Miriam's Talisman (15 page)

‘Yes. The Picasso exhibition to celebrate his ninetieth birthday. First time they ever staged a major exhibition by a living artist. Magnificent!'

‘Was he there? Did you see him? What was he like?'

Iolair shrugged his shoulders. ‘Yes, I saw him briefly. He looked like any other old man, I suppose. No, now I come to think of it, he seemed rather uncomfortable, out of place.'

‘But surely, wasn't that in the early seventies? You would have been too young to remember.'

‘Yes, you should see the Picassos. And the early impressionists. The Renoirs, of course.
The Woman with a Fan
reminds me a little of you. I'll come with you if you like.'

I swallowed hard, coughing as the wine caught in my throat. ‘You'll what? Come with me? What makes you think—'

‘Oh, it's no problem. I would love to see Paris again. And it's not too far. They have a tunnel now, you know. Goes right under the Channel. You don't have to cross the water at all. Quite painless.' He stared hard at his glass before taking another sip. ‘Yes, it is important for you to study the works of other artists.'

‘I tried to persuade my mother to let me go on a school trip to Paris when I was fourteen. She said that there were plenty of paintings I could look at in Cambridge. She sent me skiing in Switzerland instead.'

‘Hannah has always been very…very like Hannah.'

I nodded and we both smiled.

‘I painted a picture for her once,' I said. ‘Cornfields in the rain. It was a birthday present.'

‘She didn't like it?'

‘Oh no, on the contrary—she thought it was marvellous. She'd just had the lounge redecorated. The corn exactly matched the colour of the new curtains.'

Iolair laughed softly. ‘What did you say?'

‘What could I say? How do you explain art to Hannah?'

This time he threw back his head and laughed aloud. I started to giggle. I'd been nurturing that particular pain for so long, so avidly wallowing in my own rejection, that I had failed to see how ridiculous it all was. Then, somehow, all that had happened throughout that long day welled up inside me, the dam broke and I was engulfed in a tidal wave of laughter. Suddenly everything seemed hilariously funny—me, Paul, David, Hannah, especially Hannah, with her ladies' Rotary meetings and her Austrian blinds. I could see the corn-yellow curtains whisking aside to expose her in all her absurdity. I doubled over, helplessly clutching my convulsing body, as tears streamed down my face. It was as if some tight binding cord had started to snap, thread by thread, and was about to unravel. The wine hummed in my head, tilting the floor and walls so that I was forced to hold on to stop myself collapsing. Iolair laughed with my laughter. He rocked to and fro
with delight, his shoulders heaving, until I fought to control the flood of hysteria, and was left gasping. He too, caught his breath, sniffed and wiped his eyes.

‘It's about time you saw the joke!'

‘I know, I know. And the punch line …', I started to giggle again, ‘the punch line is my mother!'

This set us both off on another round of convulsions. Eventually, exhausted and dizzy, I reached for the bottle, refilled my glass and offered the bottle to him. He held out his tumbler, but I stood my ground and he was forced to come to me. He stepped down in one unbelievably easy movement and crossed the room. We entered a calm silence, sharing the peace that follows a storm. As I filled his glass, he gently lifted the stray twists of hair that had tumbled over my forehead and smoothed them back into place. My head filled with the scent of crushed grasses. His hand stroked my face and neck, his fingers following the chain down to where the talisman lay.

‘Give it to me,' he whispered.

‘No.' My lips formed the soundless word.

‘I am begging you. Give it to me now, while I can still ask it of you. Give it to me. Before it is too late.'

I saw Miriam, her face pale against the glazed, hospital sheet, her hand painfully gripping my wrist.
If you give it back you will lose him!

I looked up but was afraid to meet his eyes. ‘I can't. I promised.'

His jaw tightened and his face seemed to grow darker. ‘Then damn you. Damn you all to hell!' He twisted away from me.

I cowered as his arm came up and hurled the tumbler across the room and I watched it spinning through the air,
as if in slow motion, spewing red wine in an arc above us. The glass exploded against the sink and the wide sweep of red hit the wall, running down in a tracery of fine rivulets like the blooded wing of some gigantic bird.

And then he was gone. And this time I knew there would be no point in looking for him.

For a long time I stared at the floor and the scattered shards of glass, unable to move. Eventually, I dared to cross the room, but as soon as my trembling hands tried to pick at the fragments a sharp pain stabbed my finger. I watched a bright bead of red appear. Instinct took it to my mouth and I tasted the coppery tang of my own blood. And there was something else, something that tasted of salt and musk.

Then I remembered the portrait and the shimmering tears I had gathered on my fingers.

I
T WAS STILL EARLY EVENING
, but already the rain ushered in an early darkness in which I felt safely unobserved. I parked the car outside our little terrace and sat for a while listening to Fifi's engine ticking as it cooled. I was reluctant to leave the warmth of her interior and face the household. I had been alone there again all day, at the cottage, and was loath to break the spell. Rays from the street lamps sparkled through a mist of fine drizzle that had started during the drive back into town and now promised to set in for the night.

As I closed the front door behind me, I heard an unexpected clattering coming from the kitchen, then loud, girlish giggles. The hall was filled with the smells of serious cooking. Was there something happening, something I'd forgotten about? Then the kitchen door opened with a gush of steam and Paul came through, smiling, arms open wide to engulf me.

‘Ah, here she is: the guest of honour.'

‘What are you doing here? I thought you were on duty?'

‘Hi there, Chloe.' That was Ruth calling from the kitchen.

Then Paul was speaking again. ‘Yes, I was. Did a swap, managed to get the night off.'

‘Why? What's going on?'

‘Welcome back celebration. Well, just a dinner party really.'

Then Angie's head appeared around the kitchen door. ‘And nothing very ambitious, I'm afraid. All a bit short notice. Just vege lasagne—Malcolm's vegetarian. Ruth's making a Greek salad, lots of black olives.' She vanished again.

‘What dinner party? I don't understand.'

Paul took hold of my shoulders, a little too tightly. His face became serious. ‘Look, Rabbit, you've been away from us too long. All this involvement with Miriam and the funeral. It's like you've been in another world. We've missed you.
I've
missed you. I want you back.'

‘But what's that got to do with a dinner party?'

‘Don't worry. It's just us. Ruth's invited Eddie—you know, he helped her with her stuff when she moved in—and Angie wants to show off Malcolm.'

‘And who the hell's Malcolm?'

‘Well, that just proves how much you've been out of it. Malcolm's the latest boyfriend. I think she's counting on you for a second opinion. You know what she's like with men.'

‘Great, but not now. I'm tired. I need an early night.'

‘No you don't. It's all arranged. The others will be here any minute. They're your guests.'

‘Oh no they're not. You invited them. They're your guests.' I banged my bag down on the hall table and headed up the stairs. ‘I hope you all enjoy dinner. I'm going to bed.'

I slumped down onto the mattress, my head pounding. I didn't know what to do with my anger. To make it worse, I felt guilty about being angry, and then angry about being made to feel guilty. I get—I used to get—like that quite often, and it usually meant that I would back down, though I was determined not to this time. But why did he always have to look so hurt?

Rain spattered the windowpane. In the darkness I watched the droplets race each other down the glass and run together, leaving trails like silver serpents against the night sky. It was a few minutes before I heard the stair boards creak. The door inched open and a shaft of light hit my aching eyes. I turned away as Paul entered.

‘Look, I've brought you some wine. I bought a few bottles of that nice red we found. Thought you might enjoy it. Peace offering.'

I took the glass from him and stared at the contents. If I drank it, would that be giving way? Then I jumped as the doorbell reverberated through the house. Angie's exaggerated laughter lifted over deeper, muffled tones. The kitchen door opened then banged shut. Of course Paul knew I would have to give in. The wine tasted as good as I remembered.

‘Oh, I'm sorry. I know you meant well,' I said, ‘but you should have asked.'

‘If I had asked, you would have said no.'

‘Paul, it's only been two days since the funeral. I need time.'

‘Time for what? You've spent the last two days shut up in that cottage doing God knows what. You won't let anyone near the place. When you do come home all you do is sleep. We've hardly spoken to each other. I'm seriously
worried about you. You've been so…so closed up in yourself, so absent. And you look dreadful.'

‘Oh, thanks a lot.'

He sat down beside me, head leaning against mine. ‘Now listen, Chloe. Miriam was an old woman and she died and that's sad. But it happens. We deal with it and then we move on. I know it's going to take time, but meanwhile you can't shut yourself off from everyone like this. Now, it's only Angie, Ruth and me and a couple of passing boyfriends. You can manage that, can't you?'

I took a few sips of the wine, twirling the glass stem between my fingers.

‘You're probably right. Give me a few minutes to tidy myself up.' I switched on the light and sat in front of the mirror, struggling with a lipstick.

‘I see you're still wearing your hair pinned up. I guess I'll get used to it.'

I said nothing and he left the room.

The talisman glinted against midnight-blue satin. I was wearing another of Miriam's dresses. It would have to do; I couldn't be bothered to change. For the first time I noticed the bruised shadows around my eyes. A smut of brown mascara flicked onto my cheek. When I tried to wipe it off, it smeared into a dark stain. I was looking more haggard by the minute.

We found Ruth and Eddie in the sitting room. Ruth turned and smiled as I came in and we gave each other a little hug. Our Victorian dolls' house was never designed for social gatherings. With the dining table moved into the centre of the room and fully extended, there was
barely space to squeeze around it.

‘Chloe, you remember Eddie, don't you?'

‘Yes, of course. Hello again.'

Ruth was a Dresden shepherdess. The sweeping line of her cheekbone and her light delicacy shone through, despite the nose ring and torn denims. Eddie was her masculine counterpart, as pale and fragile as she. Ruth had moved in with us quite recently, and I remembered how confused Angie and I were when she brought her stuff around. She seemed to be everywhere at once until we realised Eddie had come along to help. It was difficult to decide who was imitating who: same closely shaved hair, same ear studs. They should be sharing the same flat, and it was obvious that Angie and I would soon be advertising for another third girl to share.

I sidled around to where Eddie was crouched over a coffee table looking through some of my drawings.

‘I've been showing him your art,' Ruth said. ‘Hope you don't mind.'

‘No, of course not.' I felt a tingle of flattery.

The wine was doing its work and I thought I might as well accept the inevitable and enjoy the evening. Paul was opening another bottle, so I held out my now-empty glass. He looked surprised but gave me a refill.

‘These are good.' Eddie was sifting through a pile of rough sketches.

‘Yes, she's a clever girl, my Chloe.'

Eddie gave Paul a withering glance. ‘No, I mean these are really good. Who are you studying with?'

‘No one, though I was thinking of taking some classes. It's just a hobby.' I turned to Paul. ‘Ruth and Eddie are doing a commercial art course.'

‘I'm right about those, aren't I?' Ruth said, leaning heavily on Eddie's shoulder. ‘She won't believe how talented she is.'

‘Well, someone should convince her. Is that yours, too?' He nodded at the portrait over the fireplace.

‘Yes, it's supposed to be Angie.'

‘I'm not too sure that it looks like her,' said Paul.

‘It's not supposed to look like me, Paul, it's not a photo.' Angie had entered the room carrying a bowl of something hot. ‘I sense myself in it. I look at it when I feel unsure of things. Like a touchstone.'