Chapter 55
FIFTY-FIVE
Beatrice stood in the front room of the house on Damask Square, looking out at the street. Someone had wound fairy lights around the iron railings, and they twinkled merrily in the gloom of the winter morning. Between the bare branches of the trees, she could see one of the tower blocks on the estate, most of its windows lit up and – she counted – Christmas trees glittering in twelve of them. Behind her, she could hear the gentle crackle of a log fire; Orla had hired a chimney sweep and, after years of rubble and abandoned sparrows’ nests had been removed, the house was cosier than she had ever known it.
She turned around, feeling her long skirt swish against her tights. The skirt was wool, finely woven and beautifully tailored; it had belonged to Orla’s grandmother in the 1950s, Orla had told her, and now that the seams had been let out it fitted her perfectly. From the kitchen, she could hear the clatter of pans and smell the mouth-watering savouriness of roasting turkey. Orla had insisted on buying a turkey crown for Beatrice, and Beatrice in turn had consulted Delia Smith online and found a recipe for a nut roast with cranberries and made it for Orla.
The room was still only part-furnished: apart from a worn brocade chaise-longue Orla had bought in the market and a teak coffee table Beatrice had found on eBay, it would have been empty but for the huge Christmas tree that stood in the corner. It was a Norwegian spruce, almost seven feet tall, and they’d had to pay extra to have it delivered to the house. On its branches hung an assortment of cheap baubles Beatrice had picked up in Woolworths, alongside delicate blown-glass spheres that were family heirlooms of Orla’s. Maud had already smashed one of them, but Orla had only laughed, carefully sweeping up the fragments lest they hurt the cat’s paws.
On the mantelpiece stood a meagre selection of cards: one from Imran at the newsagent’s, one from the historic buildings Preservation Trust, one for Beatrice from her mom and dad, one from Luke and one from Livvie. They flanked the largest one, at the centre of the display, which had been sent from America. In it was a note from Frances wishing Beatrice well and saying they all missed her, along with Peter’s scrawled signature and notes from the children. Slate had written ‘Merry Christmas Bibi’ in wobbly crayon and Parker had drawn a wonky, bright red heart, her colouring-in scribbling beyond its outlines.
She and Orla had exchanged gifts that morning. Beatrice had bought Orla a cashmere jumper from Selfridges, which had cost a good chunk of the cheque her parents had enclosed with their Christmas card and was the same tawny gold as Orla’s eyes.
Orla’s gift to her had cost nothing but been worth far more. Beatrice had cried when she’d opened it, looking down at the paint-stained ellipse of birch wood in her hands and knowing straight away what it was.
‘My palette from when I was at art school,’ Orla had explained. ‘In case you want to try your hand at oils sometime.’
Beatrice heard the crash of the door knocker and hurried out of the room. She’d never answered the door here before, she realised – she’d always left it for someone else to do, assuming whoever it was was nothing to do with her.
But today was different.
She pulled open the door. Neil stood on the threshold, smiling, a bunch of red roses and a bottle of champagne in his hands.
‘Hello,’ Beatrice said. ‘Merry Christmas. Come in before you freeze.’
‘Merry Christmas.’ He followed her along the hallway, glancing in at the Christmas tree as he passed. ‘That’s how it’s done! Impressive.’
‘Let’s go and find Orla.’ She led the way through to the kitchen, feeling suddenly shy. She’d never introduced Neil to anyone before, nor introduced Orla as her birth mother to anyone.
But Neil seemed entirely comfortable with the situation. He handed over the bottle and the flowers, returned the kisses Orla planted on his cheeks and wished her merry Christmas, saying how excited he was to meet her.
‘We’re so pleased you could come,’ Orla said. ‘I’ve heard a lot about you from Beatrice. I’m glad your family could spare you for the day.’
‘We were lucky with the dates.’ Neil smiled. ‘Hanukkah starts tomorrow and then I’ll be knee-deep in family – that, and ninety per cent potato latkes before New Year.’
‘You’re our first official guest,’ Beatrice said. ‘We thought we’d be spending the day just the two of us, then Orla said I should invite you.’
Because she was eager to meet my kind-of boyfriend? Or because she didn’t want to spend the day alone with me? But Orla’s face when she’d made the suggestion had given nothing away.
Not that Beatrice cared. She was here, spending Christmas with her real mother, as she had dreamed of doing ever since she’d been old enough for the concept of having a different, separate mother from the one she’d always known to be a thing. She was in the house she’d come to love, with a man she suspected would fall in love with her in due course. Contentment swelled inside her as satisfyingly as if she’d already devoured a whole Christmas dinner.
Which, after a couple of hours, they had. Orla opened Neil’s champagne and then a bottle of red wine. Neil carved the turkey, saying that as the oldest son, it had always been his job at home and he was an expert at it, with Maud twining round his legs mewing for scraps. Beatrice over-boiled the brussels sprouts, but the others said it didn’t matter. Everyone found an abundance of silver five-pence pieces in their Christmas pudding.
When everything was cleared away, Beatrice said, ‘Should we go for a walk? Isn’t that what you do on Christmas Day in England?’
Orla laughed. ‘It’s certainly what we used to do in Ireland. Rain or shine – and it was usually rain – my grandmother would insist on it. She said it was good for digestion. But it’s raining now, so…’
‘My digestion could use all the help it can get,’ Neil said. ‘But what I’d really like – if you wouldn’t mind, Beatrice – is to see some of your paintings. May I?’
‘I… All right. Of course. I’ll just finish off here and then I’ll get my portfolio from upstairs.’
She dried the last of the plates efficiently, stacking them away in the cupboard. Then she hurried up to her bedroom, retrieving the plastic folder from its shelf. She glanced through the pages inside, suddenly filled with doubt.
Neil would be uncritically enthusiastic about her work, she was sure. But Orla – the only work of hers Orla had seen was the roses Beatrice had painted for her by way of an apology. She’d praised that – but what would she think of these? Beatrice found herself craving Orla’s approval.
She carried the folder downstairs and joined the others in the living room, where they were sitting on the chaise-longue finishing the red wine. Beatrice folded herself down on to the floor, feeling the fire warming her back.
‘These aren’t very good,’ she apologised. ‘I’ve got a lot to learn.’
‘Never apologise for your work,’ Orla reprimanded her, smiling.
‘I’m sure they’re brilliant,’ Neil said.
‘Okay, so…’ Beatrice extracted a page from the folder and handed it to Neil. Orla leaned in close so she could see too. ‘These are some of the paintings I brought with me when I came out here, to remind me of home. This is the view from my bedroom – that’s a maple tree.’
‘Gorgeous colours,’ Neil said.
‘There’s beautiful brushwork on the leaves,’ Orla observed. ‘Real delicacy.’
‘And this is Sligo, our dog.’
‘He’s adorable.’
‘You’ve captured his face perfectly. The playfulness and the eagerness to please.’
‘And this…’ Beatrice looked at the painting. It was the best thing she had ever done, painted shortly before she’d left for Europe, full of apprehension about what she might discover and sorrow for what she was leaving behind.
‘Go on, show us,’ Neil urged.
‘This is my mom and dad – my adoptive parents. Ruth and Declan.’
Shyly, she handed it over. Neil studied it with all the seriousness of someone seeing potential in-laws for the first time. But Orla’s face had gone as still as marble.
I shouldn’t have shown her , Beatrice thought. She can see how much I love them and I’ve hurt her feelings.
‘Are you all right?’ she asked.
‘Of course.’ Orla’s smile had returned as if it had never not been there. ‘That’s a wonderful portrait. You should be proud of it. Perhaps you could have it framed and hang it on the wall in your bedroom?’
She doesn’t mind , Beatrice thought with relief. Or if she does, she’ll mind less and less when she understands she isn’t going to lose me again.
‘The rain has stopped,’ she said. ‘Maybe we could go for that walk after all?’
Outside, the wind whipped Beatrice’s full skirt around her legs, hobbling her steps. But she barely noticed. Her eyes were fixed on the twinkling lights in the windows above; Neil’s hand clasped hers and kept it warm and on her other side, Orla’s shoulder pressed strongly and steadily against her own as they linked arms.
I will paint a portrait of Orla too , she decided. I can frame that as well and hang it next to the one of Mom and Dad, and every morning I’ll be able to wake up and see them there.
My family.