Shooting Butterflies

by Marika Cobbold

  ‘You’re her daughter,’ Grace said. ‘She’s proud of you.’

  ‘She’s ashamed of me, more like.’

  ‘Why would you think that? She never stops praising you to anyone who wants to listen.’

  ‘If she really was proud of me she’d see me as I am: a frizzy-haired dumpy girl of reasonable intelligence, not some beauty with a brain the size of a melon and a lorryful of charisma.’

  Grace stared at her. Then she laughed. ‘You’re funny, and clever enough for anyone. So, maybe your hair is not at its best right now …’ They both burst out laughing.

  Kate grew serious again. ‘But it’s true. I’m right, aren’t I? Making someone out to be better than they are is not love; it’s not being proud, it’s being selfish. They’re saying, both Mum and Dad, in their different ways, that the way I am is not good enough so they have to embroider the facts to make me more to their taste.’

  ‘I’ve never looked at parental boasting in that light before,’ Grace said. ‘And I’m still not sure you’re right. Have you tried talking to them?’

  ‘Father only likes abstract problems; anything personal and he bolts to his study. And Mother. You try telling her that her world isn’t perfect.’

  ‘I take it she gets upset?’

  ‘You could say that. She takes it as a personal insult.’

  Grace nodded. ‘Mankind loves to be deceived. I remember when Mrs Shield told me that Father Christmas didn’t exist, I hit her.’

  ‘Stuart’s very nice,’ Grace said to Robina over the washing-up a little later when the others had gone for a walk.

  ‘He’s a dear boy,’ Robina handed her a tureen to dry, ‘not a performing seal.’

  ‘Of course he isn’t,’ Grace exclaimed. ‘Whoever said he was?’

  ‘I’m not the one who made the poor boy draw silly pictures, at the lunch table.’

  ‘They weren’t silly pictures, they were fascinating,’ Grace protested, sounding even to herself like a ten year old who had been caught drawing willies in her exercise book. ‘I was interested in him. How can that be wrong?’

  ‘He might like to talk about other things than his handicap, have you thought about that? He might just like to be treated like everybody else.’

  ‘I did treat him like everybody else, that’s the point,’ Grace said. ‘I asked him about himself. I didn’t talk about a handicap. I asked him how the world appeared to him.’

  ‘You’re splitting hairs,’ Robina said. ‘The tin goes under there.’ She pointed to the drawer by the side of the huge gas stove. ‘Now, what were you and Kate so busy talking about?’

  ‘Oh, this and that.’

  ‘And …’ Soft voice, steely eyes; Grace could see why Kate did not want to confront her mother. Saints were notorious toughies.

  Grace leant against the sink, tea towel thrown over her shoulder, her eyes locked into Robina’s. ‘She feels that you and Timothy need to make her into something better than what she actually is because who she is isn’t good enough.’

  Robina looked at her, measuring. ‘Nonsense,’ she said finally. ‘I’ll talk to her. I won’t have such negativity in the house.’

  As they walked back home to their cottage by the harbour, Andrew put his arm around her. ‘I’m so proud of you,’ he said. ‘Look how well Kate relates to you. She has been really difficult lately and there she was opening up to you. Everyone really responds to you.’

  Love may not be blind, Grace thought, but it sure is shortsighted. Yet she could not help but be pleased that he was so pleased with her. She had learnt, over the weeks and months of her marriage, that having someone think her so good, so pretty and so clever made her a little more of all those things. They had happened gradually, those little changes. Andrew believed that Grace was kind-hearted – he told her so over and over again – so she began to perform little kindnesses even when it went right against her instincts to do so just because she could not bear to see the light of adoration dim in his eyes. Andrew believed her to be forgiving, thoughtful and magnanimous. She sent a birthday card to a one-time friend who had called Grace’s contribution to a book on the human form ‘depraved’ in a review. He said she was a country girl at heart and that she had a way with animals. She was certainly brought up in the country, though her heart was paved with asphalt. Yet when Timothy’s dogs put their snouts up against her crotch she did not give them a surreptitious shove in the stomach with her knee, but smiled and patted their curly heads. And she would glance up and see the warm approval in her husband’s eyes, the proud look that said, See, see how she is loved by every living thing, see how sweet, how special she is.

  Grace remembered long ago standing in the doorway of Mrs McGraw’s kitchen, an unwelcome presence yearning to be part of the kitchen-cosy and to have Jefferson’s mother smile at her the way she was smiling at Cherry, the wanted one, the one who belonged. She looked up at Andrew and mouthed a silent thank you.

  According to Andrew, she also had a woman’s touch coupled with a rare logical mind. She had her priorities right, he said, putting their marriage and their home before her career. Now, Grace was meaning to speak to him about that. It had been nice not working so hard for a time, but soon she would have to get right back there and fight for commissions or she would be left behind.

  They sat down for a while on the soft grass of the riverbank because the afternoon was too beautiful to take at speed. She leant against him. He had the kind of shoulders that really felt as if they could take your weight. ‘I was so tired until I met you,’ she said. ‘I told myself I was all right but no one ever tells you how tired you get, being fine all by yourself.’

  She remembered how Angelica had said, on her last visit a few weeks ago, ‘You’ve bought the whole deal, haven’t you? The husband, the big jolly family, the rose-covered cottage; like you walked into a shop with a vague feeling that you needed a pair of knickers and came out with a suit and shirt and stockings and shoes as well.’

  ‘So I got a lot for my money,’ Grace had said. ‘Anyway, you bought it too.’

  ‘I tried. Maybe I haven’t got your eye for a bargain.’

  ‘Angelica.’ Grace touched her hand. ‘What’s wrong?’

  ‘Some wrinkles, that’s all. It’s part of marriage, the positioning and repositioning. Nothing to worry about. We have some negotiating to do, that’s all.’

  ‘Negotiate, schmosiate; does he make you happy?’

  ‘It’s all about compromise. Anyway, I’m pregnant.’ And for the first time that day Angelica was smiling.

  ‘We shall be such perfect parents,’ Andrew said now.

  ‘I know,’ Grace agreed. ‘I shall not die young and you shall not withdraw into your study. The baby will grow up safe in the knowledge that she …’

  ‘He …’

  ‘… it can wear whatever colour clothes it likes because I shall be taking its picture mostly in black and white anyway. We will give it several names so that it can decide itself which one suits it best in mood and extravagance. A girl might be Hester Abigail Tennessee so that she can choose between strong and capable, unobtrusively pretty or downright theatrical.’

  ‘Isn’t Tennessee a boy’s name?’

  ‘Both,’ Grace said.

  ‘I like Amanda,’ Andrew said. ‘And Charles if it’s a boy.’

  ‘OK,’ Grace said. ‘But I’d better get pregnant first.’

  Andrew shot to his feet and held his hand out, hauling her up. ‘Let’s go,’ he said and they looked at each other and laughed. I’m blushing, Grace thought. I can feel it, me, Grace, blushing and simpering before my husband and enjoying every moment.

  There was a party that night given by Lady Katherine Ellen School where Andrew taught and Kate was a pupil. Grace was rooting around in her wardrobe for something to wear that wasn’t black or grey. Andrew never criticised; he just said how nice she looked when she wore colour. Marriage was all about give and take. Andrew had accepted that Grace was an indifferent cook, a reluctant h
ostess, a tiddly guest, a smoker, someone who liked looking at gardens a lot better than digging in them, someone who ate horse (it was in France, she was young, and it was quite good) but would never ride one. The least she could do was try to please him, a little, in how she dressed.

  In the end she did the best she could and put on a knee-length straight black skirt and a white shirt with a red chiffon scarf tied round her waist, for colour. She felt as if she was still at school. In her last year the new music nun had decided to liven up their usual concert uniform of black skirt and white blouse, telling them excitedly to add ‘a dash of colour – any colour, girls’ by tying a scarf round their necks. Grace, who played the flute, badly, had worn a snuff-brown tie that had belonged to her father.

  ‘You look lovely,’ Andrew said as they walked out of the house.

  ‘Just don’t ever make me wear one of those smelly green jackets you have to polish.’

  The party was given in honour of Lady Ruth Russell, a long-time benefactor and one-time student. Lady Russell had surpassed herself, donating the funding for an entire art block. The new building was called the Bernard Withering Hall in memory of her father who had been killed in the First World War. He had been twenty-four years old, a lieutenant, when he was injured at Ypres and had died of his wounds three weeks later, leaving behind a young widow who never recovered from his loss and a baby daughter who had just learnt to say Papa but was never to see the face behind the word. This child was now a crooked, lined old woman, childless and a widow herself; a husk propelled by a jet engine. In order to hear what Lady Russell was saying you had to bend low, but once you looked into those eyes, pale blue, a little protruding, alert and laughing, you were hers. She lived with a middle-aged male companion called Colin in a large Victorian stone house at the edge of town. Robina had often spoken of Lady Russell whom she greatly admired. They sat on committees together.

  Robina had been washing up glasses, sighing that there was never enough of anything at these functions, and now she was helping the staff pass round the platters of canapés and pink and yellow iced fairy cakes made by the girls themselves. Grace took the heavy plate from her hands and said that, for once, Robina should be a guest and just relax and enjoy herself. Robina did not exactly snatch the plate back, but her shoulders hunched a little. She looked, Grace said later to Andrew, like a would-be martyr on hearing that there had been a general amnesty declared on Christians.

  Lady Russell sat at a table placed there especially for her at the front of the room. She was flanked by Colin and a pretty young woman dressed entirely in red. Robina said she wanted to introduce Grace. ‘Lady Russell, you haven’t met my new daughter-in-law.’ As she moved forward, pushing Grace ahead of her, her face took on a look of concern. ‘Are you sure you’re warm enough, Lady Russell?’ Grace could see how Robina’s right hand was twitching to adjust the shawl around the old woman’s shoulder. Don’t do it, Grace thought. She is not the kind of woman who wants her shawl adjusted for her. Maybe it was telepathy but Robina’s hand was stilled. Instead she said she thought Lady Russell’s father would have been very, very proud. Lady Russell turned to the young woman in red and whispered theatrically, ‘Joanna, dear, do we know this woman?’

  Robina fled. ‘Don’t worry about it,’ Grace said, having caught up. ‘She’s probably a bit senile.’

  ‘Senile, my foot,’ Robina spat and secretly Grace agreed. There was nothing senile about Lady Russell, not one cell. Robina continued in a voice Grace had not heard her use before, shrill and aggrieved. ‘No, she’s just a nasty vicious old snob who delights in making other people feel uncomfortable.’ She took a few breaths and seemed to calm down. ‘When I think of how sweet my old dears at the Evergreen are. Always so pleased to see you, always so grateful for everything one does.’

  ‘It must be awful to be old and have to be grateful as well.’

  ‘They don’t have to be anything, Grace.’

  Next they were joined by Leonard Brown, the school chaplain and a friend of the Abbots. Grace and he had not got on so well since Grace told him her views on St Paul, but he was giving her a friendly enough smile right now. That was the comforting thing about men of the cloth: they were paid to love and to forgive.

  ‘I’ve just been told that you’re quite the photographer,’ he said.

  ‘You could even say that I am a photographer.’ Grace tried to smile politely but she did not do very well.

  ‘Take it seriously, do you? Good, good. Anyway, I thought you might be able to help us with the new-look school magazine. At the moment a very disappointing proportion of our student body actually reads us.’

  ‘You want me to take some pictures?’

  ‘It was your mother-in-law’s idea, actually. Clever lady.’

  Robina smiled modestly. ‘It was nothing really; I just thought that, girls being girls, some fashion shots, how to pep up your uniform, that kind of thing wouldn’t go amiss; and wouldn’t it be fun to do some reportage from the girls’ homes, House and Gardens-style? Nothing intrusive, just a bit of fun to bring in the readers. I just knew you’d love to help, Grace.’

  ‘I would like to, but I have to check my diary,’ Grace said. ‘I’ve got quite a busy period right now.’

  Robina raised her eyebrows. ‘Too busy to help?’ Leonard Brown said again what a valuable unselfish member of ‘the team’ Andrew was.

  ‘I will try,’ Grace said, spotting Andrew out of the corner of one eye. He was talking, gesticulating, smiling, at ease, surrounded by a group of pupils and their mothers. Grace could see that he was making them have a nice time. As usual he was giving his all. It was not fair that he should be let down by her. Who wanted to be known as that charming fellow with the mean wife?

  In the early months of their marriage Andrew’s unfailing helpfulness and consideration towards others had made her feel good second-hand. Lately she had begun to feel inadequate. When Doris Leighton, the most boring woman in England, locked herself out of her cottage, Andrew had suggested they ask her to join them for dinner at the exact moment that Grace had reached for the switch to turn the light off and pretend they were not at home. When Jenny Howard told them her Uncle Joe from the States would be so disappointed that she had not managed to get tickets for Phantom of the Opera, Grace had barely had time to say, ‘Try Cats,’ before Andrew had handed over theirs. Grace hid the best bottle of red when guests called. Andrew found it and opened it.

  But the great thing about being a human was that, unlike other animals, you did not have to take your God-given traits lying down. You could change, play around with your perceived limitations, and stretch and pull into an altogether different shape; you could act against your instincts: this was the gift given to humans. Grace decided to act against her instincts and be nice to Leonard Brown. ‘I’ll fit it in, somehow,’ she said with a big smile that she knew from experience to be winning. Leonard Brown smiled back, a genuinely friendly smile, before hurrying off on busybody legs to pass the news to Glenda Shawcross, the headmistress. ‘Grace is a helpful young woman,’ he would probably be saying.

  So Grace had behaved well, decided to do a tiny bit of good for someone other than herself, even changed someone’s perception of her, yet remained, at heart, a selfish woman. What exactly did that mean? Was there no reality, only perceptions? Did it matter as long as the job got done?

  When they lay in bed together that night, Andrew said, ‘It was really nice of you to say you’d help with the magazine. Leonard seemed quite surprised but I wasn’t. It’s like you have this front and I’m the first person to have seen through it to the soft sweet person you really are.’

  Grace smiled to herself; boys just loved being first. She asked him, ‘Do you think it’s possible for your actions to create your feelings?’

  ‘How do you mean?’

  ‘Well, you are nice and helpful so you act nice and helpful. Now, what about if you’re actually rather a bitch but sublimate it and act nice and do good? Might the feelings
catch up with the actions so that actually you become nice?’

  ‘Oh darling, it’s late.’ He rolled on top of her, kissing her neck, caressing her breasts, and whispered, ‘Showtime.’

  It was Raining, Soft insistent summer rain that soaked you before you knew it. Noah Blackstaff answered the door to Grace looking like a man who had just been asked to choose between his wife and his mistress; his shirt was buttoned the wrong way, his wheat-blond hair stood on end and his amber eyes had a wild look. ‘I can’t do this. I’m trained to destroy the reputation of people I don’t know; this is different.’

  Grace left her umbrella on the porch and stepped inside. ‘I take it you’re talking about the biography.’ She pulled out two cigarettes from the packet in her bag. ‘Here.’ She put one in his mouth. ‘“A well-written life is almost as rare as a well-spent one.” Thomas Carlyle.’

  ‘That’s so helpful; thank you.’

  Grace grinned and lit his cigarette, then her own. ‘You’re welcome. Anyway, you could just not do it; have you thought about that? The poor old boy’s dead. Of course he’ll haunt you for the rest of your days. Your dreams will be full of whispers of broken words and betrayal and any money you make from his paintings will be cursed, but that’s OK; at least you would have got out of a boring job.’

  ‘It’s not about it being boring. It’s about decency and truth and, as so often, the two are not compatible. How, while Louisa is alive, can I write a creditable biography of my grandfather? I would have to write things that would be grossly offensive to her. I’m sure you’ve heard about Jane Dale.’ He led the way into the kitchen.

  ‘No.’

  ‘He, the old devil, would have loved everyone to know what a ladies’ man he was, but Louisa; you know how private she is.’

  Grace shrugged. ‘I suppose.’

  ‘Precisely. But there was a sea-change in her relationship with Grandpa, that much I know. They developed an understanding. They became quite close, in the latter part of their marriage. I have this enduring image of the two of them strolling in the garden hand in hand, him leaning on her, both as unsteady as children who have just learnt to walk. It was odd but endearing: he an artist, an extrovert, a man who saw ghosts and loved women; and she so withdrawn, a woman who saw laundry lists, the only six-foot-tall woman in the world who manages to remain invisible. He was completely dependent on her, like a man leaning on his shadow.’