Shooting Butterflies Read online

  SHOOTING BUTTERFLIES

  Marika Cobbold

  To Jeremy (My son the doctor.)

  Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Dedication

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Part 1: Louisa

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Part 2: Louisa

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Part 3: Louisa

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Part 4: Louisa

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Part 5: Louisa

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Part 6: Louisa

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Part 7: Louisa

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Acknowledgments

  A Note on the Author

  By the Same Author

  Imprint

  Light is energy, making visible anything that produces it;

  also anything that receives and is illuminated by it, such as the moon

  and virtually any other object we see.

  The Remarkable thing about this morning was not that it was Grace’s birthday; after all, that occurred once a year so by the time you got to forty you should have ceased to be surprised. Nor was there much to say about the day itself; she walked down Kensington High Street to get the paper and it was muggy and overcast, the air so heavy with pollution you felt like offering it a hand to rise.

  Back home, there was nothing odd about the toaster malfunctioning, Grace’s two slices of white bread getting caught and having to be prised out piece by piece, nor about the tea turning cold before she remembered to remove the teabag. And she had expected cards; she had friends, after all, and Mrs Shield. No, what gave the day its unusual quality was that the postman, when he arrived, handed her a present from her dead lover.

  She tore open the tattered brown paper parcel with its US stamps, thinking it might be a present from her Aunt Kathleen. Inside was a picture. She lifted it out and turned it the right way, gazing at the painting as if she had found a pink, breathing baby beneath a heap of rags. Outdoors, it was murky; leaden sky, charcoal asphalt, and the dirty white of the 1960s concrete building opposite. Indoors, the picture brought its own light.

  There was an envelope hidden in a pocket of the wrapping. It had been opened and sealed again with a couple of bits of tape. On it was written simply Grace. It was his writing. She put the envelope down on the table, shook herself and then she looked again. It was still his writing. She picked the envelope up and tore it open. Her heart was hammering in her chest as she read on, but her hands remained steady; it was her training.

  My darling Grace,

  I came across this painting on my walk this morning. You were working and I was strolling through Chelsea, frightening passers-by with the stupid grin on my face as I thought of seeing you in just a little while. I found it at the back of a small antiques shop and I knew you would love it. I was told it wasn’t for sale. I thought I recognised the building in the background and when I saw Northbourne House actually written next to the signature I knew I had to have it. Don’t ask me how I managed to talk them round, but I did.

  And don’t ask me what the sea is doing not far from that house – artistic licence, obviously – but I wonder if the figure at the edge of the painting is your ‘ghost’.

  I’ll send the painting to you when we are far apart, as an emissary of my love. Poor ghost, I know how he feels as he gazes at the girl on the beach; I know how he longs to be with her.

  I love you, always and for ever,

  J.

  She read the letter three times and with each reading her heart beat faster and she grew dizzy and short of breath and had to sit down. She was in her kitchen, surrounded by familiar things; the sky-blue painted cupboards and the old gas cooker that she never got round to replacing because there always seemed to be something more urgent, or at least more interesting, to do with the money. There was the small tray with bottles of olive oil and vinegar, the jars of different teabags, her pot of honey. In front of her was the battered oak table that was too big for the room and on the wall behind hung the double row of black and white photographs, each of the same forlorn seascape, each taken at a different time with the sea in a different mood. She looked at it all, disconnected, floating like a leftover balloon in a factory sky.

  The painting was the kind of gift – remarkable and utterly right – that he would send her; but two years after his death? Grace was not one of those people who discounted miracles; she just didn’t think them likely. He was dead and, this being life, there would be no resurrection.

  She propped the picture up against the back of one of the kitchen chairs. She looked at what he had looked at; there was a time lag of over two years, but they were sharing a view: the house brooding in the background, the dark-haired girl seated by the water’s edge, the figure gazing at her with such longing, and all washed in a light so clear it might have been sieved through a fine muslin cloth. The sea was playing in shades of blue and, beyond, the horizon was endless. Grace had seen such light and such horizons in the past, in other places, but never from a window at Northbourne House. And A.L. Forbes, who was he? She had never heard of a painter of that name, yet this was not some amateur effort but the work of a true artist.

  She turned the letter over in her hand and it was then she noticed the scribble on the back.

  Well, Grace, I found this touching little note and the accompanying ‘artwork’ while going through the last of his stuff. As I can’t believe even the thrift shop will want it, I am passing it on to you. Maybe he had second thoughts about giving it to you; an unexpected lapse into good taste, perhaps. But that we’ll never know now, will we? I wish you joy of it.

  Sincerely yours,

  Cherry McGraw (Mrs)

  Grace arrived at her stepmother’s in time for tea. Mrs Shield said, ‘You look like you’ve seen a ghost.’ Grace laughed so loudly and for so long that Mrs Shield decided her stepdaughter must finally be having that nervous breakdown.

  They went for a walk in the grounds, Mrs Shield casting little searching glances in Grace’s direction. Mrs Shield could not stand being left out. And Grace was trying to think of a way of telling her about the painting without getting emotional. It was not that Mrs Shield would not understand, because she would. She would cluck and pat and fuss and fret and put the kettle back on, and that was all right for a bashed toe or a mislaid wallet but not for the really serious stuff; for that you needed space and time and silence. So Grace said nothing and Mrs Shield was left to worry as the sun shone across the lawns where rabbits played, not just at dusk but in the middle of the day, in broad daylight.

  Evangeline Shield had only recently moved back to Northbourne and the purpose-built development on the edge of the village. The change had been prompted by her discovery, one spring morning, that her windows were a disgrace. The final decision to move had been taken when, at their usual Tuesday bridge tea, her dear frie
nd Marjory pointed out that the little black grains in the cake were not cardamom but mouse droppings. Soon afterwards, Mrs Shield became a resident of the newly opened Northbourne Gardens, modelled on the Golden Agers Village in Florida. What were now sixteen small flats and twelve purpose-built bungalows, all so bright you could smell the paint, and set in grounds as stiffly immaculate as a dowager’s bouffant, had once been the home of the Glastonbury family, the stately Northbourne Manor with its stables and extensive grounds. The Glastonburys had departed in a hurry long before Grace was born and for years the once-magnificent house had been left to decay, its famous gardens turned into thorny wilderness. But now it was all part of what the new owners described as Dedicated Living for Active Seniors. Apart from the actual accommodation, there was a cafeteria-style restaurant in the main building for those days when you’re too busy enjoying life to cook, a swimming-pool, a gym, an arts centre, the village hall and a village store selling food staples, stamps, newspapers and support hosiery.

  Mrs Shield had said to Grace at the time of her move, ‘As you can see, it’s a world away from one of those old people’s places.’

  Now she said, ‘The gardens are looking wonderful, don’t you think?’ gesticulating at the neatly undulating borders of asters and tea roses. ‘Quite restored, they say.’ But she still kept her eyes on Grace.

  The next morning however, Mrs Shield forgot all about Grace’s ‘queer look’ as she opened the Sunday papers. ‘Oh my goodness! Really, I never thought anything would come out of it.’

  Grace vaguely registered her stepmother speaking from behind the arts supplement, but it was the fifth time in as many minutes that Mrs Shield had muttered some comment or other so she paid little attention. Mrs Shield, never a respecter of other people’s space, reached forward and gave Grace a sharp poke with the index finger of her good hand. ‘Grace, you’re not listening. Where Are You Now?’

  Grace assumed a look of infinite patience; she had not realised how old her stepmother was getting. ‘I’m here, Evie; right opposite you.’

  ‘Don’t be daft, Grace. I know where you are. It’s this.’ She slapped Grace on the knee with the paper. ‘There, see for yourself. Blighted promise: the heavy prize of success. Prize with a z; it’s a pun, I think.’

  Grace took the paper. ‘Thank you, Evie, for explaining that.’

  The shortlist for Britain’s biggest photography prize, the Unibank Award, had just been announced and the newspaper’s arts editor, Nell Gordon, was taking a look. The prize, awarded every two years and worth thirty thousand pounds, was said to make a photographer’s career. Other than in the case of the last recipient, Grace Shield. It’s true that for the couple of weeks that constitutes an eternity in the world of the media, Grace Shield had been everywhere and called everything from shutter babe to voyeur, from remarkable talentto exploitative pervert. But after that nothing was heard of her. So whatever happened to all that controversial talent? Let’s do a profile, try to find out. August was the silly season. A chunk of misery, a hint of scandal and some promise lost must have seemed like a godsend. It was not as if Grace was entirely unprepared for the attention; she had been contacted by the paper a few days earlier, but she had believed that her short polite, ‘I have nothing to say, but thank you for asking,’ would be the end of it.

  ‘At least it’s a serious paper,’ Mrs Shield said. ‘That’s what I thought when they called. As long as it isn’t one of those dreadful tabloids, I’m quite happy to help. And they had talked to your cousin Patricia in Ireland already – fancy going to all that trouble – and all sorts of other people. I said to them, “Of course, I know Grace is very clever, but I didn’t appreciate that she was this important.”’

  ‘You talked to them. This … this rubbish is your doing?’ Grace felt a sudden urge to leap at Mrs Shield like a rabid monkey and grab her plump neck and squeeze. Instead she took three deep breaths: in through the nose, out through the mouth. Mrs Shield, a large woman with tiny features assembled close together in the middle of a moon-face, shrank and her pale blue eyes filled with tears as she twisted her broad hands in her lap. ‘I’m sorry, dear.’

  Grace looked at her and sighed. ‘No, I’m sorry, Evie. I didn’t mean to be nasty. I just hate it all being raked up again. I can’t tell you how much I hate it.’

  ‘I don’t think it’s at all unkind. It’s quite sympathetic, actually. I don’t know where she got all the information from because I certainly didn’t say much.’ Mrs Shield paused to blow her nose in a pink tissue she had pulled out from her sleeve. ‘Oh Grace, I thought you’d be pleased.’

  ‘It didn’t occur to you to check with me first?’

  ‘I was worried you might be … difficult about it.’

  ‘How right you were,’ Grace said.

  ‘And I thought a little encouragement, a little push, might help you get started again.’

  ‘A little encouragement …’ Grace waved the paper at Mrs Shield. ‘Is that what you call being turned inside out and hung out to dry with your guts flapping? And even if, by some twisted chance, I did find that encouraging, do you really think I’d pick up my camera just like that … after everything that happened?’

  ‘Grace, please … And the picture is nice.’ Mrs Shield dabbed at her nose with the tissue. ‘I always did like your hair short.’

  ‘I look like an ageing orphan,’ Grace said, which, come to think of it, was exactly what she was. That black dress with its round neckline and that awful urchin cut and the eyes all wide and tragic; ironically, she had been truly happy that evening. She sighed once more, shaking her head. ‘Evie, don’t you see, I wouldn’t mind unkind. Unkind is fine with me. I’ve made peace with nasty. But pity! That bloody article is holding me up to all the world …’

  ‘I believe the readership, that is the people actually reading the paper as opposed to the copies purchased, is two and a half million.’

  Although tall and agile with strong hands, Grace was not, by and large, an intimidating person, but something in her expression made Mrs Shield decide to say nothing more for a moment or two. When she felt that Grace had calmed down sufficiently, she concluded, ‘At least I’ll have something to stick in my album.’

  Mrs Shield was not an imaginative woman, nor was she especially creative, but her scrapbook, bound in burgundy leather, was her flight of fancy. She had begun assembling it soon after her marriage to Grace’s father, Gabriel, starting with a spare invitation to their modest wedding and following with theatre programmes, admission tickets to special events and exhibitions, little notes from her husband and from her stepchildren, Finn and Grace, the odd pressed flower, a menu or two and, eventually, clippings from newspapers and magazines. Lately there had not been much for Mrs Shield’s album.

  Grace, having finished reading, folded the paper neatly before getting up and putting it in the bin. Mrs Shield, moving with a speed admirable for a woman her age and weight, retrieved it and clasped it to her chest. Grace looked at her and then she shook her head and went to sit down again. Speaking quietly, she said, ‘I really don’t understand. There’s been sadness, of course there has. But that’s life, any life. Compared to most people on this earth, I’ve been lucky. I am lucky. So what is this?’ She waved in the direction of the paper still clasped to Mrs Shield’s bosom. ‘Tragic, failed relationships, crushed dreams … Well, I ask you, am I the only one? Unfulfilled promise, thwarted desires … that’s what you expect, isn’t it? And what about the rest, the good stuff? I’ve experienced happiness that some go to their graves without ever knowing.’ Grace was not the pleading kind, but the way she looked at Mrs Shield just then, you might think she was.

  ‘It’s only a newspaper article,’ Mrs Shield said. She returned Grace’s gaze, eyes round and bright, her head cocked to one side. ‘Maybe you’re so upset because you think they might have a point.’

  ‘Don’t be so bloody stupid!’ Grace leapt from her seat, knocking into the spindly-legged coffee table and upsetting a cup. />
  Mrs Shield said, the way she had always said to Finn or Grace when they were shouting, ‘Screaming won’t scare the truth away.’

  ‘Screaming might alert your neighbours to the fact that I’m in the process of killing you,’ Grace replied. Mrs Shield ignored her, brushing some crumbs of toast from her navy cardigan.

  ‘Anyway, there’s no such thing as “just a newspaper article” these days, Evie. Things are downloaded and stored. They don’t ever go away; oh no, they hibernate somewhere on a disk, and just when you think you’re safe, up they pop, mutated into a columnist’s rant or attached to someone else’s life, but there, never really gone.’

  Nell Gordon was a serious journalist writing for a serious paper. Her piece was not ill-informed; it dealt well with many aspects of Grace’s work and when it came to her private life did not rely entirely on gossip. No, the problem was a question of focus, focus and an absence of Grace’s living mind on the bare facts of her life.

  Mrs Shield shook her head. ‘Tragedy lurking beneath the successful façade; it’s a common story.’

  ‘And happiness lurking behind the tragic façade is my story.’

  Mrs Shield gave her a long kind look. ‘If you say so, dear. If you say so.’

  Grace asked, ‘How did a simple phrase like if you say so come to mean I don’t believe a word you say?’

  * * *

  On Monday morning Mrs Shield took a tumble as she ran behind the car, waving Grace off.

  When she emerged from the surgery an hour later, her voice was small as she told Grace, ‘I’ve cracked three ribs. Oh, I am a silly old woman.’

  In the car she said, ‘They can’t do anything, of course; that’s the fashion these days, leaving broken bones just to get on with it, but I will have to keep still. No bending or lifting.’