won’t write, draw my portrait. Take my photograph. I don’t know the last time I saw you with your camera.’
‘That’s because the camera is broken. It was never much use anyway.’
‘And what about you? Are you broken too?’ Edward snapped. Then he sighed. ‘We make of our lives what we are able, Bo. Don’t waste yours being angry with me.’
When Edward had gone Maribel rose and went to her desk, taking from its pigeonhole the book of marbled Venetian paper in which she jotted ideas for poems. She turned the pages. Scribbled sideways across one leaf was a list, written some months before at Inverallich, headed ‘Champs-Elysées’:
flash of silver bit
white scum frothing on arched neck
hooves like arrowheads slicing sky
metaphor for love: coiled sinew, glint of iron
peril bare contained
Edward was right. One made of one’s life what one was able. Taking out a sheet of writing paper she scribbled a note to the Pagets, pleading a head cold. That afternoon, when she was returned from calling on the Wildes, she took her mother’s letter from her writing case and propped it against the mirror on her dressing table. There was no purpose in waiting for the right moment. There would be no right moment. The best one could do was to try not to be afraid.
She was sitting at her dressing table when Edward came home that night, brushing her hair in front of the mirror. She heard the click of the front door, the low murmur of voices as Alice took his coat and hat. She reached for her wrap but before she had put her arms into it he knocked at the door.
‘Come in.’
She reached out a hand towards him as he opened the door. Under one arm he carried a large package. He set it down on the dressing table beside her and leaned down to kiss her on the top of her head. Glancing at the envelope containing her mother’s letter she caught his hand and pressed it against her cheek. He smiled at her in the mirror.
‘What a nice surprise,’ she said. ‘You’re early.’
‘Early? It’s past eleven.’
‘That’s early for you.’ She kissed his fingers. ‘I am sorry I was so ill-tempered this morning. You were right. I had no right to be cross with you.’
‘I am not so sure. I have neglected you horribly.’
‘In the pursuit of a better, juster world. I should stop complaining.’
‘Have you been working?’
Maribel shrugged. ‘Something like that.’
Putting down her hairbrush she turned to face him.
‘Edward, dearest, there is something I have to talk to you about.’
‘Is anybody dead?’
‘Not as far as I know.’
‘Then can it wait till morning? I brought you something.’ Picking up the package he deposited it in her lap.
‘For me?’ she said.
‘For you.’
‘What is it?’
‘Why don’t you open it and see?’
She smiled excitedly as she slid off the string, tearing the paper a little as she unwrapped it. Inside was a wooden box, E. & H.T. Anthony stamped in black letters on the top. She lifted the lid and gasped.
‘Edward.’
‘It’s rather fine, isn’t it? It’s American. The latest design.’
Very gently she took the camera out of its box. Perhaps ten inches square, a little more in depth, it was made of polished mahogany with exquisitely worked brass fittings and bellows of dark green leather. The lens protruded from its glossy face like the tip of a telescope. She held it in her lap, stroking the smooth wood with her thumb. She knew without asking that they could not afford it.
‘It’s so small,’ she said.
‘They call it a field camera. It’s designed to be portable.’
‘It’s beautiful. Almost too beautiful to use.’
‘If you say that I shall take it back.’
She smiled. ‘I don’t deserve it.’
‘No. But I thought you would like it.’
‘I love it. Thank you.’
She tilted her head up to kiss his cheek. Gently he took the camera from her lap and placed it back on the dressing table. Then, turning her to face him, he kissed her deeply on the
‘That’s because the camera is broken. It was never much use anyway.’
‘And what about you? Are you broken too?’ Edward snapped. Then he sighed. ‘We make of our lives what we are able, Bo. Don’t waste yours being angry with me.’
When Edward had gone Maribel rose and went to her desk, taking from its pigeonhole the book of marbled Venetian paper in which she jotted ideas for poems. She turned the pages. Scribbled sideways across one leaf was a list, written some months before at Inverallich, headed ‘Champs-Elysées’:
flash of silver bit
white scum frothing on arched neck
hooves like arrowheads slicing sky
metaphor for love: coiled sinew, glint of iron
peril bare contained
Edward was right. One made of one’s life what one was able. Taking out a sheet of writing paper she scribbled a note to the Pagets, pleading a head cold. That afternoon, when she was returned from calling on the Wildes, she took her mother’s letter from her writing case and propped it against the mirror on her dressing table. There was no purpose in waiting for the right moment. There would be no right moment. The best one could do was to try not to be afraid.
She was sitting at her dressing table when Edward came home that night, brushing her hair in front of the mirror. She heard the click of the front door, the low murmur of voices as Alice took his coat and hat. She reached for her wrap but before she had put her arms into it he knocked at the door.
‘Come in.’
She reached out a hand towards him as he opened the door. Under one arm he carried a large package. He set it down on the dressing table beside her and leaned down to kiss her on the top of her head. Glancing at the envelope containing her mother’s letter she caught his hand and pressed it against her cheek. He smiled at her in the mirror.
‘What a nice surprise,’ she said. ‘You’re early.’
‘Early? It’s past eleven.’
‘That’s early for you.’ She kissed his fingers. ‘I am sorry I was so ill-tempered this morning. You were right. I had no right to be cross with you.’
‘I am not so sure. I have neglected you horribly.’
‘In the pursuit of a better, juster world. I should stop complaining.’
‘Have you been working?’
Maribel shrugged. ‘Something like that.’
Putting down her hairbrush she turned to face him.
‘Edward, dearest, there is something I have to talk to you about.’
‘Is anybody dead?’
‘Not as far as I know.’
‘Then can it wait till morning? I brought you something.’ Picking up the package he deposited it in her lap.
‘For me?’ she said.
‘For you.’
‘What is it?’
‘Why don’t you open it and see?’
She smiled excitedly as she slid off the string, tearing the paper a little as she unwrapped it. Inside was a wooden box, E. & H.T. Anthony stamped in black letters on the top. She lifted the lid and gasped.
‘Edward.’
‘It’s rather fine, isn’t it? It’s American. The latest design.’
Very gently she took the camera out of its box. Perhaps ten inches square, a little more in depth, it was made of polished mahogany with exquisitely worked brass fittings and bellows of dark green leather. The lens protruded from its glossy face like the tip of a telescope. She held it in her lap, stroking the smooth wood with her thumb. She knew without asking that they could not afford it.
‘It’s so small,’ she said.
‘They call it a field camera. It’s designed to be portable.’
‘It’s beautiful. Almost too beautiful to use.’
‘If you say that I shall take it back.’
She smiled. ‘I don’t deserve it.’
‘No. But I thought you would like it.’
‘I love it. Thank you.’
She tilted her head up to kiss his cheek. Gently he took the camera from her lap and placed it back on the dressing table. Then, turning her to face him, he kissed her deeply on the
Similar Books
