Maker of Footprints

by Sheila Turner Johnston

  She sat on the broken bench and looked at the floor. Although she searched for a long time, she could not catch sight of a single insect. At the window, the wind lifted her hair as it rose through the gap. She put her hand on the initials carved in the wooden frame: S.L.C. 1944. Her fingernails still bore traces of the varnish that she had applied so carefully over a week ago.

  We are only moments away from the past. But it only takes a moment for everything to change, for the world to wobble on its axis and make the familiar strange. She looked back across the field to the fence. Her cat was sitting on one of the fence posts, perfectly balanced.

  If the past is only moments gone, then the future is only moments from us too. It’s OK not to know. She dropped her head. No, it’s not. It’s not OK at all.

  She trudged back across the field, shoulders hunched. There was no one there to clap. She clambered back over the fence again, almost tripping as she pulled her foot over the top wire.

  Disappointed, her father agreed to drive her back to Belfast the next day. Cora was worried. “What is it, Jenna? You’ve been quiet all the holidays.” She felt her daughter’s forehead. “You’re not ill, are you?”

  “No, Mum, I’m fine. I’ve work to do. I have stuff to hand in in January and I haven’t finished it yet.”

  Luke came to her room later that night and sat on the edge of her bed. “Have you and Adam talked?”

  “A bit.”

  “So…?”

  “So nothing. I don’t want to talk about it, Luke.”

  He stood up, huffing. “OK, OK.” He stopped at the door, and swung it between his hands in a way that never failed to annoy her. “There’s something about Adam.”

  She punched her pillow. “What do you mean?”

  “I’m not sure. As if he wasn’t always saying what he meant.” He frowned. “It’s hard to explain. It’s as if he has to pretend all the time.”

  “You never said this before.”

  “I don’t think I thought it before.” Finally he opened the door. “Pity you didn’t meet his brother first.”

  “He’s married,” she said.

  Luke shrugged. “Doesn’t seem to matter these days.”

  “Luke!” She threw her slipper at him. “I’m not a saint, but I’m not that much of a sinner either.”

  Next afternoon, after a drive in which neither of them said very much, her father came into her house and checked the boiler for her, turned up her radiators and went out to inspect the oil tank.

  “You seem to have plenty of oil.” He looked worried. “It’s New Year’s Eve, Jenna. We’ve always been together as a family for New Year. You always come to the Watch Night service.”

  “I’m sorry about the service, Dad. Maybe I’ll go to the church at the top of the road.”

  He was wearing an ordinary collar and tie and looked uneasy as he went to the front door. He gave her a hug.

  “You know you can talk to me, don’t you? About anything?”

  “Yes, Dad. I do. Stop worrying. I just want a bit of time to myself. There’s nothing wrong with that.”

  “When will Adam be back?”

  “Not for a few days yet, I think.”

  Finally he left her. As he opened his car door, he called, “Be good, Missy.”

  She had been waiting for it.

  She took down the Christmas tree. Bare of decoration, its branches held very few needles. What ones remained were shed as she pulled it through the kitchen and out into her back yard. She dug out the vacuum cleaner from under the stairs and swept the carpet until all traces of the tree had vanished. She went round the house taking down every sign of Christmas that she could find.

  Then she sat in her chair and watched the room darken into evening, into night, until she could hardly see. She wasn’t going to go to the service. She got up slowly. She was going to bed.

  People see in the New Year because they want to celebrate a new beginning. They are looking forward, hoping, dreaming, planning, wondering. She wanted to sleep through the turn of this year. She didn’t want to know about its dawning. She wanted it to sneak in past her, leave her alone. She wanted to wake up and carry on and know no difference in the time because time has nerve endings.

  She slipped into bed. Her novel lay on the bedside table. Always, she read before going to sleep. Tonight she lay down and curled into a ball, the house silent around her. The logical side of her brain was very strong and she was well aware that a deep and dangerous depression had begun to drag its heavy folds across her shoulders. She should fight it; she could fight it. But there was another part of her that didn’t care, that wanted to go to sleep and told her that there was no particular reason to get up in the morning.

  13

  LIKE A SMOTHERING hug from an old friend, the red leather sofa moulded itself round Dianne. It was deep and soft, just as she remembered it, right back to the time when Luther, the child next door, had been allowed to visit. She and Luther had played pirates on this sofa, ignoring the scolding of her nanny for turning the cushions into desert islands and the back into the gunnel of the privateer.

  Her father stood with his back to the blazing log fire, its flames making a golden fuzz of his full head of grey hair. He held up a cigar, caressed it between his fingers and waved its length beneath his nose.

  “It’s been wonderful to have you back, Dianne,” he said, his eyes resting on her with pleasure. “You’ve no idea how much I’ve missed you.”

  She smiled up at him. “If it’s anything like how much I’ve missed home, then I do, Daddy.”

  This was the library, its carpet deep red, its drapes red and cream brocade. It was a place where Charles Butler had stamped his style and not since his wife died had anyone interfered. It was a room where his only child felt safe and secure. She laid her hand along the broad arm of the leather and felt the happy thoughtlessness of childhood rise in her. This was who she was. For the past few days of Christmas, she had shed the person she had become – the married woman whose husband had made her cross water – and reverted to the girl she had been.

  Charles sat in the chair to one side of the fire and examined the cap of his cigar carefully before he clipped it. It seemed such a long time since Dianne had seen him perform this familiar ritual.

  “You’ve been flitting about so much since you arrived, we’ve hardly had a chance to talk,” he said.

  “But I’ve had so much to catch up on, and so little time to do it.” She pouted. “You do want me to enjoy myself, don’t you?”

  He took a spill from a narrow vase on the fender and held it in the fire. “That’s my dearest wish and always has been.” The lighting of the cigar was not to be interrupted. Charles turned the end above the flame, charring it lovingly. Finally, satisfied with the burn, he threw the taper into the fire and curls of smoke wreathed his head. He sighed. “When you announced that Paul wanted to go back to Ireland and that you were going too… Well, it was all so rushed and frantic.” He held up the cigar and examined the end of it. “After you’d gone, there was such a low.”

  “It’ll only be for a while. It seems like something he has to get out of his system.”

  He shifted in the chair so that he was facing her. “Are you happy, my dear?”

  Her breath of hesitation was loud even to herself. “Of course I am! He’s gorgeous and…”

  Charles’ eyes narrowed. “Is he kind?”

  “He buys me flowers and…” she trailed to a stop, finishing her sentence with a slight shrug.

  Her father snorted. “Hah! Flowers! My girl’s worth diamonds. Where is he anyway?”

  “I don’t know. I think he went out with his camera. You know Paul.”

  “No, I don’t know him at all. Does anyone?”

  “He’s been really trying, Daddy. He was quite chatty last night. He even talked to Bella. She went quite pink. She was flirting with him.”

  He smiled. “She was. I saw the minx.” He became serious. “Quite a few of your friends
have been flirting with him. He’s been welcomed back like a renegade film star. Must be going to his head.” He chewed the cigar. “Do you trust him?”

  “Of course I do. He loves me.”

  “Who could fail to?” Her father was quiet for a minute or two, smoke drifting lazily around his chair and gliding along the deep green leaves of the tall palm in the corner behind him. Dianne inhaled the familiar scent and the little girl in her flowered and grew. A log fell in the fire in a whoosh of flame and a spark cracked out across the fender. Charles pushed it back with his foot. There was a moment of silence and then he asked, “Have you seen Luther Chevalier yet?”

  “Not yet.”

  “He’s still pining, you know.” He checked the ash forming on the tip of the cigar. “Nice lad.” He looked across at her. “I wonder if you understand how much you hurt him?”

  She felt colour heat the tips of her ears. She didn’t want to talk about Luther. His family had not spent Christmas at home, but he was back and amongst those invited to the house this evening. She laughed lightly.

  “But he’s poor, Daddy! All the Chevaliers have left is a house, a grand name and an art gallery no one’s heard of. Anyway, when Paul wants something, nobody gets in his way. Specially not Luther,” she added.

  Charles mouthed a few more clouds from his cigar, regarded her with narrowed eyes. “Not too many people get in your way either.” He pointed at her, smoke rising between his fingers. “When you want something, you stamp your foot until you get it.”

  A smile took some of the sting from his words, but she pouted again. It was easy to pout when her father spoke to her. With Paul, pouting wasn’t any good at all.

  “Well, I get that from you, Daddy,” she said.

  “Oh no,” he said, “you get that from your mother.”

  He stood and crossed to the window, the window where she used to kneel to watch for Luther and his mother coming to visit. Lawns swept down to the private road that led to the four other residences in this exclusive enclave. The Chevalier house was on a raised site almost opposite. The light was fading now into late afternoon. He spoke quietly as he always did when memories like these stirred. “Luther remembers your mother, you know. He’s a bit older than you and he remembers.” He turned back to her. “You’ve been away, so you wouldn’t know. The gallery’s becoming quite a success. Luther’s got flair and good judgement. He took me to see it a few weeks ago. He has an exhibition of West African art. Stunning, some of it. In fact I’ve reserved a piece – a woodcarving. I think you’d like it.”

  Charles became brisk again and paced across the room. Dianne suspected he was about to bring up some topic that slightly embarrassed him. Surely he wouldn’t ask her anything intimate? She felt a stab of pleasure as she remembered Paul’s passion of last night. It had been the first time for a while and he had surprised and delighted her. She thought that he would fall asleep quickly after the party but he closed the bedroom door and looked at her in the way that made her toes curl.

  To have his full attention after sharing him all evening, to have him wrap himself round her, in her, over her; hear him say her name, feel him in her body, taste him on her skin, was still an intoxication better than wine. Some hours before, she had taken his arm in the room full of people and the jut of her chin said, “Look what I’ve got!”, the arch of her neck said, “Don’t touch, he’s mine!”

  Charles stopped in front of her, took the cigar from his mouth and pushed out a smoke ring.

  “What about money?”

  She blinked. “What do you mean?”

  The cigar left smoke trails in the air as he waved his hand. “If Paul had stayed here he’d have been a celebrity in a year or two. And your name would have been a great asset to his career. Now what’s he got? You didn’t expect this, did you?” He cocked his head sideways. “You know what people are saying?”

  She did. Bella had told her. Her father told her again. “They’re asking: What’s he running from? Or who?”

  She stood up. The warmth of her memories ignited a rare spark of loyalty to her husband. “You can run to something as well as away from it. Remember, his Dad died a year ago. His mother’s alone now.”

  He spread his hands to encompass the room. “And what am I? She has another son, hasn’t she?”

  She put an arm round his waist. “I’ll be back. Be patient.”

  His lip curled. “Damned fellow wouldn’t let me buy you a house so you’re living in a cupboard off some city road.”

  “You’ve never even seen it, Daddy.”

  He sighed in annoyance. “No, I haven’t. I’m sorry about that.” He walked to the window and turned back. “But I’ll visit you soon. I promise.”

  That wasn’t what she wanted. “Oh, it’s not worth it. We’ll be back soon anyway.”

  “When?”

  She sat down again and fiddled with her wedding ring. “I’m working on it,” she said eventually.

  Her father sat beside her. His hand came across and took hers. Firelight sparked on the huge gold signet ring on his wedding finger, his initials carved in majestic swashes on its vast surface. On the little finger of his right hand, a polished black gem was set in the thickness of a gold band.

  “You must get him to come back, Dianne,” he said. It was a statement. “Otherwise, why didn’t you marry Luther?”

  The loyalty still flickered. “Because I wanted Paul! He’ll do well. He will. He’s getting royalties from previous work. And he had oodles saved from his work here. He’s getting commissions again.”

  Charles let out a heavy breath of derision. After a silence, he squeezed her hands. “You’re all I’ve got, Dianne. And you’ll have all I’ve got. Most of it, anyway.” He paused. “Even if he’s a creative genius, Paul’s stubborn and proud and I don’t like him. He took you away from me and I can’t forgive his selfishness. There’s something about him that… But you fell for his black eyes so I have to accept it.” His voice took on a greater strength. “I don’t have to accept my little girl living on fresh air and artistry!”

  “His eyes are blue,” she said defiantly. “And living away from London’s quite a novelty, actually.”

  Charles released her hands and got to his feet, growling. “He’s a novelty too.” He swung round. “Novelties have a habit of wearing off.”

  Annoyance tinged her voice. “Why does everyone say that? It’s as if everyone thinks I made a mistake. Even you.” She hung her head, pouting.

  He leaned on the mantle and looked into the flames as he said, “I have a suggestion.” When she said nothing, he continued. “I want to set up a bank account for you. Just you. You may not need to use the money, but it will be there…” he paused to push out another smoke ring “… if ever you do need it.” He raised a warning finger. “But you mustn’t tell Paul about it. I don’t want him knowing and causing a fuss.”

  Dianne drew patterns on the leather arm. Arabella had pointed out that the Harrod’s sale started on Monday. She looked around the room, felt the memories in every corner, both here and in the rest of the huge house. She wondered if Paul would mind her coming over to her father’s more often, maybe a week here, a fortnight there. Eventually he would follow her back. He would. The thought ran through her with the sweetness of syrup.

  She looked across at the window where a light rain was beginning to mist the glass. Already marriage wasn’t as she planned. She had thought that they could share everything, but reality was blowing cold and insistent across her fantasies. Paul didn’t talk. Paul didn’t share. Did Paul have secrets?

  She stood up and went to her father. She put her arms round his neck and kissed his cheek, warm from the fire, mellow with the scent of cigar smoke.

  “Thank you, Daddy. That would be wonderful.” She smiled. “And I won’t breathe a word to Paul.”

  “And you’ll talk him into coming back?”

  “Oh, yes,” she said.

  This was a smaller affair, just twenty or so friends and neigh
bours in to chat over drinks and supper. Bella was there of course. Bella’s cleavage was even fuller this evening, her lips shinier, her dress shapely and short. She had fixed on Paul like a guided missile. Dianne intercepted her trajectory.

  “Stop chasing my husband, Bella.”

  “Darling! What are you talking about?” She dropped her voice. “Anyway, I saw him first.”

  Dianne threaded her arm through hers and pulled her towards a side table where plates of food were laid out. “Yes, but I got him,” she hissed. She glanced back to the corner by the marble fireplace where Paul appeared to be listening intently to a woman of about forty. She was talking rapidly, gesturing, flashing quick smiles up into his eyes. “Hey, look at Vicky Spencer. That outfit looks as if it’s been dragged from the back of a charity shop.”

  “So does she!” said Arabella. The two girls giggled and wove round some more groups in the middle of the room. Then Dianne tugged her arm again.

  “Seriously. Stop drooling over Paul. I know you’re just fooling about but you’re making an idiot of yourself. I’ll get frightfully annoyed.” She pinched Bella’s arm. “You’re my best friend and enough’s enough.”

  Arabella picked up a tiny cracker topped with a piece of cheese in the shape of a swan. “But best friends share, darling!” She swallowed and licked her fingers with sulky lips. “So you haven’t made any best Irish friends then?”

  “None at all. Belfast’s hopeless.” She waved her glass and added as an afterthought, “Well, I suppose I’m sort of friends with that student I told you about – the one Paul’s brother treated so dreadfully.” The gold bracelet on her wrist slid gracefully to her hand as she reached for a stick of celery and twirled it in a dip. “But really, she’s not my type. Her father’s in the church.” The celery snapped between her teeth. “But she’s useful sometimes.”

  “Who else is coming that might at least be interesting? Luther, of course. What about Justin?”