Miriam's Talisman (11 page)

‘Who? Iolair?'

‘Yes. I met him recently. But he claims to have known her a long time.'

‘Well, then you'd probably know more about him than I would.'

The cutting edge of her voice hurt, as it was meant to, but I wouldn't be deterred.

‘I got the impression that he was an old family friend. He seemed to know me.'

As I started to describe him, a change came over Hannah's face. It was as if a cloud had blotted out the sun, throwing her eyes into shadow, the blood draining from her cheeks. She suddenly looked older as she stared into the distance.

‘There may have been someone, I'm not sure. There was a gardener, at least I saw him in the garden, I think.' Her voice was frail and unsteady.

‘In this garden?'

‘Yes. When we first came here. No, no it couldn't have been. It must have been in Ireland. No, that's not right. So long ago. I can't remember. Perhaps there never was anyone. There couldn't have been. Miriam never had a gardener. That's nonsense, Cliohna.' Her voice rose. ‘If
there was someone in my mother's house, I would have known about him, wouldn't I? I would have seen him!'

‘Yes. Why are you getting so angry? I only asked—'

‘Well, don't ask. This isn't the time to start bringing up all this nonsense.'

‘What nonsense? What have I said?'

‘All this about gardeners and birds. You know how I hate birds!'

‘But I never said—'

‘I won't have it. Not now. Richard, make her stop it!'

‘Mother, Richard's not here. Richard's…surely you mean …'

I began to be afraid. My mother was always so firm and precise, always in control. Just then, thank God, the hearse drew up outside the gate followed by a chauffeur-driven car. It was as if a switch had been thrown. Her face suddenly cleared, her eyes were sharp and focused, her back straight. She smiled at me.

‘Ah, good. They're on time. We'd better go indoors while they arrange the flowers on the casket.'

Bewildered, I allowed her to shepherd me through the front door, then left her to put on her coat while I went looking for Paul.

I found him in the living room with David. They were shoulder to shoulder by the window, so alike they could have been brothers. David was holding one of Miriam's paintings towards the light.

‘As I say, I'm hardly an expert—it could just as easily be a fake. There's the signature but that means nothing. If it were genuine…I daren't think what it might be
worth. Even a copy could hold some value.'

I knew the painting well: a madonna and child. It was small, barely eight inches square. Miriam and I had looked at it together many times, marvelling at the glowing transparency of the skin tones and the way the child's hand stretched out from the canvas as if he were trying to reach us. She had always talked of the painting as if it were an original. I said nothing.

‘What about this one next to it?' Paul took down another small picture, holding it up for David's scrutiny. ‘Looks like a print to me, and a poor one at that.'

‘Not even a print, I'm afraid. More like a cutting from a magazine. But the frame is exquisite, probably worth a few thousand itself.'

‘It's crazy,' Paul shook his head. ‘I don't believe all this. Absolutely crazy.'

‘Yes, she was crazy all right. And I'm beginning to think it runs in the family.'

‘What runs in the family, David?' Hannah was behind me, pulling on her tight black gloves, pressing each finger firmly into place.

‘We were just looking at some of these pieces of art. It's like an Aladdin's cave in here.'

‘More like a junk shop, in my opinion.'

‘Whoa, hold on there, Mum. Some of this old junk could be priceless.' David turned to Paul again. ‘You'll have to get someone in, get it all properly catalogued. I doubt any of it's insured. Look at these bronzes. Obviously Celtic, could be thousands of years old.'

I couldn't bear this. Miriam loved these things; their financial value meant nothing to her. They were picking over her belongings like crows pecking at her corpse.
I wanted to protest, but said nothing. Hannah looked around the room, unimpressed.

‘Yes, well, you didn't have to live in this mess, did you? She never could keep the place clean.'

I had forgotten. That must have been the first time Hannah had been there for many years, but the cottage had been her home when she was growing up.

‘Chloe, you could have made an effort to get rid of some of this rubbish before the reception, or at least tidy it up. What will people think? There must be an inch of dust on these books. The whole place needs a good clear-out.'

There was a polite cough and a frock-coated gentleman appeared in the doorway, indicating they were ready to leave. Hannah bestowed one last look of disgust on the room as she ordered us out of the house and into the waiting vehicle.

We sat in a tight little circle, the four of us. I chose to sit with my back to the engine; I couldn't bear to watch the car in front carrying the casket laden with greenery and flowers. Paul was beside me, holding my hand, so I was forced to look at Hannah and David. David was still angry and Hannah gave me looks of pained disappointment. I wished that I had changed back into my own clothes. I wished that I had never visited Miriam. I wished that I had always tidied my room, helped with the housework, been a paragon of obedience. I clung to Paul, certain that I was drowning and praying that the end would be swift. But Paul was there, solid and warm. Perhaps I would survive.

My memory of the service is a patchwork of images. The Great Hall at King's College, chairs set out in rows. Lyrical, powerful music, both sad and joyous. Conspiratorial glances exchanged, nods of recognition and approval, as the clear notes of the harp reached to the vaulted ceiling. Only days before those same notes had filled the cottage and we two, Miriam and I, had hummed the familiar tunes as we worked.

Many people stepped up to the lectern to speak about the woman they had known. They told of fine qualities and great achievements, a glorious life and a painful loss. Sometimes they spoke of the Miriam I knew, and sometimes of a stranger. And there were passages and poems in Gaelic. I recognised the tones and the poetry of it even though I could not understand the words. But others could. I watched their lips move in unison with the readings. These were her friends, her comrades, fellow writers, researchers, archaeologists, historians and translators, all gathered to do her homage. The chosen ones. I hovered on the fringes of this shining throng, knowing enough to claim a place, unlike Hannah, who sighed and fidgeted beside me, clutching her white handkerchief. She and David were the outsiders, the uninvited. At times she would turn to me, eyebrows raised, questioning this unchristian ritual.

‘It's what she wanted,' I mouthed.

Hannah sighed and shook her head. I began to feel annoyed, resentful. Then I remembered the pain in her eyes as she'd told me of her days in Ireland, of the children's taunts.

‘I would like my coffin to be covered with willow branches,' Miriam had told me once. ‘Weeping willow,
weeping for the dead. In ancient Greece there was a grove sacred to Persephone, queen of the underworld, where willows and poplars grew. Mourners would weave the branches into garlands to wear around their heads. It was a protection, a safeguard. A funeral is a dangerous crossing point on the borders between this world and the next. The Chinese knew about the willow too. They would cover their coffins with willow branches to ward against enchantment. Yes,' she had said, ‘I would like that.'

I looked at the sad wooden box. It lay in front of us laden with willow fronds and white roses and I tried to convince myself that Miriam was there, inside it. But it seemed to have little to do with her or with what was being said. All the while Paul held my hand and the ancient carved figures above us gazed down. I looked around. A sea of faces, as they say, and I recognised only a few. Was there someone I was hoping to see? If so, he was not there.

Then we were outside again, walking through the grounds of the medieval college, with a human tide surging around us. I almost panicked, gasping for air. People were clasping my hands, hugging me, telling me how sorry they were for my loss, as if it were somehow their fault and they needed to apologise. I didn't know how to respond and mumbled incoherently. Hannah fended them off with all the grace and smoothness of a society hostess at a cocktail party. She knew all the right words, the correct intonation. Many remarked how like my grandmother I was—they had not realised there was such a strong family resemblance. There were strange, startled looks.

Then Paul led me away and into the car and the whole carnival procession started off on its final journey.

By then it was early afternoon. The air was still and sunshine edged the white marble crosses with molten gold. We picked our way between the graves. The grass was slippery with moss and freshly fallen leaves stuck to the soles of my boots. I spent some time debating whether it would be all right to bend down and remove them or if I should leave them there and risk slipping over. Either course of action could turn into another social blunder and I had been the cause of enough family embarrassment already. I held tightly on to Paul's arm.

More words were spoken. The coffin was lowered and yet more words tossed down upon it, with handfuls of flowers and small tokens. I couldn't bear to watch and looked about me for some gentler sight to dwell upon. In the distance, an elderly woman was bending over to arrange flowers. Her dress rode up at the back to display stocking tops and the edge of a pink petticoat. A fallen stone angel with a broken nose read and reread the unturned pages of a book. Death was everywhere.

Then, suddenly, there he was.

Not part of the group crowding around the burial plot, but way over on the other side of the graveyard. Yet, even at that distance, I knew him. I knew the long black coat brushing the tops of the grasses, the slim hands held loosely at his sides. He was motionless. I couldn't see his eyes, but I knew he was looking at me. I would have called out to him had the moment not forbidden it. But he was too far away to hear or be heard. So we both watched and waited.