Maybe feeling the change in the atmosphere, Clara changed the subject. “Kate and Aisling bicker a lot, but they seem very close.”
“I have a sister too,” I added, and I was surprised myself. I didn’t usually talk about her. Or my father.
“Do you? Where does she live?”
“She’s still in Ireland. Near my dad.”
“Are you in touch at all?”
“Not really,” I replied, in a tone that said Don’t ask any more. But Clara wasn’t satisfied.
“Why don’t you write her a letter?” she asked, and the question hurt like a needle in my eye.
“I don’t speak to my sister. I don’t speak to my dad either. My dad . . . Well, when my mum died he went a bit crazy. He became obsessed with religion. I think it was his refuge.”
Clara was silent, waiting for me to continue. And, quite unbelievably, I did. “And there was his new wife too.”
Clara’s eyes widened slightly. “When did he remarry?”
“I was sixteen.”
“And she wasn’t good to you?”
“Maura was all right. She and Gillian – my sister – became very close. She tried to get close to me too, but it just didn’t work. I mean, she wasn’t my mum. I know it sounds terribly childish, but it’s true.”
I remember very well when she came on the scene. One day, a lady I’d never seen before turned up at the church – Maura. She was tall, with a soft, low voice and a laugh that seemed out of place in the subdued atmosphere of the church. She had long, frizzy hair and the hat she wore sat on top of it like on a soft cushion. She’d never been married and she had no children, our friend Leah told my sister and me. Maura would come to lunch at our house every Sunday after church, and there was something in my father’s eyes when he looked at her – something I’d never seen before. Something akin to joy, or at least satisfaction.
I was too young to read the signs – I only realised what was happening when things between her and my dad were pretty much settled.
In preparation for the wedding, Maura took my sister and I on a shopping trip. My sister smiled and chatted a lot, flushed and happy. She was now nearly twenty-three and she loved being involved in our father’s wedding. There was a strange aura of triumph around her, almost a sense of vengeance. I knew it was about punishing my mum. She’d left us, and now finally my dad was finding happiness – with another woman.
Gillian and I were trying on bridesmaid dresses: the deep plum colour Maura had chosen made Gillian’s black hair and white skin stand out even more, and made me look washed out. Or so I thought. Maura didn’t seem to look at it that way – she looked at me with shining eyes and raised a hand to stroke my face, but I turned away. To this day, I regret that gesture – because she never tried again.
The day after the wedding, I left home.
But there was no point in telling Clara all that. She nodded, both hands cupping her mug of tea, her head down.
“As I was growing up I always felt like . . .”
“Like what?” Clara said softly.
“Like I was walking on thin ice. All the time. That any moment I could fall through. And then I did.” I shrugged.
“I’m sorry,” she murmured.
“It’s not your fault. And anyway, I’ll get better. I’m sure I will. One day.”
“You will. You’re taking your medicines, and they’ll help.” A knot of guilt in my stomach, because I wasn’t taking my medicines at all.
“You know, I knew someone . . . a friend of mine. She was unwell for years, but then, when she was pregnant with her second daughter, it got worse. There was no help at the time, you know . . . The doctor just told her to rest, to eat. Her husband didn’t really understand, so she confided in me. We drove to the nearest town, to a Chinese doctor. He gave her some herbal pills. He said take white for happy, green for baby! He was very nice. And he predicted she was going to have a little girl.”
“And did the pills work?”
“Not the Chinese ones, no. She was unlucky. Nowadays there is so much help available; doctors and medicines can help so much. But then her baby girl was born . . .”
“What was her name?”
A hesitation. “Sonia. She loved Russian names, you see. We both loved Russian culture—”
“So did my mum!”
Clara smiled. “Really?”
“She had a collection of matryoshkas, you know, the little Russian dolls . . . I don’t know what happened to the dolls. So tell me more about your friend. What happened after Sonia was born?”
“She got better. A lot better. And she was happy again,” Clara concluded.
“That’s great,” I replied, and a sense of relief streaked through me, leaving me light, weightless. It seemed like a good omen, that this unknown woman had recovered on her own. Maybe I would too.
At that moment, Clara’s phone beeped.
“Well, the latest news is that Kate is actually engaged!”
“She is? You told me she’s sixteen . . .”
“Yes, but apparently she says that in the Twilight books Bella Swan marries and has a baby at seventeen.”
“Oh, well then! If Bella Swan did it . . .” I laughed.
It was strange how Clara managed to make me laugh even in the middle of a sad conversation.
“So, Pablo. We’ll meet him together, when he comes up. At la Piazza. Margherita will make paella and we’ll dance the flamenco for him.”
All of a sudden, as she spoke those words, my mood changed again. I would not be at La Piazza. I’d be stuck at home. I couldn’t forget that although I was feeling a little better, I was still living in a prison.
Some spark of the old me ignited in my chest, a stubborn little flame that refused to be extinguished. “I’ll show you my studio, if you like.” I couldn’t believe I was saying those words.
“I would love to see it,” she said simply. Like it wasn’t that huge a deal. She was being cautious, treating me like I was a horse she didn’t want to bolt.
She followed me upstairs and then up the metal spiral staircase that led to my studio. I took the steps one at a time, slowly, and opened the door like I was opening the room in the story of Bluebeard. The scent of colours hit my nostrils and I breathed in, breathed deeply. And then I couldn’t wait to be inside, so I went in quickly and closed my eyes for a moment as I inhaled more of the beautiful, familiar scent. The scent of my work. When I opened my eyes again, the golden light of dawn had filled the room all of a sudden, in one of those moments that are like unexpected gifts that you can slip among your memories and keep there.
“The view from up here is incredible,” Clara said, gazing out of the small window at the opposite side of the room.
And it was. I stepped slowly across the floor and looked over to the loch. The dawn was like liquid gold and it spilled on our faces. Suddenly, she spotted the sleeping bag folded in two on a chair.
“Do you use this as a guest room?” she asked.
“No, I used to sleep in here sometimes. When Angus was away for work. I liked being among my work and I liked the smell of paint.”
She smiled. “I can imagine. It must be wonderful, to have such a talent. Such a passion.”
I didn’t say anything. I didn’t say I felt like I was losing it all.
All of a sudden, I wanted to go. I just wanted to be out of my studio and downstairs, cleaning or watching some stupid TV show. It seemed a dead space without me working in it.
“This is beautiful. If I were you, I’d spend my days here,” she continued, but when she saw my face she probably wondered if she’d said the wrong thing. The golden light, the rays of dawn vanished and grey ones replaced them.
“I don’t know if I’ll ever be able to work again,” I whispered.
“You will.”
“How do you know? You don’t know me, Clara,” I said a bit harshly. “You’ve seen my studio now,” I said, and began to make my way down.
26
The s
cent of colours (2)
The gift inside
It calls me
Isabel
That night, after having spent the day with Clara, I tossed and turned. The whole day had been so weird. Having a stranger in the house . . . who didn’t feel like a stranger. Telling her about my father and Gillian. And most of all, I couldn’t believe I’d been up to my studio.
Yes, that was the most surreal event. After months of trying, after all the tears I’d cried because my studio felt like such a dead place and I didn’t want to set foot in it . . . I’d finally gone up.
And it felt like I’d brought something back with me; it felt like I had brought the scent of colours with me. I kept smelling paint on my skin, in my hair. And an image played before my eyes – a blue butterfly in a lush, colourful garden . . .
I was restless. Angus was sleeping soundly, exhausted after the long drive back. I sat up and slipped off the bed.
“What’s wrong?” came Angus’s sleepy voice.
“I have an idea for a picture.”
“But it’s the middle of the night . . .”
“I know. You sleep, okay?” I whispered, tucking the duvet around him and running my hand through his hair, as if he were a sleeping child. I stood up and quickly pulled my jeans on and slipped a cardigan over my nightie. The night was very still and silent, and I was frightened. But not frightened of the dark.
Frightened of not feeling the spark again.
Would I be able to work, I asked myself as I tiptoed up the spiral staircase? Or would it be a complete failure? I was panting in fear, my heart racing, and still I couldn’t let myself go back to bed. It was the scent of colours that called me.
I walked into the attic and pressed the light switch.
It was so peaceful.
A time that was mine alone.
Slowly, I sat at my working table. Everything was still like I’d left it the day I realised I couldn’t work any more. An illustration from the Scottish Legends book – an enchanted piper in a cave made of gold overcoming a dragon with his music – sat unfinished. But something made me put that drawing aside and find a fresh piece of paper. I switched the desk light on.
And my fingers hovered over the colours: the pencils, the watercolours, the oil paints. I could hear myself breathing, the fast breath of a little bird caught somewhere.
I was so afraid to open that part of me again, but I couldn’t stop.
I choose a pencil: deep, deep blue.
And oh, it felt good as it glided on the paper, the colour soft, malleable. Spreading like butter. I drew like I was possessed, and when I was finished, the paper was full of blue butterflies dancing in a tropical garden.
27
Butterfly
This chrysalis I see
I watch her wait
Isabel
“Bell! Oh my God, Bell!”
Angus’s cries resounded all over the house, and I awoke with a jolt. For a moment I didn’t know where I was, then I remembered: I had started to doze at my table and then, half-asleep, had cocooned myself in the sleeping bag on the floor of my studio. I blinked, my eyes sticky with tiredness. I rubbed my left eye, only to realise that my fingers had paint on them. Just like old times.
“I’m here! I’m okay!” I called, and dragged myself up, slightly dizzy.
“Bell!” came his panicked call again.
“Angus! I’m here! In my studio!”
“Bell!” I heard his footsteps, and I hurried down the spiral staircase.
“I’m sorry. I didn’t think . . .” I said as I made my way down as quickly as I could without falling. He was standing on the landing looking up, as pale as a ghost.
“Thank God. I woke up and the bed was empty, I couldn’t find you . . .”
“I’m sorry,” I repeated. He held me tight, kisses on my hair, on my face.
“I thought I’d lost you.”
I think that was the first time I realised how scared he really was for me. I wrapped my arms around him and kissed his cheeks, and then his mouth, over and over again.
“I’m okay. Really.”
“What were you doing? You’re hurt . . . Your eye . . .”
“That’s just paint,” I said, letting him rub it off my eye. “I was working. And then I fell asleep up there, you know I keep a sleeping bag in case—”
“You were working?” he said.
“Yes. I was illustrating a story. About butterflies in a magical garden.”
“But this is amazing . . . Bell, you haven’t worked for months.”
“I know. This . . . Well, it just came out.”
Angus held me tight again. “It’s okay. You are okay,” he whispered into my hair.
“I kept smelling the colours on me.”
“Will you show me?”
I smiled and said nothing, I just took his hand and led him upstairs, to my studio. My work table was, as usual, very tidy even in the middle of work – I had to keep things organised and nice to look at; it was my nature. The watercolours and oil paints – I was using both – were neatly arranged – and several glasses of coloured water were lined at the edge of the table. All around the desk were shelves, put up for me by Angus, filled to the brim with art materials and different kinds of paper. There was a corkboard hanging beside me, full of postcards and sketches, and on the other side a small bookshelf with all my art books. It was my favourite corner of the house. The best thing was that it looked alive again – not abandoned.
“Is this it? Bell, it’s beautiful!” Angus said, lightly touching the edge of my work in progress. In the colourful garden, among the butterflies, ran a little girl in a summer dress. In the foreground, close up, I had drawn a chrysalis, waiting to open and reveal its magical content to the world.
“Do you really think so?” I wasn’t fishing for compliments; I’d always been insecure, now, after so many months of inactivity, more than ever.
“Yes. I think it’s one of your best pieces yet. It’s . . . inspired. Is it a stand-alone?”
“I don’t think so. I’d like it to be a story . . . a picture book. Not necessarily for children, though.”
“I’m so proud of you,” he said. That was the best compliment I could ever hope for.
28
Dancing with butterflies
And I’d walk and walk and walk
I’d walk barefoot and drained
All the way to where the land meets the water
Of my creation
Isabel
I’d never showed my work in progress to anyone but Angus, but it felt natural to show Clara. I was a bit apprehensive as she gazed at my picture in silence. Maybe she wouldn’t like it. Maybe my work wasn’t as good as it used to be before I got ill, but Angus hadn’t wanted to say in order not to hurt my feelings. I knew I would only get an objective opinion when I sent it to my agent, and I had no plans, then, to do so – but my heart was in my throat anyway.
“It came into my mind because I keep seeing blue butterflies,” I explained nervously. “And you never see butterflies in winter. It’s inspired by the garden Angus made for me, but made magical . . . like it’s out of a dream.”
“Isabel, it’s amazing,” she said finally. “You have such talent!” she added, with one of those serene smiles of hers. I felt myself blushing, and for a moment I was a bit choked. I felt so lucky – when I had no faith in myself, both my husband and Clara believed in me. “Can’t you see?” she said. “Can’t you see how beautiful your work is?”
“Thank you. I’m thinking of turning it into a story. A picture book. It’s called Chrysalis . . . and it’s about a butterfly. As you probably guessed!” I laughed.
I felt happy. Maybe just for a moment, but I felt happy.
That seemed like a miracle in itself.
I remembered something Angus had said to me years ago, after he’d finished working on a composition that had left him exhausted and glowing: “Happiness comes from creation.”
He was right
.
And I had always, always known it.
I spent the day in my studio and didn’t even come downstairs for lunch. Clara brought me a baked potato and tea at some point, but I didn’t stop for more than twenty minutes. The story was sweeping me away, just like my work used to, and it felt amazing. It felt right.
Every once in a while, as I gazed out of the small window, I realised once again how lovely the view from my studio was – how beautiful my loch was.
After dinner, I went back to the studio. Clara was due to sleep in my house, because Angus was away in Glasgow and would stay away until tomorrow. After working for about an hour, I heard Clara’s voice calling me from downstairs.
“It’s best if you don’t get too tired, Isabel,” she said.
It was strange to be looked after this way. I don’t think I ever had been, not even when I was a little girl. I had never experienced something like this, not until I met Angus, and even then it was different.
Maybe this was what having a mother felt like.
I kneeled close to the stairs and called out, “I know, sorry. I’ll go to bed now.”
“Well, if you can’t sleep, you can come and share some warm milk and cookies with me.”
“Yes please!” I said, and put my work to sleep for the night.
“You’re never too old for milk and cookies.” Clara smiled as she placed a plate in front of me. I hadn’t eaten so much in months. And I was even allowing someone else to cook in my kitchen.
We sat in quiet companionship – it was so peaceful. And still, a thought kept stinging me. I was still not taking my medication.
I had tried twice more, but I just couldn’t. In my mind, it was like drinking poison. And I knew that even if I had returned to work, even if I was feeling better, those medicines had been prescribed for a reason. Because I needed them.
It was a battle, and the battleground was my mind. And for now, I was losing.
“Isabel.”
“Yes?”
“What time do you take your pills? Because I never see you—”
“Well, I haven’t yet. I’d said to Angus I would start on Monday.”
Don't Be Afraid Page 12
