Facing the Light (42 page)

Now she was holding the strip of paper up to her eyes.

‘Shall I get your reading glasses, Mother?' Gwen asked.

‘No,' said Leonora, after a long pause. ‘I can see enough.' She was sounding more normal. She sighed and seemed to gather herself together a little. She looked in the pocket of her trousers, found her handkerchief and patted at her eyes. She said, ‘My mother wrote this. Can you make out what it says, one of you? It's such faint handwriting.'

‘I think so,' said Gwen. ‘I think I can.'

‘Read it to me,' Leonora said. She had her eyes closed now, listening.

‘Very well, if you're sure, Mother.' Gwen spoke gravely, and Rilla wondered why she was speaking in a tone of such reverence. What if it turned out to be some shopping list or something that Leonora's mother had scribbled on the back of this off-cut of wallpaper. Gwen began to read.

‘It won't make much sense, Mother. There are only a few words on each line. But I'll have a go. It says:
won't blame me/Have darling, darling/rified me …
could that be horrified? Or terrified? …
small bones/so didn't touch./Never even/rything a mother should do/calculating how painful it/up again, but down forever into/'d hurt to breathe the water into/u were crying for me and was/all. Went up to the Studio/day. Solace. Comfort./ under another name./ was coming to life/
then there's just the letter
m
then it goes on:
the window, brushing/getting that highlight/s: object (or subject) had/mories of what it was./nished, wanted it to be like a/glow and shine and leap out/to do that/and they didn't/than saw that. Even while/than his. Also, he/ever. He is, clever and/for years. He said doesn't/
then there's a letter
s. Paint never lies. You …
and the next three letters are
ngs
. Could that be something like ‘longings?'
and not ask for fame/said you're fragile. You'll/away from my door, and he/ed to say this to him, but it is
 … that's it. That's all. I'm afraid it doesn't really make much sense.'

Rilla looked at her mother, who was stiff and upright in her chair. Tears came from her eyes and ran down her cheeks unchecked.

‘Mother?' she said, feeling suddenly afraid. ‘Mother, please. Don't be sad. What is it? Tell us. We're here. Aren't we, Gwen. Please stop crying, Mother.'

‘I'm sorry, darling,' Leonora answered, visibly pulling
herself together. ‘It's just that it's been very many years since I saw my mother's handwriting. It brings back memories. Nothing for you two to concern yourselves with, I promise. I'm perfectly all right really, but of course I shall need to see the rest.'

‘The rest?'

Leonora's hankie was now a ball held tight in one hand. She relaxed her hold on it and wiped her eyes. Then she took a deep breath and said nothing for a few moments. Finally, she spoke. ‘What Gwen's just read is only a part of something. I think my mother must have written it just before her death, because the dolls' house roof was a present for my birthday … and …' Her voice faltered. Rilla knew all about that terrible time, even though Leonora rarely referred to it.

‘Can we get it off, though?' Gwen said. ‘Without damaging it, I mean. What if it's impossible?'

‘Nothing's impossible. Didn't you tell me that young man of Chloë's is a picture restorer? He'll know what to do.'

Gwen looked relieved. ‘Philip. Of course. How clever of you to remember, Mother! I'll go and find him at once. I'm sure he'll be able to help.'

She left the room quickly and Rilla could hear her going downstairs, calling for Chloë.

Leonora stood up and made her way to the door. ‘Will you find Sean, please, Rilla? Tell him I'll see him at four o'clock if he'd be good enough to delay the filming for a while.' She left the room before Rilla could answer.

Rilla picked up the sheet again and spread it out over the dolls' house. She looked at the sharp edge of the roof outlined against the wall. The sun was coming in at the window, and she could see the motes of dust drifting and floating in the golden air. Rilla felt a small shiver of apprehension at what might be hidden under the fall of white material.

*

A noise was coming from her own mouth which Leonora didn't recognize at first. It sounded like a wounded animal, something caught in a trap, not like a person. Not like me, she thought. She must have walked along the corridor to her room, and decided to lie on the bed. She closed her eyes and saw suns and stars and purple streaks exploding behind her closed eyelids.
Oh, Mummy, Mummy
she heard herself cry out like a baby, like a weak, small child, but the cry was in her head and the real noises were sobbing and gasping and she couldn't, whatever she did, stop herself from trembling. She tried to breathe steadily. To think of ordinary things.

Rilla and Gwen would arrange for the filming to be postponed for a while. Chloë's young man, Philip, would see that the words her mother had written were revealed. It will be better when I know, she thought, and she was aware of something dark and heavy, like a piece of stone lodged somewhere within her. She had carried that weight inside her all her life she now saw, and had always thought of it as the natural pain that any child who loses a parent at an early age has to bear and learn to live with. Now she was beginning to wonder whether it might be something else entirely. She opened her eyes. There's something, she thought. Something my mother's words may tell me. If only I could know. If I could read my mother's words, this heaviness, this lump of darkness in my heart might dissolve. I should think of something else. The party. Leonora tried to fix her thoughts on tomorrow's celebration but what came into her mind was another day, long ago. I have been like something buried underground for a long time, she told herself. Something struggling to wake up after a long sleep.

Leonora hesitated as she came into the drawing room. It was the grandest room in the house and usually she only went in there if Mummy or Daddy invited her to. Daddy's paintings hung all over the walls, and there were rugs on the polished wooden floor with complicated patterns all over them. When she was very little, she used to sit and follow the lines of colour, tracing them with her fingers.

Mummy didn't look round when she came in, though she must have heard her walking across the floor. She was standing at the window looking out at the garden and you could tell, just from her back, that she felt sad. Even though Nanny Mouse often said that a trouble shared was a trouble halved, Leonora didn't really know how to break into the silence that surrounded her mother most of the time. Mummy spoke very little, and Leonora was always unsure what to say to her. She felt that it was babyish for someone who was going to be eight soon not to know how to speak to her own mummy, but she didn't. Not really. Mummy used to speak to me more, she thought, when I was very, very little, but maybe I'm not remembering properly.

It wasn't that she didn't love her mother. She did, with a passion that she didn't know how to express to anyone, except sometimes when it was very dark in the night nursery and she was whispering to her teddy bear, Mr Worthing. He knew all her secrets. He knew that
Leonora sometimes wondered whether she was really and truly the daughter of Maude Walsh. Perhaps she'd been exchanged at birth. This sometimes happened in stories, and Leonora was almost sure it didn't in real life, but she would still have believed it were it not for the fact that she looked so much like her father. Looking in the mirror, she could see it – the same dark hair, the same blue eyes, and exactly the same ears – that was funny. Leonora thought it was magical the way things like your ears came out as though they'd been copied somehow, but however hard she looked, she couldn't find a trace of her mother in her own face.

‘You're your father's child, and no mistake,' Nanny Mouse used to say.

‘I know that!' Leonora was impatient. ‘But am I my mother's child?'

‘Silly goose! Of course you are. I was there in the room with her when you were born. Just because you're not very like her to look at doesn't mean she's not your mother.'

Maude … that's my mother's name, Leonora thought, staring at the small figure. It fits her. It's a gentle sort of name. She hasn't even turned round to see who's come into the room. If I wasn't looking for her, it would be easy not to see her, because she's so still and small. Her clothes are plain, and her hair is almost the same colour as the curtains: a sort of goldy-brown. But she's pretty, Leonora thought. I think so, anyway. She's like a cat, with a pointed chin and greenish eyes and a small mouth with lips that often tremble. She speaks so softly that you have to lean forward to hear her. Not like Daddy. Daddy is tall and speaks in a loud voice and everyone says he's handsome, but I can't say that, because I look just like him. Leonora crossed the carpet and made her way towards the window.

‘Mummy! Tyler's making a bonfire in the garden. May I go and look?' Maude moved her mouth into a smile.

‘Yes, dear, I suppose so. I was just thinking about the bonfire myself. I can see Tyler out of the window, look.'

Leonora came to stand beside her mother. There was their gardener, shaping wood and logs into a pile. Near him in a wheelbarrow was a heap of assorted papers, small sheets like letters and bigger sheets with drawings all over them. Those were Daddy's sketches. Every so often, Daddy had told her, the paper all got too much and had to be burned. Leonora was used to this, and she loved the bonfires; loved the leap and the gold and the scorching heat of the flames and the way the paper shrank into curling grey ash and how sometimes a glowing fragment went up and up, carried by the wind, like a fiery butterfly into the blue air. Sometimes, too, there were little showers of sparks, just like tiny fireworks.

She wanted to ask her mother something but had to think before she spoke to make sure that the question wasn't too upsetting. She knew that lots of things upset Mummy. Nanny Mouse said she was sensitive, which meant that she felt everything more than other people. It also meant that she was often ill, and kept to her room. Sometimes, Leonora didn't see her for days, because even when she wasn't ill she spent hours and hours keeping Daddy company in the Studio where Leonora wasn't allowed to go.

‘Why can't I?' she would ask Nanny Mouse. ‘Why can Mummy go up there and not me? I wouldn't disturb him. I'd be very quiet, really.'

Nanny Mouse shook her head. ‘It's not the noise. It's just that your father likes to be alone when he's painting, apart from your mother, who's a sort of muse to him.'

‘What's that? What's a muse?'

‘A muse is a person who inspires artists to do good
work. Like a guardian angel who watches over a painter or a poet and makes their work better.'

‘I could do that,' Leonora said. ‘I could be a muse. Couldn't I?'

‘I expect you could, dear, but your daddy has chosen your mummy and there's nothing to be done about that.'

Leonora brought her attention back to her immediate surroundings and took a deep breath.

‘You don't like bonfires, Mummy, do you?' she asked.

‘No. No, I don't. They're so …'

‘So what?'

‘So final. Once a thing has been burned, there's really no getting it back at all, is there?'

‘But if you make sure that you don't want the things that are going on the fire, then you don't mind, do you? Not getting them back, I mean.'

Maude smiled at her daughter and touched the top of her head briefly, stroking her hair.

‘I never know, you see. Whether I really want something or not. I change my mind. You can
think
you don't want something and then wake up in the middle of the night and want it most desperately.
Most
desperately.'

Mummy's voice is wobbling, Leonora thought, and looked sideways at her mother. She had tears in her eyes and for a moment, Leonora felt impatience surging through her. Her friend Bunny's mother was full of energy and strode about the village in her divided skirt, saying hearty hellos to everyone in her bright voice and smiling all the time. If only she had a mother like that!

Leonora blushed at the disloyalty of this thought and said, ‘Is it all right if I go and watch Tyler? Watch the bonfire? Nanny Mouse said I was to ask you or Daddy.'

It wasn't until she spoke the words that she wondered why Nanny had sent her to ask permission.
She
was usually the person who told Leonora what she might and might not do.

‘Yes, darling, of course it is,' Maude said.

‘You could come with me if you like. We could watch it together.'

‘That's very kind of you, sweetheart, but I think I must go and rest now. I have a headache this afternoon. I expect it's the thunder in the air. Run along, now. I shall go and lie down upstairs.'

Once she was outside, Leonora could feel the heaviness of the air, which seemed to be pressing down on the earth. The heat was so thick that you could almost see it and there was no wind at all, and everything looked as though it were holding its breath. Tyler had set light to the bonfire by the time she reached the kitchen garden. Everything that had been put out for burning had been fed into it and fire had already touched every sheet of paper and crisped it into glowing red and gold.

‘How do, Missie!' Tyler was shouting a bit. The noise of the flames always surprised Leonora. They really did crackle and spit and roar.

‘It's a lovely fire!' she cried. ‘It's bigger than ever.'

‘Months and months' worth of rubbish, that's what Mr Ethan said, but it didn't rightly look like rubbish to me, some of it. Proper lovely, some of it was.'

A sheet of paper blew off the bonfire and leapt towards the sky. Leonora followed it with her eyes. It was a funny shape; not a whole sheet of paper but part of something that must have been torn up. A triangle of white, a corner of something, which somehow had escaped and was being carried away across the lines of growing vegetables. Leonora ran after it as it blew into the Quiet Garden, right over to where an apple tree grew like a fan against the pinkish bricks of a high wall.