‘WHAT’S THE TIME?’
‘Getting on for twelve-thirty.’ Moat peers at her over his canvas. ‘Why? Am I boring you?’
She smiles. ‘Never.’
Flexing her neck, she settles back in the chair. It is warm up here, the sky – the little she can see of it – marbled with fair-weather cloud.
Today would have been Sam’s seventy-second birthday. Sam. She likes to think he’d forgive her for what she did. He’d probably laugh and say he’d always wanted his ashes to be scattered on water. And the rest of it? Would he
applaud her willpower? Her determination to stay true to herself, no matter how
painful that proved to be? He’d certainly be proud of his grandchildren. Rosa, channelling her stroppiness
into campaigning for green energy, and showing a real aptitude for maths. Max,
growing up too quickly for her liking, a sweet boy with more than a touch of
his – Sam’s – patience and good humour.
Moat sets down his brushes. ‘That’ll do for today.’
She takes off the elbow-length gloves, slips on her robe and goes to check
progress. This painting – the fourth in his ‘Invisible Woman’ sequence – is in its early stages, yet already she can see how it will complement the
others.
‘Remind me,’ he says, ‘when’s our next session?’
‘Thursday. And may I ask a favour? Can I bring someone with me?’
‘Are you out of your mind, woman? I’m not some… some street artist.’
She tells him who it is, pressing him gently – ‘I’ll bring chocolate éclairs’ – until he surrenders with a gruff, ‘If you must’.
She plants a kiss on his cheek. ‘Cut that out,’ he says, failing to conceal his pleasure. ‘Has Callum been in touch about this party of his?’
‘Yes. Are you going?’
‘Good God, no.’ He shudders theatrically. ‘All those arty types talking bollocks.’
‘Well, if you change your mind, I’ll give you a lift.’
The fresh-paint-and-new-carpet smell which lingered for months, has surrendered
to the smell of home. Her home. When she was searching for a place to buy,
several properties fitted the bill. The wisteria festooning the wall at the end
of the garden clinched it. The house isn’t dissimilar to Moat’s – three-storeyed, terraced, late Victorian. A little smaller perhaps but with the
same shabby homeliness. (‘It’s “tired”,’ the surveyor said, ‘but it’ll see us all out.’) She has commandeered the box room as a writing room but there’s still plenty of space for her grandchildren when they need to escape from
their parents. And for Pearl whenever she feels like making the trek from San
Diego.
She straightens the bedspread and takes a final look around. Towels. Tissues. A
bowl of fruit. And, on the table next to the bed, half-a-dozen black-and-white
snaps. She came across them the other day, sandwiched between her father’s old ledgers. She riffles through them. They are on a beach. Danny must be
around Max’s age, his crinkle-edged teeth too big for his face. She is a gawky little thing
in a shapeless bathing costume. Aunt Bea is there too, cigarette in hand, and
her parents are laughing and waving at the camera. She returns to the
photograph of Danny. Wherever he is, he must be happy that she and his daughter
are becoming close friends.
A cup of tea and then off to the station. If last time is anything to go by,
Pearl will be shattered after her flight. It wouldn’t do to keep her waiting.
No man steps twice into the same river,
for it is not the same river and he is not the same man.
Heraclitus : 535 – 475 BCE