Chapter 36
THIRTY-SIX
15 SEPTEMBER 2005
Well. Beatrice has finally apologised to me. Last night, after dinner, she came up to my room and knocked softly on the door. I felt my senses prickle instantly to alertness and I pulled the cord of my dressing gown tight around my waist – as if it were armour, not a flimsy old cotton robe – before I opened the door.
Beatrice was freshly showered, her hair wet and hanging down her back. She wore no make-up and she looked young and vulnerable. To my surprise, I felt the urge to take her in my arms and assure her that I wasn’t angry, not any more.
But I sensed that an embrace wouldn’t be welcome, so I just waited, smiling encouragingly.
She politely asked to come in, and so I stepped aside and she entered, closing the door behind her. She was holding something in her arms – a pad of paper, close to her chest as if, like me, she felt the need for a shield.
I wanted to say sorry, she said. I’ve behaved terribly. I had no right to snoop through your things. There’s no excuse. It won’t happen again.
I said, Thank you, Beatrice. I appreciate your apology and I accept it. I shouldn’t have reacted the way I did and I’m sorry for that.
And Maud, she went on. I shouldn’t have left her down there. You must have been worried.
She was perfectly all right. She would’ve been hunting quite happily in the dark.
I thought I heard a rat, she said. And that’s why I had to run away. I’d have tidied your paintings away otherwise.
Not out of respect, I thought, almost amused, but to conceal the fact that she’d been looking at them in the first place.
But I said, I’m frightened of rats, too. They horrify me.
Their scrabbly claws. She winced at the thought. And their tails – ugh!
Ugh, I agreed.
We looked at each other, grimacing, united in our distaste, and then we both laughed. It’s the first time I think I have shared a laugh with Beatrice and it felt good – it felt healing.
Anyway, she said. I was going to buy you some flowers, to say sorry. But I thought of something better.
Shyly, she turned around the sketchbook she was holding so I could see the page that had been pressed against her chest. It was a painting of the roses that grow in the garden square. Late in their season now, they are overblown and fading but still beautiful, all the shades of a sunrise in their delicate petals. She’d captured them perfectly, and in watercolour – my favourite medium.
The painting is exquisite, and I told her so.
You have real talent, I said. Have you always painted?
I don’t think I’m very good at it. My dad always tells me I am, but he loves me so of course he says nice things.
I laughed. That’s what fathers are for, isn’t it? But he is right. He’s not just being kind.
She said, Thank you, Orla. It means a lot.
In return, I thanked her for the gift, told her I would treasure it, and that I appreciated her coming here tonight.
We said goodnight after that and she went off to bed. I hope she has slept well. I hope she understands that I’ve forgiven her and that whatever made her want to pry through my belongings has passed. I don’t want to have to be angry with her again – I want to protect her.