by Adele Geras
‘You could’, Efe said, ‘come and sit here on the bed with me.’
‘Why would I want to do that, Efe?’
‘We’re blood brothers, remember? Or sisters. Blood sisters doesn’t sound quite so good, does it? No. She’s gone, Beth. Fiona. And now you’re going. But you’ve always been my best, you know. The one I admired. The one all my other women had to measure up to.’
How ironical, Beth thought. She looked at Efe, and knew, as definitely as she had ever known anything, that it was Alex she loved. And Alex she wanted. Any doubts that might have been there, lurking at the back of her mind, even as she kissed him, had gone, blown away for ever.
‘I’ve got to go, Efe,’ Beth said, a little more gently. I loved him so much, she thought. How come it’s all evaporated so quickly? It had, though. Now all she felt for Efe was a kind of affectionate pity, mixed with something like contempt.
‘You all fucking leave, don’t you? Fiona left.’
‘You’re not exactly missing her though, are you?’ Beth said. ‘That Melanie looked as though she was doing a grand job of cheering you up.’
‘Just a good shag, that’s all she is, Beth. I can talk to you. I can’t talk to anyone else. Not Fiona and not Melanie. You. I think I love you best, Beth. Yes, I definitely do. Come over here.’
‘No, Efe,’ she said, as firmly as she could. A few days ago she’d have given anything to hear Efe say that. I love you best, Beth. Not only did she not believe a word he said, but even worse, she wouldn’t have been able to face him even if it were true. She’d seen too much of how he treated the women he was involved with. She went on, ‘You don’t love me best. I don’t know what you think I can do for you, but I’m off now. I’m going to the pub with Alex. So I’ll see you tomorrow, I suppose.’
‘Fucking Alex! Stolen you from under my nose. Bastard. I’ll have a word with him. Tomorrow.’
He sank back on to the bed and covered his face with one arm.
‘Piss off, Beth. Piss off back to Alex if that’s what you want.’
‘’Bye, Efe,’ she said and left the room. He’d sleep it off and might even forget all about what he’d said to her. Too late, she thought. He’s said it far too late. And I don’t care. I don’t love him like that any more. She ran downstairs to find Alex.
*
Nanny Mouse was tucked up in bed, with her hands folded on top of the duvet.
‘It was a lovely party, wasn’t it? I did enjoy it,’ said Miss Lardner. Her straw hat with the shiny cherries on it had been put away.
‘Yes,’ said Nanny Mouse. ‘It was a very good party. Did we take a present?’
‘We did. Didn’t Leonora thank you for it? She told me how much she liked it.’
‘Someone thanked me. An old lady. Not Leonora. I wonder why she wasn’t there. I expect she’s at school, don’t you think?’
‘I expect so, dear,’ said Miss Lardner. ‘Goodnight, Miss Mussington.’
‘Don’t let the bugs bite,’ said Nanny Mouse. ‘That’s what I always used to say to Leonora. Don’t let the bugs bite.’
*
‘You must be very tired,’ Reuben said. ‘I won’t keep you long, Leonora. It’s been a most memorable day.’
‘I’m a little weary, but I don’t think I’ll be able to sleep tonight. This is the first moment of peace I’ve had all day. I am also very curious about my present. I admit it. It’s childish, I know.’
They were sitting on the bench under the magnolia tree in the Quiet Garden. The shadows were creeping over the grass. Soon, it would be dusk.
‘I guess,’ said Reuben, ‘I could have saved myself a deal of trouble if I’d come to see you two years ago, when I first started thinking about the Walsh Collection.’
He smiled. ‘You were away from home when I saw the pictures and fell in love with them. It was the dead of winter and I never even glanced at the gardens. In a hurry, as usual. I’m always in a hurry.’
Leonora said, ‘My father had such dreadful reasons for keeping the paintings here that now I want them to be out in the world as soon as possible.’
Reuben sat up straighter on the bench. ‘We won’t discuss business now, Leonora. It’s your birthday. But I’m seriously thinking of some kind of twinning arrangement. A small gallery here, just down by the gazebo and maybe even built in the same style … you know, a lot of glass and white wrought iron … and another one over in the States. We’ll talk about it tomorrow.’
‘I’m so grateful to you, Reuben, for everything.’
‘For what?’ Reuben said. ‘I feel privileged to be part of your celebration. This is a most beautiful place.’
‘I love these evenings at the end of summer,’ Leonora said. ‘Autumn’s coming and you can feel it, can’t you?’
‘Yes, I guess you can, but it’s still a long way off. Hard to imagine such a thing as winter on a day like today.’
He put a small parcel in Leonora’s hand.
‘Let me tell you the story of this gift,’ he said. ‘I was in Paris last month and hunting about as I always do among the stalls on the Left Bank, the bouquinistes, where they sell second-hand books and maps and such.’
Leonora nodded. ‘Yes, I love them too.’
‘I found what’s in this parcel at the bottom of a large pile of rubbish.’
Slowly Leonora unwrapped the package. Inside was a small, framed picture. Pastels, she could see at once. The pastel portrait of a young woman, leaning on the parapet of a bridge in Paris. There was Notre Dame sketched in behind her.
‘Is it Maude? How astonishing! She’s beautiful,’ Leonora said. She’s happy! Maybe in love. That’s what she looks like to me. Like a happy woman in love.’
‘That’s right. But you haven’t noticed the signature.’
‘I can’t quite make it out, without my glasses. Who’s the artist?’
‘Ethan Walsh. This is a genuine Ethan Walsh. One of the very few. I figure he did it while they were living in Paris. I asked the bookstall guy where he’d come across it, not really hoping for much, but he told me exactly. Someone called Jacques Noiret had sold it to him. It was part of a whole lot of stuff that used to belong to this Noiret’s mother, who’d owned a small pension, it seems. Can you believe the serendipity? That I should come across it like that? A few weeks before I meet you? I think it’s amazing. Astonishing.’
Leonora was silent for a long time, staring at her mother’s face, young, carefree, full of love for the man who was putting her likeness down on paper. Ethan. Not cruel then. Not bitter at Maude’s superior talent. Not deceiving anyone but telling the world how much he loved this woman in front of him. This was her mother before Willow Court became her prison. Leonora could imagine Maude in Madame Noiret’s pension, leaning against lace-edged pillows in a high bed with a brass bedstead, looking at the husband who loved her sketching by the open window, watching him turn his gaze from the roofscape outside to smile at her. There was nothing in the face in this picture that foreshadowed hair floating on dark water behind a screen of willow branches; nothing of pain, or anger or despair.
‘Thank you, Reuben. I can’t think of anything in the whole world I’d have liked better. I only have sad memories of my mother but you’ve given me another Maude. And also, something good about my father to hold on to while I take in what he did. He must have loved her very much, don’t you think, when he did this? Even though it changed later.’
‘Sure he did,’ said Reuben. ‘He loved her a whole lot. I think we should go in now, Leonora, don’t you? It’s getting late.’
‘You go, Reuben. I’ll come in a minute. And thank you, more than I can say.’
Leonora watched him leave the garden. She half closed her eyes, and found that she was looking at the border where the late summer flowers were nearly over. The memory came to her out of nowhere. Maude, sitting on a small stool, with a sketchbook in her hand. The flowers, the folds of her mother’s skirt. I’m so close to her. It must have been one summer when I was very smal
l, Leonora thought. I can recall how she smelled, of sun and lily of the valley, and she had a hat with a wide brim and a pale mauve ribbon. I can remember everything about that moment. She smiled. She had retrieved a picture of her mother to set against the bad images that filled her head. Maybe later, she said to herself, I will recall other things, different glimpses of Maude’s life.
Leonora went on sitting under the magnolia tree holding the portrait in her lap until the sun dipped below the top of the garden wall. Then she stood up and made her way back to the house.
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