A Mother's Love(8)

Celeste stood in the hall wondering why she didn’t feel relieved that Bruno had gone out to entertain himself. Instead, she felt a stab of guilt. Would he be all right on his own? What if he got lost? Was she callous to leave an eight-year-old child to his own devices? She hovered, deliberating what to do. The morning stretched out empty and quiet as before, but suddenly, now that Bruno had come to stay, the prospect of spending it alone was no longer so appealing. The house felt emptier and quieter than was comfortable.

She set about clearing away breakfast. There had only been three of them, but she took her time, putting three cups, three plates, one bowl, and cutlery into the dishwasher. Then, with mounting pleasure, she climbed the stairs to tidy the child’s room. He hadn’t made any mess. His pajamas were neatly folded on the bed, but he hadn’t made it. This pleased her, for it gave her something to do. She stripped it bare and started again. It gave her a surprising sense of satisfaction to make it neatly, knowing that Bruno would be in it that night. She placed the slippers on the carpet and his dressing gown across the quilt. Then she stood at the window and looked out onto the summer’s day. The rain had left the countryside sparkling clean and the birds were frolicking about in the sunshine. She allowed the sight to uplift her. Instead of feeling resentment, she felt the first small stirrings of joy. It was as if she had looked out onto the garden but seen only her own sad reflection in the glass. Now she flung open the window and saw the vibrant green of the leaves and the sapphire blue of the sky. Fat bees buzzed about the hollyhocks and butterflies bathed their wings in the sun. She listened to the birdsong and felt the jasmine-scented breeze on her skin. For a while she forgot her pain. She surrendered to the moment and the moment was sweet.

When Bruno eventually returned, she felt a wave of relief. He hadn’t gotten lost. His cheeks were pink and his eyes shining and he looked happy. “Did you have fun exploring?” she asked.

“Yes, Grandpa took me up to the woods.”

“Did you see any hares? The woods are full of hares.”

“Yes, lots, and a few rabbits, too. We saw a couple of deer. They looked small, like they were baby deer.”

“They’re called fawns.”

“Really? Well, we saw fawns, then. They were really sweet.”

“Would you like something to drink? You must be thirsty.”

“Yes, please.”

“I can make some fresh lemonade.”

“Yummy,” said Bruno.

“Come, you can make it with me, if you like.”

He shrugged. “Okay. But first I’ll put my things in my bedroom.”

Celeste frowned, not knowing what things he was speaking about. But she knew better than to pry into his games. She wandered into the kitchen feeling that strange stirring of joy return with more force this time.

She didn’t know where her enthusiasm came from, but she didn’t try to suppress it. She gave in to the desire to please and set about cutting lemons for Bruno to squeeze. He seemed to forget his earlier nervousness and warmed to the task. Together they made half a pint of juice, filled a jug with ice, water, and some sugar, and gave it a good stir with a wooden spoon. “Doesn’t that look good? Just what a thirsty boy needs.”

“It looks delicious,” Bruno agreed.

“Let’s see if it tastes as good as it looks.” She poured them both a glass. Bruno took a sip. He nodded and grinned over the rim. “Good, eh?” she asked.

“Good,” he replied.

“I thought I’d cook paella for lunch. Do you like paella?”

“What’s that?” he answered.

“It’s a Spanish dish with prawns and rice and vegetables. It’s very good. Do you want to try it?”

“Sure.”

“Good. What do you want to do now?”

“I’ll go and find Grandpa,” he said, and Celeste was surprised by her disappointment. She’d rather hoped he’d stay up at the cottage with her.

“Okay,” she said. “Will you come up at one for lunch? You do have a watch, don’t you?” He held out his wrist for her to see the big, black watch that hung loosely on his narrow bones. “Good.”

“Can I take Tarquin again?”

“I think he’d be very sad if you didn’t take him.”

“Thank you,” he said politely, then skipped off into the sunshine.

Celeste felt her joy dissipate as the child’s happy singing faded then disappeared. She thought she had entertained him making lemonade. He seemed to have enjoyed it. She certainly had. Her spirits sank into the familiar darkness and she slowly climbed the stairs. She remained awhile in her bedroom, lying on her bed, her mind shutting out the twittering of birds in the garden, searching her soul for the pain as a tongue searches the mouth for the aching tooth. But before she could find it, the merry chirping broke through her defenses, filling her soul with delightful song. She turned onto her back and let it carry her.