by Adele Geras
Leonora looked at him. ‘Thank you. My father’s death was not only sad, it was also very inconvenient. It happened on the eve of my wedding.’
‘How very sad!’ Mr Bland managed to take a bite from one of the scones Mrs Darting had provided, while balancing his notebook on his knees. ‘But I believe there’s no work of his dated later than 1935. This means that for the last thirteen years of his life he did no painting at all. Is that correct?’
‘Quite correct, I’m afraid,’ said Leonora. ‘My mother died in 1935 and he … well, he was never quite himself again, really.’
‘Nevertheless, it is a considerable body of work. There are fifty-four canvases, and several dozen sketches and watercolours. A great deal more than many artists have left us. And I’m quite sure that people will be fascinated to come and see them. An added attraction …’ he smiled at Leonora ‘… will be your good self, of course, in situ as it were. Visitors will enjoy meeting the original of the youthful portraits.’
Leonora smiled. ‘I thought that I would look forward to that,’ she said. ‘But I find that I’m a little nervous after all. Will I know what to say? Perhaps there’s someone who might do it better than I could? Who’d know more?’
‘Probably,’ Mr Bland agreed. ‘But if I may say so, you are Willow Court’s greatest asset. Your presence would make a visit to see these pictures something very special indeed.’
Leonora said, ‘I expect I shall enjoy it really, but I do hope there won’t be too many people to talk to at any one time. I don’t think I’d be too happy coping with droves of visitors. Also, I have to consider my husband and daughter. This is their house too, of course.’
‘Of course it is. Then we must make sure that no droves come to trouble you or your family, dear lady!’ said Mr Bland. For someone as staid as he was, Leonora thought, he was looking rather excited. ‘We will limit the numbers. It will make the whole thing more … exclusive. The general public will have to telephone our gallery in advance and make a booking for the days on which Willow Court is open. And in my opinion, there should not be too many of these. A certain difficulty, a certain rarity value will do nothing but good, I think.’
‘I agree,’ said Leonora, much more relaxed now that she knew she wouldn’t have to spend every single day pointing out the beauty of Ethan Walsh’s works to masses and masses of people. Showing small groups around the house at intervals throughout the year was a different matter altogether. ‘I shall enjoy it. I think.’
Mr Bland stood up. ‘It will be a pleasure to deal with the details for you, Mrs Simmonds.’
‘Oh, Leonora, please,’ she said. ‘If we are to be such close associates.’
‘I’m honoured,’ said Mr Bland. ‘And you must call me Jeremy.’
Later, she and Nanny Mouse would laugh as she described the blush that had risen from the stiff collar of Mr Bland’s shirt and up into the roots of his greying hair.
‘I’m going to be a proper businesswoman, Nanny!’ Leonora said. ‘Isn’t that thrilling?’
‘Most exciting, dear,’ said Nanny, busy stitching smocking on to the bodice of a pretty dress for Gwen. ‘Willow Court will be quite the centre of attention, won’t it?’
Leonora and Mr Bland – Jeremy – had chosen Thursdays as Open Day at Willow Court. That would be throughout the year, and during the summer months, Tuesdays would be added as well. There might also be the occasional weekend but that was subject to what Jeremy called ‘your personal availability’.
‘He imagines we live a life of pleasure and idleness, Nanny,’ she said. ‘You know, guests every weekend, or else gadding about to parties and what not. When we’re such homebodies, really. He doesn’t realize that we prefer our own company to anyone else’s.’
Nanny Mouse said nothing but privately thought Mr Bland was a clever gentleman who knew Leonora rather better than she did herself. It was quite true that she and Mr Peter were devoted, but they were also forever entertaining and going about to other people’s houses. A life of pleasure was exactly the right term for it, in her opinion.
*
‘Look! Look, Gwen, darling!’ Leonora pointed at the tiny screen of the television where a grainy greyish picture of the coach (which she knew was golden in reality) carrying the new Queen back from Westminster Abbey was partly visible through what looked like a snowstorm. It wasn’t really a snowstorm, just a rather unclear picture, but still, everyone had gathered in the drawing room to watch the royal progress.
‘Such a shame about the rainy weather!’ Bunny said. Richard was on her lap. Gwen was on Leonora’s lap, which meant that for the moment, she was safe from the little boy’s clumsiness.
‘Ween!’ Gwen called out, and everyone laughed.
‘She talks so well for her age, doesn’t she?’ Bunny looked less than pleased as she said this. Richard wasn’t the most advanced of speakers, and Leonora thought this was probably because he used most of his available talent to go charging about putting people’s ornaments in grave danger.
‘Yes, it’s the new Queen, sweetiepie,’ Leonora whispered into her baby’s ear. Bunny’s attention was fixed on the screen. ‘Can you see her crown?’
Gwen nodded gravely.
‘It’s been quite a day,’ said Peter, who had come in from the office specially to watch the ceremony on the television. Nigel was there, too, and the occasion had turned into a party of sorts. It wasn’t every day that a monarch was crowned, after all. In the end, though, when the tea things had been cleared away, Bunny and Nigel and Richard went home, and before long, Nanny Mouse took Gwen upstairs to have her bath.
‘I know what you’re going to say,’ Leonora said to Peter, leaning back against the cushions of the sofa.
‘No, you don’t.’
‘I do. You’re going to say peace at last. Or something along those lines.’
‘A good guess, but not quite. I was actually going to say alone at last!’
‘You sound surprised. We’re often alone.’
‘Not often enough for me.’ He came over to the sofa and sat down next to Leonora and put his arms around her.
‘Oh, darling! We’re an old married couple. We’re certainly much too old to canoodle on a sofa. There’s a proper place for such things, you know.’
She didn’t mean a word of it. They would be undisturbed for a while, and they were both aware of that, and aware of the special festive atmosphere that had coloured the whole day. They’d had rather a lot of champagne at lunch (we don’t have a Coronation every day, do we?) and Leonora’s head was swimming a little.
All at once, everything was happening very quickly. Her skirt and the lace-trimmed silk slip she wore under it pushed up, and her knickers somehow (how?) on the carpet and Peter making love to her and kissing her hair and the delicious terror that maybe someone would overhear them or see them so that they had to be quick and it was easy to be quick because they couldn’t stop, they could never stop, and all the sounds rising in their throats and being stifled, and then nothing but silence broken by panting as though they’d been running for a long time.
Afterwards, they arranged their clothes in silence and lay back against the cushions.
‘Time to go and kiss Gwen goodnight, I think,’ Peter said at last.
‘You go first,’ Leonora murmured, her eyes still closed. ‘I’ll be there in a minute.’
She could have gone with him, but she didn’t want to. She wanted to sit on the sofa and remember this time. Remember how full of love she was for him. How heavy her limbs were. How very little she felt like ever getting up and moving again.
*
‘Darling? Darling, can you hear me?’ Leonora was speaking as clearly as she could into the telephone. It still struck her as a rather magical invention.
‘I can hear you, Leonora,’ said Peter. He sounded amused but Leonora was aware that he must have work to do and probably wanted to get on with it but was too kind and loving to tell her so. Never mind, she thought. He’ll forget all about that when I tell him th
e news.
‘I wanted you to know at once. I was going to wait till you came home, only Doctor Benyon’s just been and I want to tell Nanny Mouse but I can’t tell her before I tell you and so I thought I’d telephone. I’m so sorry if I’ve disturbed you, my love.’
‘Can I guess?’ Peter sounded different now. He knows, Leonora thought. He must do. He can hear how happy I am.
‘I expect you can. We’re going to have another baby. Oh, Peter, I wish you could be here.’
‘Darling! Oh, darling, that’s the most wonderful news. The very best news. Oh, God, I can’t stay here now. I shall come home. Just give me an hour or so to sort out a problem I’m in the middle of and then I’ll be as quick as I can. Oh, Leonora, you’re my treasure. You and Gwen. I’ll be with you before you know it. May I tell them here? They’ll be so delighted. I expect they’ll want to drink a toast to you, darling. But I won’t be long.’
‘Promise?’
‘Promise. Kiss kiss.’
‘Kiss kiss,’ Leonora smiled as she replaced the telephone in its cradle. If anyone could hear us, she thought, they’d think we’d taken leave of our senses. Well, perhaps we have. She looked around and wondered what she should do between now and when Peter arrived. Nanny Mouse had taken Gwen upstairs for her afternoon nap. The September afternoon was warm and sunny. I’ll go for a walk, she thought. I’ll walk all round the lake and by the time I come back to the house, Peter might be here to greet me.
The trees know that autumn is nearly here, Leonora reflected, even though it’s as warm as summertime. The scarlet oaks in the drive were beginning to turn, and there were already red leaves visible among the green. The late roses were good this year, and the hydrangeas better than ever. Most people thought of this shrub as being hyacinth-blue but these carried enormous heads of pink and white and mauve flowers.
She walked slowly round the lake, smiling at the swans, and with all her attention focused on the person growing in her womb. She put her hand on her still completely flat stomach and wondered briefly whether the child she was carrying was a boy or a girl. She could never understand why anyone would care about such things. If the child was healthy and happy, that was quite enough. She knew that she was unusual among her friends in enjoying the state of pregnancy. Grace had spent six months, in her own words, ‘bent double over the lavatory’ and even Bunny hadn’t been able to drink coffee and had quite gone off all sorts of other things. Both of them had swollen up, too, like barrage balloons, but when she had been expecting Gwen, no one could tell till she was nearly six months gone.
What time was it? Leonora looked at her watch and began to walk more quickly. She’d been out and daydreaming for over an hour. Even if Peter isn’t home yet, she thought, Gwen must have woken up by now and she’ll want me. She made her way through the wild garden and then up over the lawn to the terrace. There were two police cars parked near the front door and at first, Leonora looked at them and wondered rather idly (because her mind was on other, more important things) what they could possibly want at Willow Court. She stepped into the hall and saw them, two male police officers and a woman constable, holding their hats in their hands and standing in an unnatural way, it seemed to her, as though they were taking part in a tableau. Still, she would have found an explanation, some reason for them to be there that didn’t affect her if it hadn’t been for Nanny Mouse. She ran towards Leonora, her face wet with tears she was still shedding, and folded her in her arms, saying, ‘Oh, Leonora, Leonora darling. Be brave, my love. Oh, it’s so dreadful, my poor darling. Never mind, never mind.’
Leonora felt herself becoming ice cold all over. She pushed Nanny Mouse away rather roughly and part of her wanted to stop and turn round and say sorry, I didn’t mean to push you but what’s happening and the words stuck in her mouth, which was dry and full of something bitter and she could only make sounds, like a baby.
‘Mrs Simmonds,’ said the woman constable. ‘Please come and sit down, Mrs Simmonds.’ She took hold of Leonora’s elbow and guided her to a chair. We don’t have any chairs in the hall, Leonora thought. They’ve brought it in specially. She didn’t want to sit down. How dare this woman tell her to sit down.
‘I don’t know why you’re here, but if you are prepared to wait a little while, my husband will come home and I’m sure he’ll be happy to answer any questions you may wish to ask.’
Behind her, Nanny Mouse uttered a cry, and then immediately stifled it. The most senior of the police officers – you could tell, because he was grey-haired and looked like someone’s strict uncle – came to her and gently indicated that she should sit down.
‘I’m afraid we have some very bad news, Mrs Simmonds. Very bad news indeed.’
*
Grief shrouded Leonora like a thick fog, and for days after that terrible afternoon when she’d listened with every appearance of calm to what the police had told her (driving much too fast … a tree … instantaneous death) and then fainted away at the feet of the woman constable, she had spent hours in her bed, weeping and weeping until she felt as though there was not a single bit of moisture left in her whole body. When the tears stopped, when she struggled from her bed, every single thing she laid eyes on filled her with a rage she couldn’t contain. She walked for miles, unseeing, round and round the lake. She hid the records that he loved in a box in a corner of the Studio. She took the love letters she’d hidden in the dolls’ house years before and put them with all the others in the biscuit tin and pushed them into the depths of her bottom drawer. Maybe she would burn them. She couldn’t even glance at his handwriting without wanting to burst into tears all over again. Looking at Gwen filled her with pain, because every single thing about the child brought Peter into her mind. It wasn’t that she resembled him at all, only that her very presence in the world was a result of their love, their passion, and thinking about that, about Peter’s physical body, and contrasting how it used to be with how it was now was literally unbearable, and she felt a howl of anguish rising and rising in her throat, filling her with such agony that the small moans she sometimes found herself uttering seemed ridiculous, inappropriate, not any kind of reflection of how much she was hurting.
Sleep had disappeared from her life. The best she managed every night was lying in their bed (their bed!) in a half-doze, her mind alive with memories, her body aching for Peter’s touch, her whole being raw and sore as though someone had taken a knife to her skin and removed it. She lay staring at the ceiling, calling Peter’s name in her head, and maybe aloud, and pushing aside any help from anyone else.
Nanny Mouse tried. She cajoled and soothed and stroked Leonora’s brow with a cool damp cloth after hours of tears had turned her into a red-eyed, swollen-faced creature, who bore less and less resemblance to the elegant Mrs Simmonds. In the end, that was how Nanny Mouse made her pull herself together sufficiently to attend the funeral.
‘Leonora, dear, it’s Peter’s funeral tomorrow morning. I’ve taken out your black suit and brushed it, and the hat with the veil. But now, you know, you will have to take yourself in hand a little.’
‘How dare you, Nanny? Take myself in hand … how can you speak of such things? Don’t you realize … don’t you realize exactly what I’ve lost? Everything. My whole life, my whole happiness, everything.’
‘Nonsense,’ said Nanny Mouse. ‘I will overlook what you’ve just said, because of course you’re not yourself, Leonora. But I would remind you that you are a mother. Gwen needs you. She will need you even more now that she is fatherless, poor little thing.’
Leonora stared at Nanny Mouse and wondered whether to shriek and tear her own hair out or shout obscenities at this stupid, stupid woman who was telling her to cheer up and pull herself together when she knew, she just knew, that she would never, ever be able to face the world again. I don’t have to, she suddenly thought. I can die. I can take pills with a lot of whisky and never wake up again ever. She closed her eyes and considered this for a moment but that voice, that Nanny vo
ice that had been in her ears since the day she was born, went on speaking. It said, ‘I know that you would never do anything foolish. You know, after all, better than anyone, what it is for a girl to grow up without a mother. And think of little Gwen, and how much she loves you. And think of what Peter would say if he knew you’d abandoned his daughter.’
It was that possessive pronoun that brought her to her senses. Gwen was indeed Peter’s daughter. Leonora opened her eyes and sniffed and said, ‘Thank you, Nanny. I will have a bath now. And yes, I will be perfectly all right for the funeral. I shan’t disgrace you. Or Peter.’
Saying his name aloud – was this the very first time she had done so since his death? – was torture, but she gritted her teeth and continued, ‘I wish I’d never told him. I wish I’d waited. Oh, God, it’s too late to wish anything, but I do because if it hadn’t been for me telling him …’
‘Telling him what, dear?’ Nanny Mouse looked genuinely puzzled and Leonora smiled.
‘You didn’t guess. I thought you might have guessed. I’m pregnant again. I’m going to have a baby next March. I’d phoned Peter to tell him. That was why he was hurrying home. I think he died because of that. Oh, Nanny, Nanny what will I do without him? How will I manage?’
‘You will manage by getting through one day at a time. You mustn’t think of the future. And you must try not to think of the past either. Not yet. There’ll be time for that later. Let’s just get through the funeral.’
*
The small church at the top of the hill that overlooked the lake at Willow Court was full for Peter’s funeral. All the friends they had made in the area since their wedding day, all his colleagues from work, and from his days in the army crowded into the pews. Leonora had left Gwen in the care of Libby, a young girl from the village who often came in to help when things were, in Nanny Mouse’s words, ‘at sixes and sevens’. Nanny Mouse herself, in her best black dress with a black felt hat pulled well down over her hair, stood beside Leonora, ready to catch her if she should faint. She was, after all, nearly three months pregnant.
