Ink

by Alice Broadway

  “I’ve told you all I know, Mum. Connor’s still under arrest because he won’t talk; he hasn’t told them where he kept his work and so far nobody has found it. It’s not good, Mum, but for now, I think Dad is still safe. They might know, but they can’t prove anything.

  I pour water into my mug, spilling a little on the wooden work surface.

  “They would have told me.” Mum speaks quietly, more to reassure herself than to share with me. “Yes, I’m sure they would have said if there was trouble.” I mop up the spilled water with a cloth. Mum is still murmuring her anxious thoughts, so I hug her, damp cloth still in one hand.

  “Mum,” I say gently, “who are they?” The idea that there are more people out there, people like Connor, makes me feel uneasy. I can’t forget what Mayor Longsight said about Connor working to help the blanks. But she just shakes her head.

  “Listen, it’s going to be OK,” I say. I’m the calm one now. One of us has to be. “Whatever happens, whatever it takes, I will make sure Dad is safe.” Mum nods into my neck.

  “Thank you, sweetheart,” she sighs. “God, I should never have involved you in all this.” She lets go of me and wipes her eyes. Clearing her throat and blinking, she looks at me sternly. “We have nothing to worry about. We’ll do what we’ve always done: heads down; be normal, helpful citizens.” She breathes deeply to collect herself and eventually smiles. “I’m sorry, darling. It really will be all right.”

  I nod. But she can’t pretend to me; her fear was the most real thing I’ve seen from her in weeks.

  The next few weeks at the studio are quiet. I can’t believe my first month is nearly over. I’m still waiting for my hand to be healed enough to work on customers, so I spend most of my time in the back, out of the way of the ink and needles. This lesson in frustration is confirming to me how much I want this life – how much I want to be free to mark and create and to feel that amazing connection again. Plus, I am having to watch Karl steal my opportunities to work and practise. Every time Obel calls him into the studio to help him, Karl takes the chance to walk past me and knock my elbow as I draw. Or he’ll make a joke about my being too lazy to work, when he knows how desperate I am to be able to. At this rate he’s certain to get the job. I wish I knew whether it was him who planted that feather in my pocket. I could just come out and ask him, but it’s not like he’d tell me the truth anyway. Mel sends me little cards with words of encouragement, little quotes from fables. They’re at once heartening and confusing. Just fairy stories, Oscar said.

  Obel has given me work to get on with: I’m to make a study of classic marks and tattoos that have gone out of favour in recent years. Obel says that knowing the history and tradition is crucial to being a great inker; the meaning behind the marks is everything. We all learn what the common marks mean in school: we know that a thin red line on someone’s left arm means they’ve stolen something. A thick red line means it’s more serious and they committed a violent theft, we know that a leaf at the base of a tree means someone died. But an inker has to know more than that. They have to know that calendula signifies grief and a foxglove is for protection. I enjoy the task; all these old marks and their tales remind me of story time with Dad, or wandering through the museum.

  Oscar’s voice rings in my ears – back when I believed in fairy stories. I push it away.

  Today, Friday, while Karl is busy in the studio, Obel wanders in to check on me. I have been playing with Dad’s wooden leaf, which hangs around my neck, and now I tuck it back into my tunic. I don’t know why, but I don’t want him to see.

  As instructed I’ve been making notes and copying some of the marks that most appeal to me. He takes up the pages I’ve been working on and flicks through them.

  “Interesting. Tell me about this,” he says, putting one of the pieces of paper I’ve been working on next to me on the desk. “Why did you draw this one?”

  It’s a scruffily drawn sketch of the White Witch from the fable, a copy of an unusual drawing I found in one of the old books that had caught my eye. I shift in my seat, feeling embarrassed.

  “I know, it’s not very good. I had just never seen her drawn like this before. Usually she’s portrayed as a terrifying creature, but there is something so beautiful about this image.” I look from the picture to Obel’s curious face and shyly admit, “I liked it.”

  He gives a little nod and sets down the rest of my notes. “I like it too, actually. Have you ever seen anyone with this mark?”

  I get the feeling that he’s not just chatting – that there’s a meaning behind his words, an intent. He’s watching me. Trying to catch me out, somehow. I look closely at the sketch and rub my finger over the pencil lines. I try to think – have I ever seen her on anyone’s skin? Why would anyone want to mark themselves with the terrible White Witch? I look up to Obel, who is still looking at me intently.

  “I’ve not seen it before, no. Have you?”

  He suddenly smiles broadly at me and it’s as though some secret has been passed between us. “That’d be telling, wouldn’t it, girl?” he says with a wry chuckle. “I’ll be back in a minute. I’ve got a book I think you might like.”

  He goes to his storeroom and is out of sight for a moment. He returns with a book that looks antique. He lays its heft gently on the wooden desk and I gasp. It’s an old book of fairy tales. But not just any book of fairy tales. I recognize the cover plate illustration from the museum.

  “Is this the Encyclopaedia of Tales?” I ask, astonished, and I reach out to touch it with shaking hands. Obel sits on a chair next to mine and nods at me, his eyes sparkling with excitement.

  “You’ve seen it before?” he asks as he gently opens the cover.

  I can’t resist leaning forward for a closer look.

  “No – at least, not in real life.” I reach out to touch the thick parchment with its embossed text. “They mention it in a display in the museum but I thought it was lost. I didn’t think there were any copies left.”

  Obel pulls the book nearer to us and carefully turns the pages. He touches it like it’s a frail friend. It feels like a book of spells: titles in careful calligraphic script, painstakingly perfect penmanship, each page hand-painted. The colours are faded, an autumnal version of their first shades. As each page turns a waft of musty, tobacco-stained scent fills my nostrils. I never understood Verity’s obsession with the smell of old books, but now I am intoxicated. Obel is as bewitched as I am. I reach out to feel a page – to touch the paper-leaf fragility of this amazing book that I thought no longer existed.

  “Why would you show me this? Why would you let me look at something so precious?”

  He stops for a moment, while he looks at me thoughtfully. “I don’t know. I think I knew you would love it too.” He carries on turning the pages, avoiding my gaze. I look at the marks on his arms and wish they would stop being mute – I want them to tell me something about this man who makes me feel so uneasy, and yet so understood. He catches me looking and I glance away quickly.

  “Here,” he says, opening the book at the page he’s been searching for, “here she is.”

  I lean in for a closer look and she’s right there. The White Witch. It’s just like the picture I sketched from, but larger, and so much more detailed. I’m struck by the peculiarity of seeing a completely naked woman. There is nothing at all on her. Not a stitch of clothing and not a drop of ink. She is completely blank. The image makes me tremble – the inhumanness of her, the unreadableness. She is the Queen of Lies and the Keeper of Secrets. And yet, here, she is also enchanting and strikingly beautiful. High cheekbones, which in the smaller picture made her look cruel, here just make her appear fragile, and yet her stance is so bold. She doesn’t look like she’s trying to hide anything, even though I know she holds deception beneath that perfect skin. The whole picture, on this scale, feels dissident. I feel strangely uneasy. Someone so terrible – so utterly blank – should not be so beautiful.

  “Draw her again, Leora,” Ob
el says as he leaves the room. “Draw her from the original.”

  I pick up my pencil and a new piece of paper, and, with a nameless fear in my heart, begin to copy her empty form. Her hair swirls like roses, like ocean waves. Her small breasts are almost hidden by her flowing locks. She reminds me of the mermaids on Dad’s skin and she is no less beguiling. It’s only when I’ve been drawing for ten minutes or more that I see it. As I shade the cut of her jaw and the slant of her nose, as I draw the arch of her eyebrow and the gentle, but proud, smile, I see it.

  She’s me. I am her. I am the exact image of the White Witch.

  I look up and Obel is watching me. Our eyes meet and I stand up, dropping my pencil. I slam the book shut, not caring any longer about its age or its value.

  “I … I’ve forgotten – my mother needed me back early. Is that—”

  He nods without speaking.

  I shove my papers in my bag, pick up my pencil from the hard stone floor and stumble out of the room. I shut the door behind me and leave, grateful for the fresh cold air to revive my frightened mind.

  I walk mindlessly for a while, letting my flushed cheeks cool and allowing my shaking hands to go still in my pockets. When I come to, I find myself at the museum again, looking up at the imposing metal doors. I let my legs take me up the cool steps. I make my way up into mine and Dad’s place. The place of stories.

  It used to be my safe place.

  I try to recapture the memories of me and Dad looking at each glass case, whispering, laughing, pointing and reading. I try to conjure up that feeling of warmth, of curiosity that comes when you feel safe. I pause when I reach the case dedicated to the White Witch.

  I read the short description on thick card next to her picture. The White Witch. Deviant sister of Moriah; Enemy of Saint. I remember how Dad used to linger here; how he used to always make me stand and look.

  “What did you want me to see?” I whisper to Dad.

  And there she is. Looking back at me with my own eyes.

  As I walk home I think of her fable. The story of that White Witch who is, apparently, so like me. Shivering in the weak winter sun, I tighten my shawl around my head, unravel the bandage around my hand and throw it in a bin. I look at my hand, at the mark that will become a scar, at the paleness of my skin and all I see is her skin – her terrifying blank beauty. And I run.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  I wake too early the next morning. The sun is just barely shining on the remnants of the night’s dew and I wonder if we’ll be due a frost soon – it’s cold enough, surely. I catch a glimpse of my empty skin in the mirror and hurriedly pull on my dressing gown. I can’t stay like this; the need to think of a first mark feels more urgent than ever. But I still can’t decide. What if I end up without any more marks – practically as pure and blank as the White Witch, whose cold eyes I share? I shudder.

  I wrap myself in a blanket and flop on to the faded red sofa near the front door. The springs gave up their springiness ages ago and the cushions sag, but it’s still the most comfortable sofa in the world. Maybe I should light a fire, but it would involve going outside to the yard to get wood, and I can’t quite face getting colder in order to get warm again.

  Closing my eyes, I doze for a while until I’m almost warm enough to take off my dressing gown. I heave myself out of the sagging sofa and decide to treat myself to some hot chocolate. Maybe I’ll make a cup for Mum, like Dad used to do when she had her Saturday lie-ins. She’s still in bed now, luxuriating in her morning off. Some things haven’t changed.

  I make it just as Dad used to. First I pour milk into two mugs to make certain we’ve got enough, and then I empty them into the pan. I let the milk heat gently on the stove while I chop some dark chocolate into small chunks. I’m using my favourite kitchen knife, and I only feel a hint of pain in my bad hand as the blade thuds through the chocolate. As tiny bubbles fizz at the edge of the pan, I drop the chocolate into the milk. Fragments stick to my fingers and melt. I rub my hands together and smell my palms, inhaling the warm, sweet aroma. I stir the chocolate gently so it doesn’t stick to the bottom of the pan, and grate orange rind over the swirling milk. The liquid begins to look murky as morsels of melting chocolate rise to the surface. I stir more quickly now, letting foam form as I whisk. Before it boils – just before those first bubbles of air gasp to the surface – I pour the hot chocolate into the two mugs. Flecks of orange rind float on the milky foam and I carry the mugs carefully up to Mum’s bedroom.

  She’s propped up on a large cushion, and her book is in her hand, but she isn’t looking at it. She is staring straight ahead and her face is desperately worried.

  As I walk in, she smiles and raises herself to sit.

  “Hello, love. How long have you been up?” She sees the hot chocolate and grins. “What a treat! I haven’t had hot chocolate brought to me in bed since—” She catches herself, winces, then takes a cup of steaming hot chocolate from me, and I put mine on her bedside table while I settle myself next to her under the covers.

  “Not too long. It’s freezing so I thought I’d make something warm.” I reach to get my hot chocolate and lift it gently, careful not to spill a drop on Mum’s bedclothes. I am still for a while, enjoying the fragrant blend of the citrusy chocolate and the scent of Mum’s perfume mixed in with the warm smell of sleep.

  Mum wriggles a bit to bring her covers up higher on her chest and takes a sip of drink. “Are things all right between us, love?” Her voice is cautious and quiet and she’s looking at the wall straight ahead. “All I ever want to do is keep you safe. You know that, don’t you?”

  “I know, Mum.” I edge a little closer to her and quickly slurp a bit of hot chocolate when I see it almost swill over the edge of the mug. “And I know you think you need to protect me, but I’m fine. I’m not a child any more.”

  “Oh, but you are,” Mum says, nudging me in the ribs. “You’re my child for ever, for always, even when you’re eighty.” Mum moves her cup to her other hand and puts her arm round me. “My child for ever, for always,” she says again, so quietly I can hardly catch it.

  We snuggle together in silence for a while and I feel safe and sleepy. Then Mum’s breath shudders; she’s crying. I put my drink down and cuddle against her chest.

  Her tears drip on to my hair and she whispers, “You’re a good girl, Leora.”

  We stay like that until our drinks have gone cold and I’m on the verge of sleep. Mum stirs me with a tight squeeze, and clears her throat.

  “Well, I can’t stay in my nightclothes all day. I’d better get going.” She gives my head a kiss and strokes my hair where her tears dripped.

  I right myself and stretch while I give a dozy nod.

  “You know I love you, don’t you?”

  I smile and open a sleepy eye. “You’re my mum – you don’t get a choice!” She shakes her head at me while she smiles and swats my head.

  “Do you want me to heat up your hot chocolate again? I’m going to do mine.” I pass her my mug and snuggle down in her warm bed while she goes and refreshes our drinks.

  I wake up to find my cold chocolate on the bedside table. How long have I been asleep? Reluctantly, I throw off the covers and carry my drink downstairs. There is a pot of coffee steaming on the table, and Mum is on the sofa reading a book. I tip my drink away and pour coffee into a clean mug. I hold it in both hands and take a sip. It’s hot enough to wake me up a little, and I murmur a sleepy hello to Mum.

  My eyes rest on the plain-looking shelves of our ancestors. Colours from their marks peep out at me. It’s a long time since I’ve properly looked at their books. You’d think we’d do it all the time, but really they’re like a favourite novel – after you’ve read it once you know the story, but you still need to know it’s nearby just in case you need to read it again. They’re all Mum’s family though. Because Dad didn’t grow up here, we don’t have any of his ancestors. Their absence always seems to throw the shelf off-balance.

  I place
my cup on the table and reach up to get a book at random off the shelf. I ask my ancestor’s permission and pray a blessing on their memory and honour. I lay the book softly on the table. Mum looks up and smiles for a second before she’s drawn back to the words in her hands. I look at the cover. It’s Bill Tomlinson – Mum’s father, my grandfather. He was a tanner, and he died before I was born. I’ve sometimes wondered whether he was desperate to get away from my grandma’s nagging; the way Mum talks about her, she sounds like she was a nightmare. She doesn’t talk about either of her parents much though.

  I turn the pages and his marks come to life. I see his childhood – his brothers who loved him and teased him, his sister who died. I see his work and his career progressing with each new age mark. I see the marriage mark and am stunned by its intricate beauty. There’s no doubt: he wasn’t trying to get away from Grandma – they adored each other. She died soon after him; maybe her heart was too broken. I wonder what it must be like to find the love of your life, to love and be loved so completely – and then I realize I am gazing at what was my granddad’s backside, and I turn the page in a hurry.

  And here it is – always the most splendid set of marks – Granddad’s family tree. His parents are here, his brothers and the lost sister – her name was Sophie. My mum must have been named after her. I can read the closeness that there was between Granddad and his little sister. I can read the sorrow and loss too.

  Then there’s Mum’s name, with space left next to her. Maybe they’d hoped to have more children. Dad’s name is next – a little lower than Mum’s. I love seeing those letters and I feel the warmth of happy memories flicker in my mind. But then I look more closely, and I am transported, as though I am seeing through Granddad’s eyes. All I can see is blackness around Dad’s name. There’s a heaviness in my heart. There is no love, no joy, no affection here. I feel an alien sense of rage and revulsion that can only come from my grandfather.