Chapter 34
THIRTY-FOUR
17 AUGUST 2005
I am writing this at the kitchen table, my hands sweaty and trembling and my body still tingling with the aftermath of fear. I was woken this morning not by anything present, but by an absence. There was no Maud on my chest. No claws tentatively, then more persistently, pricking my face, the campaign for breakfast service getting started.
Once I realised she was not there, I knew there could be no more sleep this morning. Of course, she is a cat and like all cats she sets her own agenda, but also like all cats she is a creature of habit, her daily rituals varying only slightly depending on the weather, my movements and her mood. So I got up and came downstairs, calling her, but she was nowhere to be seen.
I looked out in the garden, but she wasn’t slinking through the undergrowth or perched on the wall being taunted by squirrels. I looked outside the front door and walked around the square, terrified I would find her small, broken body hit by a car, but I saw nothing. Then I heard her muffled cries and knew, straight away, with absolute certainty, where she was and what had happened.
And I was right. As soon as I opened the door leading down to the cellar, she dashed up the stairs, protesting furiously at her captivity although I dare say she’d had a wonderful time down there, decimating the mouse population. I fed her and then went down there myself, knowing full well what I would find. It was just as I’d anticipated: the topmost of my pile of storage boxes open, the portraits I’ve painted over the years scattered on the floor.
Beatrice. Beatrice’s nocturnal exploration of the house inevitably led her downstairs, where she hunted through my things, discovering my secrets.
I didn’t stop to think. I didn’t consider what was the right thing to do – the mature, adult thing. I regret that now. I stormed upstairs and knocked on Beatrice’s door, barely waiting for her muffled response before pushing it open and going in.
She was still in bed, sitting up under the covers, her eyes bleary with sleep. She looked so young – almost like a child – and I felt my anger fade slightly. Slightly, but not enough.
What were you doing? I demanded. Last night, down in the cellar?
Guilt flashed over her face. I could see her mind working as she tried to come up with an excuse – a lie.
I thought I heard someone down there. I woke up, I went to look. But I couldn’t see anything. It must have been the cat.
Cats can’t unlatch doors, Beatrice.
It was open. Someone must have left it open. Luke or Livvie.
And the box with my paintings in? I suppose that was open too?
I… Her eyes were wide and frightened. I hated her being afraid of me. I’m sorry, Orla. I could smell paint. I was curious and I opened the box.
I looked at her, saying nothing.
They’re beautiful, Orla. You’re an amazing artist. I paint a bit myself, but nothing like – nothing as good as that.
I see, I thought. Lies first, then apologies, now flattery.
I said, Beatrice, and then I stopped. There was no point launching into a lecture about respecting others’ privacy. She knew all that – she knew she’d done wrong but she had chosen to do it anyway.
Please don’t do that again. Please don’t go down there and go through my things.
I’m sorry, Orla, she said again. Then, emboldened, realising I wasn’t going to tell her to pack her bags and leave, she said, The painting on the landing. Is that yours, too?
I nodded.
I thought so. It’s wonderful. Where is it? The scene, I mean?
A place in Ireland called Clonmara. You wouldn’t know it.
She looked as if she might be about to ask me something else, but I was in no mood to answer her questions. I turned and left.
I shall have to get a lock for that door.
I wonder what her next question would have been, and whether she will ever find the courage to ask it.