Miriam's Talisman (5 page)

‘You must forgive me, dear, I just have to finish this while my mind is tuned to it.'

I swallowed my disappointment and reached for my sketchpad and pencils.

Art was my secret passion. More secrets—although I don't hold myself responsible for this one. School was a pleasure ride, as, fortunately, most subjects came easily to me and my grades were usually good. I excelled at maths: often the answers would pop into my head before I'd hardly had time to read the questions. This guaranteed me top marks on school reports, although I often suffered pangs of guilt because I had put in so little effort to gain so much praise. Oh, and Hannah was so proud of me.

‘My Chloe just seems to have a natural talent for figures' she would croon. ‘Such an important requirement these days, of course. Perhaps accountancy, who knows?' She glowed with pride at her offspring's achievement, and I, basking in the warmth and safety of her approval, knew exactly how to fuel the fire.

However, there were other lessons I did not bother to mention. The school art studio was my Utopia, where I worked hard in and out of class time and earned the praise of my art teacher. But at home those high grades were dismissed with a shrug. It was a pastime, a nice hobby. Hannah thought her daughter fortunate to have something to amuse herself on rainy days, but art was hardly something to take into account when considering a future career.

At my grandmother's cottage there were subjects to draw in every inch and corner, a myriad of shapes and
textures and patterns of light. I worked at my sketchpad every moment I could. Miriam studied my work carefully. A few of the sketches quietly disappeared from my folder to reappear on her wall, mounted and framed.

‘Look out, girl! You're spilling tea over my notes! There's just not enough room for us both to work at this table. You'd better move your drawing somewhere else.'

I was shocked. I had never heard an unkind word from Miriam before.

‘Come along here, I'll find you a space where you won't be in my way.'

Too startled to speak, I was herded through the house to the back storage room.

‘In there,' she said, whisking the door open and pushing me inside. ‘See if you can make use of this.'

I stumbled through, bewildered. This was not the same room. Where were the piles of dusty furniture, the boxes and packing cases? The heavy, drawn curtains were gone and sunlight streamed onto a bare wooden floor and freshly painted walls. In the centre of the room stood an easel set with a clean white canvas. I moved forward, not daring to hope. My fingers traced the edge of the huge white square, and I saw there were other canvases of varying sizes stacked against a wall. I turned to her.

‘Is this for me?'

She nodded.

‘For me to paint?'

Another nod and a beaming smile.

‘I've always wanted to try oils. I'm not sure how.'

‘There are some books that might help.'

She pointed to a table piled high with brown cardboard cartons. Yes, there were books, smooth and glossy with
coloured illustrations. I flipped through the pages, breathing in the smell of new print, then picked up one of the cartons.

‘Are these paints?'

‘Why don't you open and see?'

And I prised open box after box, the white metal tubes tumbling onto the table.

‘The man in the shop said you would need those too.'

She indicated a shelf laden with bottles and cans, linseed oil and turpentine, adhesives and varnishes. And there was a big earthenware jar crammed with brushes, so many brushes, all different shapes and sizes. I lifted one out and ran the golden tufts down my cheek.

‘I had the plumber install that big old butler sink that was in the garden. He's put in hot water so you won't go making a mess in my kitchen. Oh, and I don't want you neglecting your drawing.' She guided me round to a desk set to catch the light from the window. There was a drawing board, a real drawing board with adjustable angles.

‘You'd better look in the drawers, too.'

I pulled them open, one after another. ‘Oh, pastels! And watercolours! Exactly the right pencils! How did you know which pencils?'

‘I do observe things, you know. Besides, you're always leaving them lying about. However, I confess I had to ask the assistant about paper. I hadn't realised there were so many kinds. He was very helpful.'

‘Helpful? I'm not surprised. You must have bought up half the shop. And it's mine? It's really all for me?' For a long time I stammered incoherently. I didn't know where to begin to thank her.

‘You have a talent, girl. Someone should recognise it.'

So, the months went by, and turned into years. The visits fell into a regular rhythm.

It's amazing how you can choose not to see things when you're standing in the middle of them. But that's how it was. I really couldn't, or wouldn't, see that the whole set-up was wrong. My life was gradually split in half as if I had been torn in two by the rent between my mother and grandmother. I became two separate people, one for Hannah and one for Miriam. I suppose I became so adept a chameleon that I fooled myself. Even with Miriam's portrait looking down at me and her death echoing through the empty rooms, I still couldn't see it.

And I became really good at acting out the parts, switching roles on demand. At home I would study, listening with serious intent as Hannah talked of college and careers. At the cottage I would paint to the sounds of Mozart. My bedroom at home would be scattered with teenage magazines and editions of books carefully selected as being suitable for a growing girl. I rarely read them.
The Lord of the Rings
and
The Once and Future King
lay concealed in the depths of my school bag. I learned to love music and nature and form and texture. Hannah was so relieved to see her daughter growing up into a normal, healthy, co-operative teenager that I tried even harder to please her. Yet all that gave my life meaning, I found with Miriam.

The portrait was to be a way of saying thank you, but she didn't wait long enough for me to finish. Still, there she was, smiling, her eyes shining and the talisman at
her throat. I became aware of the heaviness of the same ornament around my own neck and touched it gently.

Then I turned and left the room, closing the door behind me.

There were things to attend to. The bed needed stripping. I remade it with clean sheets, in readiness for I knew not what. Then I loaded discarded clothes into the washing machine and its rhythmic drone broke the spell of silence. Half-empty teacups had acquired a blue surface scum that threatened to grow mould very soon. At the sink I immersed my hands in hot soapy water and gazed out across the garden. The orchard would have to be attended to. Apples were rotting on the ground and wasps were swarming. A pity Miriam didn't have a gardener.

Or did she? I sometimes thought I caught sight of someone in the garden. Certainly there were times when I thought she wasn't alone. Oh, I don't mean visitors—there were always plenty of those: friends from the university, historians or students who had begged an interview for their research project. No, sometimes I had the impression that there was someone else, that she had been expecting me, despite my arriving unannounced, and that someone had just left the room as I came in. There was never any physical evidence, just a trace of something in the atmosphere, or in Miriam, that told of a hasty retreat, an unfinished conversation hanging in the air. As with so many other things, I never asked, I never said.

Though I did tell them about the bird.

It was many years ago. I must have been about seven or eight, I think. Anyway it was during the ‘pre-rift' era
when Hannah would sometimes take me to visit Miriam. I loved these visits. The cottage seemed dark and mysterious, full of secret treasures, and the overgrown garden part of an enchanted forest. On several occasions I had caught a glimpse of something, a rustle in the trees, a shaking of branches, a flash of brown among the leaves. Strangely, I had never felt afraid.

Some of the memories are fading faster than others, and I'm trying to hold on to what I can. But that day I can remember clearly. And I know I saw something.

I've been sent out to play while the grown-ups talk. They think I would overhear things I'm not supposed to know about. Actually I don't care at all. It's all boring stuff and I'd have to sit still and not interrupt. Anyway it's too sunny to be indoors. I'm going to run down to the orchard and climb my favourite tree. Nobody can see me up there, but I can just see the river if I get high enough. Last summer I spent whole afternoons up here. I brought my book to read and ate dozens of apples. Miriam says it's too early for apples. Most of them are still green, but I can see one that's turning red. It's right on the end of the branch, as if it's leaning to catch the sun. If I inch out very carefully and stretch my arm as far as it will go I might be able to reach it
.

I can feel the tree give beneath my weight. It's a bit wobbly. Just an inch more. Oh no! The branch suddenly dips. I'm slipping sideways. I can't catch hold. I grasp at leaves. They come away in my hand. Twigs snap as I fall. I try not to, but there's a scream, which goes on and on, even when I bite my lip. No, it's not me. It can't be. Branches crash. A sudden rushing of air. As I tumble over and over
I catch sight of it. Big enough to block out the sun. Only a glimpse but enough to see wings spread open wide, feathers like fingers. Its hooked beak is gaping open as it screeches an alarm
.

I land with a thump on the grass and manage not to yell. But it's gone. Miriam is running from the house with Hannah close behind her
.

‘What is it? What's wrong?' That's Hannah shouting
.

‘Cliohna! I think she's had an accident.'

I'd better show them I'm all right, even though I'm bound to get told off. I scramble to my feet and run out from the trees, desperately wiping at scratches and slimy moss
.

‘I just slipped, that's all. But there was this bird. It was enormous, and it had huge talons and I'm sure it was an eagle.'

‘Nonsense, Chloe, and look at your T-shirt.'

‘But it was. I did see it. It was brown and it had a big, black beak.'

Then Miriam pushes forward and she's bending down and grabbing my shoulders. Her face looks a funny grey colour and her hands are shaking
.

‘An eagle? You say you saw an eagle? What colour were its eyes?'

‘Oh, for God's sake, Miriam, don't encourage her. You've filled her head with enough rubbish without telling her there are eagles in your garden.'

‘But Mum, there was. I saw it.'

‘I don't want to hear another word of this, do you hear?'

Hannah grabs my hand and she's dragging me towards the kitchen. I'm going to have my imagination scrubbed with a soapy flannel and sealed with a plaster
.