wanted to talk to me about?’ I said.
‘No,’ she said. ‘But help me first, Anselm.’
I sat down on the edge of her bed. There were two articles – one was about the king and the second about Aldebaran, another testament from a great man who had once known him. Jasmine had already cut out a picture of the king looking tired and handsome, and she wasarranging it in the last remaining space on her wall. She collected every article about them both; if someone raided our house, they would think it the hideout of some outlawed band of royalists. I cut around the articles carefully and handed them to her. ‘There,’ I said. ‘Will those do?’
‘Thank you, Anselm.’ She laid them carefully on the chair beside her bed.
Aldebaran’s wooden box was there beside them. She glanced at it and sighed. I had not looked at it properly until now. The lid was carved into a neat pattern of stars, and the inside was balding velvet. I opened it and then closed it again, then set it back down beside her bed. ‘It’s a nice box,’ I said. But I did not really understand why he had given it to her.
‘Anselm, are you sad?’ she said.
‘No.’
‘Are you sure?’
I hesitated. But I could not tell her about Michael leaving. I felt as if I could make it less likely by forcing myself not to even think about it. ‘Nothing,’ I said. ‘It’s really nothing at all, Jas.’
Jasmine picked up the box and began tracing the pattern of stars with one finger. ‘Anselm?’ she said, pausing halfway along the line and gazing up at me.
‘Yes.’
‘Why doesn’t Grandmama like you?’
She was looking up at me intently, her thumb in her mouth, and I could tell this was what she had wanted to ask me all along. ‘She does …’ I began. But it was no use. Jasmine had been able to see my thoughts since before she could talk. ‘I don’t know,’ I said. ‘Sometimes she doesn’t act as if she likes any of us very much.’
‘But she’s different with you,’ said Jasmine.
‘Maybe.’
‘She is. Can’t you remember when she started being like that?’
I hesitated. ‘She’s always acted like she disapproved of me, as long as I can remember. Not all the time, but sometimes. My seventh birthday – that’s the first time I can think of.’ I made to leave. ‘To be honest, Jasmine, I gave up trying to understand her long ago. I wouldn’t pay it too much attention.’
‘You’ve never told me the story of your seventh birthday,’ she said.
I smiled at that. ‘There isn’t a story.’
‘You could make one.’
‘No, I couldn’t.’
‘Please. Make me a story about your seventh birthday.’
It was something to think about instead of the storm that was rising again outside and Michael’s talk of leaving. ‘All right,’ I said. ‘But only a short story. It’s half past nine already.’
‘All right,’ said Jasmine, replacing her thumb in her mouth. ‘A short story.’
It started with Leo’s writing. On winter nights when I was a small boy, he used to sit by the fire writing pages and pages, and I tried to copy him even before I could spell out my own name. The year before my seventh birthday, my mother was working late as a governess, and the evenings were long. Leo and I used to sit and write while we waited for her to come back. And it was on these evenings that Leo talked to me about his past life. One night he told me about Stirling. I was struggling to copy a line of a poem out of myschool textbook, and Leo stubbed out his cigarette and said, ‘You remind me of him, you know.’
‘Who?’ I said. He had been thinking aloud.
‘Stirling,’ he said. ‘My little brother.’
I closed my book. In the metal coal bucket, I could see my reflection, a large-eyed boy with reddish brown hair and a mouth just like my mother’s. ‘It’s not that you look like him,’ said Leo, seeing me studying it. ‘I don’t mean that. But there are certain things about you that are the same.’
‘Tell me about
‘No,’ she said. ‘But help me first, Anselm.’
I sat down on the edge of her bed. There were two articles – one was about the king and the second about Aldebaran, another testament from a great man who had once known him. Jasmine had already cut out a picture of the king looking tired and handsome, and she wasarranging it in the last remaining space on her wall. She collected every article about them both; if someone raided our house, they would think it the hideout of some outlawed band of royalists. I cut around the articles carefully and handed them to her. ‘There,’ I said. ‘Will those do?’
‘Thank you, Anselm.’ She laid them carefully on the chair beside her bed.
Aldebaran’s wooden box was there beside them. She glanced at it and sighed. I had not looked at it properly until now. The lid was carved into a neat pattern of stars, and the inside was balding velvet. I opened it and then closed it again, then set it back down beside her bed. ‘It’s a nice box,’ I said. But I did not really understand why he had given it to her.
‘Anselm, are you sad?’ she said.
‘No.’
‘Are you sure?’
I hesitated. But I could not tell her about Michael leaving. I felt as if I could make it less likely by forcing myself not to even think about it. ‘Nothing,’ I said. ‘It’s really nothing at all, Jas.’
Jasmine picked up the box and began tracing the pattern of stars with one finger. ‘Anselm?’ she said, pausing halfway along the line and gazing up at me.
‘Yes.’
‘Why doesn’t Grandmama like you?’
She was looking up at me intently, her thumb in her mouth, and I could tell this was what she had wanted to ask me all along. ‘She does …’ I began. But it was no use. Jasmine had been able to see my thoughts since before she could talk. ‘I don’t know,’ I said. ‘Sometimes she doesn’t act as if she likes any of us very much.’
‘But she’s different with you,’ said Jasmine.
‘Maybe.’
‘She is. Can’t you remember when she started being like that?’
I hesitated. ‘She’s always acted like she disapproved of me, as long as I can remember. Not all the time, but sometimes. My seventh birthday – that’s the first time I can think of.’ I made to leave. ‘To be honest, Jasmine, I gave up trying to understand her long ago. I wouldn’t pay it too much attention.’
‘You’ve never told me the story of your seventh birthday,’ she said.
I smiled at that. ‘There isn’t a story.’
‘You could make one.’
‘No, I couldn’t.’
‘Please. Make me a story about your seventh birthday.’
It was something to think about instead of the storm that was rising again outside and Michael’s talk of leaving. ‘All right,’ I said. ‘But only a short story. It’s half past nine already.’
‘All right,’ said Jasmine, replacing her thumb in her mouth. ‘A short story.’
It started with Leo’s writing. On winter nights when I was a small boy, he used to sit by the fire writing pages and pages, and I tried to copy him even before I could spell out my own name. The year before my seventh birthday, my mother was working late as a governess, and the evenings were long. Leo and I used to sit and write while we waited for her to come back. And it was on these evenings that Leo talked to me about his past life. One night he told me about Stirling. I was struggling to copy a line of a poem out of myschool textbook, and Leo stubbed out his cigarette and said, ‘You remind me of him, you know.’
‘Who?’ I said. He had been thinking aloud.
‘Stirling,’ he said. ‘My little brother.’
I closed my book. In the metal coal bucket, I could see my reflection, a large-eyed boy with reddish brown hair and a mouth just like my mother’s. ‘It’s not that you look like him,’ said Leo, seeing me studying it. ‘I don’t mean that. But there are certain things about you that are the same.’
‘Tell me about
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