Drawing with Light (20 page)

With love

Fran

Seb reads it too. He holds me tight, while I cry and cry, for the mother I can't remember.

‘It's weird, though,' Seb says when I finally stop. ‘Those tree photos she sent you. How similar they are to the ones you've done. Don't you think?'

I can't bear to leave all the stuff at Seb's house, after all. I put it back in the paper packaging, the string and envelope and everything, and Seb finds me a plastic bag to keep it all safely together, and I take it back to the caravan with me.

Cassy knows I've been crying. She doesn't ask why. She and Dad are already getting ready for bed.

I tuck the bag next to me, under the duvet, next to the stone mouse who nestles up against the window, at the edge of my bed. All night, I sleep with her things close to me, my hand on the thin blue paper.

I wake up early: I'm already making plans.

Notebook 3
Summer, Pyrénées-Atlantiques

1

We are almost there, after hours of travelling.

Bus, train, another train, and this last bus, now trundling off again, the engine struggling as it climbs the long slow hill towards Pau, in the French Pyrenees. Seb and I look at each other and grin. It's been hours and hours. The sound of the bus fades into silence. It's just us, now, in the middle of nowhere.

Except that it isn't, of course. Even here, in the foothills of the mountains, there are farms and houses and whole villages, tucked away out of sight. It seems a miracle that we've found our way this far: the junction of the lane and the main road, the signpost to the church and the village.
Her
village. Just like the map shows.

Seb shifts his backpack on to both shoulders, I pick mine up too, all dusty from the road, and we begin the walk down the lane. It winds between small hayfields, down a long, green valley between densely wooded hills. Behind us the mountains go up into cloud, so high you can't see the top.

We walk in silence, all talked out. The air is a relief after the long, hot bus ride: no air-conditioning, seats packed together. The small fields, the greenness, is another surprise after the long hours we spent on the train, speeding through a dry golden landscape of huge sunflower fields and maize and then miles and miles of pine forest, all baking in the sun.

Here, swallows loop low over the grass, snatching flies out of the air. It must be early evening, but I've lost track of time. The lane crosses a stream, but when we look down over the bridge the stream has dried to a muddy trickle. The light changes. Dappled sunlight falls through overhanging beech trees. We reach the first houses at the edge of the village: two big stone houses, and then a modern one with a gravel drive and a new car parked outside.

The lane turns a bend and we find ourselves in front of a church, in a large deserted paved square. Tubs of scarlet geraniums, a stone bench, a huge old tree throwing deep shadow. The church bell strikes six at exactly the moment we arrive, as if it's announcing we are here. But there's no one to see.

‘I'll get out the map again,' I say.

We sit on the stone bench and I smooth out the crumpled paper for the hundredth time.

‘Up past the church, and along a bit.'

The lane goes steeply uphill and then levels out. Almost immediately, I see the house. I know it from the photo: the way it stands at a right angle to the lane, the stone-tiled roof, the wood stacked up under the eaves. A wooden verandah runs along the front. Huge shuttered windows have been flung wide open to let in the evening sun.
She'll have done that
. . .

It's all so solid and real it's a shock. I've stared at this house so many times, in a flimsy creased photograph. I've imagined arriving here.

We've stopped still. I glance at Seb. He's tired, and dusty, and crumpled-looking. He's come all this way because I asked him. It's the longest time we've been completely alone together.

Voices from somewhere behind the house drift across the hedge. A woman and a man, in conversation, though we can't hear the words.

In a minute, I'll see her.

I make myself open the gate. The click of the latch sounds ridiculously loud. Seb's hand is on my back, a gentle pressure.

‘You're holding your breath!' His mouth is warm at my ear. ‘Breathe, Em!'

Before, and after. Like a hinge. This is the me before . . .

Suddenly, before I'm properly ready, prepared, she's standing right there in front of me. A dark-haired woman, with a smooth, tanned face, white shirt, blue trousers, flip-flops . . .

She says a word – not English, I don't catch it – and one hand flies to her mouth, as if to stop herself crying out. An expression I can't read – panic? fear? – floods her face. ‘Emily?' Her voice is hesitant.

I can't speak. I go hot. I swallow hard, so I don't throw up.

What does she see? A girl with short dark hair, slim, anxious? A complete stranger . . .

She doesn't recognise me
.

And why would she? I was a toddler the last time. Not much more than a baby, with a round face and dark hair that curled, wispy. Here, now, face to face with my mother for the first time since I was two, all I can do is stare.

She stares back. Slowly, she drops her gaze as if it's too uncomfortable. As if she is ashamed.

And something flares up in me, a white-hot rage, as if I am still only two years old and she has only just abandoned me. It is as simple and raw and overwhelming as that.

That image has become frozen in time, itself like a photograph. My mother, framed against the green and gold of hayfields in high summer, mountains behind, an edge of stone house to one side, the half-smile fading on her face.

2

Seb reaches out for my hand. He holds it tight, and the feel of him there, steady beside me, keeps me from turning and running, while Francesca babbles a kind of welcome, in her too-bright voice.

‘Come on in! You must be exhausted! It's been hot today – I'll fetch us all a drink. Come on through.'

We follow her through the massive front porch into a dark, open-plan sitting room which goes up and up, two storeys high.

‘Sit down,' she says. ‘Make yourselves at home.' She waves towards the big sofa, as if we should sit there, while she goes deeper into the old house to get the drinks.

We stay standing. We're both much too sweaty and dusty from the journey to plonk ourselves down on the cream sofa with its plumped-up red and gold cushions. We're both suddenly shy.

‘It smells really old,' Seb whispers.

I stare at the paintings in dark wooden frames hung on each wall: abstracts in the same flame colours as the cushions. Are they
hers
?

The air is musty with old woodsmoke and candle wax and a lemony scent that might be furniture polish or possibly real lemons, because Francesca reappears at that moment with a tray of glasses and a jug of home-made lemonade and a bottle of some orange-coloured liqueur.

She looks surprised to see us standing there, awkwardly. ‘We can go out into the garden,' she says, ‘if you'd prefer?'

Her voice sounds foreign. Perfectly good English, but with an accent. Has that happened over the years she's been living in France? Or has she always sounded like that? It's another shock, to find that I don't know these simplest of facts. That I don't remember, and no one has said. That no echo of her voice has stayed inside me.

‘Yes, outside. Thanks,' Seb says. He nudges me, embarrassed by my silence.

I'm still too churned up to speak.

A dark-haired man with a beard is sitting at a large wooden table in the garden, hidden from the lane. He must have been here all the time; it was his voice we heard, before. He stands up. ‘Josep,' he says, holding out his hand. ‘Welcome.' But he doesn't smile.

Seb and he shake hands; I sit down on one of the wooden chairs.

Francesca puts the tray on the table and passes round the drinks. She sits down next to Josep; he takes her hand.

I stare at the two hands, resting loosely on the table together. She speaks to him in a language I cannot understand: not French, nor anything I recognise even one word of. ‘Eskuara,' she explains to me and Seb. ‘The language of the Pays Basque.'

‘So, how was the journey?' Francesca fiddles with her glass, moves the tray a little.

I'm still searching for something – anything – that might pull up some memory from when I was tiny.

Seb tells her about the trains, and the buses, and all of that. She pours us each a little glass of the spirit that flames and burns as it goes down my throat.

‘You can fly to Pau,' Francesca says. ‘Or Nice. That makes it easier.'

‘We did it the cheapest way,' Seb says. ‘And it was fun.'

Francesca flushes slightly. ‘I'd have paid, if you'd asked, Emily.'

There's a long, difficult silence. I swallow down the rest of the orange liquid in my glass; it stings all the way down.

Francesca tries again. ‘How long have you two been friends?'

Seb looks at me. ‘Since October?'

I could say exactly how long: nine months, twenty-one days, if I wanted to. But I don't.

Francesca tops up the glasses. The fiery liquid begins to thaw me out. Josep starts to talk in English to me and Seb; to Francesca he talks only Eskuara. ‘You have brought the sun, ‘ he says, and smiles. ‘The weather here is like England. It rains much. Which is why it is so green. But for a few days more we will have sun, I think. We are very lucky!'

We watch the sun, low in the sky now, about to slip behind the mountain. The clouds have cleared from the tops. Shadows lengthen across the grass.

‘I'll finish preparing the meal,' Francesca says. ‘It won't be long. You two can wash, or rest, or do whatever you want. There is no rush here. That is the best thing of all.' She smiles at me, but with a hurt sort of smile.

We still haven't touched. I've hardly said a word to her. But then, what does she expect? Whose fault is that?

Josep shows us the way to the bedrooms up the big oak staircase. The rooms on the first floor lead off a kind of balcony with banisters, open to the huge living room below and you can look right down on to the sofa and chairs and table we first saw when we arrived.

Josep opens one door after another. ‘You can choose,' he says. ‘This one here, or this.' He opens another door. ‘One each, or one together, it is up to you. With a view of the mountain, or quiet at the front.' He laughs. ‘It is all quiet.'

He goes downstairs again, to let us decide.

Seb and I go into each. It's easy to choose. Seb closes the heavy door and pushes me playfully on to the big bed with its thick blue quilt. He presses his face up close to mine. ‘Hey,' he says, ‘how cool is this!'

My body begins to melt beneath his. But my mind is still whirling. I slide out from under him, sit up. ‘She doesn't like me,' I say. ‘I can tell she doesn't like us being here.'

‘That's ridiculous!' Seb says. ‘It's hard for her, that's all. It's the same for her as it is for you, Em. Relax a bit. Stop punishing her. Stop being so cross.' He puts his arms back round me, and I let myself lean into him. I'm tired to the bone.

The smell of garlic and woodsmoke drifts up from the kitchen. A chair scrapes across a stone floor.

‘We'd better go down.' I take his hand and trace the lines on his palm with my finger: the long life-line, right round under his thumb. I let it go again.

‘Not yet.' Seb kisses me. ‘There's no rush, she said. Wait a bit. Have a rest, then the meal together will go better. Lie down with me for a little while.'

We lie together on the top of the quilt. I close my eyes, but even though I'm so tired, my mind's too busy to let me sleep. I listen to Seb's breath: in, out, slow and steady as a purring cat. I open my eyes and watch his lovely, familiar face; the way his dark hair flops over, his dark eyebrows and lashes, the stubble round his chin and neck. The rise and fall of his chest. He sleeps for ages, innocent as a baby, and I lie and watch him, while the light outside fades and the room fills with shadows.

‘Supper's ready!' Francesca calls up the stairs. ‘Come on down.'

‘Seb?'

He opens an eye. ‘What?'

‘Supper time.'

He yawns and stretches. ‘Did you sleep?'

‘A bit, I think. Dozed.'

We smooth the creases from our clothes. ‘We haven't even washed!' I say.

We rinse our hands and faces quickly in the little bathroom at the end of the balcony. We leave grubby marks on the white towels.

Seb shrugs. ‘It doesn't matter,' he says. ‘She won't mind.'

Francesca has changed out of her linen trousers into a green silk dress. She's pinned up her hair in a loose sort of bun. As she dishes out portions of meat and vegetables from a large enamel pan, I watch the way she frowns, concentrating. I do that.

Her face looks thinner with her hair up, more angular in the light from the candles that Josep brings to the table from a dark wooden cupboard. Behind her, on a whitewashed wall, hangs a huge oil painting of a woman doing almost exactly what Francesca is doing this moment: serving food at a table, only the woman in the painting is large and rounded and wearing an apron round her middle, and there are children sitting at the table – two small girls.

The ghost children.

Josep sees where I'm looking. ‘An early Fran Davidson,' he says. ‘You like it?'

Francesca barely pauses, but she does, enough for me to know she's listening.

‘Yes,' I say. ‘It's like the one in the catalogue, from that exhibition.'

‘Part of a series,' Josep says. ‘Mothers and children.'

Francesca drops the serving spoon, and it clatters on to the table. She wipes her face with the back of her hand, goes out to the kitchen to get a cloth to wipe up the spilled food.

My face burns.
She can paint mothers, but not be one.