three
separate and overlapping memories. The truth had become as ghostly as
invention. She could begin now, setting it down as she had seen it, meeting the
challenge by refusing to condemn her sister’s shocking near-nakedness, in
daylight, right by the house. Then the scene could be recast, through
Cecilia’s eyes, and then Robbie’s. But now was not the time to
begin. Briony’s sense of obligation, as well as her instinct for order,
was powerful; she must complete what she had initiated, there was a rehearsal
in progress,
Leon
was on his way, the
household was expecting a performance tonight. She should go down once more to
the laundry to see whether the trials of
Jackson
were at an end. The
writing could wait until she was free.
----
Four
I T WAS not until the late afternoon that Cecilia
judged the vase repaired. It had baked all afternoon on a table by a
south-facing window in the library, and now three fine meandering lines in the
glaze, converging like rivers in an atlas, were all that showed. No one would
ever know. As she crossed the library with the vase in both hands, she heard
what she thought was the sound of bare feet on the hallway tiles outside the
library door. Having passed many hours deliberately not thinking about Robbie
Turner, she was outraged that he should be back in the house, once again
without his socks. She stepped out into the hallway, determined to face down
his insolence, or his mockery, and was confronted instead by her sister,
clearly in distress. Her eyelids were swollen and pink, and she was pinching on
her lower lip with forefinger and thumb, an old sign with Briony that some
serious weeping was to be done.
“Darling!
What’s up?”
Her eyes in
fact were dry, and they lowered fractionally to take in the vase, then she
pushed on past, to where the easel stood supporting the poster with the merry,
multicolored title, and a Chagall-like montage of highlights from her play in
watercolor scattered around the lettering—the tearful parents waving, the
moonlit ride to the coast, the heroine on her sickbed, a wedding. She paused
before it, and then, with one violent, diagonal stroke, ripped away more than
half of it and let it fall to the floor. Cecilia put the vase down and hurried
over, and knelt down to retrieve the fragment before her sister began to
trample on it. This would not be the first time she had rescued Briony from
self-destruction.
“Little
Sis. Is it the cousins?”
She wanted to
comfort her sister, for Cecilia had always loved to cuddle the baby of the
family. When she was small and prone to nightmares—those terrible screams
in the night—Cecilia used to go to her room and wake her.
Come back
,
she used to whisper.
It’s only a dream. Come back
. And then she
would carry her into her own bed. She wanted to put her arm round Briony’s
shoulder now, but she was no longer tugging on her lip, and had moved away to
the front door and was resting one hand on the great brass lion’s-head
handle that Mrs. Turner had polished that afternoon.
“The
cousins are stupid. But it’s not only that. It’s . . .” She
trailed away, doubtful whether she should confide her recent revelation.
Cecilia
smoothed the jagged triangle of paper and thought how her little sister was
changing. It would have suited her better had Briony wept and allowed herself
to be comforted on the silk chaise longue in the drawing room. Such stroking
and soothing murmurs would have been a release for Cecilia after a frustrating
day whose various crosscurrents of feeling she had preferred not to examine.
Addressing Briony’s problems with kind words and caresses would have
restored a sense of control. However, there was an element of autonomy in the
younger girl’s unhappiness. She had turned her back and was opening the
door wide.
“But
what is it then?” Cecilia could hear the neediness in her own voice.
Beyond her
sister, far beyond the lake, the driveway curved across the park,
separate and overlapping memories. The truth had become as ghostly as
invention. She could begin now, setting it down as she had seen it, meeting the
challenge by refusing to condemn her sister’s shocking near-nakedness, in
daylight, right by the house. Then the scene could be recast, through
Cecilia’s eyes, and then Robbie’s. But now was not the time to
begin. Briony’s sense of obligation, as well as her instinct for order,
was powerful; she must complete what she had initiated, there was a rehearsal
in progress,
Leon
was on his way, the
household was expecting a performance tonight. She should go down once more to
the laundry to see whether the trials of
Jackson
were at an end. The
writing could wait until she was free.
----
Four
I T WAS not until the late afternoon that Cecilia
judged the vase repaired. It had baked all afternoon on a table by a
south-facing window in the library, and now three fine meandering lines in the
glaze, converging like rivers in an atlas, were all that showed. No one would
ever know. As she crossed the library with the vase in both hands, she heard
what she thought was the sound of bare feet on the hallway tiles outside the
library door. Having passed many hours deliberately not thinking about Robbie
Turner, she was outraged that he should be back in the house, once again
without his socks. She stepped out into the hallway, determined to face down
his insolence, or his mockery, and was confronted instead by her sister,
clearly in distress. Her eyelids were swollen and pink, and she was pinching on
her lower lip with forefinger and thumb, an old sign with Briony that some
serious weeping was to be done.
“Darling!
What’s up?”
Her eyes in
fact were dry, and they lowered fractionally to take in the vase, then she
pushed on past, to where the easel stood supporting the poster with the merry,
multicolored title, and a Chagall-like montage of highlights from her play in
watercolor scattered around the lettering—the tearful parents waving, the
moonlit ride to the coast, the heroine on her sickbed, a wedding. She paused
before it, and then, with one violent, diagonal stroke, ripped away more than
half of it and let it fall to the floor. Cecilia put the vase down and hurried
over, and knelt down to retrieve the fragment before her sister began to
trample on it. This would not be the first time she had rescued Briony from
self-destruction.
“Little
Sis. Is it the cousins?”
She wanted to
comfort her sister, for Cecilia had always loved to cuddle the baby of the
family. When she was small and prone to nightmares—those terrible screams
in the night—Cecilia used to go to her room and wake her.
Come back
,
she used to whisper.
It’s only a dream. Come back
. And then she
would carry her into her own bed. She wanted to put her arm round Briony’s
shoulder now, but she was no longer tugging on her lip, and had moved away to
the front door and was resting one hand on the great brass lion’s-head
handle that Mrs. Turner had polished that afternoon.
“The
cousins are stupid. But it’s not only that. It’s . . .” She
trailed away, doubtful whether she should confide her recent revelation.
Cecilia
smoothed the jagged triangle of paper and thought how her little sister was
changing. It would have suited her better had Briony wept and allowed herself
to be comforted on the silk chaise longue in the drawing room. Such stroking
and soothing murmurs would have been a release for Cecilia after a frustrating
day whose various crosscurrents of feeling she had preferred not to examine.
Addressing Briony’s problems with kind words and caresses would have
restored a sense of control. However, there was an element of autonomy in the
younger girl’s unhappiness. She had turned her back and was opening the
door wide.
“But
what is it then?” Cecilia could hear the neediness in her own voice.
Beyond her
sister, far beyond the lake, the driveway curved across the park,
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