by Adele Geras
He raised his head and looked at her and said, ‘Now that you are grown-up, and now that I seem to be kneeling at your feet, I can ask you what I’ve wanted to ask you for so long. Will you marry me, Leonora?’
‘Yes!’ she cried. ‘Of course I will. As soon as possible. Oh, Peter, I love you so much. Will you love me for ever and ever?’
‘Absolutely!’ he laughed and stood up. ‘For ever and ever and even longer. We’ll live happily ever after like those chaps in the fairy tales.’
A thought occurred to Leonora. ‘My father doesn’t know you’re here, does he? You didn’t go up to Willow Court first?’
‘No, I came straight to the lake. I saw someone skating on it as I walked up the drive and I knew it was you. We’ll go and find him now and I shall ask him formally for your hand in marriage. Sort of thing he’d like, I suppose.’
‘Yes,’ said Leonora, ‘I suppose it is. But I’m still furious with him, and I’ll marry you whether he gives us his blessing or not. I’ll be twenty next year.’
They started to make their way together through the wild garden towards Willow Court. Their feet made a crunching noise in the snow, and they left prints side by side in the white space, her smaller ones keeping pace with his, right beside him every step of the way. There were so many things she wanted to say to Peter but she found she couldn’t speak. All the words she wanted to shout out were blocking her throat, her windpipe, so that she could scarcely draw breath. Just before they reached the house, Peter bent down and kissed her again. She could feel herself thawing out, feel the years and years of waiting and holding herself together falling away. I haven’t been breathing, she thought. For five years, I’ve not been living at all. Not properly. I’m going to be happy now. For ever. I’m going to be warm and happy for ever and ever.
———
On her way down to lunch, Leonora tried to remember where exactly in this house, whose walls were hung with paintings, she’d put the photograph cut from the pages of the Illustrated London News, all those years ago. It’s in the downstairs cloakroom, she thought, feeling pleased at how quickly she’d recalled its exact location. She found herself hurrying, wanting suddenly to look at it again, and hoping that no one else would be around to whom she’d have to explain what she was doing. The downstairs cloakroom was normally reserved for visitors to the house, and Leonora hardly ever went in there.
She stepped into the small room and locked the door behind her. There it was, on the back of the door, a large sepia photograph showing some young men, smiling broadly, and all lined up in wheelchairs or standing on crutches or bandaged about the head. There were four nurses, two at each end of the row, and a couple of doctors, bending over their patients. Ethan Walsh, unsmiling, stood behind everyone else. The men, who were, Leonora knew, all soldiers, looked amazingly cheerful, which was the whole point of the photograph. It was posed around a bench on the terrace of Willow Court, and you could see the darkened drawing room windows in the background. She brought her head close to the picture so that she could read the caption underneath: ‘Artist Ethan Walsh pictured with some of the servicemen who are recuperating at his country home, Willow Court.’
One of them was Peter. That one, second from the left, and even after all the years, Leonora found tears springing to her eyes. Peter. Even in sepia you could see how he would light up a room just by coming into it. She remembered how Ethan himself, within twenty minutes of Peter asking to marry her, had seemed to change from the cross, silent old man she’d left when she went out to skate on the frozen lake into someone who almost resembled the kind father of her early childhood.
*
‘I can quite understand, sir,’ Peter had said, with a shy smile and pushing his hair back off his forehead, ‘that my letters to Leonora must have been a little, well, I suppose not exactly the sort of thing a father would be happy to read, so I did understand when you forbade me to write again. But I promise you that in the fighting, when I didn’t know whether I was going to be alive or dead the next day, I wasn’t thinking about anything but how much I loved her. Reckless, you might call it. I can’t apologize for my feelings, sir, though I confess I wish you hadn’t seen them.’
‘Where were you, during your service?’ Ethan asked, pleased to be called ‘sir’. He seemed more lively than he had for years at the casual mention of life and death and war and all the things he’d managed to shut out of his thoughts as he skulked around Willow Court. Peter sat down on the chair on the other side of the fire, and began to tell stories from the front line. Leonora listened and saw it all – the darkness and sudden flare of gunfire. She heard the screams of the dying and the wounded in Peter’s measured and unsensational account.
‘And it was Leonora who kept me sane,’ he said. ‘Thinking of her, of this house and the kindness we were all shown here, well, those thoughts were like stars above my head that I knew would bring me home.’
He smiled at Ethan and continued, ‘I hope you’ll allow me to marry Leonora and call Willow Court my home.’
‘Certainly, my boy,’ Ethan said. ‘Of course. Wouldn’t dream of standing in your way, both of you. I think this occasion calls for a bottle of the pre-war champagne, don’t you?’
Naturally, once the novelty had worn off, Ethan went back to being as moody and grim-faced as ever, but if anyone could bring a smile to his lips, it was Peter.
*
She kissed her fingers and touched the glass and immediately felt irritated at her own sentimentality. You’re an old fool, she said to herself as she left the cloakroom. It’s all long ago, and gone for ever. Somewhere far away she could hear someone whistling ‘I Can’t Give You Anything But Love’, which had been their tune, hers and Peter’s. Leonora shivered. Who would be whistling it today? She shook her head, to clear it. I’m thinking too much about those days, she told herself. No one’s whistling. It’s just that the tune is in my head, suddenly. Probably because I’ve been remembering Peter. Melodies did sometimes take up residence in the brain. She wished she’d never thought of looking at that photograph again and wondered whether she shouldn’t perhaps take it down and put it right away where no one could see it. No, that wouldn’t help. His face was always there, whenever she closed her eyes. Whenever she allowed herself to remember everything she had lost.
*
Leonora watched Efe coming across the grass towards her. She knew very well that he’d been looking for her before he’d left for town and she’d been deliberately elusive. She’d made sure to help herself to a light lunch before he returned, and then had gone out to her favourite seat under the magnolia tree in the Quiet Garden and stared at the book on her lap without seeing it. Efe would know where to find her and sure enough, here he was. He hadn’t changed. He still had the same combination of bravado and shyness that he’d had as a boy and his smile was the same mixture of apprehension about the way she was going to react, mixed in with a lot of confidence in his own charm; his own ability to get out of trouble.
‘I knew you’d be here, Leonora,’ he said, and stood directly in front of her. Leonora smiled back.
‘You like this bit of the garden too, don’t you? Aren’t you going to sit down beside me? You always used to when you were in some kind of trouble as a boy.’
‘I’m not in trouble now, though,’ he said. ‘I’ve come to do a bit of persuading, really. I shouldn’t have sprung it on you last night in front of everyone like that, and I apologize. I guess I’m just eager. But I do think you haven’t thought the whole thing through. There would be so many advantages for you in this plan. You’d be the main person to profit.’
‘Financially, I daresay I would, but that’s not the only consideration, is it? Willow Court is my home. How can you imagine that at my time of life I’d be willing to see it stripped of all the Walsh paintings, which are, after all, not simply the Walsh paintings to me but all that was best about my father. They remind me of him. Is it sentimental to want to keep them here?’
‘W
ell, since you ask, I think it is a bit.’ Efe frowned. ‘The art world hasn’t exactly been beating a path to your door, has it? Even though there’s always interest in Ethan Walsh’s pictures. It’s just too out of the way, and you’ve let the whole operation become too cosy and domestic.’
Leonora stiffened. ‘If you’re going to be rude, Efe, then there’s nothing at all to discuss. Cosy and domestic, indeed! Just because I don’t go in for the aggressive marketing techniques that I’m sure you’d recommend it doesn’t mean to say I don’t have the best interests of the Collection at heart. You forget that I’ve been running Willow Court for years. I’ve been on the boards of several museums and art galleries and I know what I’m talking about. My feeling is that anyone who is truly interested in Ethan Walsh manages to find their way here without too much trouble. Your Mr Stronsky knows enough to be keen, doesn’t he? And who was it, after all, who arranged for a really quite prestigious documentary to be made about my father and his work?’
‘Yes, that’s fair enough, but I’m not just talking about those who are truly interested in Ethan Walsh. I’m talking about everyone who could discover him if only they were given a chance. I’m sorry, Leonora. Honestly, I don’t mean to be rude but try to imagine how splendid a whole purpose-built museum would be! You know there’s no room at Willow Court to hang all the pictures, and some real treasures are almost always packed away in the Studio and only brought out for special occasions. Even the ones that are hanging here aren’t exactly displayed to their best advantage. You’d be able to keep some of the paintings, I’m sure, and lend them to the new museum in a kind of rotation or something. We’d fix everything to suit you, you know. Reuben Stronsky is a very reasonable sort of man. Really.’
Leonora looked at Efe and burst out laughing. ‘That’s the expression you always wore when you were after me for something, when you were about eight or so: Enthusiastic. Nervous. Look, you’re even biting your lip in exactly the same way.’ She shook her head. ‘I’m sorry, Efe darling. I know this means a lot to you, but I can’t do it. My father made me promise to keep the pictures here, at Willow Court. I wouldn’t recognize my own house if someone removed them. Also, they’d feel strange and unloved hanging in some other place. Do you think I’m being fanciful? I’m not a sentimental person, Efe, as you well know, but those painting are like living things to me and I just cannot imagine them far away in America, or even somewhere in London, where I can’t see them every day. Please tell Reuben Stronsky that I’m sorry to disappoint him but my mind’s made up.’
Efe took Leonora’s hand and squeezed it. ‘Will you wait? Will you just please wait and give me your final answer after the party? I didn’t … I don’t want to spoil that. It’s your special day and I really do want it to be a day you’ll always remember, but will you just do this one thing for me? Wait till after the party? Please?’
‘I can’t think what could possibly change in such a short time, but very well, if it’s going to make you any happier, I’ll tell you again on Sunday night. My mind won’t have been changed.’
‘You don’t know, Leonora. Anything could happen.’
‘Anything but that, really. I simply cannot imagine anything that would make me suddenly want the paintings going out into the world. I promised my father and if you’re harbouring any thoughts along the lines of maybe we can do all this when the old lady’s dead, then put it right out of your mind. The terms of my will are as clear as those of my father’s. The paintings stay at Willow Court.’
Leonora looked at Efe and saw that his mood was darkening. He was someone who carried his unhappiness all around him like a personal cloud and managed to affect everyone with his mood. When he was a child, she sometimes adopted a firm, no-nonsense approach. Perhaps if she tried it now it would still work. She said, ‘Efe, you’re not to sulk. There’s nothing to sulk about. Forget about the whole matter till after the party. Try to enjoy yourself a little. You know, don’t you, that I’ve always done everything I can to help you. Once, as you know, I helped you when perhaps I shouldn’t have done, and I’ve had more than a few sleepless nights about that, believe me, but I forgave myself because whatever happened, I could say Efe’ll be all right. I did it for him.’
That day came back to her now. She could almost taste the horror and the pain. She could remember the tears she’d shed and how she’d wiped Efe’s tears and told him over and over that she’d look after him. That everything would be all right and he was not to worry. She’d promised him then that she’d never mention what he’d done ever again. She would never, she’d told him, discuss that day either with him or with anyone else and now she’d broken that promise. She looked at him now with something like dread. She should have been more careful. He wasn’t saying anything but she could see that within the mass of silence he’d built around him, he was furious, hurt, angry with her. He was also, it occurred to Leonora, reliving his version of exactly the same scene and finding it painful. She said, ‘I’m sorry, Efe. I know I said I would never mention it, and I shouldn’t have said a word. I didn’t mean to … remind you.’
Efe stood up. ‘Well, you bloody well have reminded me, haven’t you?’
‘Efe! Don’t swear at me, please. You know I don’t like it!’ Leonora’s voice was uncharacteristically shaky. ‘I know … I know you’re right, darling, and you’re quite right to be furious with me …’
Efe interrupted her. ‘I can’t stay here any longer. I don’t know how to speak about that. And I don’t want to. I don’t ever want to. You promised not to remind me and you’ve done exactly that, and I don’t know what to say.’
‘I’m sorry, Efe. I really am.’ Leonora spoke as gently as she could. A vein was throbbing in Efe’s forehead and his hands were bunched up into fists. If I wasn’t his grandmother, she thought, he’d probably hit me.
‘Don’t you realize how hard I try not to think about all that? Don’t you? Most of the time I succeed, too, but of course it’s harder to forget all that old childhood stuff when I’m here, and now you’ve put the tin lid on it.’ He shook his head as though suddenly a picture he desperately wanted to get rid of had come into his mind. He sank down on to the bench next to Leonora and put his head in his hands.
‘I used to want to thank you, you know. I used to lie awake and think of things I could do for you in return.’ His voice as he spoke was full of suppressed tears.
Leonora put her arm around him, and he turned to her and buried his head in her shoulder, just as he used to do when he was a small boy. He used to come and find her whenever he had bad dreams, and she could remember him weeping and weeping, saying don’t tell anyone. Don’t tell them I was crying.
Now she said, ‘You don’t need to do anything in return, Efe. I did it for myself as much as for you. Let’s say no more about it, shall we? Look, here comes your mother and she’s got Douggie with her.’
As soon as the little boy caught sight of his father, he pulled his hand out of Gwen’s and began a wobbly run across the grass towards Efe.
‘Dada!’ he called. ‘Dada!’
Efe stood up and caught him and swung him up to his face and gave him a big kiss on the cheek. Douggie immediately settled into Efe’s arms and began talking.
‘Want to see doll house, Dada. Want doll house. Dada take Douggie. Now.’
‘We need to ask Leonora, Douggie,’ Efe said. ‘It’s her dolls’ house.’
Douggie began to squirm and Efe lowered him gently to the ground. The boy went straight to where Leonora was sitting and began to pull at her skirt.
‘Doll house! Please take me to doll house! Now!’
‘Your son,’ Leonora said to Efe, ‘has inherited your demanding nature.’ To Douggie she said, ‘Come on, then, Douggie. We’ll go and visit the dolls’ house, if it’ll make you happy.’
‘Happy!’ Douggie agreed, putting his small pink hand into Leonora’s. ‘Let’s go to doll house. Now.’
Leonora stood up and Douggie began to pull her across the
grass towards the house. She said, ‘I’m much, much older than you are, Douggie. I walk more slowly than you do, too, so you must wait for me. And when we get to the dolls’ house, you must be a good boy and touch everything very gently. The dolls’ house is very special. We have to look after it.’ Douggie nodded solemnly and slowed down to keep the same pace as Leonora.
*
‘D’you need any help, Mum?’ Efe asked Gwen as she made her way carefully along the paths of the Quiet Garden. ‘I’m not quite sure what you’re doing, but I’m happy to help you. I’m at a bit of a loose end, actually.’
‘I’m checking my flowers to make sure that all the ones I want for the arrangements in the house on Sunday are going to be ready. Not that there’s much I can do about it if they’re not.’ Gwen smiled at her son. ‘This dahlia is called Bishop of Llandaff. It’s doing rather well, and it’s such a wonderful colour. I love it.’
‘Bishop of Llandaff ? That’s not very glamorous as a name, is it?’
‘No, I suppose not, but names often aren’t. Don’t pay any attention, dear. I know you’re not the one to consult about such matters, are you?’
‘God, no,’ Efe grinned. ‘One flower’s much like another to me. They’re very pretty and smell nice and all that, but I can’t see the point of them, really. One minute they’re blooming and the next the petals are falling off or yellow or something. And okay, I don’t really want to discuss floral arrangements but just to ask you to have a word with Leonora for me. It really does matter, Mum.’
‘You can’t imagine I’m on your side in all this, Efe? I think a museum far away from Willow Court is a dreadful idea.’
Efe kicked at the gravel angrily. ‘You’re not thinking straight, Mum. Honestly. D’you really want to spend the rest of your days as a glorified housekeeper to a lot of pictures? Imagine how much freer you’d be if you weren’t a caretaker and a sort of nurse-companion to Leonora?’
