Grail of the Summer Stars (Aetherial Tales)

by Freda Warrington

  She looked around to see the same mismatched furniture, so antiquated it was almost in fashion again. Authentic “shabby chic.” Stevie breathed in the musty scents and listened to the heavy tick of the grandfather clock. Nothing had changed here either. At the rear of the room, glass doors stood open to a conservatory, if that was the right word for the dilapidated glass house attached to the back of the building. The space was so full of potted plants that she could hardly tell where the garden began.

  Daniel used to paint in there.

  “Sorry about the cold. I leave the doors open for the dog, you see. I’m used to it. Make yourself at home while I put the kettle on,” said Frances. She hurried through another door, Humphrey bounding after her. Chances were the kitchen hadn’t changed either; Stevie recalled green-painted cupboards, a vast black oven range and an oblong sink flanked by wooden draining boards.

  Stevie wandered into the conservatory, where the pungent scent of hibernating potted plants enveloped her. Condensation streamed down the glass. Rubbing a clear patch, she looked out at the garden. The lawn edges vanished under masses of shrubbery and dark conifers. The high walls surrounding the garden were thickly cloaked with ivy. A stone goddess tilted a shell towards a round, mossy basin, but no water ran.

  She recalled long afternoons spent in here with Daniel, talking as he worked. His battered easel still stood in a corner. She shivered with an eerie sense of nostalgia.

  Daniel had been gentle and quiet by nature—but once he got going, he would talk endlessly about his ideas, his visions. He rarely asked about her course; hammering and soldering fiddly bits of metal must have seemed a dull business to a fine artist.

  Stevie hadn’t minded. She’d never cared to talk about herself. There was no egotism in Daniel’s character. Rather, he’d possessed a sort of wild yet innocent enthusiasm that he couldn’t suppress.

  A spasm of loss went through her. Daniel should be here but he wasn’t. Where was he, what had happened to him?

  Humphrey came scampering in. Frances was in the doorway with a tray. “Do come and sit down. Close these doors, and I’ll try to get the fire going. We’ll soon warm up.”

  Stevie obeyed, realizing that the house was almost colder inside than out. She sat on a sagging couch in front of the fireplace and poured tea into flowery cups while Professor Manifold added logs to the sulking fire. Sparks spiraled up the chimney.

  With a faint huff the professor sat down at the far end of the couch, her knees making bony angles in her trousers. Stevie, seeing how underweight she was, how tired, felt her concern deepen. Frances sat straight-backed but brokenhearted, diminished by anxiety.

  “So, you say he sent you some artwork?”

  “Yes.” Stevie handed Daniel’s scribbled note to her. “This is all he said. That’s why I’m trying to contact him.”

  Frances’s hand tightened on the paper, making creases. “Damn. I so hoped you might be able to tell me something. Did you even realize that he hasn’t been well?”

  “I didn’t know.” Stevie felt irrationally guilty. She wished she hadn’t let their friendship drift, but at times Daniel had simply been too intense for comfort. That was partly why she’d let him go in the first place. “He had a studio in London, so I thought he was doing okay. What happened?”

  “He was overstretching himself in every aspect of his life. That was my opinion.” The comment was waspish. “He wouldn’t listen to me.”

  “But weren’t you proud of him? You must have visited his studio, seen his latest work?”

  A pause. Damp logs popped and whined on the fire. “No.”

  “Why not?”

  “The rare times he phoned or came home, all we did was argue. He invited me, but I made a point of not going. And now I feel dreadful about it, of course, but I couldn’t give my approval…”

  She trailed off. Stevie said, “When you say he wasn’t well, how do you mean?”

  “Oh, you know how he was.” Frances flapped a hand as if to push it all away.

  “Well, not really.” Stevie was trying to be sensitive. “At college, he was a bit eccentric, and he was a workaholic, but lots of creative people are like that.”

  Frances gave an empty laugh. “And you encouraged him, Stephanie; taking him food and strong coffee so he could work all night. I wouldn’t indulge him like that.”

  She ignored the dig. “But none of that means he was ill, does it?”

  “I suppose it depends on your perspective.” Frances caressed Humphrey’s head, not looking at her. “It’s a shade of grey along a scale, isn’t it? Many might regard me as eccentric, digging up old bones for a living. I don’t think it’s unreasonable to work for twelve hours preparing lectures, or cataloguing finds. However, I draw the line at moving from coffee to amphetamines to LSD or other dangerous substances. I do not suffer delusions that my fossils are talking to me.”

  Stevie felt dread trickling through her. “Was Daniel that bad?”

  “Oh, Stephanie, he was out of control. Every time I saw him he looked worse; exhausted, manic, talking nonsense. I was extremely concerned about his lifestyle, the company he was keeping. He brushed me off, told me to stop interfering.”

  “What company? A girlfriend?”

  “No, I mean the assorted low-lives who encouraged him because they think it’s clever and radical to be constantly stoned. He needed protecting from himself! I wanted him to see a doctor, but just the mention of it made him furious, and I couldn’t force him.”

  “That’s terrible.” The understatement was all she could manage.

  “The warning signs were always there. You know that.”

  “But we didn’t take drugs at college. An occasional joint at a party, maybe, but neither of us was into it.” Stevie had to challenge Frances’s view of her son. “Are you certain he was ill? Or is it more that you didn’t approve of him?”

  Frances sipped her tea and put down the cup. She looked haggard. “My disapproval is irrelevant. Things had gone far beyond that. He’d talk about the visions he was painting as if they were marvelous, when anyone could hear he was raving. He even tried to win me round by bringing home one of his supposedly wonderful new friends.” Her mouth turned down in distaste. “Wonderful! This ‘friend’ was like some unwashed druggie off the streets. Each time I tried to reason with him, we’d descend into a dreadful argument and he’d walk out, or slam down the phone.”

  Stevie was quiet. The spaniel put his head on her knee, giving her a chance to think as she petted him. There were two possible interpretations. Perhaps Danny was excited about his work and simply wanted his mother to understand. Her indifference crushed him, yet he never gave up trying. Or maybe Frances was right. Daniel was mentally ill and in desperate need of help.

  She began softly, “Professor—Frances, I know you didn’t approve of him choosing art, but is it right still to be giving him such a hard time about it, ten years on?”

  She tilted her head, meeting Stevie’s gaze. “I don’t know what went wrong. I so hoped he’d take after his father. His logical career path would have been the sciences, medicine, even law. It’s a parent’s worst nightmare to watch their child going off the rails into a fanciful occupation that’s never going to bring any money or status.”

  “But he was so talented.”

  “Lots of people are talented, and still end up penniless.”

  “It hurt Daniel that you didn’t like his college friends.” Stevie took a sip of tea from the bone-china cup. “Couldn’t you have accepted him the way he was?”

  “Oh, that’s the trendy thing to do now, isn’t it? No. I was too disappointed, too worried by the bad influences on him, both then and now. I kept hoping he’d see sense.”

  “Bad influences like me?” The younger, nervous Stevie wouldn’t have dared say such a thing, but she was more confident now, a match for the acid-tongued professor.

  “Nothing personal. I wanted to protect him. He’s always been drawn to types with an aura of anarchy
and laziness about them. I hated my son being part of that.”

  “I don’t recognize that description of our old friends. I’m not in the gutter on drugs. I manage a museum.”

  “Well, good for you. The funny thing, though, is that he’s never stopped talking about you. He still claims that you were the one who made him paint so furiously.”

  Stevie felt a wave of shock and denial as she recalled having similar thoughts this morning. “After all this time? Are you suggesting this is somehow my fault?”

  Frances shook her head, coppery hair bouncing on her thin cheeks. “No, no, of course not. But it’s all so— Stephanie, I didn’t mean to be accusatory. I’m not handling this well. But I don’t know who else to turn to.”

  “Can I see the note? The one that made you think he’d…”

  With a faint groan, Frances took a folded letter from her pocket. “They found it in his studio after he’d disappeared.”

  Stevie took the letter, recognizing the wild, cramped handwriting.

  Dear Mother, this is hard. You know how it’s been—or no, that’s the point, you don’t know. That’s okay. I disappointed you and I’m sorry. But why be disappointed in me, any more than you’d be disappointed in the postman, or some random person you passed on the street? For the sole reason that I’m your son. That gives you the right to judge another human being, does it? Genes. But that’s fine, you’re entitled to your opinions of me—I’m very used to them, after all—but I want you to know that your expectations and disappointments have got nothing to do with this.

  No. It’s something else. Can’t explain and you wouldn’t understand. I’m trying to say it’s not your fault. It’s me. Me. I’m tired of arguing, of trying to prove myself, of hoping you’ll understand, because I accept now that you can’t. But I’m so tired. I need to make a clean break. Permanent. For your sake, as much as mine.

  My brain is exploding with dreams. It’s like trying to contain whole worlds in my head and I can’t anymore. No sooner do I paint one vision than another rushes in to fill the gap and I don’t know if anyone will ever see or understand any of it—so I have to make it STOP.

  Give my love to my friends. Especially Stevie Silverwood, don’t forget her. Tell them I’m sorry. Sorry to you too, Mum. Don’t be lonely. Love you.

  Bye, Daniel.

  “So tell me,” said Frances, “does it sound like a suicide note?”

  Stevie waited for the ache in her throat to subside. How on earth to answer? “It could be. He sounds … angry. All he wanted was for you to accept him.”

  “It’s the ultimate way to get back at me, of course. To show how much I hurt him. Very adolescent. But then I never thought he’d properly grown up.”

  Stevie decided to change tack, and not react to Frances’s bitter remarks. “Did you call the police?”

  “Yes, of course! They found the note, but the studio was virtually stripped bare, so they told me. I couldn’t face going there.”

  “Are they still looking for him?”

  “Yes, they’re going through their missing persons procedure. They classed him as ‘medium risk,’ because of his precarious mental state, which means they’re making serious efforts to trace him … but with no luck so far. Really, they were very helpful, but you can’t help feeling he’s just one of hundreds. I’m sure they think, privately, that this is a mere case of a son falling out with his mother. He’s an adult, after all, and there’s no sign he’s come to any actual harm.”

  Stevie scanned the letter again, handed it back. “This is so ambiguous. Perhaps it’s his way of cutting you out of his life and vanishing.”

  “So you’re suggesting he’d rather I thought he was dead than ever see me again?”

  “Er … I didn’t mean that. It could be that he’s exhausted and needs to get away. He might feel differently in a few weeks’ time. Maybe you should give him the benefit of the doubt and … let him go.”

  Frances snorted. “That’s what the police counselors hinted. Patronizing little devils, the pair of them looked barely fifteen! What do they know?”

  One thing was clear: Frances and Daniel were equally difficult people. Stevie felt like walking away, but couldn’t, because his mother’s anger was so obviously a mask. Fear and misery shone from her like light through a cracked shell.

  “What can I do to help?”

  “Oh, Stephanie, I don’t know. Daniel’s right, I don’t understand. This isn’t about trying to control him. I’d take back every word, just to see him again. What does any of it matter? I need to know if he’s dead, or ill, or run off to a new life. I won’t even try to speak to him, if he doesn’t want to. I simply need to know. He’s my son. That’s only thing that matters. Do you see that?”

  “Yes, of course,” Stevie said firmly. “And I’ll try to find out for you. For his sake and mine, as well as yours. I’m no detective, but I’ll do my best.”

  A gleam of hope lit the tired eyes. “Would you?”

  “Yes, anything it takes. About his artwork—do you want me to display it, or send it to you?”

  “Oh lord. I really don’t care. He sent the damned thing to you, so there’s your answer.”

  Again, her vehement rejection of Daniel’s work was automatic, almost an expression of revulsion. Perhaps Frances didn’t see it as rejection of Daniel himself, but he must have read it that way. How else to take it? If she hated his work, the most important part of him …

  Yet Frances wasn’t a hateful person. Only stubborn, too rigid in her views.

  Stevie excused herself to visit the loo. Frances sent her to the upstairs bathroom, explaining that it was warmer than the one downstairs. From a window on the landing, Stevie looked out and saw the professor in the garden, scattering scraps for the birds. Several blackbirds, semi-tame, fluttered hungrily towards her.

  Is there is something she’s not telling me? The suspicion lodged uneasily in Stevie’s mind. The house had a desolate, haunted feeling. Dark shapes flickered in the edges of her vision, like the start of one of her hallucinatory episodes. A cold draft moved across the back of her neck as if some creature was snuffling at her …

  She whipped around to find herself looking at Daniel’s bedroom door. She pictured the bed where they’d often sat talking—occasionally making love—and his bookshelves and glass display case … but the thought of peeping inside filled her with irrational terror, as if she might find his corpse in there. Ghosts of the past sighed all around her.

  “I ought to be going,” she said, reaching the bottom of the stairs as the professor came into the hall. Humphrey trotted after her, chewing on a ball. “Will you be all right on your own?”

  Frances gave a dry laugh. “I’m not on my own. I’ve a lively dog and scores of garden birds to keep me occupied. But it’s good of you to ask, Stephanie. I didn’t expect such thoughtfulness.”

  “Why not? Did I seem rude in the past?” Stevie asked warily. “I was scared of you, that’s all. I’m sorry.”

  “No, don’t apologize. You were never rude. Only … Never mind.”

  She let the remark pass. “If I find out anything, I’ll let you know.”

  She moved towards the coat pegs in the hall, but Frances said, “Stephanie … there’s something else. During one of our arguments, Daniel told me he’d found a buyer for most of his work. I didn’t believe him.”

  “Why?”

  “Because he was implying that his work was too important and dangerous for the world at large to see. He sounded utterly delusional. That’s why I wanted him to consult a doctor.” Deep lines creased her forehead and she colored slightly. “I suppose he told you that I took him to a psychologist years ago?”

  “Yes.” Stevie swallowed a surge of complex emotions. “He thought you were making a fuss over nothing.”

  “Well, he would say that. But he was always … sensitive. His father’s death hit him hard. And then his obsessive sketching—his insistence on going to art college was bound to make things worse. I
’m not blaming you. I’ve simply spent years trying to shield him from anything that fed his delusions. And I’ve failed.”

  “Perhaps you tried too hard.” Stevie’s head ached. These raw glimpses into his state of mind were too painful to bear. “You couldn’t stop him being himself.”

  Frances sighed. “Clearly.”

  “As I said, I’ll do all I can to find him. Maybe I can dig deeper than the police.”

  Frances gave a tired grin. “What if he doesn’t want his rotten old mother to know you’ve seen him, and swears you to secrecy?”

  “Then I won’t tell you,” Stevie answered with a smile. “I’ll contact you with a passphrase. I’ll phone up and say … ‘Humphrey has landed.’”

  She laughed. “Then my dog’s name would be the sweetest sound I’ve ever heard.”

  As she showed Stevie to the door, the mood between them was subdued, laced with pain. Frances said, “So you will let me know if there’s any news?”

  “Yes, of course. I’ll come back anyway, to make sure you’re all right.”

  Frances took Stevie’s forearm in a bony grip. “Thank you.” She held on for a moment. “Trust, Stephanie. I only deal in facts; I don’t know what to do with ‘maybe’s. Promise you’ll be straight with me from now on.”

  Stevie’s breath stilled. “I’m not sure what you mean.”

  “You weren’t always in the past.”

  “We barely knew each other.”

  Frances’s lips thinned. “Just promise. I must be able to trust you.”

  “You can. I promise.”

  * * *

  The museum was quiet when Stevie arrived. Two visitors were leaving with gift bags full of souvenirs or jewelry. Ron, sweeping the floors, raised a hand to greet her. There was no one manning the counter, but Stevie found the door to the back office open.

  “Fin, I’m back! No dents in your car! I’ve had a very strange day. How was yours?”

  Fin didn’t answer. Stevie entered the office, saw her assistant’s dark head bent towards the computer screen.