Shooting Butterflies (15 page)

Grace nodded. ‘But I got Mrs Shield, my stepmother, soon afterwards and she did her very best.'

‘Still, it's hardly the same. And then your father died.'

‘He had a heart attack.'

‘Oh dear. How dreadful.'

‘It was. Personally, I think he was exhausted from trying to reconcile the man he was with the man his wives wanted him to be.' But Grace was beginning to feel faintly ashamed, as if she had been careless somehow in losing so many relatives.

Robina pulled her hands away. ‘Oh my dear, I've upset you. I'm too direct.'

Andrew had come back into the room. ‘Grace doesn't like being pitied,' he said. He had decanted the honey into a tiny glass bowl and Grace smiled up at him, trying to remember when a man had last decanted anything for her.

‘No, no, your mother is being kind. Compassion I like. I would have been really pissed off if, through the years, I hadn't had any. It's just sometimes I feel as if I'm defined by what I've lost rather than what I have or who I am. I like to think I'm appreciated for myself, not only my uncanny ability to have people die on me.'

There was a pause, then Robina said, ‘Quite right too.'

Andrew smiled fondly and said, ‘Oh Grace.' She liked the way he said that; it made her sound troublesome but cute. It made a nice change; she did not usually appear cute. ‘You were doing so well,' he went on. ‘A whole sentence about your feelings with no crap joke in sight and then you go and spoil it all. Stop fighting for a moment. Allow people in.' He leant over the sofa back and kissed her cheek, his lips close to hers, and she turned towards him, forgetting all about Robina until there was a clatter of china followed by, ‘Go and find the others, would you darling, and tell them coffee's ready. And I promise; no more pity.' Andrew gave them both an indulgent smile and did what he was told. His mother looked at his disappearing back. ‘He's such a dear boy,' she said. ‘A little weak sometimes, but then that's all down to a soft heart.'

‘Weak? He doesn't seem weak to me.' Grace was surprised at how insulted she felt on his behalf. A little smile played at the corners of Robina's wide unmade mouth. ‘You like him, don't you?'

‘Yes. Yes, I do.'

‘Good. He needs someone like you.'

Grace was so surprised to hear this that she forgot to pursue the point about Andrew being weak. ‘In my experience mothers often think I'm exactly what their sons don't need. I'm not sure why. Maybe they sense that I'm bad at nurturing. And I have to say that they are right about that.'

The knowing smile was back. ‘Well if you are, it's because you
haven't been taught. I suspect you haven't had much nurturing yourself.'

Grace knew that was not true, she had been a loved child. But she thought of what Andrew had said, and she decided to let it go. She felt calm, happy in the moment, like a cat being stroked just the right way – not too soft, not too hard and right along the fur – so she allowed the misconception, the seed of a lie, to drift right on past. She had worn it like a cape – her strength, her independence, her reliance on no one but herself. Now she was tired and longing to take it off and stand there, lighter, smaller, weaker and rather more herself. ‘It wasn't so bad,' she said.

‘You're a brave girl, I can tell,' Robina said.

‘I wouldn't say that,' Grace mumbled. She felt ashamed of how good she felt in the warm light of all this interest and approval. ‘Do you mind if I pour myself another cup of tea?'

‘And you're a photographer. Such an interesting line of work. And flexible too.'

Grace straightened up, alert suddenly, smiling as if her dearest friend had just walked into the room. ‘It's what I do.'

They were joined by the others. Grace took some pictures of them all and Andrew insisted on taking some of her, perching on the armrest of the sofa next to Kate, laughing with Robina, puzzling over Timothy's quiz.

Afterwards, when she was back home alone in her flat, she could not stop staring at those photographs, at the way she looked in them. Was that her, that girl with the rounded face where she was used to seeing sharp angles? Was that her, the woman with the placid smile? From where had she sprung, this younger, happier, relaxed self, the self that she always hoped to find in the mirror but never did? Most astonishingly of all, she appeared to belong.

‘I just love his family,' Grace told Angelica. They were drinking tea sitting in the window seat by the open window. Grace was smoking.

‘Do you never feel the need for
fresh
air?' Angelica complained. ‘And what about him? Forget his family, do you love
him
?'

Questions, always questions. Grace had questioned to death a great many relationships in the past ten years. She knew too that once there had been a love to which she knew all the answers, but she did not expect ever to find that kind again.

‘You really love that boy?'

‘I love him so.'

‘Would you like tea or coffee?'

‘I don't mind; I love him so.'

‘So what's your view of the US withdrawal from Vietnam?'

‘Thank God he's safe; I love him so.'

‘Left or right?'

‘He lives just to the left of here. I love him so.'

‘And animal rights; where do you stand on the issue?'

‘Animals just adore Jefferson and he adores them; and me, I love him so.'

‘So what are your thoughts on the future of mankind?'

‘Well, his grandparents are all alive and fit although in their eighties, so if genes are anything to go by he should be around for a long time yet, and I love him so.'

‘Do you believe in God?'

‘God, I love him so.'

‘So do you love him?' Angelica insisted.

Grace turned her face from the window. ‘Who? Oh silly me, Andrew; of course I … It's so … soft. Andrew, his family, it's this soft place to land and, Angelica, I need one. You know those photographs of big happy families gathered round the table or the open fire, the kind of families we wanted when we were
children in our neat little nuclear pockets? Well, with him, with them, it's like I've stepped into one of those photos.' She put her hand on Angelica's arm, a little embarrassed. ‘I'm tired, Angelica. I'm thinking, why should I be the one shouldering all the burden of living with myself? Let someone else try it for a change. And how nice it would be to know that if I died, something other than the increasingly unpleasant smell seeping out from under my front door would alert the world to my fate. The last time I was away I forgot to cancel the milk. Each day there was another bottle standing on my doorstep. By the time I got back there were nine. How many bottles would there have to be before anyone noticed or cared that I was gone?'

‘Grace, do you
love
him?'

‘What is all this talk of love? People didn't go on and on about love in the old days.'

‘Remind me to write a note to John Donne about that,' Angelica said.

‘I mean … what is love?'

‘At least you're asking that before you're engaged,' Angelica said. ‘Anyway, as far as I see it, if you felt it – love – you wouldn't have to ask. If you need to ask … well, brainy; draw your own conclusion.'

‘Do you love Tom?'

‘I know what you think about him.' She raised her hand. ‘No, don't protest. And yes, I do love him. I'd have to … wouldn't I, to still be there?' Angelica turned wide blue eyes on her. Grace held her gaze, wanting to take her friend's hand but lighting another cigarette instead. ‘Anyway,' Angelica said, ‘don't change the subject. Andrew?'

‘I believe I can make him happy.'

‘Virtue does not become you.'

‘All right, so I believe we can make each other happy.'

‘Silly ass.'

A year later, Grace, a married woman, lay in her bed, lazy and warm, the summer sun shining a path along her face and chest. Slowly she opened her eyes: a crack at first, then wider. Her gaze took in the faded rose sprigged wallpaper, the heavy mahogany chest of drawers and, as a final treat, Andrew. It was Sunday morning, not yet eight o'clock, but already he was up and dressed. He was going to his parents' house to help with the solar-heating panel; it had gone again, whatever that meant. Before leaving he bent down and kissed her tenderly, lingeringly, on the lips … and one more time.

Moments later the front door closed followed by his steps on the gravel. Grace buried her face in the pillow that smelt faintly of him: clean sweat and lemon shampoo. She liked his hair that was golden and curly, mostly brushed tidily to one side in a left-hand parting. She liked it best when it got messed up on a walk or in bed. There was something so appealing about an escaping lock of hair, like the materialisation of a naughty thought. She had taken photographs of him with his hair like that, pictures she would not show his mother.

‘My mother-in-law. My husband,' she said out loud. Next she changed the emphasis on the words. ‘
My
husband. My
husband
. My husband and I. My husband says … needs … likes … is … my husband … he and I.'

These days Grace, the woman whose soles had not touched grass from one year to another, could go downstairs in her thin nightshirt and walk barefoot into the garden where only the birds could see her, yet if she dropped dead she would be missed pretty damn quickly.

She had an appointment at ten. A friend of Robina's was having her young granddaughter to stay and she wanted the child's photograph taken. Grace was developing quite a reputation for her children's portraits. Robina was proud of her. ‘Have you met my new daughter-in-law?' she would say, with
a look at Grace as if she had made her herself. ‘She's a
photographer
.'

The little girl coming to have her picture taken was called Arabella. In Grace's recent experience it was quite difficult finding a little girl who
wasn't
called Arabella, or at least Fenella, Lucinda or Melissa. And all those little people with names ending in
a
wore smocked dresses that were so long their tiny Start-rite sandals got caught in the hem with every other step they took. Fringes were out that too was obvious. Instead their wispy hair was parted neatly and held in place by a clip with a flower or a tortoise or a kitten as decoration. Grace looked at the photograph of herself as a child that Mrs Shield had given Andrew. Her straight dark hair was cut in an unforgiving fringe above straight dark brows and she was wearing a black dress with brightly coloured raggedy patches sewn on it. That dress had been her all-time favourite item of clothing and had been made by Aunt Kathleen. Aunt Kathleen had always been good at keeping in touch with her dead sister's family in England, sending picture postcards when she and Uncle Leslie travelled around America and little gifts for birthdays and Christmas. Grace sent her drawings. She had sent one of her favourite rag doll, Maude, who was wearing a black dress with raggedy patches. On the back of the picture she had written several unsubtle and badly spelt hints about how much she would like just such a dress for herself. And five weeks later, for her eleventh birthday, a perfect copy of Maude's dress had arrived from America. The dress was not only black but quite short too. Maude's dress had been short, more like a long shirt all the better for her striped odd stockings to be seen. It had been a source of great disappointment to Grace that Mrs Shield had not allowed her striped stockings. She had to content herself with one navy and one white knee-length sock. When Robina Abbot saw the photograph – Andrew kept it in an oval silver frame on his desk – she had looked at Grace and said, ‘What a funny little thing you were. And to put you in black.'

‘I put myself in black,' Grace pointed out. ‘Anyway, I think I looked rather sweet.'

‘Heaven help any child of yours.' Robina let out a peal of laughter.

But little Arabella wore the softest baby-blue Viyella and whiter-than-white ankle socks. Grace smiled as the little girl twirled unsteadily, one eye on the large hall mirror. ‘I feel so pretty,' Arabella said.

‘You
are
pretty,' Grace told her. ‘And if you go out with me into the garden and sit on the little wooden bench beneath the cherry tree and think of what you like doing best, we shall have a very pretty photograph as well.' The grandmother pulled a hairy brush from her large bag and started tugging at the child's baby-fine curls. ‘No, leave it as it is,' Grace said. ‘I don't like children looking too
done
, if you see what I mean.'

‘I simply can't abide untidy hair,' the grandmother said as the brush got caught in a curl. She gave a tug and then a backward yank so that Grace thought Arabella's head was going to snap right off the stem-like neck. The child squealed and Grace shot her a sympathetic look; give women of a certain age a hairbrush or a damp cloth and no child was safe.

The grandmother left to go to the post office, and once outside and released from her grandmother's beady eye, Arabella turned out to be a born model. Most little girls were, until someone came along and told them about the sin of vanity and the importance of being good
deep down
. Grace took some close-ups of Arabella twirling her hair, pouting her dark-pink rosebud lips, smiling, showing her perfect pearl-barley teeth. She changed the lens and shot some of the little girl standing by the stream at the bottom of the garden, her whole body arched as she pointed skywards at a bird, and of her bending forward looking at her own extraordinarily pleasing reflection in the water and almost tumbling over as she tried to catch a passing dragonfly. Grace ended up with three rolls of film: two black and white and one colour. People usually preferred colour shots for children, but Grace favoured black and white and always hoped to change their minds.

Arabella wanted to see her picture as soon as the session was over and cried for a bit when told that was not possible. She drank a glass of Ribena without spilling a drop on her pretty blue dress and ate three sponge fingers. Grace retied the bow at her back and brushed the crumbs off the smocked front. Together they listened to the buzzing of a bumble-bee and marvelled at what
a surprisingly loud noise it was for such a small creature to make. Arabella said she could make an even louder noise and growled like a lion.