A Mother's Love(19)

“I’m not Voldemort!” Bruno cried, giggling. “I’m Harry Potter!”

“Really? Are you sure you’re not just a muggle pretending to be Harry Potter?” said Robert, narrowing his eyes and looking him up and down suspiciously.

Bruno giggled again. “I’m not pretending. I am Harry Potter!”

They ate heartily and Bruno showed his uncle and aunt Jack’s Harry Potter book, explaining the magic with enthusiasm. Robert caught his wife’s eye as his nephew struggled to articulate the meaning of a Horcrux. Celeste’s gaze lingered on his longer than normal, and in her eyes there was a tenderness he hadn’t seen in a long time. He smiled and she returned it with a small curling of the lips. He felt a rush of affection for her, as if she had finally put down her drawbridge and let him cross. United at last, in an unspoken understanding that Jack didn’t belong to her alone, but to him also, and that she was allowing him an equal stake in ownership, an equal stake in loss.



Robert left for work and Celeste wondered what she was going to do with Bruno. She could take him into Alresford, shopping. Perhaps he’d like to see where his uncle worked. But Bruno had his own idea. “I’d like to paint an egg,” he said.

“An egg?” Celeste asked. “What sort of egg?”

“An egg, like the one Uncle Robert had for breakfast.”

“Oh, a hen’s egg. What a good idea. I haven’t painted eggs in years. I’ll have paints and varnish in my office. We could do it in there. I’ll paint one, too, and we can thread them through with ribbon. They’re so pretty. You can make one for your mother.”

“It’s for my box,” said Bruno firmly.

“Oh, all right.” Celeste was now more than a little curious about his box. It was full of the strangest things. A peacock feather, a pheasant feather, a butterfly, a horseshoe, a grey feather, the top of the cake, nuts, and now an egg—and those were just the things she knew about. He’d spent most of his time on the farm, collecting things. She wondered what else he had found. She wondered why he wanted all those funny objects. They couldn’t possibly be for his mother. So what was he going to do with them?

She took some eggs from the fridge and made holes in the ends to blow out the yolks. When she was left with the shells, she washed them clean, then set off with Tarquin and Bruno to her office at the bottom of the garden.

It was another sunny day. A few feathery clouds floated across the sky and a glider wheeled on the warm thermals like a silent gull. The low rumble of a tractor could be heard in Huxley and Marigold’s garden as the gardener cut the grass into tidy green stripes. She wandered down the lawn with Bruno, who held his box close to his chest, as if it contained treasures he was afraid of losing. As they passed the borders she noticed how unkempt they were and wondered why she had allowed them to overgrow. She had taken pride in her garden once and it had given her pleasure to see the fruits of her labors in springtime. Now the shrubs had all grown into each other, leaving no space for anything else. It had once been a celebration of color; now it was mostly green.

Fat bees buzzed about the few flowers that thrived and Bruno stopped to watch them. “They’re big and furry,” he said. Then he opened his eyes wide and grinned, struck with an idea. “Can I teach one to crawl up my arm?”

Celeste was astonished. That was something Jack had always done. She didn’t know other children played with bees, too. “You might get stung,” she warned, although Jack never had. “Come on, let’s go and paint an egg. I’d stay clear of the bees if I were you.”

She unlocked the door and Bruno went in and put his box down on the table. Celeste cleared the fabrics away so they had space. Then she opened a drawer and pulled out pots of paint and brushes. She hadn’t used them in years. Once she had loved to paint, but then her business got busy and she no longer had the time. Every spare moment was filled with sewing. As they set about painting their eggs, she realized just how much she had missed it.

Bruno’s egg was multicolored. His face was serious with concentration as he painted stripes and dots with a steady hand. Celeste painted hers with flowers, gluing little sequins onto their centers so that they sparkled. She hummed contentedly as she worked. It made her feel good to be creating again. “That’s pretty,” said Bruno as he finished his.

“So is yours,” she replied.

“It’s an Easter egg,” he told her proudly.

“Oh, that’s nice,” she said, wondering why he had thought of Easter in the middle of summer. “It’s lovely, Bruno. You’re very creative. Now, let’s put it down carefully so it doesn’t smudge. It would be a shame to spoil it. Do you want to do another one?”