Where The Light Gets In

by Dillon, Lucy

  That was the final straw. Jess’s shoulders slumped, and she began to sob properly.

  Lorna tried to take her sister’s hand. Jess resisted for a moment, but then she relaxed and let her. Their fingers wrapped round each other’s, squeezing tight until it felt as if they were joined by the knuckles. They sat watching the slow water in the canal, barely moving, not speaking, because Lorna couldn’t think of anything helpful to say, and Jess seemed exhausted.

  My heart’s safer on its own, thought Lorna. Why expose yourself to this? Ripping your life apart, because another human being dared to do something out of character, nearly twenty years ago? You couldn’t balance your entire sanity on someone else. You couldn’t.

  ‘Remember what we used to say?’ she murmured into Jess’s hair. ‘I’ve always got you. You’ve always got me.’

  ‘I know,’ said Jess. Her voice was almost inaudible. ‘I know.’

  They walked back slowly, in silence, and when they turned on to the high street, Sam was parked opposite the gallery in his Land Rover, waiting for her.

  Their eyes met across the road, and Lorna knew at once that he knew. Ryan must have called him in panic, looking for his wife. It was written on his face: apprehension and sheer awkwardness when he realised Jess was with her.

  She shook her head as he went to open his door to get out, and he stopped, his gaze still locked with hers. Jess hadn’t seen him; she was lost in her own thoughts. Sam raised his hands in the car and Lorna struggled with a powerful impulse to talk to him – who else would understand?

  But I can’t trust him, she thought. He knows because Ryan’s called him to warn him, he’s probably got a whole other side of the story ready. And what if Jess decides she needs to talk to him? To grill him about what happened between the Big Talk and Ryan coming home for the last few months of her pregnancy? Suddenly she was back there again, the little sister left out of their trio, tagging along behind, never getting the whole story.

  Sam mouthed something, but she shook her head again.

  We need to stick together, me and Jess, she thought, and put her arm around her sister. She turned her back on Sam, and ushered Jess into the gallery.

  Then she turned the shop sign to Closed and heard the sound of a car engine starting outside, and pulling away.

  Chapter Nineteen

  Jess went home later that night, once she’d sat in Lorna’s bath for an hour, and smoothed herself back into her recognisable shape.

  ‘Don’t tell Sam,’ she said as Lorna leaned into the car for a final goodbye. ‘Let me … let me deal with it.’

  That meant Jess wanted to pretend none of it was happening, thought Lorna as the Golf disappeared around the corner. She was incredibly good at willing things out of existence if she didn’t like the sound of them. Watching from the sidelines during that surreal summer, the teenage Lorna had seen the light go on and off in their mother’s studio, where she’d set up a bed so she could work all hours, and wondered if she was doing much the same thing: painting herself into a universe where none of this was happening.

  Lorna wasn’t sure if she wanted to talk to Sam about it, anyway. She was never sure which Sam would turn up these days.

  Jess sent a brief text to the effect that Ryan was ‘back’ and they were ‘talking things through’ but about an hour after, Hattie asked if she could come and help out at the gallery at the weekends, so clearly things weren’t completely back to normal.

  Hattie herself said as much when Lorna collected her from the station on Friday night. ‘Mum’s stopped pretending everything’s fine. She didn’t even take Tyra to ballet this week, that’s how much she’s lost it with Dad.’

  ‘How do you mean, lost it?’

  ‘They’re not talking. They’re pretending to – like, “When will you be in tonight?” but they’re not talking .’ Hattie looked wretched. ‘They never make a coffee for the other if the kettle’s on.’

  It had started to rain again – light spots, but soaking – and for once, there was a space right in front of the gallery. Lorna reverse parked in one go, and then turned off the engine. The sun had just set, and the street lights were starting to shine out of the dusk. Longhampton high street was always prettiest when it was deserted, when the evening light blurred the rust and the dirt and all you could see were the hanging baskets and the carved stone apples on the lintels.

  The engine ticked, then fell silent.

  ‘Are you mad with me?’ asked Hattie in a small voice.

  ‘With you? Of course not!’

  Hattie hugged her bag tighter. ‘I’d understand if you blame me if Mum and Dad get divorced. I mean, if Milo and Tyra end up—’ She bit the words back, pressing her rosebud lips in on themselves.

  ‘No one thinks it’s your fault!’ Lorna squeezed Hattie’s knee. ‘You were right to tell me, and I decided to tell Jess. We had an agreement, years ago, your mum and me. We tell each other everything.’

  ‘Everything?’

  ‘Everything.’ Apart from that one major secret Jess hadn’t told her, thought Lorna. Because everyone thought she was too young to understand.

  ‘Pearl’s my sister,’ said Hattie, staring out at the empty street. ‘I’ve got a right to meet her.’

  ‘I’m not sure you could call it a right …’ Lorna started, but Hattie twisted in her seat to face her.

  ‘Don’t you think I’m entitled to know my own sister? She’s half me. She’s like … practically my twin! We’re nearly the same age!’

  Lorna winced. The timing of it was so cruel. There could only be months between the two girls. Ryan , she thought. Seriously, what were the chances?

  ‘Hattie, try to see it from your mum’s point of view,’ she said. ‘You were a wanted baby, but you were a … surprise. You changed everyone’s lives: your parents’, mine, your grandparents’.’ She wasn’t sure how to put this delicately: Pearl was proof Ryan had thrown Jess’s trust, the sacrifice of her big academic dreams and the plans she’d made to travel the world, right back in her face. How did you forgive that, when time had added even more responsibilities?

  Hattie rolled her eyes. ‘I get that, but it’s different for me. Me and Pearl, we could build bridges between our families.’ A dramatic glow lit up her face and Lorna knew what Hattie was seeing in her mind’s eye: selfless teen diplomat, bringing together the sulking, wounded adults with her pureness of spirit and social media skills.

  This is what happens when you don’t talk, she thought, and the irony of Jess priding herself on her terrific communication with her kids, only weeks ago, wasn’t lost on her. No wonder she felt as if she’d woken up in someone else’s life.

  ‘You’ll talk to Mum, won’t you?’ Hattie grabbed her hand. ‘About me meeting Pearl?’

  At least she was asking. It would only take ten seconds on Facebook to bypass any kind of parental permission. How long before Hattie got sick of waiting?

  ‘Hattie,’ she started, ‘I don’t think it’s a good idea for anyone to—’

  ‘Yeah, yeah, hang on, Auntie Lorna: look at Rudy! He’s so pleased to see me!’ Hattie pointed upwards. One storey up, in the kitchen window, Rudy was barking furiously but silently, his barks swallowed up by the double glazing as he wagged his tail. Was that delight, or anxiety?

  Oh, Rudy, thought Lorna, I know how you feel.

  It was when Lorna took delivery of a pile of fliers for Art Week, featuring her bandstand idea on the front page, that she really started to get nervous about her event.

  It was hard to practise something so random, but she did her best. The night before the big event, Hattie, Lorna and Tiffany stood in the kitchen, listening to Vivaldi’s Four Seasons , trying to decide on the colour of a cello.

  ‘You’re sure this is what a violin sounds like?’ Tiffany stared at the paper covering the table, now covered in wild splashes of green and yellow paint.

  ‘If that’s what it sounds like to you, then yes.’ Lorna checked off the delivery slip from the suppliers one f
inal time. Canvas boards, fifteen, downstairs. Brushes, fifty, various sizes. Paints, in different textures, in every colour of the rainbow. Sponges, palettes, pens. The cost had mounted dramatically but somehow that paled into insignificance compared with the small matter of making it all work.

  ‘I think I’m hearing a different violin.’ Hattie swirled a long motif down the side of the paper. She had taken to the task unquestioningly, with an elegant style that Lorna envied. ‘Mine’s blue.’

  ‘To be honest, I don’t care what colour your violin is,’ said Lorna, ‘as long as none of it ends up on the floor. Or the dog.’

  Tiffany marched a series of leaves down the page, stamping with the print she’d made from a potato.

  ‘Ooh, that’s good. Did you do art at school?’

  ‘Nope,’ she said. ‘Let’s just say I’ve spent a lot of time cutting shapes out of potatoes in the last few years.’

  Hattie squinted critically at the mess. ‘You know what it needs? Some gold.’

  ‘Yes, gold would be great!’ Tiffany agreed. ‘Have we got any?’

  Lorna looked up from the invoice and made a panicked noise. ‘No! This is already way over budget.’ She knew she shouldn’t have got the special easel to display Joyce’s painting but she wanted to honour her properly – to make it clear where the inspiration had come from.

  ‘Won’t there be trumpets?’ asked Hattie. ‘They’re gold.’

  ‘It’s a school band,’ Tiff reminded her. ‘And that’s a whooooole load of recorders. And recorders are definitely not gold. They’re more … acid yellow?’

  Lorna gazed at the mess in front of her. This wasn’t what she’d pictured. Her heartbeat skittered, as if she’d drunk too much coffee. ‘You think we need gold paint? Bollocks. What time does Hobbycraft shut?’

  An awkward silence fell over them as the massed violins of ‘Autumn’ sawed away in the background and the madness of what they were attempting sank in.

  ‘Don’t worry, Lorna, it’ll be fine,’ said Tiffany reassuringly.

  It really was a mess. It was nothing like the fliers. ‘It’s too important to be “fine”, Tiff.’

  ‘Why? Because of Joyce?’

  ‘Partly. It’s the first piece of public art she’s created in years. I hoped it might inspire her to start painting again. If it’s a disaster, she’ll think I don’t understand what she’s trying to do. And if it looks crap, no one will join it, and it’s so public .’

  ‘Don’t worry about people not joining in. We’ll drag them in if necessary,’ said Hattie. ‘And Mum’s coming, and Milo and Tyra …’ Her expression tightened. ‘And Dad.’

  Lorna pretended to look pleased. It was great that Jess wanted to support her, but she could have done without the added stress of the Big Family Outing. Keeping an eye on Ryan and Jess, as well as everything else, was something she could have done without.

  ‘And I’m worried it’ll rain,’ she blurted out. ‘There’s a fifteen per cent chance, and all Calum’s given us is one tiny tent.’

  ‘Prrthph. One in six,’ said Tiffany dismissively. ‘It won’t rain – weather forecasts are just guesswork. It’s going to be fine.’

  Lorna couldn’t bear to look at the catastrophe on the table. She turned, and her eye fell on Betty’s framed medal, hanging between the two big windows. For the first time in too long, she thought of Rudy’s glamorous mistress, reckless Betty standing on the rooftops in her man’s peacoat, sticking up two fingers at the Blitz, and she felt stupid, and a bit ashamed.

  Betty would laugh at this. A bit of rain? It was nothing in comparison. Absolutely nothing to worry about. And yet …

  ‘Wait! I’ve got an idea!’ Hattie ran out and returned with a can of gold body glitter, which she started spraying on to the canvas. It brought the whole thing into a new focus, scattering a fine mist of autumnal shimmer over the textured leaves. ‘There!’ she said, and beamed.

  Mum’s creativity, thought Lorna, with a pang, it’s skipped a generation.

  The first drop of rain fell when Lorna had just finished setting up Joyce’s painting on its easel.

  It landed on the burst of iridescent paint, bulging a rosebush into life. She stared at it in horror.

  ‘All set?’ Calum jumped down from his photo position on the bandstand, taking care not to spill his breakfast espresso. He was wearing a hoodie and a new pair of thick-rimmed glasses that made him look more like an art dealer than Lorna. ‘Love the easel!’

  ‘Calum, it’s raining,’ she said.

  He held out a hand, waited, then shook his head. ‘No, you’re imagining it.’

  She pointed at the looming clouds. ‘It’s definitely raining.’

  ‘Nah, that’s just … dew?’ He looked hopefully at the sky. Lorna had never seen a townier person, even in EC1. ‘Pop your stuff in the bandstand if there’s a bit of drizzle – the kids won’t be here till half nine at the earliest. Can I leave you to it? There’s a pottery throwdown in the town hall I need to check in on.’

  ‘But what about …?’

  Luckily for Calum, someone called his name before Lorna could finish, and he was jogging across the park towards a woman carrying three carrier bags of pineapples and a sign saying ‘Fruit Installation’.

  ‘I’ll put it in the tent.’ Tiffany threw a plastic sheet over the canvas, and began bundling it towards the mini-tent they’d set up without instructions while Calum was taking ‘Before’ shots of the park. It was lopsided and didn’t seem to have enough parts.

  ‘Careful!’ Lorna reached out to protect an exposed corner bumping on a crate. She hadn’t told Tiff how valuable the bandstand painting was – she thought it would freak her out, and also provoke a lecture about including it on the house insurance, which Lorna couldn’t afford to do.

  ‘Chill out, Lola.’ Tiff frowned at her. ‘Did you get back to Sam yet?’

  Lorna’s phone had buzzed a couple of times on the way over but she’d ignored the calls. ‘No.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Because it’ll be about Ryan, and I can’t deal with that today.’

  Tiffany sighed. ‘How do you know?’

  ‘What else will it be about?’ Lorna felt another two raindrops on her face. Why hadn’t she brought a coat with a hood? ‘He knows they’re coming – he’s probably had a whole different story from Ryan and wants to tell me so I can tell Jess. It’s like being back at school.’

  ‘Whatever it is, he’s been trying to see you all week.’ Tiffany propped the painting against a plastic crate and pulled up the hood on her raincoat. It was yellow, with massive white daisies on it. ‘I told you he came round while you were out with the dogs. Just talk to him, will you? It’s obviously something important.’

  Lorna hunted in the big bag of food they’d brought, so Tiff couldn’t see her face. The bandstand idea was too close to the sort of art Sam thought was pretentious bollocks. She didn’t want another lecture about persuading Joyce to look into retirement homes. She didn’t want to hear some cock-and-bull story about poor Ryan. There was no version of Sam that would be helpful right now.

  A phone was ringing, and Lorna felt a mobile being shoved under her nose.

  ‘From the gallery,’ said Tiffany shortly. ‘Mary.’

  ‘Mary?’ Lorna took it. ‘What’s wrong? Is Hattie up yet? Can you tell her to get herself out of bed and down to the park, please?’

  ‘Hello, Lorna.’ Mary sounded flustered. ‘I didn’t know Hattie was still here. I’ll give her a shout … I’ve got someone who wants a word.’

  Before Lorna could ask who, the phone was passed over. ‘Sam here,’ said Sam. ‘I’ve been phoning your mobile since eight this morning!’

  Lorna’s pulse quickened in her chest at the sound of his voice. ‘I’m busy. It’s my event today, the one in the park.’

  ‘I know that,’ he said. ‘It’s why I’m ringing. It’s raining – do you have enough wet-weather provision?’

  ‘Um … no. We don’t.’ How did he know? And
how had he remembered about her event? She’d only mentioned it in passing over the dinner table that night, before they got on to his plans for Joyce’s house.

  ‘Thought so. I took Mum to something similar last year and it was just the same – everyone soaked. No one ever thinks to hire tents. Wine, but no tents. Typical arty types. I’m assuming you can’t exactly relocate if it pours down?’

  ‘Is it going to pour down? Do you have some kind of special farmer antennae? Is your bladderwrack quivering, or whatever?’

  ‘I’m not that kind of farmer. Look, do you need a small marquee, or not? It’s just that I thought of you this morning when I was in the barns – there’s an events company renting space at the moment and I’m sure they’d be fine about us borrowing one for the afternoon. For the advertising.’

  The rain was getting heavier. Lorna could hear fat drops starting to flick the fabric over her head. Joyce would need somewhere too, if she was going to join them. Hadn’t she said; And if it rains, I’m not coming ? Another lead weight in her stomach.

  Still, something made Lorna hesitate. Was this going to end up in a favour being demanded in return? Was Joyce going to suffer, indirectly, if Sam now felt she owed him one?

  Tiffany nudged her, and frowned – hard. ‘He’s got a marquee? Get the marquee!’ she hissed.

  Lorna swallowed. Of course. It was kind.

  ‘Yes, please,’ she said. ‘And …’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Thanks for thinking of me,’ she said.

  ‘No worries,’ said Sam. ‘I’ll see you in half an hour. Can’t help you with earplugs for the band, mind. Gabe says the kids are playing their recorders.’

  True to his word, Sam arrived at the same time as Tiffany was returning from the coffee cart with fresh supplies. Coffee, and ‘something to cheer you up’. No croissant in the world was that big, Lorna thought, biting off the end.

  ‘Clearing up, I see?’ Sam called ironically as he and Simon the grumpy gamekeeper jumped out of the Land Rover and began unloading canvas and poles. ‘Where d’you want this?’