"I can make some fresh lemonade."
"Yummy," said Bruno.
"Come, you can make it with me, if you like."
He shrugged. "Okay. But first I'll put my things in my bedroom."
Celeste frowned, not knowing what things he was speaking about. But she knew better than to pry into his games. She wandered into the kitchen feeling that strange stirring of joy return with more force this time.
She didn't know where her enthusiasm came from, but she didn't try to suppress it. She gave in to the desire to please and set about cutting lemons for Bruno to squeeze. He seemed to forget his earlier nervousness and warmed to the task. Together they made half a pint of juice, filled a jug with ice, water, and some sugar, and gave it a good stir with a wooden spoon. "Doesn't that look good? Just what a thirsty boy needs."
"It looks delicious," Bruno agreed.
"Let's see if it tastes as good as it looks." She poured them both a glass. Bruno took a sip. He nodded and grinned over the rim. "Good, eh?" she asked.
"Good," he replied.
"I thought I'd cook paella for lunch. Do you like paella?"
"What's that?" he answered.
"It's a Spanish dish with prawns and rice and vegetables. It's very good. Do you want to try it?"
"Sure."
"Good. What do you want to do now?"
"I'll go and find Grandpa," he said, and Celeste was surprised by her disappointment. She'd rather hoped he'd stay up at the cottage with her.
"Okay," she said. "Will you come up at one for lunch? You do have a watch, don't you?" He held out his wrist for her to see the big, black watch that hung loosely on his narrow bones. "Good."
"Can I take Tarquin again?"
"I think he'd be very sad if you didn't take him."
"Thank you," he said politely, then skipped off into the sunshine.
Celeste felt her joy dissipate as the child's happy singing faded then disappeared. She thought she had entertained him making lemonade. He seemed to have enjoyed it. She certainly had. Her spirits sank into the familiar darkness and she slowly climbed the stairs. She remained awhile in her bedroom, lying on her bed, her mind shutting out the twittering of birds in the garden, searching her soul for the pain as a tongue searches the mouth for the aching tooth. But before she could find it, the merry chirping broke through her defenses, filling her soul with delightful song. She turned onto her back and let it carry her.
A while later she found herself outside the deserted clapboard house at the bottom of the garden. The key turned easily in the lock and the door opened without a single groan of protest. She was hit suddenly by the long-forgotten smell of endeavor. She inhaled deeply and surrendered to the dizzy scents of her past. It was warm and deliciously familiar. Everything was as she had left it. Sewing machine on the long wooden table, materials piled high, boxes of buttons, sequins, lace, felt, velvet, silk, and shiny baubles and tinsel. It was all tidy-she hadn't been able to work in chaos-and waiting patiently for her to take up her seat and sew again.
She struggled a moment with an unseen, though acutely recognizable, force. It was as if she had unwittingly stumbled upon herself, locked up there with the rolls of fabric, ribbon, and trimmings. She hadn't even been aware that she was lost.
Then she saw Jack's quilt lying on a stool in the far corner of the room. She fought the onslaught of memories and the subdued pain burned again in her soul. She reached for it and brought the fabric to her nostrils. She closed her eyes and remembered her little boy lying sick in his bed. "One more square to do," she had told him. "I wonder what I shall put on it. A bee? A tractor? What would you like, do you think?" He had smiled weakly, too ill to speak. "Well, by the time I finish it, you will be better, my darling." But she had never finished it.
Now tears tumbled down her cheeks, soaking into the cotton. She had never finished it because Jack had never gotten better. Now she never would. Then something on the floor caught her eye. She stopped crying and stared, not sure what to make of it. There, in neat rows, were the spools of thread graded by color. She caught her breath and her eyes widened. And then she felt it. A ripple broke like a wave upon her skin and she shivered. She didn't dare move in case the feeling was lost. She closed her eyes and sensed her son.
5.
"Well, hello, young man," said Marigold as her grandson came wandering down the garden with Tarquin. "You've exhausted poor Grandpa," she added, putting down the newspaper.
"Is he sleeping?" Bruno asked.
"No, he's reading in his study. Were you hoping he'd play with you?"
"I'm good," he replied nonchalantly.
"Well, you have a friend in that silly dog."
"He's not silly, Grandma. He's very clever."
"Is he? I'm not entirely sure." She smiled and patted the bench beside her. "So, what did you do with Grandpa?"
"We went to the wood to find things."
"And did you find what you wanted?"
"Some things." He frowned. "Grandma, can I borrow a peacock feather?"
Marigold raised her eyebrows in surprise. "How do you know I have peacock feathers?" The child hesitated, then his eyes widened as he seemed to struggle to find a plausible explanation. "Did Grandpa tell you?"
"Yes," Bruno replied. "I need one for my project."
"That sounds interesting. Come with me and you can choose one."
She took his hand and led him through the French doors into the drawing room. He looked around with curiosity, for unlike his uncle's house, his grandmother's was full of fascinating things. There were piles of books and magazines everywhere. Bookcases were stuffed with old, dusty-looking tomes. Collages of paintings covered all the walls and objects were crammed onto every surface: crystal grapes, bottles of colored sand, silver trinkets, and little statues of old-fashioned ladies in long dresses. There were Persian rugs on the floors and in the hall a giant fireplace dominated the room with an alcove cut into the wall beside it, crammed full of massive logs.
"Your house is very big," he said, pulling on his grandmother's hand as he slowed down to take everything in.
"You should explore inside as well as out," she told him.
"I will, but I might get lost in here."
"No, you won't, unless you climb into the wardrobe. You know what happens in the wardrobe, don't you?"
"Narnia," he replied with a grin.
"Yes, very good." She chuckled. "A whole new world."
"I love stories, Grandma."
"So do I," she agreed.
She led him into the dining room. In the middle of the large round table was a vase of peacock feathers. They were bright against the dark mahogany of the table. "You see, I have lots, don't I?" She leant across and pulled the vase towards them. "Which one do you like? They're all rather spectacular. God must have had a lot of fun creating these."
"I don't mind," he replied.
"All right, what about this one, then?" She plucked an especially fluffy feather and handed it to her grandson. "So what's this project?"
"I'm collecting special things."
"What a lovely idea. What have you got so far?"
"A feather."
"Another feather?"
"A pheasant's feather."
"So, are you only collecting feathers for your project?"
"No, lots of things."
"What else do you need? I might be able to help you."
He shrugged. "I don't know yet."
"Well, when you know, come and tell me and I'm sure I'll be able to help you." She smiled down at him, her turquoise eyes full of affection. "Now, how about a biscuit?"
"Yes, please."
"I thought so. Let's go and see what's in the kitchen. I think we might find a whole larder full of delicious things to eat."
Celeste left the quilt in the clapboard house and walked up the garden to the cottage. She didn't recall having left those spools of thread in rows like that. She would have tidied them away, for sure. But then, her state of mind at that time had been so confused and unbalanced she might well have left them without noticing.
She began to make the paella. Usually when Robert was at work she snacked for lunch. She had no one to look after but herself and she felt so low she hadn't bothered even to file her nails. Yet now she had a child in the house who needed to be fed. It gave her a sense of purpose and pulled at the redundant cord that was her maternal instinct. It was a pleasant feeling to be needed. She put on her cooking apron and made a banoffee pie for good measure.
When Bruno came back for lunch, she noticed the peacock feather and knew that he had been with his grandmother. While he hurried upstairs to put it in his room, she laid the table, trying to suppress the resentment that rose like a tide in her chest because the child seemed to be happy with everyone else in the family but her.
She talked to him over lunch, making an effort to be as friendly as possible. It gave her pleasure to see him eating her paella. She asked him about Australia and whether he was excited to be moving to England. He answered in monosyllables until he tasted the banoffee pie. Then he became more loquacious, forking the pudding into his mouth in great heaps. As he tucked into a second helping he told her how his sisters didn't want to move to England because they were unhappy about leaving their friends. "My friends come with me," he said happily.
"That's nice," she replied.
"I have lots of friends."
"You're a sweet boy, Bruno. I'm sure everyone wants to be your friend."
He grinned. "I like English boys. They're funny."
"You think so?"
"Yeah, they make me laugh."
"The English have a good sense of humor because we're able to laugh at ourselves. Or so they say. I'm not sure I'm very good at laughing at myself. Not recently anyway." She noticed he was frowning at her. "So, what are you going to do this afternoon?"
"I'd like to play with the trains."
She felt light-headed as the tide of resentment was swept away by the compliment. "You want to stay up here with me? How lovely. What's your favorite for tea?"
"Pizza."
"That's easy. Pizza it is, then. What do you want on top?"
"Pepperoni," he said.
"Then that is what you shall have."
Bruno skipped off into the playroom to play with the trains. She heard him chatting to himself as she washed up. His enthusiasm was infectious and she found herself smiling. It delighted her that he was able to amuse himself without having to rely on other children.
She telephoned Robert in the wineshop and asked him to bring home a pepperoni pizza.
"How are you doing?" He had been worrying about her all day.
"He's very sweet. He's in the playroom."
"Are you okay?" He could sense her smiling down the telephone.
"I'm enjoying his company, actually. He's a lovely little boy."
"You're incredibly good to have him, Celeste. I know how hard it is for you."
"It's not as hard as I thought it would be." She wanted to tell him about the strange feeling she had had in the clapboard house and the spools of thread, but she didn't want to sound desperate. She wasn't desperate. In fact, right now, she felt more peaceful than she had been in a long time.
"I'll see you later, then."
"Yes, see you later."
When Robert arrived home, he was surprised to find Celeste on the playroom floor, building Legos with Bruno. He was so moved it took him a moment to find his voice. The two of them were working together, chatting in low voices, concentrating on the things they were making. The sight reminded him of Jack and he put his hand to his stomach. Celeste noticed him standing there and smiled. "Look who's come home," she said, and Bruno raised his chocolate-brown eyes and beamed a smile as bright as a ray of sunlight.
"With a pizza. I wonder who requested pepperoni pizza?"
That evening, Celeste ran the child a bath. She filled it with bubbles and sat on the lavatory seat and talked to him while he wallowed in the warm water like a little hippo. There was something very dear about his narrow shoulders and soft white skin. Although he spoke like an older child, he still had the body of a little boy. She was surprised to hear herself ask if he would like a story before going to bed.
"Mum always reads to me," he told her earnestly.
"What kind of stories do you like?"
"Magical ones," he replied.
"I suppose you like Harry Potter?"
His eyes shone and he nodded vigorously. "I love Harry Potter!" he exclaimed with zeal.