by Yvette Clark
“I’m sorry, Dad,” I whisper. “For what I said. I could never hate you.”
“I know that, my love. It’s going to be okay. You never know, you might even enjoy New York.”
“Just until the end of the year?”
“Just until the end of the year.”
Dad takes my hand, and we continue home. For the first time in a very long time, I’ve taken the most direct route and walked right past the pain.
Chapter Twelve
Cake for Breakfast
We are spending my birthday weekend at my godmother’s house in the Cotswolds. I love Honeystone House. During the week, Kate lives in an apartment near Marylebone High Street, in London, but Kate, her husband, Matt, and her moody Russian blue cat, Pasha, spend most weekends at Honeystone House, which is as beautiful on the inside as it is out. Kate is an interior designer, and Honeystone was in Elle Decor and Homes & Gardens magazines. There was a glossy spread of pictures of the outside of the house, along with photos of Kate wafting around her living room wearing a gauzy white kaftan, acting as if she’s cooking in the kitchen, and looking pensive and expensive sitting on the window seat in the master bedroom pretending to read. We always laugh at that picture, since Kate noticed after it was taken that the book was upside down.
I always sleep in the Peony room when we stay here. All the bedrooms in Kate’s house are named after flowers and painted the color of their petals. Matt refuses to call the rooms by their names. He says it’s pretentious. Instead, he calls them “the second biggest bedroom” or “the one where the radiator needs checking.” Dad sleeps in the Primrose room, and Imogen sleeps in the Bluebell room, which she loves because of the enormous claw-foot bathtub. She spends hours in there using up whole bottles of expensive bubble bath. Kate says she doesn’t mind, but I would if I were her.
Each bedroom is painted in the Farrow & Ball shade closest to the flower it’s named after. In the Bluebell room, this is number 220, Pitch Blue. The Primrose room is painted in Pale Hound, number 71, and Peony is decorated in Nancy’s Blushes. Nancy’s Blushes, color number 278, is described on the website as “a true pink named after the scrumptious rosy cheeks of a much-loved little girl called Nancy.” It’s funny to think that Nancy is probably an old lady now. I hope her cheeks are still scrumptious. Farrow & Ball has the absolute best paint names.
Kate and my mum are equally responsible for my obsession with Farrow & Ball’s paint colors and names. When I was little, Kate would give me thrillingly sharp pairs of scissors, which I used to painstakingly cut out the small colored squares from stacks of paint charts. I would sit next to her, surrounded by colors, wallpaper samples, and swatches of linen, silk, and velvet while she worked on mood boards for her clients. There’s a photo of the two of us that Mum took, both with our heads down, concentrating hard. In the picture, Kate is prettily biting her lip, and I have my tongue stuck in my right cheek, a sure sign of hard work. I would point to a color, and Mum would tell me the name from the chart. Mum liked to read aloud the color’s origin story from the website. She said it made paint much more interesting when there is a backstory to make you daydream about Edwardian drawing rooms, the moors of Scotland or, in the case of India Yellow, “the pigment collected from the urine of cows fed on a special diet of mango leaves.” That is one of the best color descriptions ever.
Kate helped me decorate my bedroom using paint from dozens of tiny tester jars, as I couldn’t pick a favorite. As well as the loveliest colors, I chose the ones with the most magical names, like Skimming Stone, Babouche, which is named after the color of Moroccan slippers, Elephant’s Breath, Charlotte’s Locks, and Arsenic. Arsenic! What an absolutely brilliant name for a shade of paint. It was named after the bright green of the wallpaper in Napoleon’s bathroom, which contained arsenic and slowly poisoned him. I want to work as a creator of paint when I’m older. Kate said I would make a “discerning colorist,” so that is what I call my chosen profession. People always look at me strangely when I tell them that’s what I want to be when I grow up, as if it’s not even a real job. Well, it is, and I’ve already started on my portfolio of colors. Some of my ideas are Unicorn’s Tears, which is a soft white with a tiny hint of silver, Whimsy, the palest aqua, Owl Feather, a yellowish-brown, and Kate’s Contrary Kitten which is the color of the fur underneath Pasha’s chin. Kate says they are all amazing, and she helped me write a letter to Farrow & Ball with these suggestions along with blended watercolors to show the approximate shades. We sent it ages ago, and I haven’t had a reply yet, which has really annoyed Kate. She says she’s going to switch to a different designer paint brand if I don’t hear back this month. I won’t let her.
I wake up early on my eleventh birthday. I’m happy to be eleven, because ten was the worst year ever. Last night Pasha gifted me the great honor of sleeping on my bed, but as soon as I sit up, he gives me a baleful, green-eyed glare, springs off the mattress, and pads downstairs. I follow him through the silent house and find Dad sitting in the kitchen, drinking an enormous mug of tea.
“Happy birthday, Kitty-Cat. It’s still very early. How did you sleep?” Dad pulls me in close for a hug, and his stubble catches on my hair.
“Why are you up so early?” I ask.
“Well, this time eleven years ago I had a completely sleepless night, and I’ve woken up early on your birthday ever since. It was six a.m. when you finally graced us with your presence.”
“Tell me again about when I was born.” I’ve heard this story a hundred times but love it, and Dad never seems to get tired of telling it.
“Well, Mum was determined to have a natural birth, even though I pointed out that she wouldn’t choose to get her wisdom teeth removed without an anesthetic, and after your sister was born, she vowed she would take every drug on offer. Of course, she decided we should walk to the hospital. When we got to the bottom of the hill, it was obvious that she wasn’t going to make it to the top.
“‘I’ll run home and get the car,’ I said. ‘You wait here.’
“‘No! Rob, you can’t leave me. Look, there’s a cab at the traffic light.’
“Sure enough, the friendly glow of the orange sign showed the taxi was available, although I seriously doubted the cabbie would stop to pick up a woman who was clearly on the verge of giving birth, and a hysterical-looking man. I jumped into the street in front of the cab, offered him twenty pounds to drive us to the top of the hill, and, miracle of miracles, he agreed.
“‘Bloody hell, love!’ the driver said, turning around to get a good look at Mum. ‘Can you hold it in for ten minutes so we can get you to the hospital and into a nice bed?’ In a lower voice, he whispered to me, ‘My wife’s had four babies, and I’m telling you, mate, she’s about to pop.’
“‘I can hear you,’ Laura shouted. ‘I’m pregnant, not deaf. Now shut up and bloody drive!’
“When we screeched up to the hospital entrance, I leaped out of the cab and raced inside to get a doctor, nurse, porter, basically anyone I could find who was wearing a uniform. When I got back to the taxi a few minutes later with a nurse and a porter pushing a wheelchair, Laura was standing by the cab calmly chatting with the driver. This made my frantic screaming of ‘The baby’s coming, the baby’s coming!’ seem overly dramatic, and the nurse rolled her eyes at the porter as she helped Mum into the wheelchair.
“‘Good luck, darling!’ shouted the cab driver. ‘Get them to give you plenty of gas and air. My name’s Frank, by the way, if it’s a boy.’
“And thirty minutes later, you arrived.” Dad grins at me and ruffles my hair.
I smile as I always do when I hear the story of Frank and the mad dash to the hospital. Every time we take a taxi, I ask the driver his name, just in case it’s Frank—then I’ll be able to tell him that I am Kitty Frances Wentworth, who was almost born in the back of his spotless cab.
We wait until everyone else is awake before I open my presents. Kate bustles around the kitchen with Matt, producing bowls of freshly pick
ed raspberries and blueberries from the garden, croissants warmed in the oven, and cups of hot chocolate with tiny marshmallows bobbing in the foam. Kate places the birthday cake Mrs. Allison made for me in the center of the table, and we all admire its splendor. The cake is in the shape of an artist’s palette, made from vanilla sponge with seven cookie paint jars each filled with different colored custard. There are three intricate chocolate paintbrushes, which you can dip into the custards to taste the different flavors: vanilla, cherry, mango, lemon and lime, peanut butter, chocolate, and toffee. I love it!
“Mrs. Allison would have had a winner with this cake on that baking show,” says Matt.
“If the god of baking hadn’t turned on her,” says Dad. “That made for the most awkward television viewing ever!”
Kate gives him a friendly smack on the shoulder and tells him to be quiet and light the candles.
Birthday breakfast has included cake for as long as I can remember. Mum said it was a way to make sure that the whole family got to sing, blow out candles, and eat cake together on the big day.
“Evenings were always so busy with work, school, ballet, swimming lessons, baths, and bedtime. When you were small you and Imogen used to go to bed at eight, Dad didn’t get home from work until after six, and there was no way I was going to give you a sugar rush just before bedtime. Hyperactive toddlers can be entertaining in the morning but not so much at ten at night, so cake for breakfast became our thing.”
On top of the pretty heap of presents and cards is the cream envelope with “Kitty’s 11th Birthday” written on it in Mum’s purple swirly handwriting. I pass it to Dad.
“Can you keep it for me for later? I’m not ready yet,” I say.
Dad sets the letter softly on the shelf behind him.
“It’s there for you whenever you want to read it, my love.”
As soon as everyone has wandered off to various parts of the house, I slip back into the kitchen and grab the letter. I want to be on my own when I read it, so I head out of the back door and go to my favorite part of the garden, the enormous weeping willow tree. It’s as tall as a house, and I always feel safe in its leafy embrace. With the letter on my lap, I sit there for a while, listening to the sounds of the garden and watching the chinks of sunlight peep between the leaves. My hands are trembling when I pick up the envelope, and I open it as carefully as I can, trying not to tear it as I remove the folded paper and open the letter. A small package tumbles into my lap. It is wrapped neatly in tissue paper, which is exactly the same color as a newborn chick. I decide to read the letter first. Gran always taught us that it is impolite to open the present before the card, so I always open the card first and study it for five seconds, a respectful amount of time, before unwrapping the present. In the familiar, loopy handwriting that I’ve seen hundreds of times before on shopping lists pinned to the kitchen bulletin board, or Post-its stuck on the table saying things like “buy butter,” “dentist at 4,” or “Cleo to vet,” Mum wrote:
My darling Kitty,
I’ve started this letter about twenty times already, but Dad says I have to get on with it, so this will be the one. Also, I’m feeling guilty about wasting all this lovely writing paper, so here we go.
First of all, happy, happy eleventh birthday, my gorgeous girl! I love you so much and wish you a year full of sunshine, smiles, and adventures.
When I first talked to Dad about writing these letters for you and Imogen to open on your birthdays, I told him the three rules I am determined to stick to:
I’ll keep the letters brief—two pages ideally. As my English teacher used to say, “brevity is next to godliness.”
I’ll do my very best not to make them maudlin. (If you don’t know what that word means, please look it up later ☺.) My goal is to make you smile, not shed a tear. Crying is fine though, in fact, the therapist in me would say that doing both is the healthiest response. The mum in me just wants the smiles.
Every year I’ll give you a charm for your bracelet and write a little bit about what it means, which will hopefully keep me on track for rules one and two.
You should open the present now. I bet you waited!
Inside the tissue paper is a silver star. It’s a solid and surprisingly heavy little thing, with gently curved points. Holding it in my hand, I continue to read.
Nobody knows what happens to us when we die, Kitty, which is good, in a way, as it can be anything I want it to be in my mind. I like to think that sometimes I’ll be able to look down and see you. Not all the time, because that would be intrusive, and there are some things a mother clearly does not want to see! But at the right times, those moments when you’re walking along the street, or sitting at your desk, or laughing with your friends, or holding your own baby in your arms, those days I might be able to see you. Some of the big moments and lots of the little everyday ones. When I picture this, I think of sitting on a star, dangling my bare feet, and I’m so full of love that I swear you will be able to feel it shining down on you.
Do you know that the farthest star we can see with the naked eye is in a constellation called Cassiopeia? Please have a look for it on a clear night. It is 16,308 light-years away. I’ve never really understood light-years, even though Dad has been trying to explain them to me. He tells me that light can travel about six trillion miles in one year, and that’s how it’s calculated. You probably already knew that, but if not, ask Dad about it. One thing I know for sure is that I have trillions of light-years of love for you that can never stop shining. Remember, even when you can’t see the stars, even during the daytime when it seems as if they’ve gone away, they haven’t, they’re still there, shining down on you.
I love you to the moon and stars and back again.
Mum xxx
I put down the letter and let out a huge breath that I didn’t even know I’d been holding. I can feel my heart pounding like an over-wound clock, but I can’t hear anything, no birdsong, no lawn mower droning in the distance, not even the leaves of the great willow tree, which are shifting in the breeze. I wonder how much time has passed since I started reading the letter. It feels like hours, and I’m surprised to see it’s still daylight rather than dusk. How strange that the thing I was most worried about turned out not to be true at all. Mum sounds exactly the same in her letter. She was as real to me as if she were sitting next to me, right here under this tree, smiling as she tucked my hair behind my ears and telling me to go and look up the word maudlin in a real dictionary and not on a phone.
Mum was big on vocabulary. She was passionate about words: reading, writing, crossword puzzles, Scrabble marathons, songs, poems, books, and plays. She inhaled words the way that I breathe in colors. Imogen and I have always had advanced vocabularies, but we learned so many new words over the last twelve months. Words that no child should ever have to learn, not in the way that we did, when they’re happening to someone you love more than anything. Words like palliative care, metastasize, malignant, and pleural effusion; the vocabulary of cancer became part of our lives.
I wipe the tears from my eyes and reread the letter until I know it word for word. Then I don’t know what to do, so I add the star to the charm bracelet, where it nestles against the heart. I lie back, the letter on my chest, and hold up my arm to watch the bracelet with its two dangling charms. At least that heart has company now.
Chapter Thirteen
Excess Baggage
Over the next few weeks, I carefully open and reread the letter dozens of times. Then I start to worry that I should limit my reading to once a week. What if all the folding and unfolding weakens the paper or the light fades the ink, or I get tears or snot on it? This letter needs looking after, like an ancient Egyptian manuscript or the Magna Carta. I go online and research archiving and preservation of valuable papers. Even though my letter is only a few weeks old, it’s priceless and, as Gran always says, prevention is better than cure. Kate offered to make photocopies, but I don’t like that idea. I find some crystal-clear ar
chival bags, as used by the British Museum, and a collector grade three-ring binder, which costs thirty pounds. The Archival Preservation Society specifically cautions against confusing their superior products with those “inexpensive vinyl-clad school binders, which may cause image transfer and acid migration.” Dad says a standard binder will be just fine, but I show him the website, and he studies it and my concerned face before agreeing to buy the collector’s folder and the archival bags for Imogen and me.
At first, Imogen had laughed when I told her about my document preservation research, but she and I spend a pleasant Saturday afternoon together decorating our folders. She covers hers with pictures of things Mum loved: peonies, Dartmoor ponies, books, David Bowie, Bamburgh Beach, sandpiper birds, and photos of us. I cover mine with a rainbow of her favorite Farrow & Ball colors: Lulworth Blue, Wevet, Peignoir, Dimpse, Mizzle, and Mole’s Breath. Mizzle, color 266, is a lovely made-up word to describe the color of the sky when there’s mist and drizzle—it’s mizzling.
As Imogen hasn’t had a birthday since Mum died, she doesn’t have a letter to put in her binder yet, which makes me feel secretly superior. I’m a bit ashamed of feeling that way, so I tell her that she can read my letter as often as she likes, as long as she asks me first and never takes it out of the archival bag.