In the half-light, she can just make out Will lying on the sofa, curled under a blanket. Outside the studio the dawn chorus has begun. Her head is pounding and her mouth is dry and dusty, as if she’s spent the night eating dirt. Worst of all is the shame. It unfurls inside of her, a huge, black mass.
Sliding out of bed, she tiptoes past Will and scrawls a brief apology on the back of an envelope. She leaves it propped against the kettle, then lets herself out of the studio, closing the door and scurrying shame-faced to her bike. She hadn’t thought it possible to make the situation with the Mortimers any worse, but as flashes of her conversation with Will return unbidden, she can’t help a low groan. What on earth has she done?
Chapter 26
What on earth has she done?
Lillian paces the floor of her bedroom, gripped by a terrible panic. How foolish, to think that she could meet Jack in the woods and somehow conceal the evidence of Charles’s brutality. Of course he would know something was wrong. And now he knows, she can’t help feeling afraid about what he might do with the knowledge. He seemed so angry. Will he keep the revelations to himself, or might he confront Charles in some misguided sense of chivalry and ignite a whole new nightmare? Upstairs, in her room, she torments herself with a hundred violent visions.
Yet somehow, more painful to face than her fears about what an enraged Charles might be capable of is the knowledge that in just a few hours, Jack will leave Cloudesley forever. Even though she herself has seen to it that he will leave – without her – this is, perhaps, the greatest torture of all. The irony that after the punches and blows she has been dealt, after the cruelty and abuse she has endured, that it should be Jack’s tenderness that should split her wide open is not lost on her.
Lillian’s hands won’t stop shaking. She drinks a little brandy, then lies on her bed and tries to sleep. But sleep won’t come. At some point in the night, she finds herself tiptoeing through the corridors of the west wing and standing outside the old nursery. The door is closed but she senses sound and movement behind it. There is the scrape of the ladder being dragged across the wooden floorboards, the clatter of a paint tin lid. Jack sounds furiously busy. She stands with one hand poised to knock before letting it fall, turning and heading back to her bedroom. What could she tell him that she hasn’t already said in the woods? There is only one way this can play out now. Jack must leave.
The night hours creep by until at last Lillian opens her eyes and sees the rosy blush of dawn caressing the tops of the beech trees. She would normally welcome the arrival of the sunrise, but today it marks the day that the room will be opened and Jack will leave Cloudesley. And with the sun comes one last dawning realisation.
In holding herself so tightly in the woods, in trying to hide the violent truth of her marriage to Charles, she lost her way, for she failed to tell Jack what he truly meant to her. Lillian knows she can’t bear the thought of leaving Albie, but likewise she cannot bear the thought of Jack leaving her and never understanding that her love for him was real. Not a summertime dalliance but perhaps the most important and meaningful encounter she has ever had. She has to find a way to explain.
Her eyes are gritty with tiredness and her hands are still shaking as she takes up a pen and paper from her dressing table and begins to write.
My dearest heart,
I once told you that the spark between us was so powerful it could steal the oxygen from the air around us . . .
She writes freely, allowing the emotion to rush through her pen onto the page, and when she has finished, she stares at the letter, rereading the words that have flowed so easily. There will be no more meetings in the woods. She will have to find another way to get the letter to him. And then she remembers: the one place in Cloudesley that still belongs to him, if only for one more day.
Her intention had been to slide the envelope beneath the door and leave it there for Jack to discover, but as she arrives at the end of the west-wing corridor, she is startled to find the door to the room ajar, the key she gave him all those weeks ago sitting in the lock and a splinter of green-gold light escaping into the hallway. The air is thick with the scent of paint and turpentine but there is stillness, too. A heavy silence. She listens for a moment, wondering if he could still be inside, then knocks lightly and pushes the door open a little further.
After the gloom of the corridor, the light-filled room requires a sudden adjustment. Lillian blinks rapidly, but even after her tired eyes have refocused she still isn’t convinced she is seeing properly. She stands fixed to the spot, staring about, not quite trusting what she sees. Perhaps she is sleepwalking.
She finds herself, by some miraculous feat, no longer standing in the old nursery but returned to the clearing in the woods. It is the ‘green cathedral’, the place she first kissed Jack all those weeks ago. The place where they laid out the stunned sparrowhawk, then watched it spring miraculously back to life.
All around, the smooth, grey trunks of ancient beech trees rise up from the walls of the room to tower over her, spreading their branches across the ceiling in a fan of tangled branches and leaves, paint and gold leaf cleverly combined to create the shimmering effect of a leafy canopy at its most dense and opulent. And yet it is not the clearing, not in any real or grounded sense, because instead of leaves, the trees taper up to a canopy of extraordinary feathers shimmering and spreading out like a peacock’s tail across the ceiling, a hundred green, gold and sapphire eyes gazing down upon her. Jack’s startling embellishments twist an otherwise literal interpretation of their woodland glade into a fantastical, dreamlike version of itself. Their green cathedral, more spectacular and beautiful than she could have ever imagined.
She moves closer to one of the trees and stretches out a hand, feeling instead of rough bark the smooth, cool surface of a wall. She can’t help but smile. The trompe-l’oeil effect is dazzling and disorientating in equal measure. Even the window shutters and cornicing have been painted to maintain the illusion of the trees, while high above her head the glass dome set into the roof spills light as if it were the sun itself, pouring through the canopy of eyes. The only other light falls from the glass windowpanes above the window seat, still flanked by the old green velvet curtains, which somehow appear to blend seamlessly with the painted scene. The whole effect is eerie and unsettling. Lillian feels unbalanced, no longer sure what is real and what is not. It is like that book she read to Albie once – the one where the boy walks through the wardrobe into another world. That’s what it feels like, she realises: as if she has stepped into another realm, a place both fantastical and otherworldly.
It’s not just the peacock-feather eyes that are staring at her. Her gaze finds other details: a shy muntjac deer peering out from the undergrowth, a squirrel, sitting high up in a tree holding a green nut between its paws, small birds flitting here and there. The tiniest details have been captured by Jack’s brush: a silver spider’s web, a creeping ladybird, a puffy white toadstool. The only thing missing is the sound of the leaf canopy rustling and the soft scuttle of insects moving across the forest floor.
As she spins in the space, she glimpses even more details between the tree trunks, rural vignettes painted in the distance, adding a greater sense of depth to the already dazzling illusion of the mural. Through the trees, Lillian spies a far-off scene of a village green, men dressed in cricket whites scattered across the lush grass. Another shows two fair-haired women sitting beneath a cedar tree, a winding stream at their feet. Further away she sees the stone monument at Coombe Hill rising up in the distance. A fourth cameo depicts a manicured lawn sloping up to meet a grand old house: Cloudesley, standing proudly, several peacocks strutting the grounds, a small boy throwing a ball to a grey wolfhound while the figure of a man lies on the lawn with a red sketchbook in his lap, drawing them. She smiles at Jack’s self-portrait, woven into the mural as an incidental detail.
The most poignant image of all is one she only notices as she takes another turn and gazes at the ceiling. In a single patch
of blue sky, a solitary gap in the dense canopy, she sees the outline of a familiar bird: a sparrowhawk flying free. She smiles to see it, remembering that first day with Jack in their woodland cathedral.
It’s then that she realises, finally, what the room represents. It isn’t just a playful depiction of their woodland place, a triumph of the mastery of illusion. This painted room is something else entirely. It is a declaration of love. It is a veiled tribute to their love affair – a depiction of the most precious moments they have shared, laid out in a secret code only she will understand. Lillian spins around, astounded, drinking it all in.
But turning again, she notices a section of the mural, painted low on the curved wall, near a propped ladder and a tangle of dust sheets. How did she not see the fox lurking there in the darkest shadows? It stands over its prey, dark russet fur, flashing amber eyes, an odd shock of white marking its crown and its white muzzle dripping and stained with fresh blood. And there on the ground before it, a second sparrowhawk, lying limply, bloody and torn, feathers scattered all around it.
It’s a savage moment in an otherwise idyllic scene. She reaches out to touch the section of the wall where the blood glistens, impressed at the realistic effect, but when she pulls her finger away she finds her skin wet and stained red. Not trompe l’oeil – not this time – but fresh paint that is yet to dry. It dawns on her that this is what Jack has been doing all night. He has been altering his creation with this final, brutal detail.
She stares at the limp bird and the blood and beads of shining saliva on the fox’s pointed teeth, studies the savage look in its slanting eyes and understands. It is Charles. Right down to the white tuft of hair on its russet crown and the amber eyes. Jack has revealed the truth about her husband to anyone who is prepared to look into the shadows. He has revealed the true, savage nature of Charles; and in this final vignette he is offering her a final warning: if she stays, she will be like the sparrowhawk: caught and crushed.
Lillian sways a little, losing her footing as though the ground beneath her feet were moving. She is already dizzy with exhaustion, but the room is too much to take in. She places the letter to Jack on the table next to his paints and brushes – her words striking her as horribly inadequate in the face of his creation – then moves to the window seat, where she collapses on the velvet cushion.
She stares at the fox, transfixed by the gore dripping from its mouth.
She gazes around at the trees and the feathers, the shimmering eyes watching from above.
She looks at the sparrowhawk flying free against the patch of blue sky. Freedom.
The room is a declaration of love.
She faces a man who will crush her if she stays.
But if she goes, an innocent boy will suffer, and so might her sister.
She feels the judgement of the thousand peacock eyes painted on the ceiling gazing down at her, waiting for her decision; but contemplating the awful truth of her predicament, she feels something give in her heart, as if a tightly curled bud has finally let go and allowed the first petal to unfurl.
The longer she sits there on the seat, looking around at the dazzling painting, the truth of Jack’s love spread out all around her, the more keenly she understands that there is only one thing she can do. She must leave with Jack. Even though it will break her heart to abandon Albie, even though she risks Helena’s continued care at Cedar House, she knows she must leave Charles before he can destroy her. She will find another way to protect those she loves and she will do it with Jack by her side.
The room feels stifling and airless. Dizzy with the decision, her head heavy with exhaustion, she tries to open the window behind her. The catch is stiff and after a half-hearted attempt, she gives up, leaning back behind the curtain, curling her legs up under her on the cushioned seat. The sun is warm on her back. She will wait for Jack. She will tell him her decision as soon as he returns. For she knows this is the one place he will come. His roll of brushes remains on the table in the centre of the room, his case of oil paints is still open. It feels as if she hasn’t slept properly for days but, having finally settled on her decision, she cannot leave until she has seen him. She closes her eyes, finally at peace. They will leave today. It is the only way.
When she wakes the room has performed another trick: the trees have disappeared, as if hidden by a thick mist. She wonders if she is still asleep, but then she smells the smoke, sees it rolling towards her, and she knows that it is no trick. This is no illusion. Something real and fearsome crackles and fizzes inside the room. An orange blaze moves towards her through the thick, grey air. Outside, a dog begins to bark.
A trail of flames, hot and red, creeps towards the window seat. Somewhere further away she hears furious banging and a voice rising up over the din. ‘Open up! Unlock the door.’
That’s odd, she thinks, remembering the key she saw in the lock, I didn’t lock it. The long velvet curtain beside her shifts in a hot current of air and she sees the first orange flame creep along its hem and start to curl up in licking flames. She pushes the fabric away and turns back to the windowpane, banging on the glass, but the catch is still jammed shut and there is no way she can force it open. The smoke thickens and the light from the glass dome above disappears. She begins to cough and for the first time fear hits her, a silent scream building in her throat. She is trapped in a burning room. ‘Help,’ she cries. ‘Help me.’
The pounding on the other side of the door increases and through the window she can just make out something or someone moving across the grass. ‘Help,’ she shouts again, banging on the windowpane. ‘I’m in here.’
She coughs again and cannot stop, every breath hurts, smoke hot and thick in her lungs. Instinctively she crouches on the ground and begins to crawl towards where she knows the door should be, but the heat in the room is building quickly and the smoke is so disorientating she loses any sense of direction. Something heavy and dark falls from above, landing on her legs. She sees the shower of orange cinders raining down on her, feels the searing pain on her skin. She closes her eyes and tries not to breathe. Behind her comes the sound of smashing glass. Please, she thinks, the darkness rising up to meet her, please help me.
Chapter 27
Everything is a jumble in Lillian’s mind, fragments of memory splintering and fusing. She is running through a London garden, hearing the fast patter of her sister’s feet behind. The high-pitched scream of an air-raid siren pierces the sky as she dives into the black interior of a shelter. The next moment she is trapped, lying in an airless room, a terrible pain in her legs and her lungs filling with acrid smoke as someone bangs on a wooden door. There is a loud explosion. The crackle of flames. Her sister’s cry. Shifting peacock eyes moving like a kaleidoscope all around her. She is pinned to the past – a butterfly trapped in a glass case – a caged bird fluttering at bars. She can’t breathe.
‘Lillian,’ says an urgent voice. ‘Lillian, it’s Maggie. You’re dreaming. Wake up.’
Lillian can’t wake up. The blackness is all-consuming.
‘Lillian?’
She feels a cool hand being laid against her forehead before the sound of footsteps once more, this time running away.
‘How did she seem to you?’ asks Maggie, more nervous than she cares to admit.
The doctor snaps open her briefcase and pulls out a prescription pad. ‘Her blood pressure is elevated and she does have a high temperature. I’m going to prescribe an antibiotic and a new medication to stabilise her blood pressure. I’d like to check on your grandmother again in a few days; but if you have any concerns before then, please call the surgery immediately.’ She writes the new prescription and hands it to Maggie.
‘Thank you. What about her breathing? She said she couldn’t breathe. She kept talking about smoke.’ Maggie looks at the doctor, baffled. ‘It was so odd.’
The doctor nods. ‘Everything seems normal now. It might have been a hallucination brought on by the fever . . . perhaps a bad dream or a panic attack
? The most important thing is to keep her well rested and hydrated. I don’t think it’s anything serious to worry about, but after the kidney infection earlier this year, I don’t want to take any chances. In the meantime, anything you can think of to lift her spirits – sunshine, conversation, old photographs, favourite pieces of music – it’s all beneficial. We like to take a more holistic approach with our elderly patients these days.’
Maggie sees the doctor out to her car and stands for a long time in the sunshine, thinking. Something to raise Lillian’s spirits.
Maggie hands her the piece of paper in the drawing room. She feels a little sheepish. ‘I’m sorry. I’ve held on to this for far too long. I should have given it to you the moment I found it.’
Lillian, lying pale and wan against her pillows, takes the folded page from Maggie’s outstretched hand. ‘What is this?’ she asks, unfolding it, her eyes scanning over the first words. ‘My dearest heart . . .’ she murmurs. She reads a couple more lines silently before looking up at Maggie, astonishment on her face. ‘Where did you get this?’
‘I found it in a drawer.’
‘Which drawer?’
‘In Charles’s study. His desk. It was jammed right at the back.’
Lillian stares down at the page in her hand, running her finger over the words, her lips moving silently. It’s as if she can’t quite believe her eyes. ‘All this time . . .’
‘I don’t know why I held on to it for so long. I’m sorry. It belongs to you.’
‘I never thought I’d see this again.’
Maggie hangs her head. ‘I knew it was private – something special that should have been shared between just the two of you.’
Lillian nods but doesn’t look up, still transfixed by the letter in her hand.
‘But I’d like you to know that in many ways it gave me great comfort,’ continues Maggie. ‘It was important for me to know that such a passionate love could exist. You and Granddad had the longest and happiest marriage out of anyone I’ve known. And the devotion you showed him, caring for him as you did after his stroke . . .’ Maggie shakes her head, ‘well, it told me everything I needed to know about my own feelings for Gus.’
The Peacock Summer Page 29
