Shooting Butterflies (17 page)

According to Andrew, she also had a woman's touch coupled with a rare logical mind. She had her priorities right, he said, putting their marriage and their home before her career. Now, Grace was meaning to speak to him about that. It had been nice not working so hard for a time, but soon she would have to get right back there and fight for commissions or she would be left behind.

They sat down for a while on the soft grass of the riverbank because the afternoon was too beautiful to take at speed. She leant against him. He had the kind of shoulders that really felt as if they could take your weight. ‘I was so tired until I met you,' she said. ‘I told myself I was all right but no one ever tells you how tired you get, being fine all by yourself.'

She remembered how Angelica had said, on her last visit a few weeks ago, ‘You've bought the whole deal, haven't you? The husband, the big jolly family, the rose-covered cottage; like you
walked into a shop with a vague feeling that you needed a pair of knickers and came out with a suit and shirt and stockings and shoes as well.'

‘So I got a lot for my money,' Grace had said. ‘Anyway, you bought it too.'

‘I tried. Maybe I haven't got your eye for a bargain.'

‘Angelica.' Grace touched her hand. ‘What's wrong?'

‘Some wrinkles, that's all. It's part of marriage, the positioning and repositioning. Nothing to worry about. We have some negotiating to do, that's all.'

‘Negotiate, schmosiate; does he make you happy?'

‘It's all about compromise. Anyway, I'm pregnant.' And for the first time that day Angelica was smiling.

‘We shall be such perfect parents,' Andrew said now.

‘I know,' Grace agreed. ‘I shall not die young and you shall not withdraw into your study. The baby will grow up safe in the knowledge that she …'

‘He …'

‘… it can wear whatever colour clothes it likes because I shall be taking its picture mostly in black and white anyway. We will give it several names so that it can decide itself which one suits it best in mood and extravagance. A girl might be Hester Abigail Tennessee so that she can choose between strong and capable, unobtrusively pretty or downright theatrical.'

‘Isn't Tennessee a boy's name?'

‘Both,' Grace said.

‘I like Amanda,' Andrew said. ‘And Charles if it's a boy.'

‘OK,' Grace said. ‘But I'd better get pregnant first.'

Andrew shot to his feet and held his hand out, hauling her up. ‘Let's go,' he said and they looked at each other and laughed. I'm blushing, Grace thought. I can feel it, me, Grace, blushing and simpering before my husband and enjoying every moment.

There was a party that night given by Lady Katherine Ellen School where Andrew taught and Kate was a pupil. Grace was rooting around in her wardrobe for something to wear that wasn't black or grey. Andrew never criticised; he just said how nice she
looked when she wore colour. Marriage was all about give and take. Andrew had accepted that Grace was an indifferent cook, a reluctant hostess, a tiddly guest, a smoker, someone who liked looking at gardens a lot better than digging in them, someone who ate horse (it was in France, she was young, and it was quite good) but would never ride one. The least she could do was try to please him, a little, in how she dressed.

In the end she did the best she could and put on a knee-length straight black skirt and a white shirt with a red chiffon scarf tied round her waist, for colour. She felt as if she was still at school. In her last year the new music nun had decided to liven up their usual concert uniform of black skirt and white blouse, telling them excitedly to add ‘a dash of colour – any colour, girls' by tying a scarf round their necks. Grace, who played the flute, badly, had worn a snuff-brown tie that had belonged to her father.

‘You look lovely,' Andrew said as they walked out of the house.

‘Just don't ever make me wear one of those smelly green jackets you have to polish.'

The party was given in honour of Lady Ruth Russell, a long-time benefactor and one-time student. Lady Russell had surpassed herself, donating the funding for an entire art block. The new building was called the Bernard Withering Hall in memory of her father who had been killed in the First World War. He had been twenty-four years old, a lieutenant, when he was injured at Ypres and had died of his wounds three weeks later, leaving behind a young widow who never recovered from his loss and a baby daughter who had just learnt to say Papa but was never to see the face behind the word. This child was now a crooked, lined old woman, childless and a widow herself; a husk propelled by a jet engine. In order to hear what Lady Russell was saying you had to bend low, but once you looked into those eyes, pale blue, a little protruding, alert and laughing, you were hers. She lived with a middle-aged male companion called Colin in a large Victorian stone house at the edge of town. Robina had often spoken of Lady Russell whom she greatly admired. They sat on committees together.

Robina had been washing up glasses, sighing that there was
never enough of anything at these functions, and now she was helping the staff pass round the platters of canapés and pink and yellow iced fairy cakes made by the girls themselves. Grace took the heavy plate from her hands and said that, for once, Robina should be a guest and just relax and enjoy herself. Robina did not exactly snatch the plate back, but her shoulders hunched a little. She looked, Grace said later to Andrew, like a would-be martyr on hearing that there had been a general amnesty declared on Christians.

Lady Russell sat at a table placed there especially for her at the front of the room. She was flanked by Colin and a pretty young woman dressed entirely in red. Robina said she wanted to introduce Grace. ‘Lady Russell, you haven't met my new daughter-in-law.' As she moved forward, pushing Grace ahead of her, her face took on a look of concern. ‘Are you sure you're warm enough, Lady Russell?' Grace could see how Robina's right hand was twitching to adjust the shawl around the old woman's shoulder. Don't do it, Grace thought. She is not the kind of woman who wants her shawl adjusted for her. Maybe it was telepathy but Robina's hand was stilled. Instead she said she thought Lady Russell's father would have been very, very proud. Lady Russell turned to the young woman in red and whispered theatrically, ‘Joanna, dear, do we
know
this woman?'

Robina fled. ‘Don't worry about it,' Grace said, having caught up. ‘She's probably a bit senile.'

‘Senile, my foot,' Robina spat and secretly Grace agreed. There was nothing senile about Lady Russell, not one cell. Robina continued in a voice Grace had not heard her use before, shrill and aggrieved. ‘No, she's just a nasty vicious old snob who delights in making other people feel uncomfortable.' She took a few breaths and seemed to calm down. ‘When I think of how sweet my old dears at the Evergreen are. Always so pleased to see you, always
so
grateful for everything one does.'

‘It must be awful to be old
and
have to be grateful as well.'

‘They don't
have
to be anything, Grace.'

Next they were joined by Leonard Brown, the school chaplain and a friend of the Abbots. Grace and he had not got on so well
since Grace told him her views on St Paul, but he was giving her a friendly enough smile right now. That was the comforting thing about men of the cloth: they were paid to love and to forgive.

‘I've just been told that you're quite the photographer,' he said.

‘You could even say that I am
a photographer
.' Grace tried to smile politely but she did not do very well.

‘Take it seriously, do you? Good, good. Anyway, I thought you might be able to help us with the new-look school magazine. At the moment a very disappointing proportion of our student body actually reads us.'

‘You want me to take some pictures?'

‘It was your mother-in-law's idea, actually. Clever lady.'

Robina smiled modestly. ‘It was nothing really; I just thought that, girls being girls, some fashion shots, how to pep up your uniform, that kind of thing wouldn't go amiss; and wouldn't it be fun to do some reportage from the girls' homes,
House and Gardens
-style? Nothing intrusive, just a bit of fun to bring in the readers. I just knew you'd love to help, Grace.'

‘I would like to, but I have to check my diary,' Grace said. ‘I've got quite a busy period right now.'

Robina raised her eyebrows. ‘Too busy to help?' Leonard Brown said again what a valuable unselfish member of ‘the team' Andrew was.

‘I
will
try,' Grace said, spotting Andrew out of the corner of one eye. He was talking, gesticulating, smiling, at ease, surrounded by a group of pupils and their mothers. Grace could see that he was making them have a nice time. As usual he was giving his all. It was not fair that he should be let down by her. Who wanted to be known as that charming fellow with the mean wife?

In the early months of their marriage Andrew's unfailing helpfulness and consideration towards others had made her feel good second-hand. Lately she had begun to feel inadequate. When Doris Leighton, the most boring woman in England, locked herself out of her cottage, Andrew had suggested they ask her to join them for dinner at the exact moment that Grace had reached for the switch to turn the light off and pretend they were not at home. When Jenny Howard told them her Uncle Joe from the States
would be so disappointed that she had not managed to get tickets for
Phantom of the Opera
, Grace had barely had time to say, ‘Try
Cats
,' before Andrew had handed over theirs. Grace hid the best bottle of red when guests called. Andrew found it and opened it.

But the great thing about being a human was that, unlike other animals, you did not have to take your God-given traits lying down. You could change, play around with your perceived limitations, and stretch and pull into an altogether different shape; you could act against your instincts: this was the gift given to humans. Grace decided to act against her instincts and be nice to Leonard Brown. ‘I'll fit it in, somehow,' she said with a big smile that she knew from experience to be winning. Leonard Brown smiled back, a genuinely friendly smile, before hurrying off on busybody legs to pass the news to Glenda Shawcross, the headmistress. ‘Grace is a helpful young woman,' he would probably be saying.

So Grace had behaved well, decided to do a tiny bit of good for someone other than herself, even changed someone's perception of her, yet remained, at heart, a selfish woman. What exactly did that mean? Was there no reality, only perceptions? Did it matter as long as the job got done?

When they lay in bed together that night, Andrew said, ‘It was really nice of you to say you'd help with the magazine. Leonard seemed quite surprised but I wasn't. It's like you have this front and I'm the first person to have seen through it to the soft sweet person you really are.'

Grace smiled to herself; boys just loved being first. She asked him, ‘Do you think it's possible for your actions to create your feelings?'

‘How do you mean?'

‘Well, you are nice and helpful so you act nice and helpful. Now, what about if you're actually rather a bitch but sublimate it and act nice and do good? Might the feelings catch up with the actions so that actually you become nice?'

‘Oh darling, it's late.' He rolled on top of her, kissing her neck, caressing her breasts, and whispered, ‘Showtime.'

It was Raining, Soft insistent summer rain that soaked you before you knew it. Noah Blackstaff answered the door to Grace looking like a man who had just been asked to choose between his wife and his mistress; his shirt was buttoned the wrong way, his wheat-blond hair stood on end and his amber eyes had a wild look. ‘I can't do this. I'm trained to destroy the reputation of people I
don't
know; this is different.'

Grace left her umbrella on the porch and stepped inside. ‘I take it you're talking about the biography.' She pulled out two cigarettes from the packet in her bag. ‘Here.' She put one in his mouth. ‘“A well-written life is almost as rare as a well-spent one.” Thomas Carlyle.'

‘That's
so
helpful; thank you.'

Grace grinned and lit his cigarette, then her own. ‘You're welcome. Anyway, you could just
not
do it; have you thought about that? The poor old boy's dead. Of course he'll haunt you for the rest of your days. Your dreams will be full of whispers of broken words and betrayal and any money you make from his paintings will be cursed, but that's OK; at least you would have got out of a boring job.'

‘It's not about it being boring. It's about decency and truth and, as so often, the two are not compatible. How, while Louisa is alive, can I write a creditable biography of my grandfather? I would have to write things that would be grossly offensive to her. I'm sure you've heard about Jane Dale.' He led the way into the kitchen.

‘No.'

‘He, the old devil, would have loved everyone to know what a ladies' man he was, but Louisa; you know how private
she
is.'

Grace shrugged. ‘I suppose.'

‘Precisely. But there was a sea-change in her relationship with Grandpa, that much I know. They developed an understanding. They became quite close, in the latter part of their marriage. I
have this enduring image of the two of them strolling in the garden hand in hand, him leaning on her, both as unsteady as children who have just learnt to walk. It was odd but endearing: he an artist, an extrovert, a man who saw ghosts and loved women; and she so withdrawn, a woman who saw laundry lists, the only six-foot-tall woman in the world who manages to remain invisible. He was completely dependent on her, like a man leaning on his shadow.'

‘Mrs Shield maintains there's a lot to learn from laundry lists ever since poor Marjory found a pair of champagne-coloured French knickers itemised amongst her husband's shirts. Still, have you tried talking to Louisa about it? Maybe she wouldn't mind as much as you think. Most of what you would write about – the work that mattered – is from long ago anyway. I fear Arthur's one of those people of whom you say when you see their obituary, not “What!
He's
died!” but rather “Goodness, I didn't know he was still alive.”'