Illusion

by Stephanie Elmas

  Instantly, she was filled with an overwhelming desire to lie down on the carpet and stretch out her limbs. She unlaced her boots and collapsed into the luxurious colours and patterns, drawing her body out into a great star-shape. And it was then, lying in this position and staring up at the roof, that she discovered the most remarkable surprise of all. There above her, on the ceiling, was an extraordinary painting.

  At first, all she could do was gaze at it, breathlessly. She realised in an instant that this was why Walter had put the carpet on that spot. He knew that she’d come up here on her own and that she’d find the beautiful colours and patterns of the carpet quite irresistible. Perhaps he even knew that she’d stretch herself out in a great, ridiculous star-shape. The thought of it made her feel warm inside.

  Slowly, she began to digest what she could now see above her. At first glance, Walter’s painting seemed to make no sense at all. There were pictures and shapes and letters, but they were all so jumbled up that she could find no pattern or meaning in them whatsoever.

  At the centre of the picture, there was a spiral shape, made from a jagged black line that stuck out at sharp angles. From out of this spiral grew a series of loops and curves, like the petals of a flower. And yet they were not even. Some had pointed tips and some were almost round, and they were filled with all manner of pictures.

  There was a holy cross, a boy curved in a foetal posture, and a gun which, when she squinted, appeared to have a tiny CH painted onto it. It was Cecil’s gun: the one Tom had been forced to use against Walter during their performance. Her eyes moved on to another part of the painting that made no sense at all. If anything, it looked like a scarf billowing out in the wind. It was decorated with a pattern that looked like chains, interspersed with eyes. Round eyes. On the edge of the scarf were two hands; their long, slim fingers seemed to be gripping onto it. And just above the fingers was the image of a fox, grinning menacingly down at her. At the very top of the picture was a small bird: a dove. It had a blindfold tied around its eyes.

  Have faith small dove.

  Those had been Walter’s last words to her.

  ‘Is that supposed to be me then?’ she whispered up to the painting. ‘Why am I blindfolded? What is it that I can’t see?’

  And then there were the letters; floating about all over the painting. There seemed to be no system to them and they were painted in all shapes and sizes. Some were bold, some spindly; only one was a capital. Her eyes buzzed with the detail of it all. How had Walter managed to paint such a thing so quickly? Had Kayan helped him? She looked back at the image of the boy curled up like a foetus. He had a thick mop of dark hair, just like Kayan’s. Was that meant to represent him? The image reminded her of something else as well, although she couldn’t quite put her finger on what it was.

  She stared at the painting until the spiral of jagged lines made her eyes hurt. There were twenty-four letters altogether. She would come back later with a pencil and note them down. She’d stay up all night if she had to, just to try and make some sense out of them.

  Cecil was in Daniel’s room when she returned to the main part of the house.

  ‘Where have you been?’ he asked.

  ‘Riding.’

  Daniel’s eyes were shut, and his body looked tense and agitated again.

  ‘He’s exhausted, aren’t you boy? That quack doctor’s remedies were short-lived,’ Cecil mused. ‘You should know, Tamara, that I will be leaving in the morning. There’s business to be done and I also intend to meet up with an old friend of mine.’ He smiled thinly. ‘I will be unable to take the boy with me, so have sent for a nurse to care for him. She will arrive tomorrow afternoon.’

  ‘But didn’t Mr Balanchine say that…,’

  ‘Please do not repeat that name in my house again,’ he snapped.

  Tamara held her breath.

  ‘The boy’s nurse is of my choosing and that is the end of the matter. When I return, we will be making a short excursion. Lord and Lady Maymont have invited us to stay. I hope that you will behave this time.’

  *

  That evening she made her way to the south tower again. When she raised the tapestry that hung over the door, Tamara suddenly remembered what Walter had said about the cracks in the walls. She pushed the tapestry back much further this time and noticed several long, jagged cracks on the wall of the new building, where it clung on to the old tower. Walter had been right; those old stone walls were pulling away. You don’t belong to me, they seemed to be saying.

  She let herself into the tower and climbed upwards, her pulse quickening at the thought of seeing the painting again. When she reached the top, she held her lamp up to the ceiling and at once all those images Walter had painted came to life. The fox glowered down at her, the glinting gun sent chills down her spine. And that dove, was that really meant to be her?

  ‘What can’t I see? What, Walter?’

  For the first time she noticed another shape, hovering innocuously within the pattern. It looked like a question mark, but it had been so elegantly drawn, that it almost seemed to take a curved, womanly form.

  She made a note of the letters that capered willy-nilly across the picture and left quickly, not daring to stay any longer than was necessary. As she crept past the drawing room, she spotted Cecil sitting there alone. He was staring intently at the floor, barely moving. At first she felt a rush of fear that he might turn and confront her, but then she slowly realised that he seemed too lost in his own thoughts to notice anything at all. His face was a picture of fixed concentration; strained and etched with tormented lines. His hand gently stroked his thigh, backward and forwards with a sort of consolatory rhythm. She felt herself go cold, as if she’d suddenly spotted a storm brewing in the distance, but close enough to see the clouds rolling in; heavy, black and terrifying.

  *

  Tamara woke late the next morning to the feeling of soft sun rays across her face. She blinked at the thin opening between the curtains that had allowed them to creep in and yawned, drowsily. In her hand she was still clutching the piece of paper she had written the letters on. She peered at them and groaned in dismay. She’d spent much of the night trying to decipher them and yet still they looked like one ridiculous made-up word:

  loeaahiisiHtpbteihfnmsev

  The only clue, of course, was the capital ‘H’. She’d formed hundreds of smaller words from the assortment: finish, love, Home, smile…. But nothing had come together in the form of a sentence or a message. She slipped it beneath her mattress; she’d come back to it later.

  Downstairs, Daniel was propped up in bed in his room.

  ‘He’s gone,’ he said with a flat voice, when she came over to his bedside. ‘The nurse he ordered arrives today.’

  ‘I wonder which nurse will get here first.’

  His face looked even grimmer. ‘His, of course, Cecil will take care of that. And she’ll be terrifying.’

  She glanced at the dark rings beneath his eyes. Daniel looked nothing like his brother. His face was boyish, soft. When Walter had been there, the joy in him had made him almost handsome, but now he looked crushed again.

  ‘Daniel, shall I take you for a walk in the garden, in your chair?’

  He looked unsure. ‘Do you think I’m strong enough to get out of bed?’

  ‘Yes, of course you are. There’s nothing wrong with you, remember?’

  With the help of Saunders, the quiet old butler, Tamara got Daniel into his chair and together they ventured out. The air was bright and relatively warm outside. Nevertheless, Daniel had three blankets wrapped around his legs. Tamara pushed him sedately along the driveway. The grass and even some of the pathways were too waterlogged to venture on.

  ‘Is it always wet here?’ she asked.

  ‘Most of the time. It only dries up in a very hot summer and even then the grass stays greener here than everywhere else. We’re at the bottom of a pit, that’s why.’

  ‘Do you like it here?’

  There was a lo
ng pause. ‘Our parents weren’t born into money, as you know. Father worked very hard and did very well. He dreamt of leading a fine life; doing what his betters had always done. Cecil and I were brought up with everything that money could buy. There were trips abroad, fine clothes and, this house.’

  ‘Why on earth did they build it here?’

  ‘My parents were city people; they were raised in factories and squalor. They knew nothing of the countryside. They saw the old tower and thought it would add some legitimacy to them, some sort of heritage that they could be proud of. Of course, as soon as the house went up, they never used the south tower. In their hearts they were tired of old, dirty places. My mother in particular liked everything to be clean, sparkling clean. As does Cecil, of course…,’

  Tamara pushed on thoughtfully. In the distance, a black mark began to take shape.

  ‘You know you didn’t answer my question,’ she said.

  ‘Forgive me, what was it again?’

  ‘Do you like it here?’

  Daniel laughed softly to himself. The black mark in the distance began to materialise into a pony and cart. It was coming towards them. As it got closer, Tamara could see that a man was holding the reins and a woman was sitting next to him. Their faces were still a blur.

  ‘No,’ he answered finally. ‘I hate Dovestead with all my heart.’

  At last the pony and cart came into full view and then drew slowly to a halt beside them. The lady sitting up there was not much older than Tamara. She had a plain but kind looking face with milk-white skin. Her eyes were blue and bright.

  ‘Are you Tamara and Daniel Hearst?’ she asked in a husky but melodious voice.

  ‘Yes,’ Tamara replied. ‘Can we help you?’

  The woman gave her a long, thoughtful stare. She then jumped down from the cart with an agile grace and brushed her hands briskly against the sides of her skirts. ‘My name is Sally Jones. I am your new nurse, Mr Hearst. Your friend, Walter Balanchine, sent me to take care of you.

  Daniel looked gravely down at the ground beneath him.

  ‘I am afraid that you’ve had a wasted journey, Miss Jones. My brother has ordered another nurse to care for me.’

  ‘Ah yes, Miss Trenacre? I met her on the way here. I gave her your brother’s letter, informing her that she was no longer needed. Walter has found her another excellent post, at Miss Wallington’s School for orphan children of the clergy. She said she had always wanted to work with the poor, in a more compassionate role, especially at such a reasonable salary.’

  Sally Jones’s face was so sweet, and earnest, and intelligent at the same time, that Tamara found her rather mesmerising. She had clearly had a similar effect on Daniel, who barely seemed to be breathing and was now gazing at the nurse like an adoring puppy.

  ‘May I ask, this letter… are you sure it was from my husband?’ Tamara ventured.

  ‘Well, it had his name on it,’ Sally replied, wide-eyed. ‘And the handwriting was quite unmistakeably his.’

  Tamara smiled. Was there no end to Walter’s talents?

  Sally now turned to Daniel with a thoughtful gaze. ‘And how is your health today, Mr Hearst?’ she asked.

  ‘I feel weak. I always feel weak and tired,’ he replied with a shake of the head.

  ‘Well, a gentle stroll will fix that. And besides, we need that chair of yours to carry my bag.’ She heaved a heavy old holdall off the back of the cart and dropped it to the ground. ‘Come on then, take my arm.’

  Daniel looked horrified, but he allowed Tamara to remove the blankets from his knees. Together, the two women pulled him up onto shaky legs. He slipped his arm into Sally’s.

  ‘Sinbad, we’re off!’ Sally shouted behind her back. A scrabbling noise came from the back of the cart and then a jet black head emerged over the wooden sides. Daniel and Tamara watched open-mouthed as a panther jumped down to the ground, stretched its long body gracefully, and gave itself a little shake. Tamara wasn’t sure whether she should scream, or run, or remain completely still. Daniel gulped, loudly.

  ‘This is my cat, Sinbad,’ said Sally, urging Daniel forwards. ‘Be gentle with him, he can be quite sensitive.’

  Daniel took his first few steps on cautious, wobbling feet, stopping and starting all the way. Tamara found that it had been left to her to pile his blankets, and Sally’s bag, onto the chair. She began to follow them with the heavy load and the enormous cat padded softly by her side, its tale weaving a pattern through the morning air.

  ‘Pretty countryside,’ she heard Sally say to Daniel. ‘Shame you live in the middle of this horrible old bog.’

  Chapter 19

  Sally filled Dovestead as soon as she arrived. She opened curtains and shifted Daniel’s bed single-handedly to face the window. She collected up his blankets from all the various rooms and created a great pile of them in the corridor for the maids to take away. Daniel tried to bicker with her gently about it, declaring that he’d catch his death of cold, but a small smile filled his face all the while, suggesting that he was, in fact, secretly relishing the presence of this new imposter.

  Tamara decided that she was superfluous to these proceedings. She felt that she had no part to play in Sally and Daniel’s banter about soup, hot flannels and cod liver oil. Instead she decided to make herself scarce. As the stable boy was nowhere to be found, she saddled Briar herself and trotted over to Rise Farm.

  ‘Sally’s marvellous, Briar,’ she murmured to the horse. ‘How does she manage to take charge like that? I’m not sure what you’ll think of Sinbad though. He looks like he could rip a dragon’s throat out.’

  When she got to the farmhouse, the kitchen was empty and in a sorry state. There was no sight of the usual shine and polish; no brewing tea or smell of baking bread. In short, there was no Mrs Peters. Dirty plates and kitchen utensils lay everywhere and a large pair of mud-caked boots sat on the kitchen table. A fly buzzed dejectedly against a window pane. Tamara opened it to let the fly out and some fresh air in.

  The door swung open and Mr Peters stomped in looking harassed.

  ‘Hello there Mrs Hearst, please forgive the awful mess. The wife’s sister’s took ill with her chest and she’s been gone these last three days. I’m managing well enough by myself but it’s hard keeping the farm going and seeing that everything’s neat and tidy on my own.’

  ‘Please don’t worry. I’m so sorry to hear about your sister-in-law.’ Tamara looked down at the dirty floor. ‘Um, can I help you at all?’

  ‘Oh, bless me! I wouldn’t hear of that. But please, make yourself at home. I’d stay and make tea for you but I’ve got a sick calf to attend to. Pardon my crousty spirits,’ he said, mopping the sweat off his brow.

  ‘No no, you must go. Don’t worry at all about me.’

  She watched him dash off and waited for the sound of his footsteps to die away. As she carefully rolled up the sleeves of her pale blue dress, she peered around the filthy room, wandering where on earth to start. An apron hung on the back of the door. She pulled it over her head and then raised the muddy boots off the kitchen table. Edging to the middle of the room, she dangled the boots in mid-air before her, and tried to guess at what one might do with two such revolting, foul-smelling specimens. And then suddenly she imagined Cecil and Mama, walking into the room and catching her there, with the boots. She pictured the outraged expressions on their faces and found herself snorting with laughter. Finally, she dropped the boots on some matting by the door and picked up a broom.

  It took over two hours to return the kitchen to its former glory. When she had finished, Tamara’s dress was wet with perspiration. She’d swept, scrubbed, scoured and polished and had even managed to make a reasonable looking dough. The recipe had come from a book on the shelf and, as this was the first time that she had ever cooked anything in her life, Tamara followed the instructions with a certain degree of intrigue and terror. The ingredients had been easy enough to find, although she had failed to discover anything that answered to the name of �
��yeast’. So Tamara made do without it and went on regardless.

  By the time Mr Peters returned to the house, the kitchen was spotless and the smell of baking bread was sweetening the air.

  ‘Well I’ll be … Bless me!’ he exclaimed, gaping at the room in disbelief.

  Tamara felt herself turn pink with pride. ‘You needed some help.’

  ‘You didn’t have to do all of this!’

  ‘But I wanted to. You and your wife have shown me so much kindness since I moved here. The only thing I wasn’t sure about was what to do with… those.’

  She pointed at the mud-caked boots, still sitting where she’d deposited them on the matting. Mr Peters peered at them, the only ugly blot in an otherwise spotless scene, and his nose crinkled up with amusement. He let out a raucous bellow of laughter that was so infectious that Tamara couldn’t help but join him.

  *

  When she returned to Dovestead, Daniel and Sally were amicably conversing away together over some supper. Daniel had been freshly shaven and he was wearing a shirt that Tamara hadn’t seen before. Everything about him seemed younger, brighter.

  ‘We were wondering where you’d got to,’ Daniel said, when she came into the room. Sally stood up, for the first time looking a little unsure of herself, but Tamara smiled back at her.

  ‘Please, sit down. Enjoy your meal. I’ve been helping the local farmer, Mr Peters. His wife’s sister is sick and he wasn’t managing very well. I really should get changed.’

  ‘But you look hungry,’ broke in Sally. ‘Never mind us. I’ve had cook make up some chicken soup. Here, have some.’

  Tamara collapsed into a chair, suddenly realising how ravenous she was. The soup was delicious; plain but nourishing. Cecil would never have permitted such simple, hearty fare. Daniel seemed to be benefitting from it too. She’d never seen him look so well and relaxed.

  ‘Where do you come from, Sally?’ Tamara asked.

  ‘From Wales. A poor mining village. My father was a drinker and so my mother sent me away as soon as I was old enough. She said she wouldn’t let me become a miner’s wife like her for all the love in the world.’