Shooting Butterflies (12 page)

In the light of what happened years later, those words were the last ones Grace would have wished to see reappear in print.

Sandy Lodge-Archer had also spoken to Robina Abbot, Grace's one-time mother-in-law.

It seemed that she too had objected to the portrayal of Grace as a sad victim of unhappy circumstances, but for quite a different reason. Under Sandy Lodge-Archer's heading of
Daughter-in-Law From Hell
, Robina explained that she did not blame Grace for her son's misery nor for the humiliation she had visited on the Abbot family, since it was obvious that Grace was mentally unstable. You only had to look at her work. Here Robina went on to describe in surprising detail (Grace had never thought her mother-in-law paid much attention) a series of photographs, a commentary on cosmetic plastic surgery, that Grace had exhibited towards the end of her marriage.
Decomposing bodies with surgically enhanced lips and pert silicone breasts
… ‘I didn't use real bodies, you foolish woman,' Grace muttered.

Mrs Shield said, ‘I have to admit, I never really liked those photographs either. I know they were much admired, but personally I prefer something a little less morbid, shall we say? But then you always did have a morbid side to you, even as a little girl. I remember I couldn't get you away from that book of photographs of people with leprosy. You had to know every detail. “Did their noses really fall off? How did they walk without toes?” The poor nuns didn't know what to make of you.'

Grace tried to concentrate on the paper. Robina Abbot went on. She accused Grace of having caused a rift between Robina and her daughter Kate,
only recently healed
.

‘I can hardly help it if Kate took my side,' Grace said. ‘I was her friend.'

And then there was the final, the great betrayal! She made us, her own family, a laughing stock
, Robina told Sandy Lodge-Archer.

‘You did poke the most awful fun at poor Robina.' Mrs Shield could not hide a little smirk of satisfaction. ‘For someone who is as serious as you, you always did have a humorous side. A little too humorous sometimes, perhaps.'

‘And didn't she deserve it?'

She only bothered with her work, her so-called art, but cared nothing for her husband's career nor did she join in the community and she never lent a hand with our charities
. Sandy Lodge-Archer added her own comment.
Of course we remember the words ‘The picture is worth any amount of old ladies' when we see this ruthless commitment to her career repeated over and over again, culminating in the grossly exploitative pictures that won her the prestigious Unibank Award but also condemnation from the Church and this newspaper in particular
. Grace took a deep breath and counted to ten as she looked out of the bay window and on to the muddy field beyond.

‘At least she's not feeling sorry for me,' she said. ‘No, really, it's not so bad.' She picked up the paper to read the last paragraph.
A lonely recluse with her career and personal life in tatters, Grace Shield has paid a high price for her mistakes
.

Grace sat with her head in her hands. She didn't look up when she felt the paper being pulled away. I'm not going to cry, she told herself. I'm not the crying type and, anyway, it would provide Mrs Shield with far more excitement than is good for her. She felt a hand on her shoulder. ‘Pay no attention, dear.' Mrs Shield's voice was quieter than usual. ‘Really, it's not worth it. Everyone knows that people say all kinds of things they don't mean when they're listened to. I always think that's their greatest gift, journalists, being able to listen as if they really care.'

Grace looked up. She was smiling but there was hopelessness in her eyes and in the way her shoulders slumped. ‘I know all that.
And I don't really give a damn what a load of strangers say or think of me. Or I know that I mustn't. Define yourself through the opinions of others and you'll never be defined at all, you'll just be this hapless weathervane. But I can't stand pity. And I can't help … well, you were right, Evie, I can't help wondering if they've all got a point.'

‘But, Grace, you always seem so sure … of everything.'

‘Just because I'm not walking around with a big sign saying
Hard-nosed Bitches Have Doubts Too
doesn't mean I don't. I even have feelings. And what am I, just some blank wall waiting for graffiti?'

The phone rang and Grace reached across to answer. It was poor Marjory asking if they had seen ‘that dreadful piece'.

‘What piece would that be?' Grace asked, her voice all innocent enquiry. Mrs Shield frowned at her, snatching away the receiver and putting it to her ear. ‘It's me, Marjory. Of course we've seen it. It was good of you to bring it across. Yes … yes … yes … absolutely … I know, I know, God only knows; yes, you have, Marjory, you really have. Thank you, dear … bless you … yes … bless you … byee.' She handed the receiver to Grace who hung up.

‘I don't know
what
you have against poor Marjory! You've never liked her and she's such a sweet person.'

‘Sweet, Marjory?' Grace said thoughtfully. ‘You remember Jake, Finn's pet snake? Finn always said we just didn't know Jake. “Jake is so sweet,” he said. And maybe he was, but personally I always found the sight of him devouring live mice kind of off-putting. And don't say, “Don't be silly, Grace. Poor Marjory's never eaten a live mouse in her life,” because I won't believe you.'

‘Now you're just being childish. Marjory is a very dear friend, and she hasn't had an easy life.'

‘And, boy, do we all know about it. It's amazing, isn't it, that someone so sweet nevertheless manages to let everyone know how hard-done-by she is. Funny how we all seem to know that her husband was a philandering bastard and that her children are heartless money-grabbing ingrates.'

‘I think you're very unkind, Grace. And Marjory only called to say how very sorry she felt for you …'

Grace shot to her feet. ‘
Poor
Marjory Reynolds is feeling sorry for me! I'm going for a walk. I'll take an umbrella, shall I? Just in case any more of your friends want to weep all over me.'

The sun was shining. The bright red and yellow tea roses on parade in the newly dug borders were on their second flowering. Those roses, said the brochure for Northbourne Gardens Golden Agers, were a
feature with a thought
, the thought being that a second flowering can be just as beautiful as the first. Overhead a bird was singing in the still air.

‘Fuck you, Nell Gordon,' Grace said. ‘Fuck you very much for making me the object of pity of a woman whose sole purpose in life is to make others say, “Well, at least I'm not Marjory Reynolds.”'

The bird answered with a peal of notes ending in a drawn-out melancholy A flat.

Nell Gordon:
In her late twenties a hasty marriage and a move away from her creative hinterland put the pause button on a promising career.

Grace had been living in her top-floor studio flat on Talgarth Road for five years. She felt protective of that flat of hers. When Angelica Lane asked her what she saw in it – all right, so it had once been an artist's studio, so the windows were large and the light was good, but the building was not far off derelict and the street was a mess – Grace told her a story her father had told her when she was a child.

Once upon a time there was a poor maiden in faraway Persia who, though as beautiful as the golden dawn, was as lonely as the sky once the sun had set and the moon refused to play. It was her smell; beggars and noblemen alike would stop and marvel at her beauty, but their ardour soon vanished as her foul stench reached them. And it wasn't as if she didn't wash, Grace's father had explained. Oh no, the poor girl was as clean as spring water, washing and scrubbing her poor lovely limbs; but to no avail: the smell, like that of rotten fish, remained, as much a part of her as her radiant wasted beauty. But one day the prince himself rode by and, catching sight of the lovely young woman, dismounted. The poor girl stood, her head lowered, waiting for him to shy away. Instead he remained standing not one hand away, showing no sign of wanting to be anywhere else. Surprised, she looked up into his face that was as beautiful as her own and, forgetting everything but the warmth of his smile, she smiled back and when he spoke to her she spoke back in a voice so sweet the birds in the trees above ceased their singing to listen. The prince fell in love and vowed then and there to marry her. What about the smell? Don't you mind it? All around people were asking the question.
But the prince said that all he noticed was the most beautiful girl he had ever seen smiling at him and speaking words sweeter than the sweetest music.

‘So let me see if I got this right,' Angelica said. ‘You see yourself as a beautiful prince and your flat as a lovely though malodorous damsel in distress?'

‘No. I'm saying that you need to look further than your nose to appreciate this place. In fact, even the estate agent tried to talk me out of buying it.'

True, the building was on a busy road where the air was so bad that however hard you scrubbed at the sills and surfaces, a dusting like black snow returned almost as soon as you were done. True, people left their rubbish out any day of the week, regardless of whether it was collection day or not, and stepping out of the building it was advisable to look out for vomit and worse. Pity Aurora, godess of dawn, who had to wake and show her rosy cheeks to streets like that, but Grace was all right, tucked up inside her bright light room with its high ceilings and tall arched wrought-iron windows and the memories of artists' dreams permeating the walls.

Grace, not exactly a goddess of dawn, nevertheless greeted most mornings with quiet satisfaction. Between her and each new day there existed the kind of comradely cheer of co-workers engaged on a mutually satisfying project. The project, now as it had been for the best part of ten years, was photography. Photography to Grace was a roof over her head and bread in her mouth. It was a pick-me-up and her dreams at night. It was her point of reference and her interpreter. It was her pride and joy and, quite possibly, her one true love. Taking pictures was making love.

She had relationships with men, the longest lasting just under a year, but she remained, stubbornly, living on her own. All but once she walked away. A couple of times it had been a matter of jumping before she was pushed and once it was about jumping just because. She had a streak in her of making big decisions for next to no obvious reason. Angelica said she was probably following her inner voice. Grace thought she did not have so much an inner voice as an inner jester. But mostly she simply woke from the dream, rubbed the stars from her eyes and saw that the man by
her side was just a trick of the light, a projection of her hopes and longings.

‘Men,' Mrs Shield said to her. ‘You have to take them as they are or someone else will.'

‘Let them,' Grace said.

‘You're like a cat,' Angelica said. ‘It's your home you care about; the people can come and go.'

Grace objected; she wasn't overly fond of cats. Essentially it was a matter of trust; she did not trust them. ‘I care a great deal about people,' she said. ‘I just don't need to live with them. Look at that light.' She gesticulated at the window. ‘Northern light; the best.'

‘You go on about that light,' Angelica said, ‘but you're hardly ever here in the daytime.'

‘But I know it'll be back. That's one thing you can trust in life; by morning the light will return.'

‘Is there some profound message hidden in that statement of the obvious?' Angelica asked.

‘No.' Grace shrugged. ‘But people are so worried about stating the obvious that in the end someone needs to, or the obvious will be obscured by the unusual.'

Grace's work was gaining attention but she never turned down a commission. To be able to live almost entirely off the work she loved (she supplemented her income with weekend work at Harrods' photography department) was a luxury; she never forgot that. Her old flatmates, Angelica and Daisy, were both married. Daisy had moved away to Oxfordshire and disappeared beneath the weight of compost heaps, herbaceous borders and babies. Angelica, who had taken over the running of the Adam and Eve Gallery from her mother, had married Tom, a bond dealer. Tom was a big man, tall and broad, a rugby player with coarse black hair and the pink and white complexion of an old-fashioned schoolboy, the kind who played outdoors. He was loud and jovial. Grace thought that he had a mean set to his mouth. Tom told Angelica he liked career women and treated her work as a joke. He liked jokes. ‘When I first stepped out with Angelica she didn't wash from one week to another. Ask me why, c'mon ask me why.'

‘Why didn't Angelica wash, Tom?'

‘Because she was scared I'd call while she was in the bath.'

Alone together in Angelica's kitchen, Grace said to her, ‘You're like a negative when you're with him; white is black and black is white. Is that what it takes to be married?' Angelica had soapsuds on her nose and looked as if she might cry. Grace dabbed the suds off Angelica's face with a dry corner of the tea towel. ‘There.' She smiled. ‘I'm sorry. If you love him it's worth it, I suppose.'

‘I do love him,' Angelica said. She looked straight at Grace. ‘And there are times when I hate myself for it.'

To Grace, returning home used to be like walking into a pair of welcoming arms. Closing the front door was like pulling up a drawbridge: she was safe from the world, its questions and demands; no one could get at her. Alone in her flat there was no one nudging her for food or love or conversation. Her time was hers to do with what she pleased. There was no one to disappoint. No one to let her down but herself, no one needing what she could not give, or giving her what she did not want. For a long time, this suited Grace perfectly.