Echoes of Grace

by Caragh Bell

  Then there was her much-loved eighteenth birthday photo. She was standing next to James and he was laughing. He had surprised her that night. She had received an email in early November saying that he would not be back for Christmas. Devastated, she had cried her eyes out. He had never missed her birthday, not since she had moved to London. During those first stormy months, he had been her rock. When she woke up screaming for Maggie, he was by her side straight away. When she had refused to go to her new school, he had cajoled her into it. Then, his email had knocked her for six. It was just unthinkable that her favourite brother would miss her birthday.

  Then, just before midnight on New Year’s Eve, James had appeared in the doorway of the conservatory. His dark hair was slightly longer and his face was covered in stubble. He had come straight from the airport and still had his camera slung over his shoulder.

  ‘Borealis!’ he called over the din.

  She saw him in the candlelight and her heart had filled with happiness. Throwing herself into his arms, she hugged him fiercely, just as the clock struck twelve.

  ‘Happy Birthday,’ he murmured. ‘Did you really think that I’d miss it?’

  She barely saw James now. His work took him all over the world, but for the past year he had been stationed in Syria. He had started as a nature photographer, freelancing for the BBC, spending weeks perched on a rock to get one shot of a rare snow leopard. Then, he had branched out into journalism and decided to take the photos that no one wanted to see: horrific portraits of misery and death caused by senseless violence and terrorism.

  Now, stationed in Aleppo, he travelled around interviewing locals and taking portraits of the terrified civilians. He was good to keep in touch, emailing every couple of weeks. He didn’t want to upset Gloria as she was recovering from having breast cancer a few years before. He knew that she hated his line of work and worried constantly about his safety. All that aside, he couldn’t imagine being anywhere else. The people had touched him; he wasn’t ready to return to England and ignore the human suffering that was mounting every day. His friends gave him grief over his ‘white knight’ behaviour. He was a privileged white male from the West – why then was he involved in something that he couldn’t possibly change or control? Risking his life every day for personal satisfaction and a sense of ‘doing good’? James ignored their criticism. Far better to be on the front line, physically helping a family hide from ISIS. than a sofa-activist who posted pictures on Facebook and reacted to horrific new reports with an icon of a crying, sad face.

  Aurora would get the odd Facebook message, entitled ‘Hey, Borealis’. It would normally be a fleeting ‘hello’ with little or no news about his whereabouts. He deliberately shielded her from the horror of his quotidian life. Instead, he asked silly questions about Pyramus and Thisbe or enquired how she was coping with Justin’s artistic temperament.

  Oh, how she missed him.

  He had kept his word. When they had first moved to London, he had pleaded with Henry to abandon the boarding-school idea. After many arguments, the old man gave in. He couldn’t bear to see his darling girl upset. Aurora, decked out in her new blazer and skirt, followed Laura through the school gates and had never looked back. Sitting in a classroom was a new experience for her, so it took a while before she got used to the rules and regulations. Within months, she began to shine in languages and music, but her real love was English literature.

  Her teacher, Mr. Crowley, was of Irish descent and so introduced his students to literary giants like Heaney, Yeats and Kavanagh. She used to love watching him recite poetry, his glasses held between his index and middle finger, his eyes closed as he softly spoke of love and loss and life. There was something about the words – the beautifully crafted words – that touched her heart, despite her young age. When she heard of Kavanagh’s isolation: a poet amongst a rural farming community who felt different to everyone else, she related to him immediately. He didn’t fit in and nor did she. No matter how hard she tried, her classmates still saw her as strange.

  Not that they were mean about it. On the contrary. She made new friends easily and quickly. One girl in particular became her best friend almost straight away: her name was Theresa Carter and she was a keen literature fan too. Together they would sing and write small madcap plays to perform during break time. They sat together in most classes and auditioned for the school musical. When Aurora got the part of Artful Dodger in the Christmas play, Theresa displayed no jealousy or animosity. In fact, she was delighted for her friend.

  One summer day they were lazing on the grass in the back garden. Aurora was making daisy chains. Theresa sat up straight and looked serious for a moment.

  ‘Aurora,’ she began.

  ‘Hmmm?’

  ‘I’ve decided to change my name.’ Her blue eyes shone and her red curls bounced around her freckled face. ‘I’m never going to be famous with a name like Theresa, so I’ve decided to change it to Ophelia.’

  Aurora started. ‘Are you serious?’ she exclaimed. ‘Wow, that’s some change. Why choose Ophelia?’

  ‘Well, it’s a cool name for a start and she had some great lines in Hamlet.’

  ‘I suppose.’

  ‘I’ll definitely get noticed with a name like that. I mean, look at you! You have a brilliant name for show business. Aurora Sinclair! It’s perfect.’

  Aurora had never really thought about it. Her name was her name. However, when Theresa pointed it out, she could see how wonderful it would be to have it in lights above a theatre on Broadway.

  ‘Right, Ophelia it is,’ she said, shaking her friend’s hand. ‘Daddy is slow to change, so don’t get insulted if he continues to call you Theresa when you come over next weekend.’

  ‘Oh, that’s fine,’ she said breezily. ‘My parents laughed when I told them, so I don’t think they’ll be calling me Ophelia quite yet.’

  Now, years later, Aurora and ‘Ophelia’ were sharing a flat together. They had both taken French, English and Music for their A-Levels, been accepted into RADA and left with glowing reports. Justin Debussy had cast Aurora right away when he saw her perform a scene from Cat on a Hot Tin Roof, enchanted by this beautiful girl with the cloudy brown hair. His first play was about the American Civil War and so Aurora was the perfect choice for the Southern Belle heroine, as she could speak in any accent required.

  Two plays later and she was still his leading lady. She never complained and put up with his demands. She stayed late and allowed him to criticise her interpretations, change them and then revert back to her original take on a particular scene. She trusted him completely and although he had been tempted to ask her out for a drink, something had stopped him. Mixing business with pleasure had never worked in the past and he had a gut feeling that she was going to make them both very famous.

  Ophelia picked up work quite easily too. She had a natural presence on stage and directors loved her long red curls and bright-blue eyes. ‘I was always Annie in school productions,’ she would quip. ‘Stereotyped or what?’ She and Aurora still got on like a house on fire. They took turns at cooking dinner; Ophelia stuck to basics like penne and tomato sauce, whereas Aurora tried more exotic dishes like ramen and tagine. Gloria, although not a proficient cook, had tons of recipe books lying unused on the shelf near the kitchen window. As a teenager, Aurora would read anything, from the back of cereal boxes to the instructions on a packet of Uncle Ben’s – so she read the recipes. She had grown up with Maggie making bread and dinners from scratch – how hard could it be?

  So, Aurora the Chef emerged. She had started with basics like white sauce and spaghetti bolognese. Then, as she became more confident, she tried to emulate Maggie’s cherry pudding. James had three helpings and praised her to the sky, scraping his bowl clean. She had glowed with pleasure, delighted that her baking had been a success.

  Laura had taken one taste and spat it out. ‘Ugh, did you add any sugar?’ she gasped, wiping her mouth clean in disgust. ‘That’s just vile.’

&n
bsp; Aurora’s hand flew to her mouth in horror. ‘Oh no! I forgot. Oh, it must taste awful.’ She gazed at the pie in dismay. She had been concentrating so hard on the batter mixture that she had forgotten to add sugar to the sour cherries.

  James glared at Laura and then turned to smile at Aurora. ‘Well, I thought it was amazing,’ he lied, winking at her and patting his belly.

  Aurora smiled at him gratefully. He always looked out for her; he had eaten three helpings of the bitter fruit pudding and had been so encouraging. The next time she made it, she got it right. A quick phone call to Maggie had worked wonders as the old lady gave her tips and quantities. Aurora, who had a red notebook for recipes, wrote ‘Maggie’s Cherry Pudding’ in her blue scrawl at the top of the page. It made her feel close to her as it was her link to her old life.

  The next Sunday morning, she made drop scones for the whole family. William wolfed down three and held his plate out for more.

  ‘You’re not bad for a first-timer,’ he concluded as she slipped a freshly made pancake onto his plate.

  Now, Aurora tried her best to make healthy meals each evening. Her funds were low as rent was high in that part of London. She made it her business to go to the market each week and stock up on fresh produce. The traders grew to recognise the beautiful young girl who religiously bought fruit, vegetables and fish. She was a lovely sight to behold on a frosty morning.

  Now she wrapped her shivering body in a fluffy robe and placed her towels on the radiator. Turning on the water, she waited until it was hot enough and then hopped in. Immersed in the cascade of heat, she massaged her scalp with whatever shampoo came to hand. She wasn’t fussy when it came to beauty products; in fact, she rarely wore make-up and always let her hair dry naturally. Ophelia, on the other hand, was constantly trying to find a way to conceal her freckles. Her dressing table in her room was overflowing with little tubes of foundation and pallets of eye shadow. Aurora couldn’t understand her friend’s aversion to her natural beauty.

  ‘Freckles are lovely,’ she told her honestly. ‘I had a friend once and his freckles were a part of him. They complemented him.’ Freddie’s smiling face flashed through her mind.

  Ophelia laughed scornfully. ‘Are you mad? Anyone who’s afflicted with these stupid stains understands my struggle. Now, pass me the Maybelline.’

  The shower water grew cold towards the end, just like it always did. She squeezed the droplets from her hair, grabbed one of the waiting towels and wrapped her hair in it. After drying her skin vigorously, she pulled on her robe and padded back into her bedroom.

  Suddenly, her phone buzzed in her bag. Rummaging around, she eventually located it and unlocked the home screen. It was a message from Laura, asking her to meet for drinks down town.

  Aurora beamed. Her older sister wasn’t due back from New York until later in the week so it was a lovely surprise. Laura had a high-flying job at a PR firm which required her to travel quite a bit. She was naturally good at convincing clients and had climbed the ranks of the company quite rapidly. She now had regular companies who used her skills and her boss adored her.

  She texted back eagerly and suggested a wine bar in Soho. Laura replied instantly, saying that she’d see her there in an hour.

  An hour? That didn’t give her much time. She released her mane from its towel. She rubbed some Estée Lauder cream on her face and pulled open her wardrobe. It was packed full of dresses, skirts and jumpsuits. All her jeans and trousers were neatly stacked on a shelf, along with her tops and T-shirts. She liked to keep things tidy; Maggie had taught her that.

  Ten minutes later, she was ready. Her long legs were clad in black tights and long black boots; her short woollen dress was scarlet and added a Christmassy feel to the outfit. Her mother’s silver pendant glinted in the light. As promised, she rarely took it off. Her hair was slightly damp, the tendrils wavy as they flowed down her back. A smidgen of mascara and a touch of lip gloss and she was ready.

  Ophelia arrived home just as she was buttoning up her coat. Her red curls were contained by a purple beanie hat and her cheeks were rosy from the cold.

  ‘Hey, you,’ she greeted, hanging her green coat on the rack. ‘Where are you off to? Out on the town?’

  Aurora nodded, winding a black scarf around her slender neck. ‘Laura texted and asked to meet for drinks.’

  ‘Laura? I thought she wasn’t due back for a few days?’

  ‘Well, so did I.’ Aurora shrugged. ‘She’s never been predictable.’ She slung her bag over her shoulder. ‘There’s leftover quinoa salad in the fridge if you fancy it. See you later.’

  Ophelia hugged her gratefully. ‘You are an absolute star, you know. I was just about to ring up for a pizza and add at least five million calories to my already questionable diet. Now, I’ll be all virtuous with my healthy grains.’

  Aurora made a face. ‘You’ll thank me when we’re middle-aged and you still look like a twenty-year-old.’

  ‘Botox will help me with that, darling,’ Ophelia answered. ‘Botox and face lifts. Ophelia Carter will still be box office gold when she’s fifty!’

  ‘If you say so.’ Aurora laughed and blew her a kiss. ‘Talk later.’

  Chapter Fifteen

  Leicester Square was teeming with people. The Odeon’s lights sparkled in the rain and crowds moved in packs, chattering loudly. Christmas music blared from shops as Aurora passed and children squealed in delight as a man dressed as Santa walked around ringing a bell and booming ‘Ho, ho, ho!’

  There was a pungent smell of roasted nuts as she walked up into Chinatown.

  Laura was sitting by the main window of the small wine bar just off Old Compton Street. Her blonde hair was sleek and cut into a bob and she was dressed in a sharp dress coupled with black stilettos. A diamond bracelet dangled from her wrist and she was tapping furiously on the screen of her iPhone.

  Aurora walked up behind her and said, ‘Boo!’

  Laura jumped and dropped her phone with a clatter. ‘Aurora!’ she chided. ‘You almost gave me a heart attack.’ She reached out and hugged her stepsister tightly. ‘Good to see you though.’

  Aurora smiled and took a seat, draping her coat and scarf on the back of the chair. She shook out her long hair and picked up the cocktail menu. ‘What are you drinking?’ she enquired, eyeing Laura’s large glass of white wine.

  ‘Picpoul de Pinet,’ she replied. ‘It’s a lovely wine from Languedoc. I recommend it.’ She sipped it elegantly and put her phone to the side. ‘So, how’s the theatre? Is Justin still exploiting you?’

  ‘Oh, stop it!’ laughed Aurora. ‘He’s wonderful. I’ve learned so much from him.’

  ‘Still though, he gets some bang for his buck.’

  Aurora smiled at the waiter as he approached the table. ‘I’ll have a glass of that,’ she said, pointing to Laura’s drink.

  ‘The Picpoul,’ said Laura briskly, ‘and bring me another.’ She fiddled with the beermat on the table and took another gulp of wine.

  Aurora could tell that she was on edge, but she knew better than to ask.

  ‘Have you been home?’ she enquired instead.

  ‘Not yet,’ Laura answered, blushing slightly. ‘Well, I’ve been in London for the past few days but I’ve been staying at –’

  ‘Two white wines,’ interrupted the waiter, smiling broadly.

  ‘Thank you,’ said Aurora. ‘Happy Christmas!’

  She raised her glass, took a sip of the cool liquid and sighed. ‘Wow, this is nice. Good choice.’

  Laura took another large sip of wine and coughed. ‘What I want to say is, I’ve been in London for the past few days and I’ve been staying at Claridge’s.’

  Aurora’s eyes widened. ‘You have? Why? With whom?’

  ‘My boyfriend.’

  ‘Your what?’

  ‘I’ve been seeing this man for about six months and he’s perfect and I think I really like him and –’

  ‘Why have you not mentioned it?’ Aurora regarded her shrewdl
y.

  ‘Well, it wasn’t that I didn’t want to but –’

  ‘Is he married?’

  Laura choked on her wine. ‘Well, not exactly. I mean, he’s in the process of getting divorced …’

  ‘Divorced?’ Aurora squeaked. ‘How old is he?’

  ‘Um, around fifty-three?’

  ‘What?’ Aurora stared at her incredulously. ‘You’re only twenty-six, Laura. He’s twice your age. What will Gloria say?’

  There was a pause. ‘Well, I was going to invite him for Christmas. Do you think she’d mind?’

  Aurora didn’t answer. She could imagine Gloria’s reaction. Laura’s love life, or lack thereof, had been a sore subject for years. She’d had countless one-night stands and short relationships, but had no interest in getting married. Her mother often lamented how she would never have grandchildren as James was too busy staying alive, William was obsessed with the hospital and Laura had clearly stated that she would never tie herself down with a baby. ‘You’re my only hope, Aurora,’ Gloria would say.

  ‘So, where did you meet him?’ she asked eventually. ‘Why have we not heard about him before?’

  Laura took a deep breath. ‘Well, do you remember my friend Lydia? The girl that I worked with in Paris?’

  Aurora nodded. Of course she remembered Lydia. Years before, just after Gloria’s cancer diagnosis, Laura had flunked college, given up her law degree and taken off to Paris. There, she found a job as a waitress in a bistro on the left bank. Her excellent French and bubbly personality soon made her a favourite amongst the locals. Lydia, an Irish girl, who was of a similar age, had ended up as waitress there too. She too had dropped out of college and fled to the city of lights, desperate for a new beginning. The two girls had hit it off straight away.