Miss Mary's Book of Dreams

by Sophie Nicholls

  ‘I’m sorry. I –’

  ‘No. No, Ella, you’re right.’ Bryony shook her head. She took a gulp of wine. ‘I have to do something about it. I’ve been putting it off. It’s hard, you know. I don’t want to –’

  ‘Everything all right?’ Billy appeared, a bottle wrapped in a white linen napkin gripped expertly in his hand, poised to top up Bryony’s glass.

  ‘Yes.’ Ella forced a smile. ‘Everything’s fine.’

  She held out her own glass. At the same time, her other hand found Bryony’s and gave it a squeeze.

  Tendrils of mist curled around her shoulders and a little rush of air tickled her cheek.

  Mamma appeared at her shoulder again, swirling the last drops of champagne around her glass. Ella could hear what she was thinking: I don’t like that man and who is this woman? Why are her Signals so strong?

  ‘Mamma,’ said Ella, taking Bryony’s arm. ‘I want you to meet my friend, Bryony. Properly, I mean. I think you two will have lots to talk about.’

  *

  It was the Signals that Fabia recognised first. She was trying hard to concentrate on what this friend of Ella’s, this Bryony, was saying, but here they were again, more restless and insistent than the mist of greens and greys that twirled around Bryony’s head. They didn’t seem to be coming from Bryony at all and yet they tangled with Bryony’s words and filled up the air around her. Ripples of brilliant white, like morning sun moving across painted stone walls; that rushing sound, like the sound of your own body as you pressed a seashell close to your ear; and, of course, that pulsing of vivid red, the exact colour of pomegranates.

  Only one person Fabia had ever known had Signals like these, as fragrant as the earth in the village garden and as clear and nuanced as her voice had once been, pronouncing the words in the picture books, pointing with her finger – popp-y, yell-ow, tab-le, star – or calling her in to the cool shade of the terrace: Farah, my dear one . . .

  At first, she thought it was only wishful thinking, a trick of the light and her imagination. She was so happy to see Ella, her carina, and how her little Grace had grown. Wasn’t it only natural that her thoughts should move to Maadar-Bozorg?

  But then she heard the voice again, reaching her across all the other noise in the room, that deep, melodious voice, cutting through time and memories, calling her by her real name: Farah, my dear one. Farah . . .

  It couldn’t possibly be. But still, she turned.

  The small figure stood just inside the doorway, in the pool of light cast by the chandelier. She was wrapped from head to toe in the folds of a large black overcoat and a richly patterned woollen shawl. Her dark eyes met Fabia’s and she threw her arms open.

  ‘Child! Precious one. Come!’

  For a moment, Fabia struggled to understand. Maadar? Here in York? Then surely it must be true? That she really had passed over. Suddenly, all of Fabia’s dreams and instincts, her worst fears of recent weeks were confirmed. Maadar-Bozorg’s spirit had been calling to her all these past nights and had finally found her here, tonight, on the eve of All Souls, the Dia dos Muertas, the day of Ella’s birth, when the stretched seam between the two worlds – that of the living and that of the dead – opens up, making a gap just big enough to slip through. Fabia felt her heart contract in her chest. Maadar. Her beloved Maadar-Bozorg. She should have gone to her, long ago. If it was true, that she had passed on to the next world, then she, Fabia, should have been there, at the moment of her passing, sitting by her bedside, stroking the backs of her hands, whispering the words that would carry her safely on her journey.

  But now Maadar-Bozorg’s spirit was walking towards her, arms still outstretched. Fabia could see the amethysts flashing on her fingers. She wondered, anxiously, if she would be angry that Fabia had failed her in her last hours?

  ‘Whatever’s the matter, child. You look as if you’ve seen a ghost?’ The spirit of Maadar looked amused. The dimple in her left cheek quivered.

  Fabia put out a hand and touched Maadar’s sleeve. ‘Maadar-Bozorg? Is it really you?’ She grasped Maadar’s shoulders and pressed her close. Maadar-Bozorg’s body, through the layers of wool, felt real enough and warm, although her bones were as slender and delicate as a bird’s. She realised, with a mixture of elation and sorrow, that if this Maadar-Bozorg really was alive, then she was suddenly a very much older woman than the one that Fabia had left behind in Tehran.

  ‘Maadar! I’m sorry. It’s just that . . . I can’t . . . Well, I can’t believe you’re actually here.’ She hung her head in embarrassment. ‘I should have come to you.’

  Maadar-Bozorg made a clicking noise with her tongue. ‘Probably,’ she said, her eyes gleaming. ‘But I’m here now, child. And what a journey.’ She pulled a face. ‘I was on my way to America. But I called ahead, talked to David.’ She looked Fabia in the eye. ‘And he told me that this was where to find you. So, of course, I couldn’t resist the opportunity to meet these great- and great-great-granddaughters of mine.’ Her gaze darted eagerly around the room. ‘Ah, yes.’ She pointed. ‘Am I not right? This little cherub with the big eyes?’

  She took Fabia’s hand and began to move determinedly towards the shop counter where Ella had perched Grace, her chubby legs sticking straight out in front of her.

  Ella saw them coming. Fabia watched her scoop up Grace and saw her eyes travel from Maadar’s face to her own and back again.

  ‘Mum? Mum, is this –? No, it can’t be.’

  Fabia could only nod. Her mouth was dry. Her eyes were wet with tears.

  She watched Maadar-Bozorg reach up and take Ella and Grace in her arms. ‘Happy birthday, little one,’ Maadar said. ‘Little Ella. Little dove with your sweet little chick.’ She took Grace’s cheek between her thumb and forefinger. ‘I came to wish you a very happy birthday.’

  16

  To keep harmony at home: Grow cornflowers, delphiniums and bluebells close to your house. Dry the blue blossoms and sprinkle them discreetly in the corners of every room. You may also take one hair from the head of each person in the family, braid the hairs together and bind the ends with a blue silk thread.

  – Miss Mary’s Book of Dreams

  Through the grimy train window, Bryony watched the fields gradually give way to warehouses and blocks of flats.

  She opened her purse and slid out the gilt-edged prayer card, rubbing it between her fingers. She admired again the image of Our Lady standing in the middle of a shaft of sunlight, her tiny face serene with eyes downcast, her hands held out at her sides, palms upwards, her robes painted a brilliant blue, her crown of gold stars. She turned the card over and traced the inscription with her fingertips, her lips moving silently as she pronounced the words inside her mind in the way that she’d so often seen Mother doing: O most Holy Virgin Mary, Mother of God, although most unworthy of being thy servant, yet inspired by confidence in thy extreme goodness, and filled with an earnest desire of serving thee, I this day choose thee, in the presence of thy son, of my angel guardian and the whole court of heaven, for my special advocate, mother and queen . . .

  She paused, her eyes suddenly welling with tears. This wouldn’t do. Not today, of all days. No, she must pull herself together. That’s exactly what Selena would say, of course, if she were here right now. She’d always scorned what she called Mother’s ‘voodoo’, her ‘mumbo jumbo’. And Father had often joined in too. And this was why it had fallen to Bryony to carefully put aside the few small, personal possessions that had remained after Mother’s death: the prayer card that Mother had carried for as long as Bryony could remember in the large red mock-leather purse next to the weekly housekeeping and the savings stamps, the silver cross and Lourdes medal in their little velvet pouch, the handkerchief with the lace edge, embroidered with a border of cross-stitch violets by Mother’s earnest schoolgirl’s fingers.

  Now the train wheezed into the station and Bryony folded these precious items back into her own purse, then stuffed it to the bottom of her handba
g and stepped out onto the crowded platform. The sudden surge of people carried her easily up the steps and onto the bridge spanning the tracks. Up here, the wind hurled rain against the enormous plate-glass windows. She wound her scarf more closely around her neck, tucking the ends into her collar.

  Leeds. She hated it. The leaden sky reflected in smoked glass and towering office buildings. The big old frontages of blackened stone with their carved emblems, their gold-painted baubles and the statues that seemed always to leer down at her. And then, of course, her father.

  She wished again that she didn’t have to do this, that she hadn’t come. She cursed Selena under her breath for making her. And even as she did, she knew somewhere inside her that it was her own fault. She didn’t have to give in or do what Selena wanted. Except that sometimes it was easier than doing anything else.

  The scene from last night’s party had been playing over and over in her mind. Ed’s face. The way he’d looked when she’d said that she wasn’t going home with him, not yet. The little thrill of power she’d felt in the company of Ella and her mother. She wished now that she could summon it again.

  Outside the station, the sharp smell of exhaust fumes stung her nostrils and litter whipped around her ankles. It was only a few short blocks to Father’s offices, so she walked, head down, past the waiting taxis and angled her umbrella into the rain.

  The receptionist behind the high marble desk took her name and pronounced it briskly into her phone, but not before Bryony had felt her gaze pass swiftly up and down her body. It was a look of pity – perhaps even of thinly disguised contempt – and Bryony felt her face flush, patting at her wind-blown hair then staring down at her shoes on the polished marble tiles. She’d worn her best shoes too – suede courts, even though they pinched – but the receptionist’s face, her false bright smile and the way that she pointed her in the direction of the lift, told her everything. She still didn’t pass the test. She probably never would.

  She avoided her reflection in the mirrored back wall of the lift. She didn’t need any more upsets today. She’d decided to come to Father’s office this time, remembering what a mistake it had been when she’d shown up at the house before, the expression on the face of Adele, her stepmother, and her teenage half-sister, Cosima, loitering in the hallway, curious to get a look.

  ‘Cosima, go to your room,’ Adele had said, frowning, showing Bryony into the oak-panelled study at the front of the house.

  ‘Cup of tea?’ she’d asked grudgingly, and Bryony had shaken her head. They had nothing at all to say to one another, she and this elegant woman in her cashmere twinset and designer jeans, her ears and throat adorned discreetly with Father’s money.

  Now the lift doors pinged, slid open and she stepped out onto plush grey carpet. Too late to turn back. She swallowed hard and curled her fists.

  ‘Bryony Darwin. To see my father,’ she said to another impossibly groomed woman who was tapping bad-temperedly at a keyboard. ‘And no. He’s not expecting me.’

  Her father looked older than when she’d last seen him. He wore a white shirt without a tie, and his wiry, grey hair was trimmed very short.

  ‘Bryony,’ he said, and pointed to a chair, positioning himself carefully behind a huge mahogany antique desk. ‘So. This is a bit of a surprise,’ he said, raising an eyebrow. ‘It’s been a while. How are you?’

  ‘I’m sorry. I would have made an appointment except that – except –’

  The words hung in the air between them. Except that I thought you might not see me. Except that I didn’t know if I could actually go through with this at all.

  Her father made a little gesture of dismissal. ‘I hope you know that you don’t need an appointment,’ he said. ‘I am your father, after all.’

  Again the words seemed to quiver in the air above the desk. It was as if, thought Bryony, watching her father’s face, he were considering what that really meant for the first time.

  ‘So how are you?’ he said again. ‘Are you well?’

  ‘Yes. Thank you. Very well.’

  ‘Good. Glad to hear it. Because I was worried there for a while. You know. I wouldn’t want you to . . . well, to go down the same road as . . . I think you know what I’m saying. Your mother never did get the help she needed.’ Her father fiddled with the cap of a silver ballpoint pen, finally laying it down on the desk’s polished surface, where it rocked for a while, throwing a wobbly disc of light over the white walls.

  ‘Yes, I know.’

  He made a bridge of his fingers and leaned forward across the desk. ‘Not that I didn’t try. You do know that, Bryony, don’t you? I did try to do my best by her. I really did.’

  Bryony stared down at her hands in her lap. They looked for that moment strangely unfamiliar as if they were not her own, as if she’d never seen them before. The familiar wave of nausea swept through her – that shaky feeling. The taste of anger, hot and ragged, and underneath it a cold, gaping sadness.

  She forced herself to look up.

  Her father waited. He would make her ask for it, she knew, make her say the words out loud.

  She turned her face to the window. She felt the tears prick at her eyes again. She couldn’t hold his gaze.

  ‘How much?’ He was opening a drawer, taking out his chequebook.

  ‘Five thousand.’ She could barely get the words out. The shame of it, of coming here and asking. Her cheeks burned.

  There was a sharp intake of breath. Her father bent over the desk, shaking his head. His pen made a scratching sound.

  Now he was holding the cheque out to her. Right now, she should reach forward and take it. But he seemed to hesitate.

  ‘This money,’ he said, and she felt his eyes scrutinising her face. ‘It is for you yourself, isn’t it?’

  She nodded. She never had been able to lie to him.

  He sighed then and put his head in his hands. ‘It’s Selena again, isn’t it? She sent you here, put you up to this. I just know it.’

  Bryony shook her head. She felt the panic rising. She’d blown it. Now it would all have been for nothing. She shouldn’t have come. Selena’s face swam into her vision, her lip curled at the corner: I asked you to do one little thing, Bryony. One stupid little thing . . .

  She looked at her father, looked deep into his eyes, which she’d forgotten were blue like Selena’s, and with those flecks of amber.

  ‘OK.’ Her father sighed again and held the cheque out to her. ‘If she’s in trouble, if she’s got herself into one of her damn messes, I’d advise you to stay well away from her, Bryony. That’s all I have to say on the matter. Don’t get involved.’

  Bryony took the cheque, stowing it carefully in the inside pocket of her handbag. Her hands were still trembling.

  ‘Thank you, Father.’ She tried to force a smile.

  The stretch of carpet from his desk to the door gaped in front of her. She could feel his eyes on the back of her neck.

  ‘Bryony,’ he said as she put her hand on the polished doorplate. She turned.

  He was at the window, a slight figure silhouetted against all that sky and glass, and suddenly he looked so small, she thought, small and weary.

  ‘Keep in touch,’ he said. ‘Write to me from time to time. Here at the office. That is, I mean, if you’d like to.’

  His hands, which had been folded neatly together in front of him, fell to his sides. Bryony thought again of the prayer card, of Our Lady’s hands in that gesture of supplication, palms upwards.

  She didn’t know what to say. She didn’t dare trust herself. She felt that, if she opened her mouth, if she began to speak, a great rush of words would spill out. She imagined them for a moment, lying around on the carpet, words with jagged edges and some of them with little points like knives. Yes, a great mess of words it would be, spilling all over the beautiful carpet, pulsing and shaking and jabbing and pointing.

  No, she couldn’t speak. She couldn’t even nod anymore. She turned away from him and opened
the door.

  *

  Fabia sat behind the counter, her needle slipping in and out of the red satin ribbon.

  Maadar-Bozorg was sleeping in the flat upstairs, worn out after her long journey. And Fabia was minding the shop. It felt strange to be here again, perched on this same stool, her sewing spread in her lap. At first, she hadn’t been sure if she liked it. Funny, she thought, how things were never quite as you remembered them.

  There were things about the shop that she could see so clearly in her mind’s eye, standing on the deck at her house in California, leaning into the salt wind: the patina of the polished floorboards, the pear-shaped droplets on the chandelier, which threw rainbows across the white walls at a certain time of day, the sound of the rain splashing from the leaky guttering. All these things were just as she’d pictured them.

  But then there were things she hadn’t remembered at all: that dimple in one of the old glass windows, how when you sat at a particular angle it distorted your view of the courtyard; and the way that the afternoon light seemed to shimmer just above the cobblestones.

  And, of course, so much had changed, too. The shop windows and every spare surface that had once spilled glittering necklaces or velvet hat stands or pairs of shoes were now piled high with books. Just yesterday, Ella had swapped the window display of pumpkins and broomsticks and black crêpe paper bats’ wings for a Christmas scene. Fabia had watched Grace sprinkling fake snow on a cardboard model of a Hansel and Gretel house and she’d found herself thinking about the day she’d first opened the shop, how she’d stayed up all night, trying out dresses on the mannequin in the window, folding silk scarves into fan shapes, arranging shoes and hats.

  Thirteen years ago – more than a decade – and yet it might as well be a lifetime. But here she was now, her fingertips slipping over the thin silk in her lap, the winter sunlight striping the polished wooden floor and falling across the backs of her hands.

  The rhythm of the needle soothed her, as it always did. In and out, in and out. The clock ticked and Grace murmured softly to herself, running toy cars up and down the table legs and in between the bookshelves.