29
I went straight to the police station after Violet had been taken away, leaving the stunned onlookers in the gallery, not even looking back when someone—Matt, I think—called my name. Past the closed shops, up by the side of the market and along the front of city hall to Bethel Street.
When I explained to the officer at reception why I was there, he advised me to go home.
“With a charge like that, there’s no telling how long you’ll have to wait for news.”
I turned away to head for the waiting area, then turned back again, remembering the long hours I—an innocent person—had been detained for, realising he was right.
“Will someone call me, when there’s news?”
“Are you her next of kin?”
“Yes.”
“Then, yes, someone will call you.”
So, I left the police station, passing in front of city hall again, gazing bleakly at the view of the flood-lit castle up on its mound beyond the market and the shops. The castle Mum might have taken Vi and me to as kids had she been a different kind of mum, to ride in the replica of Boudica’s chariot pretending to be escaping from Romans. To run off giggling when the ancient stuffed tiger roared at us from its display case in the taxidermy exhibit.
Instead, I’d first gone to the castle with Inga, when we were art students in search of inspiration, swooning at the watercolour collection, enthralled by the mummified cat from ancient Egypt. Inga, my partner in crime, the two of us laughing together, delighting in each other, having fun. All despite my secret sorrow about Violet’s whereabouts and the door I’d locked and bolted against the trauma of my past.
Please let me and Inga have fun together again. Take Noah to the castle together when he’s older. Or to the coast, seal spotting or making sandcastles, paddling in the freezing-cold North Sea and laughing as we eat ice creams that melt quicker than we can finish them. Let little Noah learn about love just by spending time with the two of us.
It took half an hour to walk home from the city. It was a jolt to see my front door boarded up. How the hell had I forgotten about the police raid? But somehow, with the dramatic events of the evening, I had, and after letting myself in through the back door into the kitchen, I found drawers and cupboards hanging open and piles of my belongings stacked on the floor. Nothing in its right place. A state of chaos.
Just like my life.
I went into the living room. Discovered exactly the same state of disarray there as in the kitchen. Sofa cushions pulled off and uncaringly dumped on the floor. Books all over the place on the shelves. My precious Joan Eardley book tossed face-down on the hearth rug, as if someone had discarded it after flipping through it searching for ... what? Certainly not inspiration for paintings.
All so utterly sordid. As if my home and my feelings were of absolutely no account. Like I was nothing.
I sank to the floor, picking up the Joan Eardley book and closing it, suddenly remembering the gift Beryl’s son had given me before everything had imploded at the gallery. Beryl’s New Zealand journal.
Taking it from my bag, I stroked the cover, tracing the sloped writing on the label. New Zealand, 2015.
Beryl must have been around seventy-five in 2015. How fabulous that she’d continued doing the work she loved for so long.
Opening the journal at random, I read the first sentence my eyes settled on.
Stewart Island is a veritable birding paradise. Yesterday, at dusk, I glanced up from the Gunnera hamiltonii specimens I was studying to see a kiwi feeding right near me! So adorable. Such a rare treat. I stayed perfectly still and managed to reach in my pocket for my pencil. Hardly the world’s best sketch, but it will serve as a reminder of that special, privileged moment. I’m so blessed.
On the opposite page was a sketch of the flightless kiwi bird, intent on feeding, its long bill poking about on the ground. I could picture Beryl drawing it. Could visualise her glee as she transferred her delight onto paper.
Oh, Beryl. If she were here with me now, sitting across from me and saying, “ Come along, dear. It does no good at all to keep one’s demons bottled up, ” I’d talk to her this time. Tell her everything. Talk about my lost, frightened sister. The current fragility of my friendship with Inga. My exhibition opening, which had ended in such dramatic disarray. Matt, leaving for Spain. And along the way, I’m sure I’d start to sob, the way I was doing right now. And Beryl would hold me the way I so badly needed to be held, soothing me while I described the lonely, fearful years of my childhood; years filled with responsibility I’d been far too young to shoulder. Keeping my sister safe. Keeping us both afloat.
I closed the journal, stroking the front cover, careful not to let my tears fall on it. Then I put it carefully down to read later, when my mind wasn’t as churned up as the sea in one of Joan Eardley’s paintings.
I thought again of how incredible it was that my mother was living so close to where the artist had lived and worked; the place I’d always longed to visit. I didn’t know what such a coincidence meant, if indeed it meant anything at all. For if it was fate, then it was a very twisted kind of fate.
A text came through on my phone. Inga.
Hope you’re OK? Call me in the morning. X
Tears welled up all over again. That kiss at the end of her message made me feel a lot less alone. Gave me hope we’d be able to sort out the issues between us.
I was just typing my reply when my phone rang. It was the police to tell me that Vi had been charged with possession with intent to supply class A drugs and was due to appear at the magistrate’s court in the morning.
“Will she get bail?”
“I’d say that’s very unlikely. In cases like these, the defendant is usually considered to be a flight risk.”
It was all too easy to imagine Vi doing something drastic to escape the consequences of her actions. Stuffing a few clothes in a bag and scarpering. After all, she’d vanished for years at a time already, hadn’t she?
“Thank you for letting me know.” I could hear my calm voice, asking methodical questions. The shut-off me instead of the new, emotional me. “D’you know what prison she’ll be held in?”
“Most likely HMP Peterborough.”
Peterborough—two hours away by car. Not that I had a car. But there was a train station, wasn’t there? Of course there was. Peterborough was quite a big city.
“Will I be able to visit her?”
“If she fills out a visitor request form for you, yes.”
Would she, though? There had been such vitriol on Vi’s face when she was arrested.
“But it’ll take a while to get that set up. As I say, everything will be decided in court tomorrow. I’ll let you know the outcome then.”
“Thank you.”
After the police officer ended the call, I sat for a while, staring vacantly down at my phone, trying to take it all in. Wondering whether a stint of prison would make things worse for Violet—bring her into contact with the kind of people who’d drag her down further—or whether it might mark a turning point if she had no access to drugs. I had no idea, but one thing was for certain, it was completely out of my control.
Suddenly noticing I had a voicemail message, I played it back. It was from Matt—he must have left it shortly after I’d left the gallery.
“Hi, Lily. I hope you’re okay. Well, I know you won’t be okay at all, of course not. I’m so sorry. Give me a call when you get this. Any time. Doesn’t matter how late it is.”
I called him back straightaway, suddenly longing to hear his voice. But despite what he’d said about calling as late as I liked, there was no answer, and the call went to voicemail.
I left a message. “Hi, Matt, it’s me, Lily. Thanks for your message. I got back about half an hour ago. Vi’s been charged. She’s due in court tomorrow. And Matt, they don’t think she’ll get bail. They think she’ll go to prison. Anyway, I’ll try you again tomorrow, okay? Thanks for all you did for me today. It meant so much. Bye for now.”
Next morning, I was outside the Bond Gallery the minute it opened, on the dot of nine.
Diane didn’t give me the chance to say anything; she just took me into her arms for a great big hug.
When we drew back, we both spoke at the same time.
“I’m so sorry.”
“I’m so sorry.”
Diane smiled. “Lily, it wasn’t your fault.”
“I know, but even so ...”
“There is no ‘even so.’ And look, it didn’t make any difference, anyway. See how many of your pictures sold?”
I looked. Saw she was right. There were red dots beside many of my pictures, each one indicating a sale. I choked up looking at them—seal paintings, sea paintings, Flayed , all sold. An unkind little inner voice wanted to tell me I didn’t deserve it, but I pushed it away determinedly. Why shouldn’t I deserve it? I’d worked so hard for this. Even the desperate sketches and watercolours I’d done in my bedroom as a child had contributed something to these paintings. People hadn’t bought them out of pity. They’d bought them because they liked them.
“The exhibition’s already a big success, and it’s only just opened,” Diane said with a smile. Then her phone began to ring. “Take a look around and rejoice while I answer this.”
As Diane took her call, I was drawn to the side room off the main gallery. To Phoenix . I stood in front of it—in the spot where I’d stood so recently with Inga, and then with Vi—taking the picture in all over again. Somehow, now that I knew Mum was alive, it was different. The phoenix’s wings beat a little less secure. Vi’s desperate lament was more poignant. Mum’s backward glance as she hastened away was even more furtive. Had I painted the truth? What had actually happened to mum that night?
Suddenly, I knew I had to find out.