The Mermaid Garden (24 page)

he said softly.

“Oh, I know she is. It’s been five years—five
long
years. I can feel her sometimes, but then is it just my mind playing cruel tricks on a sad old man who wants to believe?”

“Most certainly not,” interrupted Marina. “You have to believe what

you feel.” She turned to Rafa. “What are your plans for today?”

“He’s going to teach me how to paint,” said the brigadier.

“Really?”

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“Oh, yes. He thinks it’ll make me feel young again.”

“Then he should teach us all how to paint,” said Marina with a laugh.

“You’re all welcome.”

“Any other takers?”

“No, just the brigadier. We’re going to paint in the garden.”

“Good.”

“We’re going to paint a tree.”

“A tree?”

“Yes,” Rafa confirmed decisively. “A tree.”

Clementine had slept better than she had in a long time. Last night she had ignored a call from Joe at ten o’clock and switched off her mobile.

Rafa had come in from the garden at about eleven, and they had sat in

the conservatory until midnight, talking in the candlelight until the

wax had all but melted. He had told her more about his father, whom

he missed dreadfully, and about his childhood. She felt flattered that

he had opened up to her, as if she were his confidante. They already

shared the secret church, the house that God forgot, and the hidden

cove. When they had got up to go to bed, she had almost expected him

to kiss her. But he hadn’t. He had smiled and said good night, leaving

her in the hall with Bill, the night porter.

She had floated across to the stable block, her head swimming with

wonderful fantasies and her chest full of something light and fizzy. She had hummed as she enjoyed a bath, danced as she had dried herself,

and laughed as she had smoothed her body with some lotion she had

bought but never used. She had snuggled beneath the duvet with a

contented sigh, and for the first time in as long as she could remember, she had actually looked forward to waking up in the morning.

She had seen Rafa before dashing off to work in her Mini. They had

bumped into each other in the hall (not that she had any business to

be there), and he had suggested they go out in a boat after work. The

promise of an excursion together fueled her all the way into Dawcomb.

She drove down the narrow lanes, past frothy green hedges and white-

flowered blackthorn that lay heaped on the branches like snow. She

observed the little birds that dived in and out, and the gulls that circled above in a glittering sky. Her heart filled with happiness at the sudden 30067 The Mermaid Garden.indd 145

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glimpses of the ocean as she weaved down the coast towards the town.

She took in the beauty around her and wondered why she had never

noticed it before.

Sylvia was standing by her desk in a tight red skirt and satin blouse

tied at the throat in an extravagant bow. She was fussing over a bunch

of lilies, cutting out the pollen-laden antherd with a pair of scissors.

When she saw Clementine, she did a double take and paused her cut-

ting.

“Oh my Lord, what’s up with you?”

“Nothing’s up,” Clementine replied, shrugging out of her jacket.

Sylvia narrowed her eyes. “Now let me see. You’ve made an effort

today, so something must be up. You usually look like a sack of pota-

toes.”

“Thank you for the compliment.”

“So, are you going to tell me, or am I going to have to torture you?”

She put her hand on her rounded hip. “The flowers are from Freddie, by

the way. In case you were curious.”

“I’m not.”

“I’d like to think it’s Joe, but it isn’t, is it?”

“No,” said Clementine, sitting down and switching on her computer.

“Do you remember that Argentine I met in the Black Bean Coffee

Shop?”

“Yes. Don’t tell me he’s come back?”

“He’s the artist-in-residence.”

“Get out of here!” Sylvia put down her scissors and came closer to

perch on the edge of her desk. She crossed her legs and folded her arms.

“Go on.”

“He arrived yesterday.”

“And you’ve already slept with him.”

“No,” Clementine waved her hand dismissively. “Of course not.”

“Poor Joe. He’ll be devastated. Have you told him?”

“There’s nothing to tell.”

“Joe thinks you’re The One.” She sniffed disapprovingly. “God bless

him, the fool!”

“Well, I’m not. I never have been.”

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“Freddie’s not The One, either.” She glanced at her red nails and

clicked her tongue. “Though he won’t be convinced.”

“Is that why he’s sent you flowers?”

“He senses he’s losing me. Proof that if you treat them mean, you

keep them keen. My mother would say that a woman has to play hard

to get all her life.”

“How tiring.”

“The curse of womanhood.”

“One of them,” Clementine added.

“The others being?”

“Childbirth.”

“But think of the dear little thing you get at the end of it.”

“Do you want children, Sylvia?”

“Oh yes, but I’m getting on, you know. That’s why I’m keeping Fred-

die on the spit, basting him every now and then like a nice chicken.”

“I don’t mean with Freddie. He’s already got children.”

“He might be my only option.”

“You can’t give up yet.”

“On finding love? You know I don’t believe in it.”

Clementine grinned and turned to her screen. “Well, I do.”

Rafa set up two chairs and easels on the lawn in front of the house, facing the cedar tree. The brigadier had gone home to change into some-

thing more suitable and now took his seat in a pale blue linen jacket his wife had bought him years before but which he had never worn. He

didn’t like the way it hung, a good jacket had to follow the line of the waist. He had placed a Panama on his head to shade him from the sun

and now looked in bewilderment at the blank sheet of paper.

“So, I’m to draw that tree, am I?”

Rafa nodded. “Yes, but I want more than a picture of a tree.”

“Oh, yes, the birds in it, too, I suppose.”

“Perhaps. I don’t want you to just
see
the tree. I want you to
feel
it.”

“Now that’s jolly difficult. Seeing is one thing, feeling is quite an-

other.”

“Not really, Brigadier. If I wanted an exact copy of the tree I would

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take a photograph.” He rubbed his chin a moment in thought. “Tell

me, how does this tree make you feel?”

“Nervous,” said the brigadier with a chortle.

“Really, how so?”

“Because I don’t know where to begin.”

“Look at the tree.”

“I’m looking at it.”

“Don’t say anything. Just look at it. Take as long as you want.” The

brigadier did as he was told and looked at the tree. He looked at it long and hard until his eyes stung and he had to blink. “Now how does it

make you feel?”

The brigadier was about to say “nervous” again when he felt a strange

sensation in the middle of his chest. He looked at the tree and thought of his wife. It reminded him of the day they had taken their eight-year-old daughter to boarding school for the first time. There had been a

big cedar tree beside the chapel, and it was full of children climbing

the branches like monkeys. “It makes me feel sad,” the brigadier said

gruffly.

“So, you see, the tree is more than a tree. It inspires you to feel things.

I want to feel those things, too, when I look at your picture.”

“Oh dear, that’s a tough order.” He cleared the unfamiliar emotion

away with a cough.

“I don’t care whether your painting is accurate or not, I care that you are moved by what you see and that you try to translate that feeling into the paint on your paper. Give it a go. Don’t worry about it. Don’t think too hard. Just dip your brush in the paint and let your feelings carry it onto the page.”

So, with his thoughts drawn back to his wife, the brigadier began to

paint.

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14.

Ah, isn’t it delightful to be back in this charming place?” said

Veronica Leppley, sweeping into the hall with the enthusiasm

of an actress returning to the stage after a long absence. She raised her angular face and closed her eyes, inhaling through dilated nostrils. “It smells just the same.”

“Lilies,” said Grace Delennor in her southern Virginia drawl, run-

ning her string of pearls through long fingers. “Hotels always have lilies.” It took a lot to impress Grace Delennor, who had stayed in the

finest hotels in the world.

“Careful you don’t get the pollen on your cashmere. It’s a damn nui-

sance to get out,” warned Pat Pitman. “Sue McCain swears by baking

soda, but I’m not convinced.” No one else in the group had ever met

Sue McCain, but Pat brought her into every conversation as if she were

an old friend they all had in common.

Grace moved away from the lilies and ran her eyes over the room.

“I remember the wood paneling. It’s so British.”

“I can smell that, too,” said Veronica excitedly. “That and the linger-

ing smoke from a winter of log fires. Isn’t it lovely, don’t you think?”

Grace shook her head and a single blond curl escaped her coiffure

and bounced onto her forehead. “You must have a very acute sense of

smell, Veronica. I can’t smell anything at all. Not even lilies.”

Jane Meister hadn’t said a word. She was quietly taking it all in, like a pigeon on a rooftop, watching everything going on about her. So much

had changed since the last time she had been there, her world turned

upside down by the shocking death of her husband, Henrik, at the age

of eighty-six from a heart attack at the bridge table. She watched the

two porters come in with their luggage and thought how young they

were, with their whole lives ahead of them. She wondered what joys

and sorrows lay in store.

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At that moment, Marina walked into the hall to greet them. All four

ladies recognized her at once.

“Well, hello there,” said Grace, extending her hand where a large

diamond ring glittered on her bony finger.

“Welcome back,” Marina said, smiling broadly. “I’m so excited you’re

here. Our artist-in-residence is already on the lawn giving a lesson.”

“Paul?” said Veronica. “He was lovely, wasn’t he? Such a gentleman.

Didn’t you think so, Pat?”

“I’m afraid Paul wasn’t able to return this year. We have a new one,”

Marina explained.

“I hope he’s young and handsome,” said Grace, narrowing her eyes.

Pale blue, like topaz, they were all that remained of a once beautiful

face, Botox and surgical lifts having destroyed what nature had so gen-

erously bestowed.

“Oh, he’s very handsome,” said Marina. “He’s from Argentina.”

“Oh, down
there
,” said Grace disparagingly.

“How glamorous,” enthused Veronica. “The Argentines are a beauti-

ful people, don’t you think so, Pat?”

“Sue McCain once had a roaring affair with a polo player. We’re

talking back in the fifties. She’s never got over it.”

“Hello, Mrs. Meister,” Marina said, remembering how easy she was

to overlook, being so quiet and shy. Marina noticed how much she had

aged in the last year. Out of all of them, she had had the most youthful skin. Now she looked like she had been rinsed in gray.

“It’s so nice to be back, dear. I have such happy memories of our stay

last year.”

“I’ve chosen to put you in the same rooms.”

“Now
they
are very pretty,” said Grace. “Especially the handpainted wallpaper. I tried looking for something like it for the house at Cape

Cod, but nothing came close.”

“How sweet of you to take such trouble,” said Jane, smiling at Ma-

rina.

Marina accompanied them upstairs to their rooms. As they climbed

the stairs, Grace sidled up to her and hissed under her breath, “Poor

Jane’s husband died last autumn. She wasn’t going to come, but we

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persuaded her it would be good for her to get out. It’s hit her very hard, poor darling.”

“How sad,” said Marina, now understanding why she was even shyer

and quieter than before.

“My husband, on the other hand, goes on and on and on. He was old

when I married him, but now he’s ancient, and still he hangs in there

with steely determination. It’s that pioneer spirit he’s inherited from his ancestors. I haven’t got that spirit. My ancestors were spoiled British aristocrats with no drive at all. I hope the good Lord will bump me off the minute my face starts to show my age.”

Marina opened the door to number 10. “This is Mrs. Leppley’s

room,” she said, taking pleasure from their admiration. Veronica swept

across the floor with light, happy steps, her gypsy skirt floating around her slender body and delicate ankles as if it had a life of its own. Having been a ballet dancer for most of her youth, she was unable to wear