Maker of Footprints

by Sheila Turner Johnston

  He shifted slightly and brushed his fingers across the picture.

  “You’re good too.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Knowing not to turn the light on above it. Knowing that some photographs are best seen in dim light.”

  They stood for a minute in silence, looking. Then Jenna said, “It’s like watching a forest floor in winter twilight. When your breath is coming in clouds and you have gloves on and every step is crisp and crackly.”

  His head turned towards her slowly. “Yes,” he said. “It was exactly like that.”

  Jenna turned away, self-conscious. “Well, I’d better get back downstairs before Adam sends out a search party.”

  Paul moved aside. Jenna was half way down the stairs when she heard his voice above her: “He’s called Fred.”

  She paused, looking up over her shoulder. “Who’s called Fred?”

  “The beetle.”

  The rhythmic strokes of the hairbrush finally slowed to a stop. Dianne looked at Paul in the mirror of her dressing table. He had become quieter as the evening had worn on, and now he seemed tired and drawn. She touched his hand as he set down the brush.

  “What is it, darling? Tired?”

  He kissed the back of her neck, but his lips neither lingered nor wandered. He turned away and pulled back the bed covers.

  “Just a bit.”

  She was disappointed. She could never imagine having enough of Paul Shepherd. He slid between the sheets and turned on his side. She slipped into bed beside him and leaned over his shoulder.

  “Sure your tired?” she asked. She waited. She kissed his bare shoulder.

  “I’ve a headache,” he said, his eyes staying closed.

  Surprised, she said: “Isn’t that my line?’

  He didn’t reply. She rolled onto her back. Hell! How would Paul react if she was as moody as he was; if she threw tantrums, or sulked when he had annoyed her? She looked at the back of his head on the pillow beside her, at his fine, almost black hair curling into the nape of his neck. He was very still.

  She answered her own question. He wouldn’t care. He would just wait until she got over it and came back to him. So far, she always did, and he knew it very well.

  She nestled up to his back, feeling his warmth, his rigid stillness. She sighed. What a tiny room this was. What were they all doing at home now? And what was Luther doing? Did he still miss her? Since they had moved over here, Luther hadn’t contacted her once. Probably still nursing his broken heart. Absently, she ran her fingers down the ridge of Paul’s spine. He didn’t move. Creative types were always moody. She closed her eyes, working out how long she would stay here before she insisted on going back to London. Paul would get this notion out of his system and then he’d begin to miss the life, the rich clients. And they would want him back. Already the phone calls were coming. Where are you? We need you for this wedding and that cover shoot. Amanda absolutely has to have you for the christening, darling. She sighed again. Good God! Was there anything you could even call ‘society’ over here?

  In the early hours of the morning, just as the very edge of light was nudging past the blinds, sleep left her slowly as she became aware that she was being kissed. Paul was on his elbow behind her, leaning over her, kissing her ear, her cheek, turning her over to kiss her mouth, burrowing down along the line of her throat. His hands began to move across her body.

  Afterwards, he held her very close and she lay warm and snug, knowing that if she were a cat she would be purring. She felt his slight intake of breath, the little rise of his ribs, as he spoke again.

  “Dianne?”

  “Mmhm?”

  “I want a child. I really want a child.”

  2

  JENNA’s FATHER STROLLED around the crowded church hall speaking to everyone, his infectious laugh spilling into the noise and chatter of the Harvest Supper.

  “And how’s my girl getting along?”

  Jenna held another cup under the spout of the coffee urn and pressed the top. She turned to smile at him.

  “Fine, Dad.”

  He put a hand round her waist and looked at the three men and three women who sat around the table nearby. “So is she looking after you all right?”

  They all nodded vigorously.

  “We’re fine, Donald. We’re being looked after very well,” said a tiny woman with a crumb of shortbread caught on her lip.

  “You must be very proud of Jenna.”

  “Indeed I am. We’re proud of them both. I’m just sorry Luke didn’t come, but he’s got a lot of work this year. Needs to get the grades. He has to keep up with his big sister.”

  He moved on. Jenna continued filling cups and when she had finished she walked back to the hatch and pushed the empty urn across to the kitchen.

  “So where’s Adam?” asked a woman who was refilling milk jugs. “I saw him with you in the service.”

  Jenna looked around. “I’m going to look for him. He might have gone outside for a bit of air.”

  Where was he indeed? When she had told him that she had promised to help out at the Harvest Supper at her father’s church, Adam had said he would come along and give a hand too. People here had met him before, so he wasn’t news. But still, she would have liked to be feeling as if he were with her.

  Jenna went through the hall, along the passage and into the deserted church by the door next to the pulpit. The flowers and fruit, grain and loaves filled the darkened, silent sanctuary with shapes and scents. Only two lights still burned, high in the roof beams. She picked up an apple that her father had knocked onto the floor in the enthusiasm of making the final point of his address. She climbed the pulpit steps and set the apple carefully back between two oranges.

  For a moment, Jenna leaned on the lectern and gazed over the rows of chairs. Each row had a little bunch of greenery attached to the end next the aisle. There was a lot of hard work in this decoration. She could see her mother’s hand in it. The mallow in the large display near the porch was probably from the huge bush at the manse gate. Cora Warwick would have directed operations on Saturday afternoon with the precision of a sergeant major. No vase, flower, apple or cabbage was in its place without the express permission of the minister’s wife. Any potato found hunched in an unapproved spot was the subject of a detailed investigation.

  Jenna smiled as she went down the pulpit steps. The congregation was very loyal to her parents; they loved her father and were in awe of her mother. She both loved and admired them. She just couldn’t live with them. Her brother Luke was planning university and independence also. At least Jenna had stayed in Northern Ireland. Luke was getting out.

  “Stupid place,” he’d said once over tea. “I’m not wasting my time on it.”

  Her father hadn’t let it pass. “But Luke, it’s places like this that are in need of people to stay and use their influence for good.”

  Luke had pushed his chair back. “Well, good luck to them.” He stood up, his lanky frame broadening into young manhood.

  “What’s ‘good’ anyway? Everybody thinks it’s something different.” He pushed his chair in. “Seems to me, trying to be ‘good’ is part of the problem.”

  Jenna remembered how there had been a silence when he left the room. Cora stirred her tea. “Don’t worry, Donald. It’s only a phase. He’ll come round.”

  For once Cora was wrong, and for once she could do nothing about it. Luke’s first two choices of university were in Scotland. His third was in Wales.

  On a high windowsill half way down one aisle, Jenna stopped to study an arrangement of dahlias. Some people didn’t like being in an empty, silent church. Jenna loved it. She had grown up with churches. Busy, empty, full, sad, happy, tense, bright, dark. Worship-noisy, prayer-silent. She knew them in their every mood. She reached up to touch one of the great dahlia heads. The rich earthy scent of a church at harvest would be in her memory always.

  She put her head on one side thoughtfully. The flowers reminded her of
the picture of the frozen carpet of leaves. She was looking at these flowers in dim light also. Would Paul say that was right? Or do these need the full blaze of light to display the glory of their woven petals? They were meant to bloom in sunshine after all. A tiny insect crawled from the dark bowl of one crimson petal.

  “Hello, Fred,” she whispered. She laughed at herself. Realising that the church door onto the street was probably locked now, she turned to go back into the hall and out the other door to see if Adam was outside. A faint noise came from the church porch. Curious but unafraid, she turned back and went on down the aisle to check it out, her footsteps soft on the red carpet.

  She recognised Adam’s voice and quickened her step. Just before she went through the door, she stopped. He was on the phone. He was saying, “Look, I’d better get back. I’ll be missed.”

  Pause. “Yep, see you tomorrow.” Pause. “Me too.”

  He was tucking his mobile back into his pocket when he saw Jenna. He looked startled and spoke quickly.

  “Hi, Jen. Did you think I’d vanished?”

  “Into thin air. You’re supposed to be helping.” She took his arm. “Come on. Plenty of dishes await you in the kitchen.”

  “OK. I’ll even brave your mother and do my duty.”

  When they were near the door beside the pulpit, Jenna said, “Who were you ringing?”

  “Oh, just Mum. I like to check in with her now and again. She gets lonely.”

  “You’re a very thoughtful guy,” she said.

  Dianne Shepherd walked briskly along Royal Avenue. It was lunchtime and the main shopping thoroughfare was crowded. She had bought three pairs of shoes and a pashmina in an effort to get over the latest row with Paul.

  She went in to Marks and Spencer’s and found a free table in the café to eat a sandwich. Paul had brought up the subject again. How could he? She thought he understood. They hadn’t exactly spelt it out to each other. They had married much too fast to have discussed everything they should have discussed beforehand. But, my God! She ripped her sandwich apart. She had explained it the first time, when he had stunned her the night his brother and his girlfriend had visited. He was behaving as if she was just passing her time until the babies came along. She didn’t want to be a mother, and she couldn’t imagine what it was like to want to be. The thought of being pregnant made her feel sick. She looked at the polish on her long oval nails. How could you change nappies with those? They’d have to go. And she would smell of baby sick and her complexion would go pasty as she lost sleep and walked the floors with a crying baby at night. Paul said he would share all that. She believed he meant it. She didn’t believe he would do it.

  She had moved to Belfast with him. He had wanted to come back so urgently that she had said yes. She had left her father with his big house in London; she had left all her wealthy friends, partying their way round each others’ houses. Her friends had names like Thomasina and Arabella and Rupert. And Luther.

  It had been at Arabella’s house that she had met Paul. Arabella had arranged a silver wedding portrait for her parents. Paul was a trendy young portrait photographer and Arabella had agreed to his outrageous price without a thought. Whatever the price, she wouldn’t notice it missing from her bank account. Besides, Arabella had developed a huge crush on him as soon as she walked into his studio, and what Arabella wanted she got. At least that was always the way it had been. The fact that he wasn’t married merely cut out an inconvenient complication.

  Dianne was visiting when Paul called at Arabella’s for a preliminary chat with her parents and to check out the location. Within the week, Paul and Dianne had their first dinner date and within a fortnight Arabella had to sit with a fixed smile as Dianne raved about this stunning man.

  Now, in Marks and Spencer’s, on a cloudy autumn day, after a fierce row over breakfast, the waters were muddied. And why did he suddenly want children? “What would you want to bring up children here for anyway?” she raged. “They wouldn’t meet the right people.”

  Paul had given her a look of disgust. “You’re such a snob.” Then he left the house and she had no idea where he was.

  She sat back and fiddled with the handle of her coffee cup. Always she gave in. Always it was she who did what he wanted. His was such a powerful, almost hypnotic personality, that it was exciting to please him. She clenched her fist on the table. But she would not give up this one piece of herself. She would not.

  Her mobile phone was on the table. She looked at it, willing him to ring. She picked it up and punched the speed dial for his phone, then immediately cancelled it. He would see her number on his phone. One missed call. What would he do? Where was he? He didn’t talk about his work very much, but she knew he was working to re-establish the reputation he had gained in England. He had turned the little box room into a study until he could find a suitable studio to rent. A huge computer screen had appeared on the desk. He had tried to explain digital photography to her one day but she had got bored and he hadn’t bothered her with it again. Just get on with earning the money, Paul! I don’t care how you do it.

  Dianne left the café and pushed her way past all the women’s fashions without a look and stopped in front of the racks of men’s shirts. A light blue one caught her eye. It had a hint of a white stripe, barely visible. She picked it up and imagined it on Paul. It would bring out the colour of his eyes, those eyes that had sparked like flint this morning; the same eyes that could crinkle with laughter or go smoky with desire. She carried the shirt to the wall of ties and rifled through them. It would have to be a perfect match. Everything had to be perfect for Paul.

  As Dianne put her key in the door, she could smell cooking. Herbs. A hint of garlic. She set her keys on the tiny table in the narrow hallway and dropped her bag. Paul was in the kitchen. He was humming to himself and chopping something. She came through the sitting room and stopped in the kitchen doorway. He was wearing an apron with the tapes wound twice round his waist and tied at the front. It was one she had been given as a wedding present. “I hope it’ll fit him,” her friend had giggled as she handed it over.

  Paul looked up at her briefly and then back at the chopping board.

  Dianne gestured at the hob where steam was rising from several saucepans. “Is this a peace offering?”

  “It’s dinner. But it can be a peace offering too if you like.”

  “I would like that.”

  There was a single red rose on her plate. A candle shaped like a snooty Siamese cat flickered gently in the centre. He was trying, but there was a distance, a harder edge to his glance.

  Later they curled up on the sofa. He thumbed through to a film, one he knew she wanted to see but had missed so far.

  “That’s wonderful, darling. But you should have checked with me. I don’t feel like it tonight. She pushed herself away from him a little. “I think I’ll have a shower.”

  He raised an eyebrow. “Can I come too?”

  “Could I stop you?”

  “Do you want to?”

  She stood suddenly and made a dart for the door. “Come and find out!”

  Some time later, wrapped in a towel, she sat on the bed and gave him a parcel. She had even bought gift wrap and a tag. He was standing in a green silk bathrobe towelling his hair.

  “What’s this? It isn’t my birthday.”

  “So what?”

  He ripped the paper and looked down at the shirt in its cellophane wrapper, the tie folded on top. At first she thought he didn’t like it. Then he looked round at her with mischief in his eyes. He pulled it from its wrapper and searched for all the pins and cardboard until it was free.

  “Don’t go away,” he said, and left the room.

  She lay back on the pillow. She wasn’t going anywhere. Soon, the bedroom door was flung open and Paul entered with a proud flourish of his hand, pirouetting to the end of the bed. He was wearing nothing but the shirt, buttoned up to his chin. The tie was wound round his head and dangled over his left ear. In his
teeth he held the red rose.

  She laughed so hard she gave herself a stitch. He stroked the rose across her stomach and then began to crawl across towards her. She reached for him, anticipation making her flush with ready desire. As her fingers touched his back, she murmured, “Just imagine if we had a baby. It would probably start howling to be fed at this moment!”

  He went cold beneath her fingers in an instant, and rolled away from her.

  Damn!

  Paul squinted at the clock on the bedside table. It was nearly three o’clock in the morning. He looked round at Dianne. She was sleeping quietly. He pushed back the duvet and slid out of bed. He felt around the floor. The first thing he put his hand on was the shirt she had bought him. He discarded it and searched again until he found the smooth fabric of the bathrobe. He tied the belt and slipped out of the room.

  Downstairs he stood at the window of the sitting room and looked out at the night. He had dug half-heartedly at one flower bed but the rest was still a mess. A car went by beyond the gate. The street lamps pooled their light in patches along the pavement.

  He looked up at the night sky and an irresistible urge took a grip of him. He padded barefoot through the kitchen and drew the bolt on the back door. Outside, the overgrown lawn was tussocky under his feet. There were faint city sounds funnelling between the dark shapes around him: a dog barked, a pigeon muttered sleepily somewhere. Across the next garden, a cat froze on a fence, its eyes yellow points in the blacker black of its face. Overhead, tufts of dark cloud drifted across the stars. The more he looked the more stars there seemed to be. Hundreds. Thousands. Millions. The moon was a thin sickle, giving the stars a chance to shine even on the edge of the city.

  He looked down at the grass. There was no colour in it in the night. It looked gray. He hunkered down and plucked a daisy, its petals folded tight.

  “Hey,” he said aloud, “it’s getting a bit late for you. There’ll be a frost soon.” He had startled a small insect. It too seemed gray in the starlight as it scrambled across the daisy leaves.

  He stood up. Dropping his arms, he let the bathrobe slip from his shoulders to fold silently onto the grass at his feet. The quiet breeze licked across his skin. The night chilled him to the marrow and told him through every pore that he was alive, he was young, he was strong.