The Memento (23 page)

Pomeline’s eyes met mine just for a moment and moved to the scar on my cheek, which my hand had instinctively covered. Jenny and Pomeline exchanged a quick glance before Pomeline spoke. “Granny, you mean it
was
Daddy’s favourite.”

“Yes. That’s what I said. There is no need to correct me. How rude.” Marigold went back to looking at her bottles and running her fingers through the leftover petals remaining in the shiny bowls.

It didn’t take long and Marigold turned the burner down. We was all fanning ourselves, sweat beading down our faces.

“It’s at a nice steady simmer. Now hand me the ice, Harry, please.” Marigold poured the ice on top of the inverted lid.

“Now, let’s review, children. The steam will rise and hit the cold and at that point will drip down into the glass bowl resting on the bricks at the bottom of the pot. Harry and Sakura, we’ll have to leave you here. Every twenty minutes, spoon out the rosewater into the glass jar here, the one we sterilized. When the jar is full, about a quart, it will be done. If you keep going it will be too diluted. Be sure to watch the clock.”

“I love how it smells in here.” Jenny tilted her chin up, eyes scrunched closed as she sniffed the air.

Margaret crossed her arms. “I thought you hated the smell of cut flowers.”

Jenny put her hands over her ears as though Margaret’s very voice was giving her a headache. “I don’t know how you would know that about me. It’s not polite to talk about people when they aren’t present. I don’t like watching flowers die. A vase is just an urn. That’s what they put my father in. He was burned up into ashes. Why did you hire someone so stupid, Granny?”

“Agatha Jennifer, don’t be rude. My goodness, look at how you are behaving. You’ve spent too long with your mother. If you don’t mind your manners then you won’t be able to participate. Margaret is a fine help. I simply won’t have you talking like this.”

But the thing is, she didn’t make Jenny apologize. I could tell Margaret made note of that.

Marigold clicked her cane on the floor. “Let’s head into the house, Margaret. We’ll go in and refresh and meet you all in the music room in twenty minutes. We’ll make more rosewater tomorrow, don’t you worry, with fresh morning rose petals covered with dew. And Margaret, you’ll go mad for this rosewater. You can splash it on your face, or better yet, add it to your drinking water. It’s soothing for the skin.”

“Why doesn’t Jenny stay behind to help Harry and Sakura? She’s not singing, so she might be bored,” Pomeline said.

“I can still come and listen. You can’t make me stay out here. You can’t make me stay behind.”

“I’m not trying to make you stay out here. I don’t want you to have a dull time, that’s all.”

“Well, I could try to sing.”

Pomeline stroked Jenny’s hair, what was sticking out of the kerchief. “You can turn the music for me.” Pomeline knew the music by heart but she wasn’t going to tell Jenny that.

Marigold looked over. “Yes, Pommie, you really should include
her. You don’t do that enough. It’s no wonder she feels left out. Everyone makes such a fuss about you and your musical inclination and all the fine things you do, but at the expense of your younger sister. Agatha, we’d be utterly over the moon for you to join us.” She blew Jenny a kiss. Pomeline’s face sagged but her sister and grandmother did not seem to notice.

Art looked over at me. We knew what Jenny was good at—flowers and snowflakes and her bizarre made-up religion—but no one else truly did. Maybe Pomeline did, the other Pomeline that is, the one we glimpsed at the very beginning of summer, before she got waxen and tired and sat at the keyboard channelling sadness from the air. I don’t think it was that Jenny disliked Pomeline, not in the way she disliked Margaret. She did love her sister. But Pomeline was everything Jenny couldn’t be, and most of the time Jenny couldn’t bear that truth. But in the moment, and I can see it right now as clear as a stone beneath still water, Jenny was happy. When Pomeline held out her hand, Jenny took it and they went into the house together.

S
OMETIMES IT
feels as though my mind is covered in wallpaper, not of big flowers with golden swirls but pictures of my life, painted and stitched, stretching down endless walls. The music, the scent of roses, the gardens, vases piled with blossoms, big skies, the warm stone walls of Evermore and the halls and rooms of the big house at Petal’s End. And the steamy August air with Marigold snoring as she napped in the floral armchair with my mother’s embroidery covering, as though she was some wilted flower herself. That was how she was after her first go at making flower water, exhausted.

Here on the verandah now the piano music is as bewitching in my memory as the day Pomeline sat in the stuffy music room. I can see it still, Pomeline hunched at the piano, the late-afternoon sun coming dappled through the leaves outside the long, closed window behind her. Pomeline’s eyes were on Marigold as she napped. It was just the two of them. Marigold’s face was relaxed as
she slept, and Pomeline’s creased with concentration as though she was working out a puzzle.

“Time is disappearing,” Pomeline said. “There are two weeks until the party. A month until my exams.”

The sun went behind a cloud and the room grew dark for a moment, and Marigold and her bright floral dress seemed to disappear into the chair. Then the cloud passed and the room brightened as Pomeline stopped playing and rubbed her hands and did exercises, her fingers long and moving gracefully, each one a creature risen up out of the sea. She told me to sit, that there was no need to stand, that I must be boiling in my funny maid’s uniform. I settled in one of the straight-backed chairs along the wall.

The vase of flowers in the centre of the round table was dizzying with colour. The air was oversweet. Down the hall there were footsteps on the hardwood and then murmuring voices. Pomeline rested her fingers on the keys and then delicate melody serenaded them as they filed into the room—Art and Jenny, Margaret, and Loretta coming in with a tray. Behind her, Harry with a box, and Sakura with a sketch pad in her arms. She dropped the pad and I knelt down to pick it up. It slipped far back under a small settee and I stayed on the floor trying to reach it.

Sakura lifted some glistening glass bells from out of the box. Harry said, “Sakura made you some glass wind bells. She didn’t actually blow the glass, but her father did. That’s what he does. It’s an art form passed down in their family. She’s painted these blue and yellow flowers on the inside. It’s ever so intricate. If you look you’ll see they are cornflowers, arnica and coreopsis. Pomeline and Jenny, there’s one for each of you.” He beamed with pride.

Sakura fanned herself. “Tie them on tree branches or on the eaves, or in a bush, and when the wind blows you’ll hear them and see them moving. Traditionally they were hung at the corners of temples to ward off evil spirits.” She rocked the glass bells side to side and a melodious tinkling filled the room.

Marigold opened her eyes and saw me still crouched on the floor. She put her hand to her thin lips. “Oh goodness, John Lee, what are you doing in here?” she gasped. “Are you looking for your mother? Go to the kitchen. I tell her to keep an eye on her child but she doesn’t listen. The nerve. Look at your dirty feet.”

I didn’t say a word. No one did.

Harry turned to her. “Whoever could John Lee be?”

Marigold looked afraid, still staring at me. “What are you doing here, you bad little boy?” she said. “You can’t come in here. It isn’t allowed. Where’s Charlie? Is he with you? I hope you haven’t got him into any trouble. You and your mother are not even fit to be in the kitchen. Don’t you look at me like that, you impudent young bastard.”

Sakura set the glass wind bells on the table.

Pomeline stopped playing but the piano music echoed as Jenny skipped over to her grandmother like nothing had happened. “Granny, we’re going to sing now. For the garden party.”

Marigold was still looking at me like I was my dead brother.

“It’s just Fancy Mosher, Mrs. Parker. It’s just me,” I said, standing up. “See, I’m no six-year-old.”

Loretta, who had been standing there like a short, portly statue, put the tray down with a crash. “It’s stifling in here.” She walked to the windows and opened them. Brisk air flooded into the room.

Marigold relaxed, and she wiped her cheeks. “My goodness, Fancy,” she said, picking up a fan on the table by the vase. “You looked just like your brother for a moment. The same eyes and hair. The same bare feet. You Moshers.”

Harry and Sakura glanced at me, and at Marigold, and finally at Pomeline, who looked away. Even Loretta was looking at the floor.

No one said anything, so I did. “He’s dead.”

“Oh how dreadful, how simply dreadful. What a tragedy,” Harry muttered.

“It was a long time ago,” Loretta added.

“Yes, it was,” Marigold said. “He was only six years old. I used to let him play with my Charlie in the gardens but he was dreadfully rough and tumble. He wasn’t afraid of a thing, that brother of yours. Your mother was very young when she had him. What a pity.”

The thing is, there was no pity for John Lee in her voice.

Jenny didn’t know whether to blame me or not. Either way, it was a side of her grandmother she wanted private. She wagged her finger at me like an old lady. “You shouldn’t go scaring Granny, Fancy,” she rumbled.

Pomeline looked like she was going to throw up. “Jenny, Fancy didn’t do anything. Granny, you fell asleep. You must have had a dream.”

Loretta poured a glass of water and handed it to Margaret, who passed it to Marigold. She took a sip and laughed. “Yes, I must have had a dream. I have such rich sleeps here.” Jenny took the fan but Marigold waved her away. “Agatha, I’m fine. Please, dear.”

Margaret snatched the fan out of Jenny’s hand. “Your grandmother doesn’t need a draft. You’re going to give her pneumonia. Don’t you know anything about elderly folks? Now give her some space,
Agatha
.” Margaret said her name all slow and sticky.

Jenny went over to Pomeline and stood glaring at Margaret.

Harry had been standing there awkwardly with his hands on his hips. Suddenly he lifted them and clapped, short and sharp. “Now, everyone, let’s just do a quick practice. It was a long day, perhaps a bit humid to be making rosewater. We’ll just do a bit of singing, shall we? I say we need some fun. Maybe a beach fire, later. But for now let’s hear your marvellous singing!”

Loretta left to get supper ready. When she went out the door she was moving slow. I worried that the summer of the big return was making her old before her time.

At last we were lined up in our singing order and we began. Jenny joined us the first time and we sang in three-part harmony, except Jenny, who couldn’t carry a tune and didn’t know the
words. She hummed loudly and we tried to sing right over her. We carried on for a bit, Harry and Sakura smiling bravely, waiting for the next clash.

Marigold held up her hand. “Agatha, dear, why don’t you turn the music for Pomeline as we discussed? I’m sure that would be a great help. Dear, we’ve been practising for several weeks now and it’s simply too late to join in.”

Pomeline nodded. “Jenny, it’s not your voice. It’s that we’ve already been practising.”

Jenny lunged close to Pomeline, who recoiled on the piano bench, but she stopped as sudden as she started. “That will be fine. I’ll turn the music.” She put her hand on Pomeline’s shoulder for a moment.

Pomeline pointed to the sheet music and started to speak but Jenny interrupted her. “I’m twelve years old. I can read music. You don’t have to be able to sing to understand notation, Pomeline. You aren’t the only one who can do that. I’m not a baby.”

“Could have fooled me,” Margaret said in her flat voice.

“Sages, leave your contemplations,” Jenny snapped back.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Margaret’s nose wrinkled up.

“Don’t mind her, Margaret. Just ignore her. Jenny, you’re being incorrigible. It was so quiet before you came. We need to get on with our rehearsal, Granny.” Pomeline played a chord. “There is much to do and we only have two weeks left. I do need to get back to my practising. I need to be playing for at least six hours a day.”

“Angels from the realms of glory,” Jenny said. She hiccupped. “Sorry. I’ll try, I really will. I’m not good at turning papers. I’m clumsy, with my fragile bones.” She held out her arms.

Margaret elbowed me and grabbed a tissue off the table, handing it to Jenny. “Are you going to cry?”

I moved a few inches away from Margaret.

“Sing, all ye citizens,” Jenny said, her hands clasped, glaring at Margaret. “I don’t cry. My tear ducts don’t work.” She bowed her head. “I am a vessel of unshed tears.”

Marigold looked drained. “It’s true. Her tear ducts don’t work properly. She uses eye drops and we’ve trained her to blink. Agatha, if your health problems are interfering you’ll simply have to sit and enjoy through the act of observation. You mustn’t strain yourself.”

“Shall we continue?” Pomeline asked gently.

“Yes, please, I’d be honoured to hear.” Dr. Baker had come in so quiet we didn’t even notice. He swept in and sat down. “The drive today was long. Traffic in the city. I’ll be staying tonight. Jenny, that’s helpful how you are turning the music for Pomeline. I didn’t realize you were coming out yet. I thought Estelle wanted you to stay in the city with her.”

Jenny grimaced but he made out like he didn’t notice, looking around the room, his arms folded together, as though she had answered him yes-sir-no-sir-three-bags-full-sir.

“Oh, Dr. Baker, doesn’t it bring you back to when Charlie was alive, and the Colonel, when we had the Petal’s End Chorus, with all those quaint invalids? They sang with such gusto. They didn’t care what anyone thought. I suppose you wouldn’t remember the very early days. Your father was the doctor back then. He was so pleased you followed him into the medical profession.”

Dr. Baker was listening intently, his chin resting in his hand, like Marigold was telling the most exciting story he’d heard in the last decade, but I saw him rubbing his fingers hard together in his pocket. He turned to us standing there in our choir formation. “Don’t they look delightful, Marigold? And you’re looking well yourself.”