The Assembly

by Janet Woods

  A rope tied to the bedpost was looped around Ruby’s wrist.

  ‘To stop her going walkabout in night.’

  Something as soft as silk touched her tears. Her mother was sitting on the edge of her bed, her eyes full of secrets as she gently stroked her face. ‘I know you, daughter. Come along me, Kirra, Kirra.’

  She knew what her mother asked of her. What she’d been taught fought a losing battle with her intuition. Rising to her feet, she loosened the binding and silently followed her out of the house.

  She left the car on the highway, and they walked for a long time, instinct guiding their feet through the evening light to the creek.

  Above them, the stars appeared, cradled in the mystery of the sky - around them the earth exhaled the fragrance of honey.

  They lay upon the warm red earth, joined in spirit as her mother told her of the time of her birth.

  Here, her aunts and grandmother had drawn her from her mother’s womb. The creek had washed the birthing from their bodies and carried away the signs so the place would remain a secret amongst the women.

  Their hands touched, then entwined. Beside them, the creek flowed onwards in a never-ending journey as they talked their women’s business.

  When they fell silent the reeds began to whisper in the breeze, like voices from the past calling them.

  She laid her face against her mother’s palm, so warm, so tragic, and traced the lines with a fingertip. She felt her history in a thousand paintings crushed into dust – but it was as if it had never been.

  ‘My sisters,’ Ruby whispered, her smile young again.

  It was the only gift she could give her daughter - the time of belonging they’d once shared.

  As the moon climbed out of the earth, Ruby began to sing to them in a sweet, low voice.

  She began to sing too, calling them to her mother’s place to celebrate her homecoming.

  *****

  BLACKBERRY JAM – general

  It’s autumn. Behind the cottage in Brackstone Wood the mosses are cold and velvety to the touch. The air smells of mould, leaf litter and mushrooms.

  ‘We may be lucky and see goblins,’ Jessie used to tell her granddaughters when they were small.

  ***

  Chloe is expected on Thursday. The furniture has been polished; the chair covers of faded blue linen have been cleaned of cat’s hair.

  Cat – for that’s the only name he answers to – is chased to the floor by the roaring maw of the vacuum cleaner. Now a ball of frazzled tabby under the telephone table, his tail moves dust back and forth across the floorboards. ‘There, there,’ I soothe, stooping to tickle his chin, and he comes to purr and weave against my ankles.

  The cottage is redolent of lavender, beeswax and countless years.

  Chloe brings with her a box of exotic orchids. Her eyes dart towards the teapot, a gaiety of pink roses and gold rims. There is an initial skirmish when she says, ‘You shouldn’t use that it’s an antique.’

  ‘Grandma has always used it. It belonged to her mother.’

  ‘She promised it to me. If it chips it will lose its value?’

  ‘Not if it still functions as a teapot. Don’t talk about her as if she were dead.’

  Slightly ashamed, Chloe looks away to fuss with the orchids. ‘What shall I do with these? I carried them all the way from Singapore.’

  ‘Arrange them in a vase while I make us some tea. You know where the scullery is.’

  The pipes judder and groan as water is forced through them. Through the kitchen window the garden stretches in a glorious riot of color towards an overgrown blackberry thicket. Its thorny arms droop with the weight of its fruit.

  ‘The grass needs mowing,’ Chloe says, needing something to criticize.

  ‘Josh will be here this afternoon. He’ll do it.’

  ‘Josh?’

  ‘You remember Joshua Harrison.’

  Chloe flicks a scimitar of dark hair back from her face with a scornful toss of her head. ‘He had a crush on me once . . . didn’t he have a sister?’

  ‘Annie. She married the dairyman. They have a little shop to catch the passing trade and serve cream teas in their conservatory. Grandma sells them blackberry jam.’

  Chloe touches the bones of her hips, reassuring herself of their existence. ‘I don’t eat cream. As I recall, Josh never had much ambition.’

  I smile at such a notion. ‘He became a doctor.’

  Chloe’s long fingers snap the stems of the orchids as she measures them against the brown stone jug used for spring daffodils.

  ‘That jug is wrong for orchids.’ I fetch a wine carafe bought in the church jumble sale and tell her, ‘Josh is looking forward to meeting you again.’

  The exotic beauty of the orchids is out of place in the homely cottage.

  ‘How’s Richard?’ I ask her.

  Silence stretches for a few moments. Richard had driven into their lives in a red sports car. He’d stayed a week, a man so handsome and exciting I could hardly draw a solid breath when I’d looked at him. But he’d come with a price I hadn’t wanted to pay. He’d turned his sights on Chloe. She’d left with him, the dreams in her eyes replaced by a grim reality.

  My sister’s suffering shows in her face so I kiss her cheek. Chloe expects such gestures and allows a pensive sigh to escape. Her pointed foot draws a graceful circle on the stone floor. ‘Richard shouts at me, and he has affairs.’ Her voice breaking, Chloe comes into my arms and we hold each other tight.

  I wish I didn’t love Chloe quite so much as I murmur, ‘He’s not worth it . . . you’re better off without him.’

  ‘Oh, I’m not, I’m not!’ she cries, pushing me away. ‘You’ve always been jealous because he picked me instead of you.’

  Time and space thickens between us. The kettle on the hob begins to sing, the lid rattles and steam spouts. The sun moves a fraction, sending a beam of light through the dusty window. Dust motes dance inside it.

  ‘Remember when grandma used to stir them with her hand and say, ‘Here comes the fairies, girls. Watch them twirl and dance.’

  As if thinking of the old lady brings her forth a quavering call comes from the sitting room. ‘Has Chloe arrived yet?’

  Rump in the air, Cat claws the rag rug into untidy ridges. Soon, he’ll pay his visit to the sitting room. He knows which windowsill the sun will shine on at any given time of day.

  ‘Why don’t you take grandma the flowers and have a chat with her,’ I suggest. ‘I’ll join you with some tea, shortly.’

  Chloe glides off on tortured feet, looking as deceptively delicate as a reed in the wind. They embroider a pattern of little stitches across the hall, the flowers held out as an offering. Her hair is drawn back, her dark bun tied with a velvet ribbon. Elfin eyes dart this way and that. White chiffon drifts over blushing satin.

  ‘I’ve brought you some flowers, Grandma,’ Chloe says brightly.

  ‘How lovely they are, my dear. What are they?’

  ‘Orchids, they grow like weeds in Singapore.’ I imagine Chloe giving a shrug.

  ‘It’s wonderful to see you, Chloe, I’ve missed you so much. How pretty you look in that dress.’

  ‘It’s an old thing I bought in Paris last year.’

  My own outfit is sensible, a blue-checked blouse hanging loosely over jeans. Careless curls spring against my smoothing palms.

  Cat strolls by, does a pirouette before crabbing sideways on his way to the sitting room.

  I tell him, ‘In case you’ve got grand ideas, there’s no room for another prima ballerina in the family. I found that out the hard way.’

  ‘Is she looking after you properly?’ Chloe whispers as, timing it nicely, Cat slides swiftly through the closing door.

  Later, I take the tea tray through, setting it on the table without a flicker of the annoyance I feel. ‘Perhaps you’d like to pour the tea, Chloe.’

  ‘This teapot is an antique, you should be careful with it, Grandma?’ Chloe points out, taking a fi
rm grasp of the handle.

  ‘It belonged to my mother.’ Grandma turns away from Chloe to exchange a smile with me. ‘The blackberries need picking if we’re to have some jam this season.’

  ‘I’ve planned it for this afternoon. Josh will help me. Perhaps Chloe can give us a hand.’

  Chloe yawns. ‘I’ll probably take a nap after lunch.’

  ***

  It’s the afternoon. The air smells of Indian summer and cut grass. French widows, peeling white paint and framed by wisteria are open to the patio, where yellow daisies and purple alyssum grow amongst the cracked grey flagstones.

  Grandma is seated on her chair inside the door, a position from where she used to watch us play as children. Songbirds flutter down to peck at the crumbs she scatters.

  Josh’s voice is quiet against my ear, but there’s an element of anger in it. ‘There’s nothing more I can do for Jessie; she’s left it too late.’

  Tears prick my eyes and he draws me against his chest to kiss the top of my head. Dearest Josh, always my friend but more than that now.

  I touch his cheek. ‘Let’s get these berries picked. Grandma is determined to make a batch of blackberry jam this year.’

  His lips graze gently against mine. ‘I love you,’ he says and my heart melts with the unexpected joy of being reminded.

  ‘Hi, Josh.’ Chloe’s voice is husky. Framed by the window, her body gleams in a white leotard and tights. Long, supple thighs support her arms, which in turn supports her chin. Her hair tumbles darkly and a rose glows red against her cheek.

  Josh sucks in a ragged breath, in the way men do when they’re confronted by such artfully posed perfection.

  ***

  The cauldron of jam bubbles and spits, an aroma of sugar and fruit fills the house. Glass jars stand to attention; a basket holds labels, waxed circles and frilled covers.

  Chloe is petulant. ‘I’ve always hated this smell. I think I’ll drop into the surgery. Josh might take me for a spin.’

  ‘A nice lad, is Josh,’ Grandma says from her vantage point in the rocking chair.

  Chloe mutters something under her breath as she drifts away in a haze of discontent.

  ‘You’d better put those jars to warm.’

  It’s a ritual. Jars in the oven . . . watch the pan doesn’t go off the boil . . . don’t burn yourself.

  Jam coats the back of the spoon.

  My fingers stain purple. Grandma tastes my offering and nods. ‘Best jam I ever made.’

  Ten minutes later the jars are gowned in their frills.

  I haven’t seen grandma so well for a long time. Chloe’s visit has done her good. I’ve never missed a season yet,’ she says. ‘Allow the jars to cool before you move them, my love.’

  ‘You must be tired. Go back to the sitting room and I’ll bring you a cup of tea.’

  She gives me an old-fashioned hug after I’ve helped her up, one usually reserved for arrivals and departures. ‘I’ll have a little nap first. Give mother’s teapot a good scrub, would you? Chloe seems to set quite a store by it. She can take it with her.’

  Cat follows grandma into the sitting room. Ten minutes later he returns to offer me a dubious meow.

  The sitting room smells of dead orchids.

  ***

  Richard arrives in the middle of Chloe’s hysterics. She leaps into his embrace, as graceful as a gazelle. ‘I’m so glad you’ve come. I’ve had a dreadful time of it and I’ve missed you so much.’

  Richard looks suitably worshipped. ‘I came as soon as I was able,’ he tells her. Pinching her upper arm he shrieks. ‘Oh, my God... flab!’

  Chloe pouts.

  Richard turns to gaze at me, his smile neon. ‘You resemble Chloe so you must be her sister, Miss . . . um . . .’

  ‘Eve,’ I tell him. ‘We met before, when I was little more than a child.’

  ‘Ah . . . yes. Didn’t you dance, too?’

  ‘She wasn’t good enough and you chose me,’ Chloe snaps. ‘Besides, someone had to stay and look after grandma.’

  I grin like an idiot, thankful for small mercies.

  ‘Is there a will?’ Chloe suddenly demands to know.

  ‘Grandma had nothing to leave.’

  The elfin eyes harden. ‘The cottage must be worth a bit.’

  ‘She sold it, long ago.’

  ‘Sold it? Who to? What did gran do with the money?’

  Telling her will be sweet. ‘Josh bought the cottage so grandma could pay for your dancing expenses over the years.’

  Chloe goes quiet.

  ‘Didn’t Richard tell you?’

  Her eyes shot a couple of flaming daggers into Richard. ‘Of course he did.’

  ‘Your sister and I will live here when we marry,’ Josh tells her, then grins self-consciously.

  I always knew Josh’s proposal wouldn’t be romantic, but my smile tells him he’s worked it out to our mutual satisfaction.

  I remember the teapot and sense an opportune time to hand it to the simmering Chloe. ‘Grandma wanted you to have this. Take some blackberry jam with you too, if you like.’

  ‘You know I hate blackberry jam. The stuff is so bloody provincial.’

  ‘Up to you of course. I’m going for a walk up through the woods. Coming, anyone?’

  The only taker is Josh, who fetches my jacket from the hook by the door.

  There’s a crash just after we leave, as if the teapot has been thrown at the wall – as if Chloe discovered that removing the stains had revealed the crack in the spout.

  I’m going to miss the old teapot.

  ***

  It’s a glorious autumn. Leaves rustle in the breeze, drift down from the trees and crunch under our feet. The undergrowth is peppered with glowing chestnuts. Then we are out in the open. Ahead of us is a stretch of shining sea where gulls wheel on silver wings.

  My eulogy is short. ‘Thank you for the home you made for me, and for Chloe. Enjoy your wings, Grandma. I’ll miss you.’

  Her ashes are sent journeying on the wind.

  Josh takes my hand in his. ‘Perhaps she’ll make it to New York in time for the ballet season.’

  ‘I hope she returns in time for our wedding.’ I kiss his cheek, loving him as he draws me into his arms. ‘I do love you, Josh. Let’s go back home.’

  ‘Scones and blackberry jam for tea?’ he says, and smiles when I nod.

  *****

  THAT’S Amoré – a little romance.

  When Carrie found the photograph she hadn’t imagined it would lead her to this sunny terrace outside a villa in Italy, where the air smelled like cinnamon and the creamy-tinted shore sloped down to kiss the turquoise sea.

  She’d been eighteen when her mother had said, ‘I met your father in Naples. His name was Georgio Demasi and we fell in love.’

  ‘Why didn’t you marry?’ she’d asked.

  ‘Georgio had business in America. He didn’t come back. I sent a letter to his home and told him about the baby. Shortly afterwards, a lawyer came and I signed a paper promising I’d never reveal your existence to the Demasi family. I didn’t refuse the offer of money, since we needed a home. I always hoped he’d come to see you, one day.’

  Since then her mother had run out of time. Carrie had found the photograph of her father amongst her mother’s papers. The dark-haired man seated casually on a white painted wall in dappled sunlight wore an enigmatic smile. His eyes were hidden behind sunglasses.

  He was handsome; no wonder her mother had fallen for him, Carrie thought. His name had been recorded on her birth certificate. There was a copy of the paper her mother had signed with the law firm’s heading. Cox and Pippin.

  The man who answered the telephone had a voice that caressed her eardrums like a velvet kiss. Carrie’s toes curled from the pleasure of hearing it.

  ‘Benjamin Cox has retired, it’s Pippin and Sons now.’

  ‘Oh what a pity; you sounded like those yummy English apples before.’

  ‘Cox’s orange Pippins?’ He c
huckled. ‘Yes, I suppose we did. David Pippin is my father. He’s the senior partner. My brother is a solicitor and does all the tedious stuff, while I’m a barrister. My name is Alex. What can I do for you Miss Thomas?’

  She told him.

  ‘Usually I don’t deal with this sort of stuff, but my brother is away on holiday. Twenty-three years is a long time ago, you understand. I’ll have a look in the archives and see what I can find.’

  Carrie didn’t really expect to hear from Alex Pippin. She began her night shift at the nearby hospital, and was snoozing on her day off with the cat curled up behind her knees when the doorbell rang.

  He was there on her doorstep; the man of her dreams – tall, dark-haired, blue-eyed and thirtyish. She wished she wasn’t wearing crumpled pyjamas, and had brushed her hair and teeth before opening the door.

  ‘Carrie Thomas? I’m Alex Pippin of–’

  ‘Pippin and Sons. Haven’t you got something better to do than walk around town touting for business? Shouldn’t you be in court, or something?’

  His smile nearly knocked her flat. He glanced at his watch, slim, gold and expensive-looking. ‘The working day is over. It’s gone five, you know.’

  ‘Lor . . . is it? I must have slept all day. The end of night shift does that to me.’

  ‘I’m not touting for business either, since I’m inundated with it. Can I come in?’

  She nodded. ‘I’ll dress and make us some tea.’

  ‘Nice place,’ he said a little later, looking completely at home with his long legs crossed at the ankle and propped up on a footstool. The cat had taken to him. Moggy was usually aloof with strangers, but on this occasion had climbed into his lap. His eyes were a blissful amber and his purr long and ecstatic as Alex gently stroked his chin. Carrie envied him.

  Carrie handed over his mug of tea. ‘It’s small, but nice and central, and I only have courtyard garden to look after. You shouldn’t cross your legs like that. It’s bad for the circulation.’

  He uncrossed them. ‘Have you lived here long?’

  ‘Since I was born. It’s a house my father helped provide for us.’

  ‘Ah yes . . . with the money exchanged for your mother’s silence.’