Facing the Light

by Adele Geras

  He said it perfectly seriously, and somehow it didn’t even seem conceited, just commonsensical.

  Fiona thought the terms of Leonora’s will rather unfair, and had once dared to say, ‘What about your aunt Rilla? Doesn’t she get anything? She’s Leonora’s daughter too, isn’t she?’

  Efe had smiled and said, ‘She’ll get a fair old dollop of money, don’t you fret. And she’d hate to be saddled with dealing with the paintings. Willow Court is not her favourite place in the world, and besides, she leads such a rackety existence. If it was left to her, it’d be some kind of commune within the decade. And although she works hard at looking like some kind of gipsy, she’s actually not short of a bob or two. She still works, you know. In telly and sometimes even in movies.’

  Ethan Walsh’s paintings hung on almost every available wall at Willow Court. The entire art world, it seemed to Fiona, kept approaching Leonora, writing to her and telephoning her, wanting her to give permission for the Collection to be rehung somewhere a little more accessible to the Great British Public than the depths of Wiltshire. Leonora wouldn’t hear of such a thing. The paintings stayed exactly where the first Ethan had wanted them to be. Fiona never breathed a word to anyone, but she couldn’t really see what all the fuss was about. Everyone in the family, and crowds of other people, said the pictures were masterpieces. They spoke about the Walsh technique for laying colour on canvas, his method of depicting light; the strange imagination which lifted ordinary objects into some other, more surreal universe, but Fiona couldn’t really warm to the paintings. They were troubling, that was true, and when she was actually here, she found herself not looking straight at them if she could help it.

  Efe was still on the phone. She worked out from what was being said that he was discussing some boring thing about money. She knew, because he moaned about it so much, that things were hard for him at work, as far as money went. That was one reason he was so keen that Leonora should agree to his plan; he stood to earn a huge commission if the deal went through. Fiona would have been quite happy to give him as much money as he needed, because she had more than enough, but once when she’d dared to suggest it, Efe’s eyes blazed at her and he’d sounded so enraged that she’d never suggested it again.

  ‘Fine kind of a husband I’d be if I came running to my wife every time I had cash-flow problems,’ he’d almost spat at her, and she blushed and said nothing, which was silly of her. She ought to have fought back a bit, said that now they were man and wife her money was his, and so on, but she hadn’t dared to utter a word at the time.

  Now, she stopped listening to Efe’s conversation and put it out of her mind entirely. Instead she thought about maybe being in this documentary that was being made. Leonora was a vain old thing, really. She couldn’t resist the idea of being on TV and it was typical of her to arrange for filming to take place during her birthday celebrations. The house and garden would be looking mega-lovely and she’d be seen at her best, every inch the grande dame. Efe, she knew, would make sure he was in plenty of shots, and quite right too. She stared at her husband and thanked her lucky stars, as she did every day, that he’d chosen her, out of everyone else in the world, to be his wife.

  Efe caught Fiona looking at him as he spoke and signalled that he’d be finished soon. And he smiled at her. Her heart melted. There were times when he went for ages without smiling at her and then she felt as though the sun had gone behind a cloud. He spoke unkindly to her, too, occasionally, but only when he was fed up with her, and Fiona resolved each time that happened to try as hard as she could not to annoy him. She’d worked out some of the things he didn’t like her doing and saying, and whenever he frowned or showed his disapproval she made a note of what it was that had angered him, and determined to try to be more the sort of person he wanted her to be. She loved him too much, that was the problem. She knew all his faults and still loved him. Sometimes she wondered what it was about her that had attracted him in the first place. She knew she was pretty, but feared that prettiness on its own wouldn’t be enough to keep him interested in her for ever. Her mind went back, as it often did, to the very best day of her life. Her wedding day.

  They’d got married in December, and the snow was falling as they left the church, like confetti dropping down from heaven. Her dress was cream satin, its train stitched with snowflake-shaped jewels, and her veil was like a cloud of lace around her head. She’d carried a bouquet of white and pale pink roses, and in the photographs you could see the ribbons falling from the flowers and making three shining lines on the lustrous fabric of her skirt. Oh, she’d been beautiful then, all right, and Efe had looked at her with something like adoration. Not like now, when she felt bloated all the time and nauseous too. At home, there was a whole album of photographs, taken by Alex, which showed her looking her best and she wished she’d brought it down here to comfort her. There’d be so many people here on Sunday for the party. So many women, all dressed up. What if one of them caught Efe’s eye?

  Cold dread rose in her as she began to think about it. She found it hard not to worry about all those hours when he was at the office, away from her. Wasn’t there a good chance that he’d meet someone else, someone cleverer than she was? Fiona made a huge effort not to think about it, and was quite determined to stay married to Efe. She would do exactly what he wanted in every way. He must never have anything to complain about, ever. If being pregnant was what was required, she would bear one child after another, just as long as he never left her. Her life, her house – everything – was absolutely as she wanted it to be, and that was how it must, must, must remain.

  ‘Come on, Fiona,’ said Efe, putting the mobile away. ‘Let’s get down there. Come on, Douggie. We’re going down to the garden to see the others.’

  ‘Piggyback!’ the little boy said, but Efe replied, ‘Tomorrow, old chap, okay?’

  Fiona knew he was anxious not to crease his shirt. Well, so what? There was nothing in the world wrong with wanting to look nice. She followed her husband and child out of their room and down the stairs to the hall.

  *

  Sean came into the drawing room and looked around rather tentatively. Leonora was waiting for him.

  ‘Ah, Sean,’ she said. ‘Perfect timing! We’ve all started on the drinks, but you’ll soon catch up.’

  Gwen stood just inside the room, and smiled at him.

  ‘Hello, Sean. Shall I introduce you to everyone?’

  ‘I’ll do that, darling,’ said Leonora. She tucked her arm in his and led him over what seemed like acres of carpet towards the French windows, which stood open on this golden evening, letting the warm scent of summer flowers drift indoors. James Rivera, whom he’d only met briefly on his last visit, stood beside the drinks trolley looking debonaire. That was the word for him, Sean reflected. Rather flashily handsome. Hair silver at the temples and an air about him of a forties movie star. Not completely trustworthy, but maybe I’m being unfair, thought Sean as James called out, ‘Sean, what are you drinking?’

  ‘Dry sherry, if you have it, please.’

  ‘Absolutely!’ He turned to the bottles ranged before him and Leonora directed Sean’s attention to the sofa.

  ‘You haven’t met my younger daughter, Cyrilla,’ said Leonora. ‘Cyrilla, this is Sean Everard from the television company.’

  ‘It’s exciting, isn’t it? The film I mean. Only please call me Rilla,’ said the rather plump, red-headed woman dressed in a long, purple silky blouse and black silk trousers. She indicated the younger woman sitting beside her and said, ‘This is my daughter, Beth Frederick.’

  ‘Stepdaughter,’ said Gwen, coming to sit down on Beth’s other side. ‘Her father is Jon Frederick, do you know him?’

  ‘The singer? Are you really his daughter? Gosh, yes, I remember him well. He was quite big in the seventies. Well!’

  Sean was saying the first thing that came into his head. He had noticed the furious look that Rilla shot at her sister when Gwen had pointed out that Beth was
not a blood relation. Even now, after he’d moved the subject to the music of the seventies, Rilla’s mouth was still set in a line, and she was eating one pistachio nut after another from the small dish on the occasional table beside her, discarding the shells into an ashtray.

  ‘Darling, do leave some of those for other people,’ said Leonora. ‘And Sean, we can’t let you be monopolized, can we? You haven’t met my grandchildren and you really must! Come out on to the terrace. I won’t allow smoking in the house, so they all puff away out there.’

  Sean followed Leonora outside. A young man and a very pretty woman indeed were sitting on white chairs at a white table whose surface was almost hidden by an assortment of glasses, an ashtray, little china dishes filled with nuts and cheese straws, and a packet of cigarettes. A boy of about three, who was surely their son, was rolling down the grassy slope beyond the terrace, then running to the top and rolling all over again. The young man leaped to his feet and said, ‘Darling Leonora, how super you’re looking. As usual. Sit down for a moment.’

  ‘Yes, do,’ said his wife. She blushed as she spoke and glanced nervously over her shoulder, just like a small child looking to see whether she’s said the right thing in grown-up company.

  ‘Thank you, Efe dear.’ Leonora sat down, saying to Sean, ‘You’ve spoken to Efe on the telephone, I believe? Beth, whom you met inside, called him that when she was very tiny. Childhood names do stick, don’t they? Efe, this is Sean Everard. Do sit down, Sean. There are enough chairs for everyone.’

  ‘It’s good to meet you face to face at last,’ said Efe. ‘We’re all very excited about the film. This, by the way, is my wife, Fiona. And that’s Douggie, my son.’

  ‘My son’ Sean noticed. Not ‘our son’. He wondered whether Fiona minded that excluding possessive pronoun.

  ‘How d’you do?’ said the young woman and stretched out a hand for Sean to shake. Her clasp was rather limp. She was like a doll, with long fair hair, and blue eyes fringed with ridiculously long lashes. Efe was almost too good-looking. Perhaps it was his clothes. His chinos were too clean and well pressed, his shirt was casual, but obviously came from Jermyn Street. His loafers were certainly Italian. It was as though he’d just stepped out of an advertisement.

  ‘Where’s Chloë?’ Leonora asked. ‘Shouldn’t she be down by now?’

  ‘Oh, you know Chloë!’ said Efe. ‘She’s never been on time in her life.’ He explained to Sean. ‘Chloë’s my younger sister. She’s a bit of a law unto herself. Anything she can do to cause trouble, she’ll do.’

  ‘Oh, Efe!’ Fiona breathed. ‘You are mean! Poor Chloë!’ She smiled at Sean and elaborated. ‘She’s an artist.’

  Leonora shook her head and Efe said, ‘She calls herself an artist, but I don’t know if I would. Anyone can hammer together all sorts of stuff and call it art, but that doesn’t make it so, does it, Leonora?’

  ‘Indeed it does not. You will understand, Sean, I’m sure, that it’s quite a mystery to me that a descendant of a great artist such as Ethan Walsh should dare to call her student daubs “art”.’

  Just at that moment, a strangely dressed figure came striding round the side of the house and made straight for the table. Chloë. It had to be. Sean half rose from his chair as she began shouting out while still approaching them.

  ‘What’s the betting you’re already tearing me to shreds, Efe? How’s it going, Gran? You’re looking dead pretty as usual, Fiona. And vice versa.’

  Fiona’s brow wrinkled as she tried to work out what Chloë was saying, but Sean got it at once. Dead pretty and pretty dead. Clever but cruel. Had Efe understood? Just to make sure that a fight of some kind wasn’t about to break out between the siblings, Sean stepped into the silence.

  ‘I’m Sean Everard,’ he said. ‘Delighted to meet you. I’m directing a programme about Ethan Walsh and we’re filming your grandmother’s birthday celebrations for that.’

  ‘Right,’ said Chloë. ‘They did say, only I didn’t quite take it in. Great. Can I sit here? Philip’s still upstairs, dressing. He’ll be down in a minute. I’m Chloë, by the way.’ She flung herself into the chair next to Leonora and grinned at her. ‘Your face, Gran! Honestly! You should see it.’

  ‘My face, dear, doubtless reflects my feelings about the clothes you have chosen to wear. And I dislike being called Gran, as you know very well.’

  ‘Sorry!’ Chloë said. ‘And my personal appearance is out of bounds, don’t you remember? You promised.’ She turned to Sean. ‘My mother and grandmother disapprove of the way I dress. They always have ever since I was a kid. Only they don’t seem to realize that I’m all grown-up now. Every single time I see them, they do promise to butt out, not to say a word, because to be frank with you, it’s none of their fucking business.’

  ‘Chloë!’ Efe and Fiona said in unison.

  ‘I will not stand for such language!’ Leonora stood up and swept away from the table and into the drawing room, leaving an almost visible trail of anger in her wake. Sean, unsure whether to follow her or stay at the table, glanced at Chloë.

  ‘Take no notice. She’s in a huff. I don’t care.’

  ‘That’s always been your trouble,’ Efe said, frowning. ‘You’re selfish.’

  ‘Me? You’re calling me selfish? King Selfish himself? Bloody nerve!’ She leaned forward, scooped some peanuts out of one of the china dishes, and tipped them into her mouth. She grinned at Sean as she munched.

  ‘You could do with Tennessee Williams as a scriptwriter for any film you make about this family. Take my word for it.’

  There was nothing, Sean thought, that he could say to that. He sat awkwardly for a moment, noticing how Chloë’s arrival had disturbed the gathering. She had obviously been cast as the black sheep of the family, and seemed rather to be enjoying the part. Fiona had moved to the grassy slope to play with her son, Efe had followed Leonora into the house, and now Cyrilla – Rilla – had stepped out on to the terrace and was making her way to the table.

  ‘Oh, God, pass me a cigarette, Chloë darling!’ she said, sinking into the chair beside her niece. ‘I was dying in there, by inches.’ She smiled at Sean. ‘Sorry, but I’m sure you know how it is. One does adore one’s family in theory …’

  ‘… but in practice they don’t half get up your nose!’ Chloë and Rilla burst into squawking laughter together. Sean hadn’t been in the house more than an hour and already he was aware that the laughter, the closeness between the women, was at least partly designed to irritate Gwen. There was nothing wrong with Gwen, Sean reflected, but you couldn’t exactly call her a barrel of laughs. But Rilla – she had a face that seemed familiar in some way. Could he have met her, at some gig in the seventies, perhaps, if she’d been Mrs Frederick? ‘I hope you won’t think I’m being rude,’ he said, ‘but I’m sure I’ve seen your face before, and I can’t quite remember where.’

  ‘In the movies. My Auntie Rilla is a movie star,’ said Chloë. ‘You must have seen Night Creatures?’

  ‘Oh, Chloë, do you have to? I’m not not exactly proud of my work in films, Mr Everard. Shlock, really, all of it. Hammer Horror, that sort of thing. I’m sure you can’t …’

  ‘Yes! Yes, that’s it! Night Creatures. Is that really you? Of course it is. You’ve scarcely changed at all, but it’s not having the costumes and so on. And please call me Sean. I adore Night Creatures. It’s a cult classic. You were marvellous.’

  Rilla held her hand out for Sean to kiss. ‘You’ve made my day,’ she said. ‘No one around here feels it’s any sort of achievement.’

  ‘My mum’s jealous, that’s all,’ Chloë said. ‘She’s never even left home.’

  And, Sean reflected, she’s probably not best pleased that her daughter gets on better with Rilla than she does with her. It wasn’t surprising, really. He could see that Rilla really didn’t care what Chloë wore or what she said or did. In fact, she probably liked the way her niece looked.

  Chloë said, ‘Wait till you see what I’ve made Leonora f
or her birthday, Rilla. You’ll love it. Beth was ever so impressed.’

  ‘Chloë’s amazingly gifted,’ said Rilla. ‘She makes the most marvellous things.’

  ‘And Rilla’s the only person who thinks so,’ Chloë laughed. ‘Rilla and Beth. And my dad is biased in my favour as well, but the rest of the Willow Court mafia wouldn’t know a decent piece of sculpture or painting if it hit them between the eyes. I can’t imagine that they understand Ethan Walsh’s stuff either. Leonora will tell you she’s an expert, but that’s crap, really. All she means is she knew the artist, and that, she feels, gives her a sort of divine right to pronounce on the paintings. It doesn’t. I don’t think she knows that much about it at all.’

  Sean looked at Chloë, slouched in the white chair, with her yellow hair sticking out clownishly all over the place and those enormous trainers incongruous at the ends of her long, rather skinny legs. Either she hadn’t slept for months or else she’d applied dark eyeshadow with a particularly heavy hand, but in the white oval of her face her greenish eyes looked at him with a disconcerting directness. Her lipstick was almost black. Sean wondered whether she always dressed like this or whether she worked extra hard to annoy her mother.

  He glanced towards the French windows. Efe was there, leaning against the frame and talking to Beth. Sean couldn’t hear what they were saying, but Efe was gesturing earnestly with one hand, and Beth’s eyes never left his face. Sean could see them shining, even at this distance. She was bending towards him, looking up at him with a glance of such naked adoration that he felt a little embarrassed and looked away. Had anyone else seen this? Had Fiona? He turned round to see where she and Douggie had got to, and there they were, coming up the slope of the lawn. It was impossible to tell if she’d noticed anything. She was carrying the child on her hip but she waved at her husband and he waved back. Instantly, Beth withdrew. She stepped away from Efe and stared for a moment at the ground, before walking along the terrace to where Chloë, Rilla and Sean were sitting.