptures she stopped, placed a hand on the head of the bust.

  ‘Becca?’ she said. ‘When she was younger?’

  ‘It’s that good?’ There was a smile in Jonty’s voice.

  ‘You know it is,’ Grace said. ‘Are you selling it?’

  ‘I think so. I put it up on the website and had three orders the same day. So …’

  ‘It’s a sort of tribute to the good times in her life, rather than the bad?’

  ‘Yes,’ Jonty said. ‘Somehow I knew you’d understand. But look, we can still go upstairs and talk. But …’

  ‘No! By the river. Come on.’

  Grace was out through the door. She began walking down the hill towards the river, leaving Jonty to lock up and go running after her.

  Without speaking they wove in and out of the crowds on the High Street who weren’t in the hurry Grace and Jonty were.

  At the bridge Jonty touched Grace’s elbow and steered her towards Vere Island, then onto the pathway that snaked along the river’s edge up to Dartington.

  Reaching the weir they stopped to watch some canoeists going over the rocky edge, landing with a plop in the stiller waters below. They stood watching for a long time without speaking; a comfortable sort of silence.

  ‘I’m sorry, Grace,’ he said the second Grace moved and hoisted her bag higher onto her shoulder, ‘about Becca, about the accident.’

  ‘Well, we do have something to thank her for I suppose.’ Grace turned to look at Jonty then. The sun was struggling to get through the leaves of the hazel trees, making flickering shadows across his face.

  ‘Meaning?’

  ‘If Mum hadn’t turned up at the hospital and you hadn’t seen her, well …’

  ‘Becca had worked it out for herself,’ Jonty said. ‘That’s why she tried to harm you. She’d seen the likeness in you to both me and to Lydie. For some twisted reason she thought I would want to be with Lydie again and not her, and she couldn’t handle that.’

  Grace and Jonty pushed their hair back from their foreheads at the same time, and Grace laughed.

  ‘We’ve got the same annoying little habit,’ Grace said. She pushed her hair back again, but more theatrically this time.

  ‘It’s the hair that’s annoying,’ Jonty said. He stuffed his hands into his pockets. ‘I’m not going to touch mine again between here and Dartington.’

  ‘Impossible,’ Grace said, but she stuffed her own hands into the pockets of her jeans in a gesture of solidarity. ‘Now, shall we walk and you talk?’

  ‘I owe it to you,’ Jonty said.

  ‘And to Mum?’

  ‘To Lydie most of all, I think.’

  ‘Right. I’ll be the judge of that when I’ve heard your version.’

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  ‘Always and forever?’ Becca said.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Like a marriage?‘Til death us do part?’

  How did Jonty answer this one? Becca was disturbed, he knew that, and he felt a duty to
look after her. But should he add to the delusion?

  ‘Until you feel better about things,’ he said at last.’Just until then.’

  Jonty’s hands were in his pockets but still he was finding it hard not to reach for Grace’s hand. He knew now, without any doubt, why he had felt a connection with her. He’d never held her hand when she was a little girl but something in him wanted to do that now.

  But if ever there was cause to be thankful for a potentially fatal accident, then he had to be grateful that Becca had provided that scenario. That now, the truth was out.

  Jonty glanced at Grace wanting her to speak first, but she was looking resolutely ahead. He would have to open the conversation, say something to get the words flowing between them.

  ‘I loved your mother very much,’ he said at last.

  ‘But not enough to stand by her?’

  ‘Okay. I’ll take that on the chin. But you have to understand the times.’

  ‘That’s what Mum said. I’ll tell you the same as I told her – I think that’s just a euphemism for excuses.’

  ‘Maybe. And there was the class thing. I was poles apart from Lydie’s family. We were an arty family, dirt poor really. My parents were killed when I was seven. Becca raised me, even though she was only a teenager herself at the time of their deaths.’

  ‘It’s still excuses!’

  ‘Okay, okay, I know that. And I can understand your anger. You’ve a right to be angry.’

  ‘I was pretty angry with Mum earlier, but she’s got this super cool persona, sort of Grace Kelly in her born-again virgin stage. It drives me wild – I could slap her sometimes.’

  ‘Mmm,’ Jonty said, ‘Lydie always did have a regal look. That was part of the attraction – that she even looked at me in the first place. I was a bit hippy with my long hair and my boho clothes, I suppose.’