of the room. Small birds swooped down to drink from the still, green water of the pool. A box of cherry chocolates from the day before lay melting on Mitchell’s big blue chair, covered in ants. Two damp towels were draped on the canvas recliners and in the middle of them, like an interrupted conversation, was the wooden chair Isabel had dragged out for Kitty Finch. Under it was Joe’s black ink pen.
This was the rearranged space of yesterday. They walked through the cypress trees and into the parched garden. It had not rained for months and Jurgen had forgotten to water the plants. The honeysuckle was dying, the soil beneath the brown grass cracked and hard. Under the tallest pine tree, Laura saw Nina’s wet bikini lying on the pine needles. When she bent down to pick it up, even she could not help thinking the cherry print on the material looked like splashes of blood. Her fingers started to fumble in her pocket for the little stainless-steel calculator she and Mitchell had brought with them to do their accounts.
‘Nina’s OK, Isabel.’ She ran her fingers over the calculator as if the numbers and symbols she knew were there, the m+ and m–, the x and the decimal point, would somehow end in Nina’s appearance. ‘She’s probably gone for a walk. I mean, she’s fourteen you know, she really has not been’ – she was about to say ‘slaughtered’ but changed her mind and said ‘spirited away’ instead.
She didn’t finish her sentence because Isabel was running through the cypress trees so fast and with such force the trees were shaking for minutes afterwards. Laura watched the momentary chaos of the trees. It was as if they had been pushed off balance and did not quite know how to find their former shape.
Mothers and Daughters
The spare room was dark and hot because the windows were closed and the curtains drawn. A pair of grubby flip-flops lay on top of the tangle of drying weeds lying on the floor. Kitty’s red hair streamed over a lumpy stained pillow, her freckled arms wrapped around Nina, who was clutching the nylon fur rabbit that was her last embarrassed link with childhood. Isabel knew Nina was awake and that she was pretending to be asleep under what seemed to be a starched white tablecloth. It looked like a shroud.
‘Nina, get up.’ Isabel’s voice was sharper than she meant it to be.
Kitty opened her grey eyes and whispered, ‘Nina started her period in the night so she got into bed with me.’
The girls were drowsy and content in each other’s arms. Isabel noticed the tattered books Kitty had put on the shelves, about six of them, were all her husband’s books. Two pink rosebuds stood in a glass of water next to them. Roses that could only have been picked from Madeleine Sheridan’s front garden, her attempt to create a memory of England in France.
She remembered Kitty’s strange comment yesterday morning, after their swim together: ‘Joe’s poetry is a more like a conversation with me than anything else.’ What sort of conversation was Kitty Finch having with her husband? Should she insist her daughter get out of bed and leave this room that was as hot as a greenhouse? Kitty was obviously trapping energy to heat her plants. She had made a small, hot, chaotic world, full of books and fruit and flowers, a sub-state in the country of the tourist villa with its Matisse and Picasso prints clumsily framed and hanging on the walls. Two plump bumblebees crawled down the yellow curtains, searching for an open window. The cupboard was open and Isabel glimpsed a short white feather cape hanging in the corner. Slim and pretty in her flip-flops and ragged summer dresses, it would seem Kitty Finch could make herself at home anywhere. Should she insist that Nina get up and return to her clean lonely room upstairs? Tearing her away from Kitty’s arms felt like a violent thing to do. She bent down and kissed her daughter’s dark eyebrow, which was twitching slightly.
‘Come
This was the rearranged space of yesterday. They walked through the cypress trees and into the parched garden. It had not rained for months and Jurgen had forgotten to water the plants. The honeysuckle was dying, the soil beneath the brown grass cracked and hard. Under the tallest pine tree, Laura saw Nina’s wet bikini lying on the pine needles. When she bent down to pick it up, even she could not help thinking the cherry print on the material looked like splashes of blood. Her fingers started to fumble in her pocket for the little stainless-steel calculator she and Mitchell had brought with them to do their accounts.
‘Nina’s OK, Isabel.’ She ran her fingers over the calculator as if the numbers and symbols she knew were there, the m+ and m–, the x and the decimal point, would somehow end in Nina’s appearance. ‘She’s probably gone for a walk. I mean, she’s fourteen you know, she really has not been’ – she was about to say ‘slaughtered’ but changed her mind and said ‘spirited away’ instead.
She didn’t finish her sentence because Isabel was running through the cypress trees so fast and with such force the trees were shaking for minutes afterwards. Laura watched the momentary chaos of the trees. It was as if they had been pushed off balance and did not quite know how to find their former shape.
Mothers and Daughters
The spare room was dark and hot because the windows were closed and the curtains drawn. A pair of grubby flip-flops lay on top of the tangle of drying weeds lying on the floor. Kitty’s red hair streamed over a lumpy stained pillow, her freckled arms wrapped around Nina, who was clutching the nylon fur rabbit that was her last embarrassed link with childhood. Isabel knew Nina was awake and that she was pretending to be asleep under what seemed to be a starched white tablecloth. It looked like a shroud.
‘Nina, get up.’ Isabel’s voice was sharper than she meant it to be.
Kitty opened her grey eyes and whispered, ‘Nina started her period in the night so she got into bed with me.’
The girls were drowsy and content in each other’s arms. Isabel noticed the tattered books Kitty had put on the shelves, about six of them, were all her husband’s books. Two pink rosebuds stood in a glass of water next to them. Roses that could only have been picked from Madeleine Sheridan’s front garden, her attempt to create a memory of England in France.
She remembered Kitty’s strange comment yesterday morning, after their swim together: ‘Joe’s poetry is a more like a conversation with me than anything else.’ What sort of conversation was Kitty Finch having with her husband? Should she insist her daughter get out of bed and leave this room that was as hot as a greenhouse? Kitty was obviously trapping energy to heat her plants. She had made a small, hot, chaotic world, full of books and fruit and flowers, a sub-state in the country of the tourist villa with its Matisse and Picasso prints clumsily framed and hanging on the walls. Two plump bumblebees crawled down the yellow curtains, searching for an open window. The cupboard was open and Isabel glimpsed a short white feather cape hanging in the corner. Slim and pretty in her flip-flops and ragged summer dresses, it would seem Kitty Finch could make herself at home anywhere. Should she insist that Nina get up and return to her clean lonely room upstairs? Tearing her away from Kitty’s arms felt like a violent thing to do. She bent down and kissed her daughter’s dark eyebrow, which was twitching slightly.
‘Come
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