Too Close to the Sun (3 page)

‘Cleeson. I’m not familiar with the name.’ Mrs Spencer shook her head, then said, ‘I understand that your mother died not so long ago.’

‘Yes, that’s correct. She died just this past spring.’

Mrs Spencer nodded, then turned in the direction of Billy. ‘And this young man is, I imagine, a member of your family?’ The cadence of the woman’s voice clearly directed a question at him, but Grace responded.

‘Yes, ma’am. Billy’s my brother.’

‘And do you have other brothers? Sisters?’

‘No, ma’am, there’s just Billy and me.’

‘Just the two of you? There is a great difference in your ages.’

‘Yes, ma’am. My mother always spoke of my brother as her “late blessing”.’

‘I see. And have you had the burden of caring for him and your father?’

‘Oh, it’s not a burden. Besides, we have a lady who comes in just three or four times during the week to help out. Mrs Tanner – she lives in the village – she’s been a great help over – over difficult times.’

‘I’m glad to hear it. And when your pupils have gone away to school, what will you do? Find another position, I suppose. There’s no shortage of boys and girls who need tuition. May I ask how old you are?’

‘I was twenty in April.’

The woman brushed a hand over her forehead in a melodramatic gesture. ‘Twenty. Is it possible that anyone on earth is twenty.’ She looked at Grace for several seconds in silence, then said, ‘Well, Miss Harper, I just hope you make the most of it – being twenty. Because it’ll never come again. As you’ll learn. Have you got a young man?’

Grace found herself colouring slightly at the question, and was at a loss as to how to answer. ‘I have – I have a – an acquaintance,’ she said after a moment.

‘Well, that’s something,’ Mrs Spencer smiled. ‘At twenty it’s time you were thinking about getting settled. May I ask who this acquaintance might be?’

‘His name is Stephen Cantrell. He lives in Green Shipton.’

‘And how old is he?’

‘Twenty-six.’

‘And do you have hopes – plans – where he is concerned?’

Grace briefly lowered her gaze, uncomfortable at the line of questioning. ‘No plans, ma’am,’ she said, then quickly added, ‘I wouldn’t presume so. We haven’t – spoken of such things.’

‘Well, perhaps it’s time,’ said the woman. She continued to gaze at Grace, then lowered her eyes to the picture again, running her fingers gently over the frame. ‘Yes, the frame is very well made.’ Then she added, with a touch of irony in her tone, ‘Though I’m not that sure about the painting.’ Abruptly she turned the face of the canvas towards Grace and Billy. ‘What do you think of it?’ she asked, addressing the question to Grace.

The painting, which Grace had of course seen previous to
their starting out that day, was a still life, the subject comprising a bowl with apples, a small bunch of grapes and a blue china vase holding two or three lilies set off by sprays of fine maidenhair fern. The whole thing was painted in the most delicate detail, in the English artistic fashion of the day, and must, Grace was sure, have taken a considerable time to complete.

‘Well?’ the woman prompted. ‘What do you think?’

Grace dreaded saying the wrong thing. There was no overestimating how touchy people could be when it came to things they held dear.

‘I like it very much,’ she said at last.

‘Oh, you do?’

‘Yes, very much,’ Grace said.

‘And you, young man.’ Mrs Spencer turned her attention to Billy. ‘I’m sure you can do better than your sister. What do
you
think of it?’ Then before she could receive an answer, she added, ‘What is your name, by the way?’

Billy just looked at her, silent, awed, and Grace said:

‘Billy, ma’am. His name’s –’

The woman held up a gloved hand. ‘Let him speak for himself.’ Then to Billy: ‘Your name, little boy. Tell me your name.’

Grace willed him:
Don’t stammer. Oh, Billy, don’t stammer. There’s nothing to be afraid of
. And Billy drew back his chin, sucking in air, as if trying to snatch and draw in courage. ‘P-please, ma’am,’ he said, ‘it’s B-B-B-Billy.’

‘Billy?’ Mrs Spencer said. ‘Is that William?’

He nodded.

‘Right.’ She gave a little nod. ‘So – tell me, Master William Harper, what do you think of my painting?’

Billy began to take a step back but Grace put out her right hand and laid it across his shoulder. Touching him, feeling his nervous body beneath her hand, she gently pressed his shoulder with her fingers. ‘Go on,’ she murmured, giving
him an encouraging smile. ‘Tell the lady what you think.’

‘Yes, do,’ Mrs Spencer said to him, ‘though while you’re about it maybe you shouldn’t be too honest.’ She peered at him, fixing him with her gaze, waiting. ‘So, tell me – what do you think of it?’

‘Go on,’ Grace prompted, ‘tell Mrs Spencer how much you like it. I know you do; you told me so.’ A pause. ‘You did, don’t you remember?’

He nodded.

‘Tell the lady, then.’

Still he said nothing.

‘Come on,’ the woman said. ‘We’re waiting.’

‘It’s true, ma’am,’ Grace said. ‘He does like it. When my father was wrapping the paintings Billy said how much he liked them. He really did.’

Mrs Spencer looked at her coldly. ‘I don’t care to be patronized, young lady.’

Grace felt herself flushing with embarrassment. ‘No, really, it’s true. He said that –’

‘Please,’ the woman said, ‘don’t go on.’ She turned to Billy. ‘It’s the boy’s opinion I want. Tell me, what do you think of my painting?’

Billy flicked the swiftest glance at Grace, then, receiving an encouraging nod from her, said, ‘Please, m-ma’am – I like it very much.’

‘Oh, you do? How old are you, young man?’

Billy bent his head and looked down at the floor again.

‘He’s eight years old,’ Grace said.

‘Let him speak for himself,’ Mrs Spencer said. ‘How old are you?’

Now Billy spoke. ‘E-e-eight,’ he said.

‘Eight years old,’ Mrs Spencer said, putting the painting down beside the other one. ‘And what are you learning at school?’

He remained silent.

‘Do you like painting?’

‘Yes,’ Grace said, ‘we enjoy painting, don’t we? And we like looking at paintings too.’

‘How fascinating,’ the woman said. She nodded, then reached out and took hold of a silver-headed cane. Leaning on it, she rose to her feet and moved to the window. And as she walked, Grace and Billy’s eyes became fixed upon her skirts, seeing the way she limped heavily on her right leg. At the window she raised the sash a little more, then turned and moved back to her chair. And still the two pairs of eyes focused on her limping gait.

‘Well,’ she said, her eyes flicking from Billy to Grace as she stood before her chair once more, ‘have you seen enough?’ Her voice was like ice, her eyes like steel points. ‘Or would you like me to perambulate around the room again?’

Grace flushed with embarrassment, then managed to say, ‘I – I think we had better be leaving, ma’am. We’ve taken up enough of your time.’

‘Indeed so. I’ll ring for the maid to show you out.’

As the woman turned to move towards the bell pull and tugged upon it, there was a sudden little flurry of movement in the room. And almost in the same moment Billy was turning, giving out a little cry of anguish. Grace saw the reason for it: a bird had flown in at the open window and was flying about the room in a panic. And even as she watched, the small, swooping creature flew against one of the closed windows, struck the glass pane and fell onto the floor. At once Billy left Grace’s side and was dashing across the room.

Gently he picked up the small bird in his two hands, and peered at it through the space between his fingers. ‘It’s a little hedge sparrow,’ he said, his cupped hands held before his chest. ‘It’s quite stunned.’ And then after a few moments his face lit up, and he turned first to the woman and then to
Grace. ‘It’s moving. I can feel it moving in my hands. I can feel its heart beating.’

Mrs Spencer now stood with her eyes fixed on Billy.

Billy said with a breathless little laugh, ‘I can feel him in my hands – he’s that desperate to be free.’

Limping to the window, he thrust his cupped hands, closed like a clamshell, out into the air. And then slowly he withdrew his upper hand. The bird lay on his palm, quite still. ‘Come on,’ Billy whispered. And then the bird stirred and raised itself on its feet. Then, giving a little shake and opening its wings, it lifted off and took flight.

Billy watched as the bird flew away and disappeared from sight. Then he turned back, the smile still on his face, to his sister. ‘He’ll be all right now,’ he said.

Stepping to Grace’s side he seemed suddenly to become aware of the situation again, of being there in an unfamiliar room in a great house, with a disapproving woman before him. But then the maid was there, and Grace and Billy were turning and following her out of the room.

With Asterleigh House behind them Grace said to Billy, ‘Shall we call in at the Pits on the way home? It’ll be nice by the water.’ And he said, ‘Yes, all right,’ and they left the road to follow a short path that led them to the old disused clay pit. It was a beautiful spot. The water sparkled under the bright July sun, while around the banks tall willows cast their shade as small fish darted in the shallows.

The venue was a favourite with the people from around the area, and many times throughout her life Grace had been there. At first alone with her mother, and then later with her brother also along. Then, over the last year, when her mother had become too ill to make the journey, Grace had herself taken Billy for the occasional excursion.

On this particular day there was no one else about, and while Grace settled down in the shade of some silver
birches, Billy wandered off, Grace’s exhortations to be careful lingering in his ears. While he was gone, Grace sat gazing out across the lake, listening to the birdsong and the breaking of the water’s surface as the fish came up to feed. Apart from such sounds, all else was still, peaceful, with barely even a breeze to ruffle the water’s calm. Soon Billy was back, flopping down on the grass at her side.

‘You’ve been quick,’ Grace said. ‘I thought you were going off exploring.’

‘I don’t want to today.’

‘You don’t feel like it?’

‘Not today.’

‘You could go in for your swim.’

‘No, not today.’

‘Why not? A fine swimmer like you – to miss a fine chance like this? You’d soon dry off in this sun.’

‘I don’t feel like it. Perhaps another day.’

‘As you like.’

She felt a sense of disappointment. She had thought that the little sojourn would have a positive effect on him, but it had not. Looking at him, she thought that he appeared dull and preoccupied, and totally uninterested in the surroundings which he had usually found so fascinating. He sat silent, his gaze unseeing over the water. Grace, twelve years his senior, could see her own features reflected in his. He had been a surprise child for their parents, a joyous surprise, born to them when neither expected to have another.

‘What are you thinking about?’ Grace asked him.

‘Nothing much,’ he said; and then: ‘Imagine – Mrs Spencer limping like that, Grace.’

‘Yes,’ she said.

She looked at him but he sat with his gaze still over the water. After a few moments he said:

‘I came here with Mam a few times.’

‘Oh, I know that. We had some wonderful times.’

‘No, I mean
me
– just me and Mam on our own. Nobody else, just the two of us.’

‘Oh, I see.’ And Grace realized how important it had been to him. ‘She used to like those times, with you.’

He gave a little nod. ‘Did you ever come here with her? Just the two of you?’

‘Oh, yes, when I was younger.’ Grace thought back, smiling faintly at the memories. She had often sat in this same spot with her mother. But they had been on so many jaunts together. Sometimes there had been errands – as with herself and Billy today – but at other times there had been no purpose to their excursions other than pleasure – the pleasure of their surroundings and at being in one another’s company. She could remember so many occasions so clearly, walks in the meadows, and through cool woods where no grass grew and the birdsong had a different ring. And, of course, little sojourns here by the waterside.

‘I can’t imagine,’ Billy said, ‘what it would have been like – to be with Mam on my own – all the time, I mean.’ Grace suddenly realized that he had not really had his mother’s exclusive company for any sustained periods.

‘Sometimes,’ Billy’s voice came, interrupting her thoughts, his words delivered on the back of a sigh, ‘sometimes I worry.’

‘Oh? What about?’

He did not answer.

‘Well, whatever it is,’ Grace said, ‘you’ve no need. We’d never let anything happen. Pappy and I – we’d make sure you’re all right.’

‘I know.’ There was no conviction in his voice.

Grace got to her feet. ‘Come on,’ she said, ‘I suppose we’d better start back.’

They were now drawing very near to Green Shipton and ahead, visible beyond the trees, though still some good distance away, the tower of the village church rose up.

Grace said, ‘I thought we might go by way of the churchyard.’

‘But we haven’t got any flowers.’

‘Mam wouldn’t care about that. I usually go on a Saturday anyway, you know that.’

Reaching the end of the path, they passed through the stile and there was the village and the church right before them. As they walked towards the church gates Grace glanced up at the clock on the tower and saw that it was almost one. ‘We’re later than I’d anticipated,’ she said. ‘Pappy’ll be wondering where we are.’

Billy went on ahead of Grace now, stepping carefully over the manicured grass of the walkways between the graves, making his way to the newer grave that lay further to one side, near the wall. As Grace neared it, he came to a stop at the grave’s foot, standing very straight, almost to attention, the manner of his stance like some mark of respect. Then, bending his head a little, he said, his tone sorrowful and a little matter-of-fact: ‘I’m sorry, Mammy, but we haven’t got you any flowers today.’