Sleeping Embers of an Ordinary Mind (14 page)

Above the laughter, her father says, “Well, then. I’ll start the drawing for the main panel tomorrow, and I pray, Antonia, it meets your exacting demands.”

Paolo is already at work on the preliminary composition for the hunting scene when a servant knocks at his door. “Master, the cabinet-maker’s boys are here with the chest. Should I tell them to bring it to you here?”

“Yes, and inform my wife of its arrival. She’ll want to see it.”

And so, when Tomasa walks into the study five minutes later, she finds Paolo inspecting the naked dowry chest, which sits brazenly atop his desk. When he sees her, he stands up straight and braces himself. He fixes his own stern expression. She stands in silence by his side, then dips her head and wipes a tear from her face with her forefinger.

“So, Husband, our daughter will
not
be getting married. You decided weeks ago, didn’t you? That dowry chest is too small for the bedchamber of a well-married bride.”

He doesn’t reply; he’s not obliged to.

“She’s going to join my aunt, isn’t she?”

Fifteen minutes later, when Tomasa has composed herself, she sends a servant to fetch Donato and Antonia.

Paolo waves them into his study, and without any preamble, he sets out his plan. “The panels are not fixed in as yet, Antonia. The three of us will take a panel each—the large front one for my hunting scene, the two smaller end panels for you and Donato.”

“Are you teasing me, Father? Are you serious? I’m going to paint a panel for my own dowry chest?”

Paolo ignores her questions. “For the sake of your training, Antonia, you and I will prepare all three panels. We’ll cover each panel in a piece of fine-weave cloth to deal with any knots, and then we’ll apply at least four coats of gesso. You will learn how to make a perfect surface. I haven’t prepared my own panels for a long, long time, but it’s not something one forgets.

“Next, we will each draw our design and prick holes through the paper along the main features. You’ve seen me pouncing, haven’t you?” She shakes her head. “Well, it’s simple. You transfer your pricked drawing to the gesso surface by brushing charcoal powder over the holes. So your drawing
must
be the same size as your panel. Understand?”

“But I don’t know what I’ll paint. What should I do? I’ve never painted any animals, and mine would look so coarse next to your fine painting.”

Donato opens the chest to check the hinges and smooths his palm across the underside of the lid. “A fine piece of carpentry.”

“Antonia, you’ll be painting your mother’s portrait again. The last one counts as practice. Paint the same composition, and this time, I’ll let you use my best brushes. You’ll find them much better.”

“Is Donato painting your portrait on the other panel?”

“You don’t need the image of an old man.” He laughs. “He’s painting a self-portrait, so you’ll always see your brother as he is today. You’ll always have your mother and Donato to keep an eye on you.”

Antonia frowns and twists a strand of her hair. “This chest is smaller than Mother’s dowry chest. Is this the fashion now?”

“It’s not a matter of fashion, child. It’s a matter of what is most appropriate. So, come here. There’s something we need to tell you.”

Antonia has stayed in her bedchamber all afternoon. She lies curled on the bed, her eyes closed, her mind racing. “None of them care,” she says into her damp pillow. Her mother didn’t seem upset by the decision. She seemed subdued but resigned. Donato didn’t appear
in the least
interested. He simply stated, “It’s a good decision, Antonia.” Does he only care about himself? she wonders.

She hears footsteps and then a knock. The door opens.

“Are you asleep?” says Donato.

She opens her eyes, and he kneels by her bed. “Antonia, it won’t be so bad.”

“That’s easy for you to say, Brother.”

“Our aunt’s convent is more open than many. It’s not all prayer. They’re in daily contact with the outside world because of their commercial work. And Father and I will make sure they understand that you’ve already had an apprenticeship of sorts. Believe me, you
will
be a painter, and this could be the only way. Mother says it’s truly like a family. And they
all
know you.”

“It won’t be like this. It’s so cold in winter, Donato.”

“Listen. We’ll make sure you have privileges. Father will insist. If the abbess wants that dowry chest, she’ll have to agree.”

“But can I keep the chest in my cell?”

“Of course . . . But it
will
pass to the convent, you know, eventually. The church takes a long view.”

She covers her face with her hands.

“You’ll be safer in the convent if the plague returns . . . and we’ll all have the comfort of knowing that your devotions, your prayers, will make our family stronger.”

“I know, but—”

“I’ve made a suggestion to Father. I told him he should sign over one of his Ugnano land-holdings to the convent. That way, you’ll receive an annual annuity from the abbess to cover your personal needs—enough to buy extra food, oil, clothing . . . and pigments, of course.”

She smiles, but her eyes fill with tears.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

London, 2113

Toniah is pinpricked, deflated, when she arrives home and finds Poppy setting the table with their best cutlery and glassware. It’s date night, as Eva calls it—their regular Thursday-evening dinner when they all endeavour to eat together. Toniah feels a pull-push; she loves Eva’s enthusiasm for date night, but she’s resistant to the growing obligation, the feeling she’s being sucked into family domesticity before she’s ready. This evening, she turned down the chance to listen to a guest speaker at the Academy. It wasn’t art related, but all the same, it would be good to meet new people. She throws down her bag, creating an obstacle between the kitchen and living room space.

“Thanks for getting things started,” Toniah says as she hugs Poppy. “I’ll make a fruit salad when I’ve had a breather.”

Poppy’s embrace seems perfectly relaxed. Toniah is on alert for any hint of tension, because two days ago she told Poppy that she’d started seeing Ben. Poppy appeared almost thrilled, which Toniah found difficult to understand at the time. In retrospect, it all fits. It’s as though Poppy has ticked off the last item on a list: Toniah likes her job, tick. Carmen has applied for a gestation loan, tick. Toniah is hooking up with Ben, tick.

Toniah heads out of the kitchen, but hesitates in the doorway. She turns and says, “It occurred to me . . . I thought it might be nice if Ben joined us for dinner next Thursday.”

Poppy’s blank stare morphs into a grimace. “Why would we invite Ben?”

Toniah shrugs. She’s tempted to back off—Sorry, bad idea!—but instead: “I thought, you know, it would be nice to have more male company. I liked my house share in Norwich—one man and three women.”

“I thought you had problems with your housemates.”

“That’s not true. I was a bit narked with Linda; she was away a lot, but she didn’t suggest swapping her big bedroom for a smaller one. I had no problems with Nick—he was a
great
housemate.”

“But we all agreed we’d—”

“I’m only talking about Thursday evenings.”

Poppy turns and busies herself at the stove. She tests a few grains of rice. Toniah wonders if the conversation has ended, but then Poppy blurts out, without facing her, “Why start now? I mean, first it’s dinner, and then before you know it, he’s staying for the weekend. You know the house rules: if you want to spend more time with a partner, you go to their place.”

“Is that actually carved in stone?” She struggles to keep her composure; Poppy could at least look at her. “Where’s the harm in trying something a bit different? And Eva likes Ben.”

“He’s just a guy at the breakfast table. I think she’d be confused if she thought he was moving in.”

“I’m not talking about Ben moving in. For heaven’s sake!” she says, trying to keep her voice down. Eva might be nearby. “Look at me. I’m simply making a suggestion.”

Poppy turns, holds up her hands, palms facing her sister. “All right. I’ll think about it.”

“But, Poppy, it isn’t for
you
to decide, is it?” She lowers her head, chin to chest, takes two steady breaths and looks up. “Let’s have a chat with Carmen. I honestly don’t see why Ben can’t come for dinner and then stay over.”

“The rules work well.”

Toniah is wide-eyed. She can’t believe how Poppy’s digging in.

“We had a stable home life. That’s not easily achieved, is it?” says Poppy. “I don’t want a stream of live-in partners passing—”

“I don’t take our happy childhood for granted. I really don’t.” Toniah notices her bag, picks it up and heads for the stairs. “I’ll freshen up. We should talk to Carmen.”

“Carmen signed up for this. It’s what she wanted,” calls Poppy as Toniah trudges up to her room, defeated.

Toniah stands by her bedroom window and looks across the patchwork of small back gardens behind their terrace of Victorian houses. Some of the gardens are better tended than others. It’s dispiriting; the residents of the street can all see into each other’s gardens, yet some people make no effort to improve their share of the collective view. For some, it’s no more than a dumping ground; they’ve no sense of embarrassment. In all her years of idle gazing from this bedroom window, she has never seen any improvement in the next-door garden to her left—a grassy wasteland that’s traversed every night by at least five neighbourhood cats. And while the cats mostly seem to avoid one another, at least once a week their nocturnal paths cross with screeching consequence.

Back in her old bedroom. Is this it? she asks herself. A good job, a house with a modest mortgage, a neat back garden framed by shabbiness, a quiet home life with an occasional sleepover boyfriend. She’s in no hurry to feel settled—unlike her younger sister. Are the next five years—ten years, even—mapped out? She traces the figure
10
on the window, leaving an oily smear. Forever tiptoeing around Poppy. She’s even tiptoeing around Nana Stone now. But why settle for half a story?

“What are you looking at, Auntie?” says Eva. She takes Toniah’s hand. “Why are you frowning?”

“I didn’t hear you come in.” She smiles and picks Eva up, with some effort. “Had a good day?”

“Not bad. What are you looking at?”

“I’m keeping my eye on those chickens.”

“You’re spying on them.”

“They’re up to no good.”

Eva giggles, and Toniah kisses her on the cheek. “I’m going to do an hour’s work, Eva, and then I’ll help with date night. Tell your mum, will you?”

“Okay.” She squirms out of Toniah’s arms and runs off, content to have an errand.

When Toniah hears Eva and Poppy chatting downstairs, she pads across the landing to the pine storage trunk, which contains a file of family legal documents. She kneels down, opens the trunk and roots out the file. She doesn’t immediately flick through the contents. Instead, she closes the trunk and quietly slips back to her bedroom to sift through the file’s contents in privacy.

She spreads out the paperwork on her bed—birth certificates for the family going back to Nana Stone, and death certificates for Nana and Mother. She takes a deep breath and reminds herself that Nana Stone made her choice; she hid the photograph. But Toniah decides she isn’t going to her grave—and what’s wrong with a little melodrama?—without knowing the truth about her own family.

Toniah finds it difficult to comprehend. This new information, her family history, has lain within her reach—and her mother’s reach, for that matter—all these years. It was
there on the landing
all the time, awaiting discovery, requiring only a few minutes’ further investigation. Maybe, she wonders, we’re always trapped in the minutiae of daily life—constantly too distracted to think about the big picture. Yet it
is
important to her—to know where her family comes from, to know what
happened
, what events proved to be turning points.

All she had needed for immediate results was Nana Stone’s date and place of birth, and her date and place of death. Toniah knew her birthday, of course, but she hadn’t been sure of her birth year, which is now revealed on her birth certificate: 2014. Toniah rubs her face with both hands. Nana Stone was born in the centenary year of the start of World War I. She can’t believe she didn’t know that.

Toniah has now retrieved all the public registry records related to Leah Stone. There is one birth certificate and one death certificate that Toniah has never seen before. The birth certificate is for a boy named Maximillian. No name is recorded for the father. And the death certificate is for Maximillian, aged one year and two months. The cause of death is stated as influenza.

Maximillian. Why didn’t we know this? she says to herself. Why did she bear it alone?

Toniah sits at the kitchen table with a cup of coffee and wonders if Poppy or Carmen noticed that she hardly spoke over dinner. They probably didn’t; they were absorbed in choosing names for a baby girl, even though Carmen hasn’t as yet started the treatment.

Poppy comes downstairs, having tucked Eva into bed. “Carmen says she’s tired. She’s going to read in bed and then turn in.”

“In that case . . . come and sit down, Poppy.”

“I’m sorry about earlier. I know I talk as though this is
my
house. I don’t mean to. It’s just . . . I have Eva to think about.”

“I know. And I was tired.”

“You took me by surprise. I’m not totally against inviting Ben.” She busies herself, tidying away the spice jars and wiping down the glass splashback along the kitchen counter. Toniah thought she’d cleared the kitchen well enough, but Poppy always finds additional work.

“Actually, Poppy . . . Come and sit down. There’s something I need to tell you.” She sees her sister’s face fall.

Poppy drops herself into a chair. “What? Has something happened at work? I thought you were quiet over dinner.”

“No, no. The job’s fine. Remember I was in the attic?” Poppy nods and frowns. “I found a photograph of Nana. There was someone else in the photo.”

“What do you mean? Don’t be so dramatic.”

“She kept something from us.” Toniah slides the photograph across the kitchen table.

Poppy reaches towards the photograph, but she falters.

“Meet Maximillian,” says Toniah. “Nana Stone’s first child.”

Poppy murmurs, “So it’s true.”

They push aside the coffee cups and bring out the whisky bottle.

“To Maximillian,” says Toniah. “The least we can do is wet his head.” They clink glasses, but neither of them can raise a smile.

“Honestly, I didn’t believe it. Not for a moment,” says Poppy.

“And this conversation took place before I returned home from university?”

“Yes. Nana took a turn for the worse, so Mother told you to come home, and that was on . . . the Sunday. Then on Monday morning, Nana perked up a little when her friend Hildi came round . . . and that afternoon, I sat with Nana for a couple of hours. Like I said, by then she was rambling, talking complete gibberish.
Including
something about a baby boy. But she was exhausted. So . . .”

“Did you tell Mother?”

“No. Because Nana became lucid later in the day, and I asked her . . . I asked her to tell me about the little boy. I asked her what his name was, but she didn’t know what I was talking about. So I decided to leave it alone.”