A Mother's Love(9)

A while later she found herself outside the deserted clapboard house at the bottom of the garden. The key turned easily in the lock and the door opened without a single groan of protest. She was hit suddenly by the long-forgotten smell of endeavor. She inhaled deeply and surrendered to the dizzy scents of her past. It was warm and deliciously familiar. Everything was as she had left it. Sewing machine on the long wooden table, materials piled high, boxes of buttons, sequins, lace, felt, velvet, silk, and shiny baubles and tinsel. It was all tidy—she hadn’t been able to work in chaos—and waiting patiently for her to take up her seat and sew again.

She struggled a moment with an unseen, though acutely recognizable, force. It was as if she had unwittingly stumbled upon herself, locked up there with the rolls of fabric, ribbon, and trimmings. She hadn’t even been aware that she was lost.

Then she saw Jack’s quilt lying on a stool in the far corner of the room. She fought the onslaught of memories and the subdued pain burned again in her soul. She reached for it and brought the fabric to her nostrils. She closed her eyes and remembered her little boy lying sick in his bed. “One more square to do,” she had told him. “I wonder what I shall put on it. A bee? A tractor? What would you like, do you think?” He had smiled weakly, too ill to speak. “Well, by the time I finish it, you will be better, my darling.” But she had never finished it.

Now tears tumbled down her cheeks, soaking into the cotton. She had never finished it because Jack had never gotten better. Now she never would. Then something on the floor caught her eye. She stopped crying and stared, not sure what to make of it. There, in neat rows, were the spools of thread graded by color. She caught her breath and her eyes widened. And then she felt it. A ripple broke like a wave upon her skin and she shivered. She didn’t dare move in case the feeling was lost. She closed her eyes and sensed her son.





5

“Well, hello, young man,” said Marigold as her grandson came wandering down the garden with Tarquin. “You’ve exhausted poor Grandpa,” she added, putting down the newspaper.

“Is he sleeping?” Bruno asked.

“No, he’s reading in his study. Were you hoping he’d play with you?”

“I’m good,” he replied nonchalantly.

“Well, you have a friend in that silly dog.”

“He’s not silly, Grandma. He’s very clever.”

“Is he? I’m not entirely sure.” She smiled and patted the bench beside her. “So, what did you do with Grandpa?”

“We went to the wood to find things.”

“And did you find what you wanted?”

“Some things.” He frowned. “Grandma, can I borrow a peacock feather?”

Marigold raised her eyebrows in surprise. “How do you know I have peacock feathers?” The child hesitated, then his eyes widened as he seemed to struggle to find a plausible explanation. “Did Grandpa tell you?”

“Yes,” Bruno replied. “I need one for my project.”

“That sounds interesting. Come with me and you can choose one.”

She took his hand and led him through the French doors into the drawing room. He looked around with curiosity, for unlike his uncle’s house, his grandmother’s was full of fascinating things. There were piles of books and magazines everywhere. Bookcases were stuffed with old, dusty-looking tomes. Collages of paintings covered all the walls and objects were crammed onto every surface: crystal grapes, bottles of colored sand, silver trinkets, and little statues of old-fashioned ladies in long dresses. There were Persian rugs on the floors and in the hall a giant fireplace dominated the room with an alcove cut into the wall beside it, crammed full of massive logs.

“Your house is very big,” he said, pulling on his grandmother’s hand as he slowed down to take everything in.

“You should explore inside as well as out,” she told him.

“I will, but I might get lost in here.”

“No, you won’t, unless you climb into the wardrobe. You know what happens in the wardrobe, don’t you?”

“Narnia,” he replied with a grin.

“Yes, very good.” She chuckled. “A whole new world.”

“I love stories, Grandma.”

“So do I,” she agreed.

She led him into the dining room. In the middle of the large round table was a vase of peacock feathers. They were bright against the dark mahogany of the table. “You see, I have lots, don’t I?” She leant across and pulled the vase towards them. “Which one do you like? They’re all rather spectacular. God must have had a lot of fun creating these.”