Skylark by Jenny Pattrick Page B

smiled, rather dryly. ‘You think me incapable? I have been writing for as long as you. So far two chapters completed.’
    I do not imagine his scribbling will amount to anything of importance. What, in his life, or that of his father’s, could fill a journal? But still the thought disturbed me. The secrecy. The implied criticism.
    â€˜But my dear,’ I said with a smile, ‘naturally your father will appear in my memoir. What can you mean when you say “true version”? You believe I have not been truthful?’
    â€˜Yes.’ Samuel stood there in a pool of sunlight, watching me. He has finally grown tall enough, broad enough, to look manly, though his black hair will hang limp, and his chin will always lack definition. What distant member of whose family does he resemble? I cannot imagine.
    â€˜Yes, Mother,’ he repeated. ‘You will embroider the truth, when it suits you, and will leave out anything that shows you in a poor light. You will make a great drama of every ordinary event.’ His face suddenly broke into a smile — a rare thing; Samuel has been such a solemn boy. ‘I’ll lay a wager,’ he said, taking a sovereign from his pocket and holding it to wink in the sun, ‘that you have already stolen some lively event from another singer’s life and attributed it to yourself.’
    A wager! What fun! Who would have thought my eldest son had such a spark as to challenge me? I felt I must rise to his bait.
    â€˜Samuel, I am an artiste. It is perfectly acceptable that in writing my life I should — embroider, as you put it. I would rather say heighten the drama, draw in the audience, lead the reader into a release of emotions. If there is no drama, who will be interested? And haven’t you all enjoyed our evening readings? You cannot deny it.’ I paused for a moment, as if searching my memory, rosefrom my chair, laid a delicate hand on my heart and let my voice ring out. ‘But would I steal another person’s story? Never! Never! I accept your wager!’
    Samuel laughed! He placed the sovereign on the mantelpiece among my trophies, flung back his head and roared with laughter. Such a rich, ringing tone! Truly deep and from the diaphragm. Has his voice matured at last? I was quite distracted. Perhaps he is simply a late developer.
    â€˜Mother, you are outrageous. Count on it: I will catch you out. Father will tell me his version so now we can compare. Shall we double the wager?’
    Naturally I was tempted. But we must count our pennies these days. ‘This wager,’ I said, ‘will cut both ways. Will you write the truth, I wonder, Samuel?’
    His countenance sobered. ‘I have. I will. Mattie says that I may read aloud to the family too. Now that we have reached Father in your story, I will begin. We will hear both versions.’
    â€˜Then make sure,’ I said, lowering my chin, deepening my voice so that my words might inspire, ‘that at least you write with spirit. Do not fear to show emotion. Some part of your heart, Samuel, carries my blood: the heritage of France. Let it guide you.’
    He left the room without another word. I sat, looking out into the garden. The sun slid behind the trees but I sat on.
    I feared, of course, what he would write about Teddy.
    Â 
    [Archivist’s Note: Lily’s journal jumps here. Her memoir continues some months later when she has shifted to Wellington. I have found, in the second journal, a brief and rather different account of events on that fateful night when she broke her ankle. The following two excerpts are from the second journal. The writer is Samuel Lacey. Samuel’s writing is not as colourful as Lily’s, but you will find it robust enough, I believe, to warrant inclusion. E. de M.]

F ROM THE JOURNAL OF S AMUEL L ACEY
Recollections of Jack Lacey (1)
    A proposal spurned!
    [Archivist’s Note: An excerpt from Samuel’s introductory description