advice. ‘Did she say?’
She shook her head.
I turned away. ‘Did you move any of my books?’ I asked, half out of the door. ‘The ones in the trunk? While you were getting the washing?’
She shook her head again. I could see the kindness in her eyes. And of course I’d known the answer already.
I didn’t knock on the way into Mother’s room. She was lying in bed, reading the paper.
‘A little better,’ she murmured, turning her eyes to the wall. ‘Aunt Mildred … so kind …’
I stood by her bed, looking down at her. She shifted her shoulder a little further towards the wall.
Looking round, I saw that one of the big pots of orchids from the window was on her bedside chest this morning – its blooms white and smooth. Unnatural-looking, parasitic things, I thought, suddenly disgusted by them: half-flower, half-fungus.
‘That’s a pretty orchid,’ I said brightly. ‘Did Aunt Mildred bring it?’
A tiny frown appeared on her face, as if pain might be returning. ‘No, it’s always been there …’
‘Well, yesterday, for instance, there were some white roses there. I bought them for you myself, and put them in a vase right here,’ I said, keeping my voice as steady and reasonable as I could. ‘I had to move all the pictures on to the window to fit the vase on to the chest. Don’t you remember?’
Yet the pictures were in their usual place now – the whole shiny array, dusted, in tidy rows around the orchid pot. For a yawning moment, looking at them, I wondered whether I hadn’t just imagined, dreamed, the white roses …
And then Mother’s eyes flickered. ‘Oh,’ she said, looking down at her hands, ‘those. They died.’
‘Uh-huh,’ I said.
In the silence that followed, a whirring, chattering, pounding-red interior monologue began inside me.
What time had she had to get up this morning, that voice was asking, to make sure my flowers were disposed of and the orchids in place instead and the pictures dusted and arranged, all before Aunt Mildred’s early call? Had she known, beforehand, that she’d want my roses gone so she could complain about my selfishness more freely? And, if she was so sick, where had she found the strength to heave that heavy orchid pot into place?
‘But, oh look,’ I went on, with bright, false concern, ‘I think you must have dropped one or two of the pictures you had here yesterday?’
Mother put one hand to her forehead, and shook her head.
‘Both the ones of Grandmother …?’ I went on, pronouncing the taboo word with the greatest possible precision. ‘Because they’ve gone.’
Her frown deepened. ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about,’ she said.
‘Grandmother,’ I repeated sweetly. ‘Yesterday you had her wedding picture here, and also that recent one she sent from Paris. The one from my poetry book. Would you like me to look and see if they’ve fallen under your bed?’
Silence.
‘Your mother,’ I prompted, after a moment, but I could already feel that brief flush of heat and anger fading inside me. ‘Constance.’
She closed her eyes. ‘Inconstancy, more like,’ she whispered.
‘Grandmother then,’ I prodded. ‘Shall I look for the photographs?’ I moved towards her bed.
‘I don’t know what you mean about pictures,’ Mothersuddenly snapped in a much stronger voice. ‘There are no pictures of her here.’
I straightened, smiling down at the floor. ‘Ah, well, perhaps I imagined them,’ I said with what insouciance I could still manage. With the last vestiges of my brave anger, I told myself: So she’s put the pictures somewhere else, that’s all
that
means.
‘I need to rest,’ she said.
I got almost all the way to the door before she whispered at my back, ‘Did Aunt Mildred tell you she’s asked us all to the island from tomorrow evening?’
I turned, submissively. The darkness had gone from her face. She was almost smiling.
‘I’ve asked Florence to get your clothes ready.’
I nodded again.
She shook her head.
I turned away. ‘Did you move any of my books?’ I asked, half out of the door. ‘The ones in the trunk? While you were getting the washing?’
She shook her head again. I could see the kindness in her eyes. And of course I’d known the answer already.
I didn’t knock on the way into Mother’s room. She was lying in bed, reading the paper.
‘A little better,’ she murmured, turning her eyes to the wall. ‘Aunt Mildred … so kind …’
I stood by her bed, looking down at her. She shifted her shoulder a little further towards the wall.
Looking round, I saw that one of the big pots of orchids from the window was on her bedside chest this morning – its blooms white and smooth. Unnatural-looking, parasitic things, I thought, suddenly disgusted by them: half-flower, half-fungus.
‘That’s a pretty orchid,’ I said brightly. ‘Did Aunt Mildred bring it?’
A tiny frown appeared on her face, as if pain might be returning. ‘No, it’s always been there …’
‘Well, yesterday, for instance, there were some white roses there. I bought them for you myself, and put them in a vase right here,’ I said, keeping my voice as steady and reasonable as I could. ‘I had to move all the pictures on to the window to fit the vase on to the chest. Don’t you remember?’
Yet the pictures were in their usual place now – the whole shiny array, dusted, in tidy rows around the orchid pot. For a yawning moment, looking at them, I wondered whether I hadn’t just imagined, dreamed, the white roses …
And then Mother’s eyes flickered. ‘Oh,’ she said, looking down at her hands, ‘those. They died.’
‘Uh-huh,’ I said.
In the silence that followed, a whirring, chattering, pounding-red interior monologue began inside me.
What time had she had to get up this morning, that voice was asking, to make sure my flowers were disposed of and the orchids in place instead and the pictures dusted and arranged, all before Aunt Mildred’s early call? Had she known, beforehand, that she’d want my roses gone so she could complain about my selfishness more freely? And, if she was so sick, where had she found the strength to heave that heavy orchid pot into place?
‘But, oh look,’ I went on, with bright, false concern, ‘I think you must have dropped one or two of the pictures you had here yesterday?’
Mother put one hand to her forehead, and shook her head.
‘Both the ones of Grandmother …?’ I went on, pronouncing the taboo word with the greatest possible precision. ‘Because they’ve gone.’
Her frown deepened. ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about,’ she said.
‘Grandmother,’ I repeated sweetly. ‘Yesterday you had her wedding picture here, and also that recent one she sent from Paris. The one from my poetry book. Would you like me to look and see if they’ve fallen under your bed?’
Silence.
‘Your mother,’ I prompted, after a moment, but I could already feel that brief flush of heat and anger fading inside me. ‘Constance.’
She closed her eyes. ‘Inconstancy, more like,’ she whispered.
‘Grandmother then,’ I prodded. ‘Shall I look for the photographs?’ I moved towards her bed.
‘I don’t know what you mean about pictures,’ Mothersuddenly snapped in a much stronger voice. ‘There are no pictures of her here.’
I straightened, smiling down at the floor. ‘Ah, well, perhaps I imagined them,’ I said with what insouciance I could still manage. With the last vestiges of my brave anger, I told myself: So she’s put the pictures somewhere else, that’s all
that
means.
‘I need to rest,’ she said.
I got almost all the way to the door before she whispered at my back, ‘Did Aunt Mildred tell you she’s asked us all to the island from tomorrow evening?’
I turned, submissively. The darkness had gone from her face. She was almost smiling.
‘I’ve asked Florence to get your clothes ready.’
I nodded again.
Similar Books
