The Still Point. Amy Sackville
blaze.
Edward, for his part, had spent many months at sea without female company, and can surely be forgiven for following the wildness of his heart upon his arrival in London; but while the charms of Leicester Square’s ladies were not negligible, he had, after all, his duty, and had reluctantly returned to the family home. It would be a duty sorely borne, for the women with whom he was expected to associate bored him. He was bored by their adoration for his one great adventure. He knew that the likes of Jane Whitstable would never tire of being wedded to an explorer, a hero, provided he was never so rash as to explore any further, ever again. He would for ever be known for this single futile expedition, a glory enough for the small town he’d be trapped in. And he would be respectable and sire children and his wife would sit and stitch; their girls would play the piano prettily, the boys would all be called John and Edward. There would be kippers and baked eggs and bacon for breakfast, there would be luncheons, casseroles and cutlets, and then there would be tea and muffins and buns and toast, and then there would be dinner, there would be asparagus soup then sole then quail then veal and cherry clafoutis for dessert, then cigars then port then sleep in separate beds then gout or rheumatism and then, eventually, death.
Then Emily Gardiner shook his hand, and blushed in confusion because he’d meant to kiss it, and she blushed deep crimson rather than pink and was really a terrible flirt — that is, she was terrible at flirting and didn’t seem even to try. But when they spoke about the snow, her eyes danced like the light upon it. She loved him for the dangers he had passed… and he loved her that she did savour them. She would never hold him back from the brink, but spur him over it to greatness.
And so began the Mackley family’s favourite story.
China
On the table in the hallway, there are flowers in a vase. Arranged with an artlessness that says they have art enough alone — surely by Julia’s hand. Bright blooms thrown together, yellow, blue, white and vibrant; imagine her, coming in from the garden, her arms full of summer, trailing hyacinth and lily scent behind her. But, you notice, they are dying. They have been snapped off and tossed in this china vase with no care for their frailty. Even as we watch, a petal shudders, seems to sigh, and slips onto the heap of those already fallen, gently and suddenly over the last hour. They are browning about the edges. Their leaves, left to stand in the water, are rotting. If we draw close enough to be daubed orange by their stamens, we will smell something foetid from the depths. There is a rusty stain where pollen has silently exploded on the linen tablecloth that John’s wife, her Great-grandmother Arabella, hand-stitched. (Simon, in the city, is thinking of buying his wife flowers; but of course he is not here to witness the petal fall, and it is only a coincidence that he should think of this just as the lily is dying — he has other reasons, which will become apparent perhaps, in time.)
The last petal to fall shivered itself free in Julia’s wake, for we caught her in the hallway in a momentary gilt-framed pause, and she has since moved off, breaking the gaze of the past in the mirror. In the kitchen, the spoils of her recent venture are spread before her in brown paper bags. She has kicked off her sandals and is standing in a square of light where the sun has warmed the tiles, and she works her toes into the stone for a moment. Terracotta, she thinks, the baked earth beneath her feet.
Terra cotta, terra firma, old maps with the infirm edges so unlike the warm earth stone under the soles
And then a wiry softness around her ankles. Julia bends to lift Tess and press her flat cat face against her own, tells her she stinks and sets her gently down again, with which the cat is quite satisfied — she did not enjoy the hand under her belly, having gorged herself on tuna while Julia was out. Julia stands barefoot at the kitchen table, mopping olive oil with a torn chunk of bread. The tomatoes are sliced thickly, plucked from a ripe basketful on the pavement, and taste still of the sun. Italy filling her mouth and mind again, she bought three, full of that dark green vine-scent, that earthy almost bitter tang that belies the sweetness. Strawberries, too, in a punnet, she lifted them to her nose and the grocer, watching, felt his heart swell with redness. Then, next door, to the baker. It is indeed a very pretty market town, and there are still shops like these to be found on street corners, baking their own bread, selling local produce, eggs fresh from the farms, yolks of all yellows within their brown, nubbly shells.
Julia on her way back to the house, minutes ago, loaf tucked under one arm, the other swinging the bag of fruit: she’s humming to herself. The hot road smells of summer, she nods to her neighbours as she passes. The grocer, filling a tray with lettuces Peter Rabbit might have plundered, soft and frilled and grassy green, watches her go. A man mowing his front lawn pauses to admire her, her pale brown back and the narrow straps of her dress, her head on one side, her hips insouciant in the sunshine, as if she’s dancing home. He thinks of his wife, who died last year and was also young once; he shades his eyes from the sun. If this shopping trip is little more than another way to sideskip boredom, if Julia is momentarily elated simply to have the eyes of others upon her, this man would never guess it.
The woman who lives in the house opposite Simon and Julia’s and two doors down is just locking her door behind her. She has the afternoon off, and is on her way into London, to do some shopping. She has a date this evening but is too restless and excited to wait until then; dates have been rare since the divorce, all she wants is to feel she has a chance. By the time she turns, Julia has passed, crossed the road and reached the house, and slipped inside unseen. The neighbour in the dressing gown (now fully dressed) has escaped the discomfort of polite conversation with her rival.
This is the journey from which Julia returned, slamming the door to alert us; and now she is in the kitchen, kneeling on the floor. There is a splash of oil on her dress and a broken plate before her. Tess, in the corner, licks a reproachful paw.
Stand up. In a minute. I’ll get up in a minute and do some work. I’ll clear away the plate, I will need to clear away the plate, second thing broken in a week, they were cheap we’ve had them for years I must never use the good china I break everything. Aunt Helen saying silly old woman as I knelt on the rug to mop up and he gave me his hanky.
Julia’s cheek rests on her left palm. With her right she holds a piece of the plate which is in five other pieces on the floor. Her eyes fix on a space somewhere between them.
Stand up
She slides her fingers down the side of her face and taps the tips against her top lip slowly.
Stand up and go back to the attic. Back to the animals, back to the snow, the sunrise this morning so beautiful pale blue
With sudden unexpected decision she rises, takes the dustpan from below the sink, sweeps up the pieces of the plate, throws them into the pedal bin and bends to pet Tess (who instantly forgives the alarm she caused) as she leaves the room, clasping the diary she has recovered from the garden. She trips lightly up the stairs, but pauses on the landing to admire the butterflies.
She has left a joint of lamb marinating in the kitchen, in wine and herbs and anchovy, the savoury smell of it twitching at Tess’s whiskers. Tess is as agile as any self-respecting feline should be but has learned her lesson from the last time she tried to reach the top of the tall, smooth-sided fridge, and succeeded only in scrabbling at the dish there and upending a fish pie on herself. It’s true she had the chance to lap a little off the floor before Julia, alerted by the crash, found her, but it had all been most undignified. So the lamb remains out of paws’ reach, ready to be offered up this evening.
Julia wants to please Simon today; she knows, although neither one has said it, and despite the fact that they made love (on a Wednesday), that she annoyed him last night; that the nuisance of an evening he would rather have avoided, and hadn’t expected to have to endure, will hang over him all day and her too. ‘Remember dinner tonight with the Watsons’ — she was irritated at breakfast, imagining him saying it, when in fact it is she that should have reminded him, and didn’t, whatever she chose to call them. He is right to be annoyed; she is annoyed with herself, for being so hopeless and disorganized and always proving him right. When did