The Chimney Sweeper's Boy (29 page)

She had asked which “somethings,” and he said, their beauty and their intelligence. What about the rest of her, then? What about Delphine's shyness, her goodness, her reclusiveness? No one, even then, could have pretended she and Hope were shy or retiring or even particularly good.

“That was someone I knew long ago,” he said. “No, not a girlfriend.” He had hesitated. “A relative.”

She remembered that now. She was thinking of
Hamadryad
because Frederic Cyprian had still been her father's editor when it was published. After that, and before the next book, he had retired. Some said his retirement was directly due to
Hamadryad
's failure to win. At the dinner, when the winning novel was announced, he had done something authors had been known to do but not publishers. He had gotten up from the table and walked out.

Sarah had met him a few times in the seventies when he came with or without his wife to stay at Lundy View House. He was old then and his wife was older, and she had since died. Sarah had known, since moving into this flat, that he and she lived very near each other. For some reason, now forgotten, she had once looked him up in the phone book. It must have been simple curiosity, since she had never intended to phone him or visit him.

Now she had. If he was still alive, and Robert Postle had indicated he thought so, he was still there, around the corner, two hundred yards away. She walked down and looked at the house. Victorian, red brick, a steep flight of steps up to the front door. It looked empty, closed up. She hesitated only for a moment, then walked up the steps and rang the bell.

No one came. She rang again. The door was opened by a woman some ten years older than herself, but very different from herself. She looked worn and harassed and irritable and she was dressed in a dark purple shell suit.

“Yes?” she said.

“My name is Sarah Candless. Gerald Candless was my father. I wonder if I might see Mr. Cyprian?”

“Well …”

“He was my father's editor at Carlyon-Brent.”

“I know that, Miss Candless.”

The woman looked at her doubtfully. Sarah thought she recognized her
from years ago as Frederic Cyprian's daughter. Jane? Jean? Or perhaps it was just that she saw something of him in this strained, intense face.

“I met your father,” she said. “When I was young.”

“That can't have been very long ago,” the woman said dryly. “Won't you come in? I am Jane Cyprian. My father is very old and not well. More than that, but you'll see, you'll see.” She added, “He may be quite lucid. He sometimes is.”

Sarah felt the apprehensiveness that is almost fear and that comes at the threat of being confronted by someone whose control has slipped or been fragmented. She followed Jane Cyprian down the passage. It wasn't dark or in any way sinister, unless a profusion of pictures, ornaments, and clutter is sinister.

Outside the closed door, Jane Cyprian turned to Sarah and said, “I wish you'd phoned first.”

“I was passing. I live very near.”

A shrug, a glance of impatience, and the door was opened. The room on the other side of it held nothing to surprise a visitor of a hundred years before. It was perfectly but not self-consciously Victorian, even to the braided pelmet along the mantelpiece and the row of framed sepia photographs above it. The old man sat in front of the cold grate in an antimacassared armchair. In the years since she had last seen him, time had bleached and shriveled and drained him, had dried him up, like a fallen leaf.

“Dad,” Jane Cyprian said, “there's someone to see you.”

He turned his head, reached for the handles of the two sticks that rested against the arms of his chair, thought better of it, and extended one wavering hand.

“Ursula!”

Sarah shook her head. Jane Cyprian said, “That's not your name, is it?”

“My mother.”

“Ah. He makes these mistakes. This is
Miss
Candless, Dad.”

“Ursula,” he said again.

Sarah made herself walk over to him and extend her hand. He looked at it as if it were some unfamiliar object, the likes of which he had perhaps never seen before, attached to her sleeve. His voice was thin and high, as if the vocal cords had shortened.

“That husband of yours never comes to see me anymore.”

About to say Gerald Candless was dead, Sarah caught Jane Cyprian's eye and her faint shake of the head. She said nothing, feeling helpless. “I wanted to ask him about a sort of logo thing on the covers of my father's books.”

“You can try.”

But she couldn't. The old man with his papery face and his uncomprehending eyes brought home to her her own shortcomings. She hadn't been aware of them before, of this failure in herself to approach, to find any rapport with, the old, the unsound in mind, those who were different. An image of Joan Thague came into her head.

“I must go,” she said. “I shouldn't have come.”

“Perhaps not.”

The woman despised her. Her contempt was palpable, and Sarah, turning to go, drew herself up indignantly. The old man's voice came eagerly, lucid now, “I'll take you up on that invitation when the weather's better. In the spring. I'll come down and see you and your little boys.”

Outside, in the cluttered hall, Jane Cyprian said, “Alzheimer's, as you probably gathered.”

“I'm sorry.”

“Yes, well, you should have phoned.”

Walking down the street, trying not to think of that woman and what her life must be like, Sarah found herself trembling. But a hateful woman. There was no need for such rudeness. I'll go and see Hope, she thought. I should have gone to her before. She's as likely to know about the moth as anyone. A taxi came and she got into it. Calling on Hope without phoning first would be almost unprecedented, and halfway there, she remembered her sister had said she would be staying with Fabian. Sarah gave the taxi driver Fabian's address at Shadwell Basin. It was a long way and there were cheaper ways of getting there. Am I really going because I want someone to talk to? Is it because, since Adam, I've felt more alone?

Fabian had two cousins from the country staying with him, accommodated in sleeping bags in the living room. Hope opened the front door, crowing with delight at the sight of her sister, which touched and slightly puzzled Sarah, until Hope said, whispering out in the hall, “We're in the middle of playing the Game.”

“What, with the cousins?”

“Your arrival will demoralize them further. And then they'll go out. They're going to the pub, but we won't. I've got plenty of booze.”

They were a brother and sister in their late twenties. Hope held Fabian's kitchen scissors by their blades, passed them to the brother, saying, “I pass the scissors crossed.”

The brother took them gingerly, opened them, and passed them to Sarah. “I receive the scissors crossed and pass them uncrossed.”

Hope crowed, “No, you don't. That's wrong.”

Sarah turned the scissors over, took them by the handles, closed them, and passed them to the sister. “I receive the scissors uncrossed and pass them crossed.”

Fabian's female cousin opened the scissors, turned them over twice, closed them, and said, “I receive them uncrossed and pass them crossed” as she passed them to Hope. “Is that right?”

“Yes, but do you know why?”

“Because they're closed?”

“Wrong.”

“It's the words you use, isn't it?”

Hope and Fabian laughed unkindly. The cousin then said it must depend on which way up the scissors were and her brother thought it was which way around they were. Neither guessed, though they played the Game for half an hour, Hope and Fabian enjoying themselves hugely and Sarah starting to cheer up. Fabian's male cousin thought he ought to have an explanation, but Fabian wasn't having any of that. The answer might get out and he and Hope would be deprived of this perennial source of amusement.

“Anyone coming down to the pub?”

Hope said a decisive “No, thanks,” and as soon as the door closed behind them, she went to open a bottle. Not wine this time, but Strega.

“I shall get pissed,” said Sarah.

“Good idea. You look as if you need it. Fabby's been doing some researches into the Highbury murder for you, if you're still interested. You know, the case they said
A White Webfoot
was based on.”

“Fab has?”

“He's good at that sort of thing.”

“Has it got anything remotely to do with Dad, Fab? I mean, first of all, do you think
A White Webfoot
really was based on it? And then, could it shed any light on Dad's past?”

Fabian rotated his glass, watching the pale yellow liqueur roll back and forth. He sipped it meditatively. “I've never read it.” His tone made it plain he didn't intend to, either. “You'll have to judge. I've written it all down.” He passed her a dozen sheets of paper in a green cardboard folder.

She said doubtfully, “It looks very businesslike.”

“That's probably all it is.”

“I've been wondering about the black moth. Does it have any significance. Why a black moth? Do you know, Hopie?”

“I've never thought about it.”

“For a couple of women who had such an amazing relationship with their father, you seem to have been singularly uninterested in him. While he was alive, that is.” Fabian grinned in response to Hope's mutinous look. “His ancestry, for instance. Women are supposed to be keen on that kind of thing. His childhood. And wouldn't the first thing you'd have asked when that moth thing appeared on his books—after all, you were in your teens; you weren't infants—wouldn't the first thing have been, ‘Why the butterfly, Daddy?' ”

“We didn't,” said Hope. “We just didn't.”

With the air of one just discovering a great truth, Sarah said wonderingly, “Isn't it a fact that you aren't much interested in someone who's very very interested in you? His interest in you takes up all the time, sort of occupies all the space. Dad was fascinated by us and we received his fascination, but we weren't curious about the … well, the bestower of it.”

“That's all very fine,” said Fabian, unimpressed, “but it's being a great nuisance to you now.”

“He wouldn't have told us,” said Hope, opening the Strega bottle for a refill. “Have you thought,” she said to her sister, “of asking the woman who designed the jacket of
Hamadryad
if she knows about the black moth? She might. It was on
Hamadryad
that it was used for the first time.”

“Ask her? I don't know her. I don't even know who she is. It must have been—oh, all of eighteen years ago.”

“I know her,” said Hope. “I mean, by sight I do. Her name's Mellie Pearson
and she lives near you. That is, I expect she does, unless she was just visiting someone. I saw her in the street last time I was at your place.”

Sarah wasn't going to make the same mistake twice. Mellie Pearson, who had designed the jacket for
Hamadryad
, lived not much farther away than Frederic Cyprian, and she passed the end of her street on the way to Chalk Farm Station. But this time, she would phone first.

“I remember my painting for
Hamadryad
very clearly. It was my first big job.” She was a soft-voiced, slow-spoken woman who sounded as if she aimed to please. “And then the book was so … well, a best-seller and so talked about.”

“And did you design the black moth, too?”

“The black moth? Oh, the little motif. Well, I suppose I did. I copied it, at any rate. Is it important?”

“It might be,” Sarah said.

“Would you like to come over? You're not far away, are you?”

On the corner of Rhyl Street, she saw a taxi pull up and Adam Foley get out of it. The sight of him, so unexpected, though she knew he lived somewhere near, caught her up with an inner lurch. It was dark, but the street was well lit. She went on walking toward him, aware of her beating heart. His tall figure made a long, elegant shadow across the pavement. He paid the driver, turned, and saw her, then looked at her with perfect indifference. It wasn't even the glance of veiled admiration or hopefulness she was used to receiving from men who were strangers, but as if he barely noticed she was there. And she returned it with equal detachment, walking on at the same pace, not looking back.

The next weekend, he was due in Barnstaple and she would go down to Lundy View House. Anticipation ran through her body like a hot gush of steam. She was shut off from the outside world, enclosed in a strong, trembling excitement, so that she walked past Mellie Pearson's door and had to retrace her steps.

It took her a little while to bring herself out of the fantasy she had entered from the moment she had seen him. It took some deep breathing and hand clenching while she stood on the doorstep. And Mellie Pearson had opened the door before she could ring the bell.

“Couldn't you make the bell work? It doesn't always. I was waiting for you, anyway.”

Sarah, restored quite quickly to reality, found herself looking at the original painting, not for the
Hamadryad
jacket, but for that of
A White Webfoot.
It had been placed on an easel, a watercolor of a blue, white, gray-purple landscape, the trees gray shadows in the mist, only the wading waterbirds clearly outlined.

“I did designs for four of your father's books,” Mellie Pearson said. “He bought all the originals except that one. I don't know why, but he never much liked that one.”

Sarah said, “You said you copied the moth. I don't know much about these things. Were you given a print of it to get into your drawing, or did you sort of stick it on later?”

Mellie Pearson laughed. “That's about it. I saw a print of it so that I could avoid its somehow clashing with my design. Do you see what I mean? If I'd done a very dark painting for
Hamadryad
, for instance, the moth wouldn't have shown up.”