Shooting Butterflies (2 page)

Grace looked at her and sighed. ‘No, I'm sorry, Evie. I didn't mean to be nasty. I just hate it all being raked up again. I can't tell you how much I hate it.'

‘I don't think it's at all
unkind
. It's quite sympathetic, actually. I don't know where she got all the information from because I certainly didn't say much.' Mrs Shield paused to blow her nose in a pink tissue she had pulled out from her sleeve. ‘Oh Grace, I thought you'd be pleased.'

‘It didn't occur to you to check with me first?'

‘I was worried you might be … difficult about it.'

‘How right you were,' Grace said.

‘And I thought a little encouragement, a little push, might help you get started again.'

‘A little encouragement …' Grace waved the paper at Mrs Shield. ‘Is that what you call being turned inside out and hung
out to dry with your guts flapping? And even if, by some twisted chance, I did find that
encouraging
, do you really think I'd pick up my camera just like that … after everything that happened?'

‘Grace, please … And the picture is nice.' Mrs Shield dabbed at her nose with the tissue. ‘I always did like your hair short.'

‘I look like an ageing orphan,' Grace said, which, come to think of it, was exactly what she was. That black dress with its round neckline and that awful urchin cut and the eyes all wide and tragic; ironically, she had been truly happy that evening. She sighed once more, shaking her head. ‘Evie, don't you see, I wouldn't mind
unkind
. Unkind is fine with me. I've made peace with nasty. But
pity
! That bloody article is holding me up to all the world …'

‘I believe the readership, that is the people actually reading the paper as opposed to the copies purchased, is two and a half million.'

Although tall and agile with strong hands, Grace was not, by and large, an intimidating person, but something in her expression made Mrs Shield decide to say nothing more for a moment or two. When she felt that Grace had calmed down sufficiently, she concluded, ‘At least I'll have something to stick in my album.'

Mrs Shield was not an imaginative woman, nor was she especially creative, but her scrapbook, bound in burgundy leather, was her flight of fancy. She had begun assembling it soon after her marriage to Grace's father, Gabriel, starting with a spare invitation to their modest wedding and following with theatre programmes, admission tickets to special events and exhibitions, little notes from her husband and from her stepchildren, Finn and Grace, the odd pressed flower, a menu or two and, eventually, clippings from newspapers and magazines. Lately there had not been much for Mrs Shield's album.

Grace, having finished reading, folded the paper neatly before getting up and putting it in the bin. Mrs Shield, moving with a speed admirable for a woman her age and weight, retrieved it and clasped it to her chest. Grace looked at her and then she shook her head and went to sit down again. Speaking quietly, she said, ‘I really don't understand. There's been sadness, of course there has. But that's life, any life. Compared to most people on this earth, I've been lucky. I am lucky. So what is this?' She waved
in the direction of the paper still clasped to Mrs Shield's bosom. ‘
Tragic, failed relationships, crushed dreams
… Well, I ask you, am I the only one?
Unfulfilled promise, thwarted desires
… that's what you expect, isn't it? And what about the rest, the good stuff? I've experienced happiness that some go to their graves without ever knowing.' Grace was not the pleading kind, but the way she looked at Mrs Shield just then, you might think she was.

‘It's only a newspaper article,' Mrs Shield said. She returned Grace's gaze, eyes round and bright, her head cocked to one side. ‘Maybe you're so upset because you think they might have a point.'

‘Don't be so bloody stupid!' Grace leapt from her seat, knocking into the spindly-legged coffee table and upsetting a cup.

Mrs Shield said, the way she had always said to Finn or Grace when they were shouting, ‘Screaming won't scare the truth away.'

‘Screaming might alert your neighbours to the fact that I'm in the process of killing you,' Grace replied. Mrs Shield ignored her, brushing some crumbs of toast from her navy cardigan.

‘Anyway, there's no such thing as “just a newspaper article” these days, Evie. Things are downloaded and stored. They don't ever go away; oh no, they hibernate somewhere on a disk, and just when you think you're safe, up they pop, mutated into a columnist's rant or attached to someone else's life, but there, never really gone.'

Nell Gordon was a serious journalist writing for a serious paper. Her piece was not ill-informed; it dealt well with many aspects of Grace's work and when it came to her private life did not rely entirely on gossip. No, the problem was a question of focus, focus and an absence of Grace's living mind on the bare facts of her life.

Mrs Shield shook her head. ‘Tragedy lurking beneath the successful façade; it's a common story.'

‘And happiness lurking behind the tragic façade is
my
story.'

Mrs Shield gave her a long kind look. ‘If you say so, dear. If you say so.'

Grace asked, ‘How did a simple phrase like
if you say so
come to mean
I don't believe a word you say
?'

* * *

On Monday morning Mrs Shield took a tumble as she ran behind the car, waving Grace off.

When she emerged from the surgery an hour later, her voice was small as she told Grace, ‘I've cracked three ribs. Oh, I am a silly old woman.'

In the car she said, ‘They can't do anything, of course; that's the fashion these days, leaving broken bones just to get on with it, but I will have to keep still. No bending or lifting.'

Back home, she agreed to use the lift. ‘At least you're in the right place,' Grace said. ‘You have everything at your fingertips and a resident nurse.'

Mrs Shield put a chubby finger to her lips. ‘The walls have ears.' Once they had got inside the flat she explained, ‘It's different when you really
need
to use it all. It's not good to be seen to be incapacitated in any way. And I've got my commitments. Old Mrs Thompson relies on my Wednesday visits and now I can't drive. And then there are the Lifeboats. I always do the Lifeboats.'

Mrs Shield had known about the rules when she moved to the Gardens. The most important dictated that anyone who became too sick or frail to look after themselves would be asked to leave; Northbourne Gardens was
not
a nursing home. This rule, like most, was popular with everyone to whom it did not apply.

‘I'm sure someone else will fill in for you. And a broken rib could happen to anyone at any age, if that's what's worrying you. Look at me, I fall over all the time.'

‘You don't break your bones,' Mrs Shield said, sinking down into her chair with a grimace of pain. ‘Oh my dear, couldn't you stay just until I'm a little more mobile?' Before Grace had had a chance to formulate her excuses, Mrs Shield went on, ‘Please, Grace, you don't understand what it's like. People round here are vultures. They hover round if you're the slightest bit unwell, just waiting … I've got a garden view. There's a queue for garden views.'

Grace inhaled on her cigarette as she thought about what to do. She was having four weeks off from her work for a London charity for the blind. She had planned some weekends in the country with various friends and there was any number of people to catch up with and things she had hoped to do with her free time back in London. She was still thinking of a way to get out of staying in
Northbourne when the phone rang. It was for Grace, her agent Angelica Lane. ‘There you are.'

‘Thank you for the card. And when will you stop sending photographic ones?'

‘When you become sensible. Now, what about the
papers
?'

Angelica was surprised when Grace replied that she would like to track down the journalist, Nell Gordon, and ram her fist into the woman's big mouth before turning her inside out like a glove.

‘What's the matter with you? It's publicity and you know what they say …'

‘Yes, thank you, I do know, but that doesn't mean I agree. There's definitely such a thing as bad publicity and this was it.'

There was a pause, then Angelica spoke again with the determined cheer normally reserved for the terminally ill. ‘Anyway, great news; I've sold one of the photos in your
Illusions of Love
series this morning. It's been months since anyone bought anything of yours. I bet you there'll be more on the way. And don't tell me the extra income won't be welcome. Daisy phoned; she'd read it too and …'

‘I have to go,' Grace said and put the phone down. She turned to Mrs Shield, who had been leaning against the sofa back pretending not to listen. ‘I'll stay a few days.'

Mrs Shield's pale eyes brimmed with tears. ‘Thank you, darling, that's a great relief.'

‘And I could pop over to Northbourne House. There's something I want to ask Louisa. She is still there, isn't she?'

‘Of course she is. And I meant to tell you, I saw Noah the other day.'

Noah, the Blackstaffs' Canadian grandson, Grace's childhood playmate. Noah, irritatingly cheerful, always busy doing something: digging holes, learning tricks on his bike, running faster than anyone else, riding his pony. Noah, with his shock of wheat-blond hair and those slanted amber-colour eyes, a chunky little boy growing into a lanky adolescent. Last time she had seen him they had both been nineteen.

‘I did tell you Arthur Blackstaff died, didn't I? It happened just before I moved back to the village. I missed the funeral. Someone
should have let me know. I can't be expected to keep up with everyone who dies.'

‘I didn't write to Louisa. I meant to.'

‘One always does, dear. But you haven't seen her since you were a girl. She wouldn't expect to hear from you. Anyway, she's almost a hundred. She most likely wouldn't have remembered who you were even if you had written. That's why Noah is here: to sort things out before the house goes on the market. And to write Arthur's biography for the exhibition. It's a retrospective.' Mrs Shield nodded. ‘I shall have to go, of course. I can stay overnight with you.' She shifted in her chair, pulling a face and putting her hand to her chest. ‘I think I shall have to take those painkillers after all, dear.'

Arthur Blackstaff had been a famous artist in his day. A.L. Forbes had painted Grace's picture at Northbourne House, so the Blackstaffs must have known him. If Noah was writing a biography of his grandfather, then he might have come across Forbes. Finally, she told Mrs Shield about the picture from Jefferson.

Mrs Shield pursed her lips. ‘So that's why you were so out of sorts when you arrived yesterday. That man has never been anything but trouble. Even now, after he's been dead for two years, he manages to upset you.'

‘Don't go there, Evie.'

‘Go where, dear?' Her brow cleared. ‘Oh, I meant to tell you, Doctor Llewellyn had read the piece about you and so had Hazel, that's his receptionist; and Percy Witherspoon, he's two flats down the corridor, told me to say how sorry he was … you know, about your difficulties. He had no idea, he said. What's that noise? Oh Grace, you've started grinding your teeth again.'

‘That's quite enough, thank you. Now, if you'll excuse me I'll just go and make a call to Mrs Williams, my neighbour, to ask her to feed the cat.'

‘You don't have a cat.'

‘You're right, I don't. So I'll just go and lie on my bed for a while and think about all the people in this world who are feeling sorry for me. Bastards!'

Nell Gordon:
Even as a young child Grace Shield showed signs of the morbid streak that came to categorise so much of her work.

The mother placed the fireguard in front of the dying fire and told the boy to mind his sister. She wouldn't be long, she said, but she was gone for ages and the boy grew bored sitting there with the baby. She, as always, seemed perfectly content just to watch. She was podgy. She was almost four, not really a baby at all, and she could speak perfectly well, but most of the time she chose not to, although you could hear her when she was alone in her room, talking and singing to her toys.

‘Silly old baby,' her brother said. She was no fun; difficult to tease because she was too stupid to notice. ‘You're just a big silly baby.' He glared at her and was rewarded with a wide smile that lit up her big eyes. Her mouth was like a rubber band, stretching wider than you had thought possible.

He decided to try to make her cry. For such a baby she hardly ever did. He stuck his tongue out, but the stupid old baby just giggled. He jabbed her hard right in the softest bit of her round tummy. Her smile gave way to confusion as the pain registered. But she had soon recovered and was smiling again at her funny older brother. He gave her a shove and she toppled backwards, banging her head on the floorboards. For a second the smile remained fixed on her chubby face, but as she realised he had meant to hurt, her eyes flooded with tears. He thought she looked like a great beetle, her arms and legs waving around as she struggled to get up, and he laughed his high clear choirboy's laugh; she always was a clumsy baby. Now she got on to her hands and knees, her
fat bottom sticking up in the air, and next she had poddled off to get her comfort, a brown velveteen puppy called Father. She had barely begun the cuddle when the brother was by her side, making a grab for the puppy. She ran, the puppy close to her chest. Being chased, even in fun, scared her and although she knew, really, that it was only her big brother coming after her, she panicked, scenting a pack of wolves or maybe Red Indians on horseback, whooping and whirling their bows and arrows in the air. She stumbled and fell and, as she lay sprawled on the floorboards, he grabbed Father and swung him round his head, shouting triumphantly as he ran off towards the fire. Dangle, dangle. Father, held by his stubby tail, dangled for his life. His plump little owner struggled to her feet and went to his rescue. Dangle, dangle, close to the fire. ‘Hot dog,' the brother laughed. ‘Hot dog, hot dog.'