Dancing In The Shadows of Love (8 page)

His cough was worse. I would have to take him to the doctor. That’s what Grace would have done, when she managed the Templeton mansion. I made sure I never did less than any previous Templeton wife would have done and, especially, not less than Grace.

That’s why I put so much effort into the local charities. I had chaired the
Feed
The War
Unwanteds Fund
for five years, and would chair it for a few more years. My next goal was to take the chair of the
Animal Rescue Response
. In this town, masquerading as the Mother City—with its pride in its bloodlines and the dominating sweep of its bay—those were the two prestigious charities. I worked hard for them, and for the people of the
Court
of St Jerome.

I placed another rose in the basket. Its fragility reminded me of Grace. Grace, who never gave a minute to any of the charities to which I dedicated my life. And still the people did not call me Mrs T, as they did their beloved Grace Templeton.

• • •

‘I’m too busy for all that politicking,’ she said when I asked her to join the committees. We had moved into the mansion, and Grace had come to inspect the changes I’d made. ‘The ones who really need help always seem to find me.’

‘We help people,’ I said, and launched into a description of all the fund-raising functions Barry and I attended.

‘Yes, dear,’ she agreed. ‘But I prefer to meet people, ordinary people, face-to-face. I do so enjoy a chatty visit. That’s when I hear all about what’s happening in their lives.’

Perhaps Grace had an interest in the lives of ordinary people because she had always lived a life of privilege. I had lived an ordinary life and had no wish to return there.

I’d replaced the old wooden balustrade with an ornate wrought-iron one. Grace stroked a hand along it; her eyes dimmed with the memory of what was until a spark of a more recent memory flitted into her head. ‘Johnny Maswera’s wife had twins yesterday,’ she said. ‘I must call on them.’

‘Johnny Maswera?’ asked Barry. ‘The name’s familiar, but I can’t place him.’

‘He’s overseer at the farm, dear,’ Grace chided. ‘He started before your Father crossed over.’ She blinked rapidly to hold back her tears, as she spoke of Barry senior’s death.

Barry shrugged, and said no more, his farm manager’s ordinary existence already forgotten. Grace did not forget her little people as quickly. ‘You should visit them, Barry. You and Zahra.’

‘I can’t, Grace,’ I said. ‘We’re in the middle of organising the Annual Hunt Ball for
The War
Unwanteds Fund. This year’s event will be superb!’

‘I’m sure it will be, dear,’ Grace smiled, ‘but will the animals think so?’

She was rambling again. I ignored her, and said to Barry, ‘Diarise the sixteenth, darling. We’ll be at the top table as usual.’

‘The sixteenth? But that’s weeks away!’ Grace brightened. ‘You
can
take me to visit Johnny’s twins.’

‘All the way out to that hospital? No,’ I said. ‘I don’t have the time. Elijah can drive you. Barry will use his new car to go to the pharmacy.’

Grace shrank a bit, in the way old people do when they’re tired but not admitting it. She closed her eyes and leaned back in the chair. ‘You will send him a present, though, won’t you?’

‘Of course I will.’

I did, but later—when we saw the Maswera’s at court—they fell all over Grace, and barely thanked me, despite the expensive pewter picture frames I sent, one for each twin.

Annoyed, I nodded at their specious gratitude and walked ahead. I left Grace cooing over the red-faced infants.

Later, she joined me, flushed with excitement.

‘Zahra,’ Grace said, with that breathless hiccup she had when pleased. ‘You’ll
never
believe what’s happened!’

I guessed. ‘The baby smiled at you.’

‘Oh yes, and so sweetly too!’ Grace agreed. I prepared myself for a long description of a toothless, gummy smile and wondered, behind gritted teeth, if I was the only Mrs Templeton in the long and distinguished bloodlines of previous Templeton wives who suffered from such intolerable boredom.

Grace surprised me. ‘But that’s not my news,’ she said.

‘Don’t tell me they’re speaking already?’

‘Zahra, dear, don’t tease! Johnny and his wife—they asked what my birth names were.’

I should have guessed what her surprise was, I told myself later as I discarded the shredded tissue I’d been holding, but I didn’t.

‘You’re Mrs Templeton to those people,’ I said.

Grace had firm views on equality. ‘Our hearts are one and the same, dear,’ she often said. ‘Despite the unfortunate differences the world imposes.’

Soon she would expect my son to play with this worker’s children. ‘You mustn’t let them become too familiar, Grace. Those sorts always take advantage.’

‘Oh, no, dear! They’ve done me a great honour.’ Her eyes, despite her age, were as blue as Barry’s once were, while his dimmed the longer we stayed married. How did she keep her youthfulness? ‘They want to name those adorable little babies after me! Grace and Obinna.’

It ambushed me. My envy surged from my depths and consumed me. I caught it in time, before the blackness spewed out my mouth and devoured the silly Grace who stood there in front of me, beaming, as though she’d received the greatest gift.

She has
, Little Flower whispered.
You’re jealous, because they don’t want to name one of the babies after you. They want to name them after her. After Grace. Saint Grace.

Sometimes I hated Little Flower. I wished I could reach into my breast and hack her out of my being, for she would not stay dead and silent within me.

I could never exorcise her, and so I did what I did best. I drowned her in the murky sediment that filled the depths of my heart.

‘Is that wise?’ I asked Grace with a sharp, pleasant smile. ‘Allowing such familiarity?’

She fluttered and rambled in confusion. A sign—I’ve told the worried Barry—of advancing age. Another reason, I convinced him, to move Grace into a small place of her own. With two-bedrooms, even though it cost us extra cash to buy, so she could have her waifs and strays to stay while we found a better use for the old family mansion.

I pushed the blackness back, squeezed some affability from somewhere, and tried again. ‘Try not to encourage them to rely on you, Grace. Soon they’ll want you to pay for your namesakes’ education. Or pay for their weddings.’

‘Oh, Zahra!’ She relaxed and laughed. ‘You can be so funny sometimes! Why would they expect that?’

Funny? A tremor rippled beneath my feet and sent me off balance. Wanting to find my centre again, I answered quickly. Too quickly, for I revealed more than I should have in my haste to deny the image she had of me. An image that turned me into something I was not: a weak and vulnerable woman.

‘Because those people always do,’ I snarled. ‘They’re not prepared to fight for what they want out of life. They just take it from those who work hard.’

The echo of my words jeered at me in the silence before Grace answered.

‘Oh, Zahra, dear,’ she sighed, and touched my cheek with exquisite gentleness.

With that single gesture, the old woman grew in stature. From being Barry’s mostly inconvenient mother, she became Mrs T. The same Mrs T whom everyone flocked around every Holy Day at court.

Even as we spoke, they waited for their turn with her. As they waited, they whispered amongst themselves, about the new war, about what Mrs T would say about the latest casualties or about their child’s school marks and scraped knee.

Like beggars aching to touch the garment of a master in the hope of salvation, they hovered around us. They watched as she cupped the curve of my cheek, so naturally, so fluidly, I realised that one couldn’t learn such grace. No, not if I practised and practised until, exhausted, I almost let Little Flower weep and wail.

‘It’ll be all right, dear,’ Grace murmured. The papery dryness of her wrinkled thumb smoothed across my cheek and sucked up the threatening moisture, so at least I could keep my public dignity. ‘I won’t let them hurt you.’

Her words, as they so often did, made me angry. ‘You don’t have to worry about me!’ I stepped back to dislodge her touch and reached into my handbag for my Book of Songs. ‘I worry about
you
, Grace. You’re too soft, too kind. People always take advantage of you.’

‘No, Zahra, dear, no! Gentleness isn’t weakness.’ Her hand, suspended in midair, trembled with emptiness and fell to her side. ‘How easy it is to be bitter or angry; that’s when you’re at your weakest! But when you choose to be kind, to forget your hurt, that’s when you find within the greatest strength of all.’ She smiled, oh, a smile of such ancient wisdom, her face shone with love. She waited, but when I wouldn’t smile back, she walked past me.

My throat too tight to speak, I wondered what Grace knew of weakness. Or of the need for strength. I watched her people flock to her. They touched her and asked her this or told her that and, gazes heavy with love, called her Mrs T. I waited until she disappeared into the darkness of the courthouse, before trailing in her wake. Walking under the oppressive stone arch, I crossed over the threshold leading into the cool
Court
, home to Saint Grace, but never home to Zahra.

• • •

Thoughts of Grace were still with me as I reached the rose-covered arch that led us back into the driveway. Elijah trailed behind me, the cumbersome basket, its belly swollen with roses, hampering his movements. I tried to regret harvesting so many. I’d planned to use them for the Annual Hunt Ball, but that day I wanted the mansion to overflow with roses. Enoch was to visit. I had asked Grace to tea; he would bring her and, when he saw the banked roses filling the house with their sweet smell, he would see my surrender last week as an empty victory. Generosity is easy when one has plenty to give and my impulsive gift of the roses had meant nothing, because I had so much.

‘Take the basket to the scullery.’ I stripped off my gardening gloves, and placed them on top of the flowers, careful not to harm any blooms. ‘No one must touch them. I’ll arrange them later.’

Elijah had no breath to reply, so he blinked in what I took to be agreement. To be certain, I clarified: ‘The girl mustn’t touch the roses, not even to take the thorns off.’ I found the hard action of swiping the blade down the prickly stem soothing; I liked to clean the cut roses myself, leaving the white buds so tender and vulnerable, before arranging them in the crystal vases I kept stored in the pantry.

Elijah blinked and, helped by the wind that followed us up the driveway, staggered off to the back entrance. When he was out of sight, I swayed towards the sea, for one last glimpse of the bay. The whitecaps, more angry than innocent, tumbled faster as the wind hastened on its way.
Enoch is coming,
it whispered in my ear.
Are you ready?
The scent of freedom gave Little Flower—that damned Little Flower who would not die—a new strength, one I was not certain Zahra would be able to withstand as Little Flower answered his call.

‘Yes,’ she murmured. ‘I am ready.’

• • •

As I finished the last flower arrangement, I heard Barry’s car and did my usual visual check. The table: my silver sugar shaker in the right place. My mahogany cupboard: all my most precious possessions securely locked inside. Myself: perfect. I had neatly recaptured my braid and changed into an elegant navy slacks-suit. I looked my best: a gracious young matron, awaiting the arrival of welcome guests.

A murmur, overlaid with the tap-tapping of Grace’s cane on the floor, filtered through. She was ill, if she used her cane, and I hoped she wouldn’t prattle embarrassingly on about angels and the
Spirit King
as she had the previous week. A small consolation was that it was only us for tea, and Enoch, who shouldn’t have mattered, but somehow did.

As prepared as I would ever be, I walked with careful elegance to the door. They were busy greeting the young servant girl. As they gave her their hats and coats to store until they needed them, I was, for a few precious seconds, an unseen watcher.

Barry fussed over his mother. He held her cane as he slipped off her coat. ‘Be careful of your cane on the marble floor, Mother,’ he said. He checked the bottom, then handed it back. ‘The rubber tip is secure. You should be safe if you don’t walk too fast.’

She let him fuss, and then reclaimed her cane. She walked to the walnut table, secure in its place adjacent to the far wall of the vast entrance hall. A beautiful eighteenth century piece, it made an impressive welcome decorated with a lavish display of white roses. Grace, as slight as she was, didn’t have far to bend to bury her face in the blossoms. With a deep breath, she absorbed their subtle fragrance.

‘Ah,’ she sighed. ‘Zahra has a magic touch with these roses.’

I flushed with unwanted satisfaction at the small compliment. I thought I’d inured myself against such trifles as other people’s opinion of me, though my hurt at the Maswera’s request to name their babies after Grace, and not me, had taught me otherwise.

Now, like warm mother’s milk that slipped into my belly, the pleasure I took in Grace’s mild compliment reminded me I sought that which I should not: other people’s approbation. That need made me nervous, for there was a time when Little Flower existed only when her Daddy praised her.

Had Enoch heard what Grace had said? I slid a secret look at the front door. Barry coached the girl on how to fold the coat over her arm to reduce creasing. Enoch was there too, watching me watching them. He enmeshed me in his sea eyes, which were as silent as the ocean depths that harboured Little Flower.

I trembled with her, as the flush of Grace’s praise heated into a blaze of embarrassment and fear—yes, fear—for I strove to liberate myself from his unspoken promise but could not break free from the hold he had on me. Who
was
he that he could defeat a will as strong as Zahra’s?

The answer lay with that treacherous harlot Little Flower. As young and fragile as she was, she was a living
ezomo
, enticing men beyond their endurance.