‘Goodness. How smart you both look,’ Ava tells them.
The sisters are without disguises tonight. Constance sports a deep lavender, velvet trouser-suit. Her hair, which she wears long and loose, shines strikingly white. Slight touches of make-up enhance her refined features.
Verity’s lapis-blue, pleated sheath dress accentuates her willowy figure. Her hair is short again, lending her an androgynous look that serves her needs.
‘If your mother could see what a beautiful, sophisticated woman you have become. Your father spoke of her often and shared his photos of her. You have her colouring; the same dark hair and sea-green eyes.’ Constance says to Ava.
‘Sometimes I can’t remember the details of her face.’
‘You were so young,’ Constance tells her. ‘I wish we could have met her. It’s difficult, not meeting the rest of the family. But then we are grateful for you, Ava, and all of your family who have helped us.’
‘Our family,’ Ava corrects her. ‘You are our family.’
In the warmth of the car a chatty driver who won’t take the strong hint that they wish to watch the snow flurries in silence, finally turns his attention to his satnav.
‘I actually don’t know why we’re doing this,’ Constance muses. ‘You know I’ve not been back to Millbank since …’ she glances at the driver, ‘well, not for a long time.’
‘I forgot about tonight. I can think of nothing but our meeting with Elísabet.’ Verity says.
‘I’m just happy to be away from chambers. London is beautiful when it snows,’ Ava says.
‘London is always beautiful,’ the sisters echo.
The last of the day’s visitors are making their way out the doors of the museum while others are just arriving for one of the Tate’s special evenings of free events. Constance pauses on the steps that lead to the sprawling, historic building with its cold and stony Edwardian character, conscious that a temple to art replaced the site of abject misery.
The women enter the glazed door to the vestibule where a striking spiral staircase sweeps down from the floor below them in the centre of the rotunda. There, standing alone, is Willa Robinson.
‘I promised myself I wouldn’t cry,’ she says to the women.
The sisters take her hands, a sensation with which Willa is not entirely comfortable, but she resists drawing away.
‘Dear, dear girl,’ Constance says. ‘How very well you look.’
‘Willa Robinson.’ Verity takes a step back. ‘Astonishing.’
‘Please, let me introduce you to our niece, Ava Fitzgerald.’ Constance turns to the young woman standing beside her.
‘Pleasure to meet you. Are you … changed as well?’ Willa asks.
‘No, no I’m not. It’s lovely to meet you.’ Ava struggles to keep her voice even. A shock courses through her at the girl’s youthful appearance. And then another, at the depth behind the eyes in her young face.
There is so much to say, but now is not the time.
‘I’ve invited you here for a very special exhibition.’ Willa is exceptionally composed. ‘It’s not open to the public yet. It’s sort of a preview before the preview. Please, follow me.’
Willa leads them through the grand corridor on the main floor and then stops at one of the exhibition rooms. On the side of the doorway a simple sign reads: THE SISTER SAINTS.
A thick, pink light permeates the room like the thickest Limehouse fog.
‘Come.’ Willa motions to the three women.
They follow her into the exhibition room to a scene that staggers them.
Ava gasps. ‘Oh my God. It’s … it’s … both of you. You’re … everywhere.’
They stand encircled by the paintings that hang on the walls. There are more suspended from the ceiling. Paintings that explode with the vibrancy of deep, thick reds and luscious pinks. Rings of yellow, and gold circles of light dance above the heads of the two women in the paintings, the same women in each rendition. In several paintings, shards of silver protrude from thick layers of paint. On closer scrutiny they are discovered to be delicate silver crucifixes. The glistening silver reflects the sisters’ white hair.
The effect is so powerful that Constance and Verity are left speechless and confused. They inch forward to the centre, where the largest of seventy paintings hangs on the wall in a majestic, gilded frame. The sisters are portrayed in profile, facing each other, and clearly, a tear streams from the corner of each of their eyes. Old tears, profuse with layered paint, give the impression of active tears, still falling. Above the sisters’ heads their aureoles are also thickly layered and finished with moon gold, a gold leaf that gives the golden shade a hint of pinkish brown – and will never tarnish. There are no crucifixes in this painting; instead, three-hoop fede rings extend from various points in the aureoles. They shine so finely.
The paintings are emotive, striking at the heart with pathos while at the same time offering hope with the sisters’ smiles, glimmering through their tears.
‘Happy tears.’ A man’s voice whispers behind them.
‘Auntie Connie. Auntie Very,’ he says.
The sisters turn. He stands in the pink fog, his dark-red hair shimmers in soft streaks of light. Eyes filled with emotion, he smiles.
‘I thought I would never see you again. So I painted you over and over.’
The sisters feel his arms around them. Constance places her hand on his rose-gold chain. Time stops completely, and now, in his embrace, their soft sobs contain a world of joy.
Ava and Willa, who have discreetly stepped out of the gallery, have lost any awkwardness.
‘You have made my aunts … God, I can’t talk. Wait a minute.’ Ava blinks. ‘You’ve made them so happy, Willa.’
‘They deserve to be happy. So does he.’
‘You must care a great deal for him.’
‘Yes, I do.’ She adds, ‘Like I would care for a dear brother.’
‘I see,’ says Ava, a flush of pink in her cheeks.’ Is this the first time you’ve been to the Tate since … well, since it was the penitentiary?’
Willa nods. ‘It’s strange to think you know about that. I don’t even know if I should be embarrassed. I really wasn’t guilty of anything.’
‘Of course not! I apologize. I don’t mean to pry. I handle all of Aunt Constance and Aunt Verity’s affairs now, and I would never break their trust. I’m the only living member of our family who knows. We’ve had a system in place since, well, since my aunts changed. Those of us who have known have always adhered to a strong familial duty.’ Suddenly pensive, she adds. ‘And love.’
‘Then you know that while Rafe was with your aunts I was here, right on these premises, in this swamp.’
‘Yes. I’m sorry. I don’t know how you’ve managed to survive it. Mentally, I mean.’
‘I almost came back to watch them knock it down. But I didn’t have as much freedom then.’
‘It is quite amazing that Rafe is showing here. His identity isn’t known, is it? Not to anyone at the museum?’
‘God no. They think they have a Banksy,’ says Willa.
* * *
It doesn’t seem at all strange to sit by the fire on a snowy night in December with the boy, who by some miracle has grown into a sane, talented man. The sisters and Rafe don’t attempt to catch up, but rather allow their shared memories to lead them where they may. There is talk of the cries of monkeys, and the sweat of fevers, shared tears for Bertie, and missed opportunities without blame. There are things left unsaid for now, the haunt of the want of suicide, the cruelty of one woman, and the gnawing aches when they could not find the arms of comfort. As they promised Elísabet, the sisters hold tight to their recent enlightenment. It is not yet time for another long-overdue reunion.
Two hours pass in a flash. Willa and Ava, who have been talking in the kitchen peek their heads into the sitting room to offer tea. Yes, please, comes the response, they are famished.
‘Oh forgive me, Ava! We’ve been so selfish,’ Verity says. ‘Please come in and meet Rafe.’
Ava steps forward to him. ‘I hardly know what to say,’ she says. ‘“It’s a pleasure to meet you” sounds so ridiculous when I’ve heard so much about you. But it is. A pleasure. A great pleasure.’ She wonders why she rattles on.
Rafe stands and takes her hand, half shaking it, half holding it, embarrassed by his awkwardness.
‘I am pleased to meet you, too. Thank you for being so attentive to them.’
Willa arrives with a heaving tray of food.
‘I just robbed your fridge,’ she says.
They nibble on cheese, pâté, smoked meats and fish, olives, bread and chutneys and salad. There’s cake, chocolate tarts, and tea, pots and pots of tea. Every few minutes the Fitzgerald sisters catch each other’s eye, and what passes between them is an acknowledgement that they stayed the course, the course of love – a long-tested, aged love. Lawless House is effervescent with love tonight. Its very walls throb with it. The fire spits out flames of love.
They talk late into the night. The old clock in the sitting room that once belonged to Averil Lawless strikes midnight, and the night turns over to the 17th of December. For the first time in many a long year the sisters will not take that fraught walk to St Martin’s Gardens later in the day. Their boy is home.