Love of Grace and Angels
*
At the police station, things seemed to go from bad to worse, although in fact nothing had really changed; only that in all the challenging moments of a morning punctuated with resentful thoughts of Mother-in-law, Art’s wife had somehow forgotten about her. At least, she had mislaid the fact of the woman’s physical presence.
But there she was, with thin legs neatly folded at the ankle and hands and bag as one in her lap, face set hard as over-fried spam. ‘You came then.’
Another significant event had also become lost in the chaos of the morning. One of the rare things to make Art’s wife feel self-conscious was displayed without apology, as she forced a smile for the sake of her husband.
Mother-in-law shrank back. ‘Dear God! Whatever do you look like? What now?’
With a start, Art’s wife remembered the missing tooth, but such was her dislike of Mother-in-law that nothing of the jolt revealed itself in her expression. She sighed and approached the counter only to be told to take a seat.
Sitting opposite was a woman. Her hair was lank with the grime of the streets, clothes old but practical and still holding together despite obviously tough times. She smiled as she caught Art’s wife’s eye, and seeing the enormous space that four front teeth should have filled, Art’s wife slowly smiled back. It was with a degree of amusement that she became aware of disapproving eyes scorching the side of her face, the familiar judgmental tut not so much heard as felt, like the force from a sonic boom.
What seemed like only moments later, Art’s wife was walking Art’s mother to the car because Art himself wouldn’t be released until morning; there had been a death and he was facing serious charges. The solicitor had been and gone and with long practised efficiency offered nothing in the way of comfort. To hear the description of Art’s predicament recounted in such a matter-of-fact manner made everything all the more surreal, and neither wife nor mother could shake off the sensation that it was all happening to someone else. Or rather, that it should be happening to someone else because this sort of thing didn’t happen to people like them.
Outside, the roar of the rugby crowd sounded in the distance like waves crashing on a rocky shore, remote and unconnected, and the two women silently walked through throngs of tourists and shoppers, each in their own tight bubble. They went by buskers without hearing the music, ignored silver statues as they suddenly moved to surprise passers-by with their hidden life. They did not browse the architectural paintings filling numerous stalls, care to inspect the rows of fossils and crystals that others touched with interest, smell the warm aroma of fresh Cornish pasties or notice the exotic flowers filling buckets ready for sale. For the first time, when bumped by a running child, Art’s mother refrained from scolding. And in another first, Art’s wife helped the old woman move on.
*
The drive home was silent and Mother-in-law would remain entirely speechless for the next two hours, as she sat in an easy chair in the sitting room and stared out of the window. Art’s wife noticed the old woman seemed suddenly years older, as if she too had had the life knocked from her along with the person Art accidentally killed. She thought this time yesterday would be good place to go back to. Given the time over again, she would cancel everything without consideration for the feelings of others so that today, instead of being trapped in a cell a broken man, Art would be digging the garden without a care in the world and she would not say a word.
It was this thought of digging that brought her back to the terrible fact of Rawa’s death. Art’s mother had more than a passing affection for the dog – to the extent that it may have been Rawa she came to visit rather than her son – but it seemed cruel to break the news now. It could wait. Optimistically, she wondered if the old woman had already guessed, given the clear lack of dog and the obvious staining in the basket. Surely she was not in such a state of shock as to overlook the animal’s absence entirely?
Cups of tea were drunk and proffered biscuits waved away, the world cloaked in a bitter despair so palpable that Art’s wife felt both she and his mother might smother beneath it. As the old woman confined herself to private grief, so the television was switched on and off, the radio too, books opened and closed, the house arranged and re-tidied, the garden inspected, emails checked, and still the day refused to pass. Even the ticking of the kitchen clock seemed not to be at full speed, and after what felt like a week rather than a mere two hours, Art’s mother finally decided it was time to break the silence. Art’s wife wished she had not.
‘It happened before, you know.’
‘And it will happen again, no doubt. A sad truth.’
‘No. To Art, it happened before to Art, a long time ago. Thankfully the victim didn’t die.’
Dolly Parton sprang to mind, an odd image given the news, but Art’s wife was thinking how the day was playing out like a Country and Western song, every moment bringing more suffering and tragedy just when it seemed things could not get worse.
My tooth fell out, my dog is dead, my man killed someone and has form; the house blew up, my arms fell off and m’ feet er covered in corns. But I love Kentucky … fried chicken every day …
Of course Mother-in-law was correct, she suddenly realised. He had done it before, and it was a tribute to the human brain that such information could be buried for so long.
‘That was a long time ago, long before I knew him. It may not come into it.’
‘He was seventeen. I think that boy had one of these syndromes people blame everything on these days. Always in a scrape. His father and I had no peace, God rest his soul.’
‘Ahead of his time, eh?’
‘Selfish.’
‘NCS: Normal Child Syndrome. It’s actually quite rare these days. Most parents aren’t aware their kid’s have it.’
‘I see you have retained your rather odd sense of humour. Interesting, given the circumstances.’
‘Given the circumstances I would say humour is something we might need a little of over the coming months, if we’re to keep our sanity.’
Art’s mother huffed a little and fell back behind the shield of impenetrable silence.
‘I’m going for a walk. Coming? It might do you good to get some fresh air.’
The words were left unacknowledged, as the old lady continued to stare at some unseen thing in the garden.
‘They said we won’t hear anymore until morning, so there is no need to sit by the phone.’
Nothing.
Relieved at the prospect of walking alone, Art’s wife slipped on some shoes before instinctively collecting the dog lead. She stuffed it in the pocket of her fleece so casually it was as if the dog were at her feet. Her throat stiffened uncomfortably, the harsh sense of loss flattening her all over again.
*
The weather was every bit as warm and bright as it had promised to be, and smoke from the burning waste of a summer garden gave the air a hint of autumn. But such seasonal charm didn’t fill Art’s wife with the homely satisfaction it might have, for nothing could shift the worry of what would happen to her husband. She passed his car, his prized possession, low slung and sleek of darkest grey, expensive and fast. It would have to be sold. The insurance would now be unaffordable. There would be the prison sentence too, she knew, but she pushed it from her mind. How odd it seemed knowing Art had killed someone, yet feeling in mourning as if it were he who had died.
She walked and walked, avoiding places where people might be for fear they would talk to her, for even worse than idle trivia would be a direct question about Art or Rawa. And of course there was the embarrassing, gappy smile, seeming a problem only for the time it took to descend the stairs and reach the kitchen, now such an insignificant matter.
*
By the time Art’s wife went back to the house, the afternoon light was fading. Walking along the drive, she could smell wonderful aromas wafting from the kitchen and for once was not irritated by Mother-in-law’s interference, instead thankful she had the good sense to st
art cooking. She had skipped breakfast and they had both missed lunch so it wouldn’t be wise to skip dinner as well.
Despite all that had happened, the house felt very warm and welcoming, as if the action of cooking and the smell of food was enough to dilute the heartache, if only temporarily. The kitchen table was laid and two wine glasses filled, an oddity considering Mother-in-law rarely partook.
Nothing passed between the women until they sat down.
‘Thank you for cooking. It would have been a rather late dinner had it been left to me. You shouldn’t have had to do it. You are the guest. I’m sorry.’
‘I wanted to save you the bother. Eat up. We may need our strength tomorrow.’
Art’s wife cut into the pie, exactly the hearty meal she now realised she needed. Chunks of meat and thick gravy spread from the pastry. ‘I didn’t know I had any stewing beef.’
‘I found it in the freezer.’
Art’s wife froze, a forked cube of meat not quite at her mouth. She looked at the plate.
‘Don’t be ridiculous. It was under the dog. I asked a lovely young man who called in to help me lift her. He said he was here for dinner last night. He left his jacket.’
‘Uh. Oh. That was Ted. I forgot to tell you. About Rawa, I mean.’
‘When did she die?’
Art’s wife fought the old habit of pointless sarcasm, suppressing the urge to say last week, but we thought we’d keep her.
‘I found her this morning.’
‘I thought so. I’m very sorry, dear. She was a lovely dog.’
Such honest sentiment from one normally hardened against human frailty confirmed for Art’s wife that the world really had turned upside down. ‘She was. We loved her. I know she was old, but it’s so sad.’
‘It comes to us all, I’m afraid.’
Art’s wife looked at Mother in law, detecting an unusual resignation in her voice. ‘Are you okay?’
Her question was waved away. ‘Another time, dear. Today we need to focus on Arthur.’
Chapter 6
THE MANY BOXES OF MANCINI
The flat was beginning to look shabby, in desperate need of modernisation, of smartening up. Once, the papered walls had been the height of fashion, but that time was long gone. Now, pattern and colour served only to pinpoint the era when the apartment was created, the developer being the first and last with money enough to decorate properly. Edges and corners were curling, revealing the green of ancient lime-wash beneath, exacerbating general tiredness by revealing the building’s more fabulous history. White gloss paintwork had already yellowed patchily, and where it was thickly applied by unskilled and impatient hands, appeared dirtier than it really was, sharp lines of architraves and window frames lost beneath carelessness.
Against one wall and to the side of the bare wooden front door, stood a set of large vintage workshop shelves, laden with books, of both a religious and philosophical nature, spines either colourfully patterned or heavily embossed with gold. One book was wrapped in red velvet. A small television/DVD player was centred in a space on the middle shelf, directly below an old fashioned stereo, around it a multitude of DVD films stacked in alphabetical order. The shelf below that held an array of CD’s.
Near the kitchen, two fold-up wooden chairs were tucked under a neat nineteen-fifties pale green laminate table. Ric rarely entertained, but family would very occasionally visit, or the odd female friend when he struck lucky, although the extra chair was never needed for breakfast.
In true Georgian style, the ceiling was high and retained the original cornice and ornate rose, off centre due to the changed layout of the entire floor when the house was converted from large family home to studios and one-bedroom apartments. From this plaster rose, a small white pendant light fitting dangled a bulb, hanging there like a single albino bat in a cave. It was only ever meant as a temporary measure, due to lack of funds and the exorbitant cost of decent lighting, but it had become invisible and so a permanent feature. On the rare occasion Ric noticed it, it put him in mind of Moira’s place.
The building was built in a heyday when families could afford such places, then redeveloped when they couldn’t, before slipping unceremoniously from popularity of any sort. But now its creaking woodwork and old limestone walls were popular once more, because it happened to be in an up-and-coming part of the central area of the city.
Ric wanted to make it a better place, and enough money was accruing to revamp in a way he felt would pay tribute to the building’s heritage. His home would soon be elegant, or at least as elegant as a small flat could be. It was less than a fifth of the second level floor space and designed as open plan, although a kitchen had been partitioned off so it could be claimed, and therefore valued, as a separate room. The small bathroom was divided from this reasonably sized kitchen by thin board, and both rooms were capped by a long low ceiling, the upper surface of which was intended as open storage. A short ladder rose up to this space, and it was here Ric spent most of his time. It was here he felt happiest, occasionally dragging his bedcover up before spending the night gazing into the city through the grime speckled windows on the opposite side of the room. It was not exactly a mezzanine, but he used it as such. At its far end, boxes and bags were neatly stored under sheets that Ric kept orderly and dust free. The whole elevated hideaway was spotlessly clean; testament to how important it was to Ricardo Mancini. For positioned against the back wall was one of the most significant things in his life: his shrine.
*
The shrine was made of wooden and metal boxes, fine examples of this or that period unearthed as he toured the city’s antiques markets. Since a new bar and luxury apartments had obliterated his favourite haunt, Ric had taken to combing the shops and small stalls elsewhere in the city, and travelling to the many fairs in market towns nearby. Over the years he had become an expert, allowing his infatuation with the past to absorb what little funds he had, until he realised that unless he accepted being permanently broke he must stop constantly spending and started saving, something he had become just as good at.
His love of antiques did not equal his other passion, however, although to an extent one fed the other: purchases inspired by women he had seen, perhaps only in passing, were made as often as he would choose a women based on a piece he had bought and wished to give as a love token. And certainly there were parallels in what mattered to him: authenticity and beauty plus a singular desire for preservation and possession. In his mind, most important of all was purity of being, which could be achieved only through a combination of the aforementioned qualities. He wanted the best as much as he needed to want it. So he saw what he needed to see.
The centrepiece of the shrine was a particularly fine Georgian mahogany and brass ladies travelling box that he managed to acquire for next to nothing just a month before the old market closed, prior to development. Ric had barely been able to breathe as the sale went through, striding away from the stallholder as fast as was dignified, with the box clamped under his arm for fear the fiscal oversight might suddenly be noticed. Now it sat in pride of place squarely against the wall, upon bricks carefully covered in dark red velvet. Positioned far enough above the box so the lid could open, was a small nineteen-sixties mirrored bathroom cabinet fixed to the wall. On top of that sat a row of quality patch boxes surrounding a single large gold candle, not antique but from a Christmas shop. Either side of the travel box, and rising up in several stacks, stood an assortment of ornate snuffboxes graded by size, finishing level with the top of the cabinet. Framing it all at a full metre in height were two enormous silver-plated Sabbath candlesticks, inherited from his grandmother who often claimed they were a gift from a ‘very dear and special friend of many years,’ always adding, soulfully, ‘so very dear’. It was these two valued items that first stirred Ric’s interest in old objects as collectable and desirable, things to preserve and keep safe, offering a neat parallel for his already established view of women.
His grandmother??
?s eyes averted whenever the statement regarding her dear friend was made, for the words falling from her pink-tinted lips hinted at something greater, a secret of which she must never speak. Whenever Ric heard it, a surge of pleasure came from the fact she had known such love, but it irritated him equally. It made him consider that previous generations of his family had no right to frown upon his mother, their wordless accusations like slow crucifixion. And to virtually condemn a small boy simply because his mother may have fallen foul of an unofficial family tradition, or, as Ric was more inclined to believe, had been forced to submit to another’s filthy will, was unfair. Ric felt his father, whatever his faults, was exactly that – his father – while his mother, whatever the truth, had always been vulnerable. They were his parents. He did not wish to know more.
All that aside, the candlesticks made perfect sentries, gifts of enduring passion guarding the shrine of love.
The wall behind the shrine was painted in a rainbow of metallic colour: gold, silver, red and blue, all seeming to shimmer when the light was right. In front of the shrine was a soft gold viscose cushion with the appearance of finely spun silk, and beneath it all was a grass mat woven through with metallic thread in the same colours beautifying the wall. In some respects it was an eclectic mix, but still the shrine looked striking; an altar worthy of the dreams it honoured. When evening light flooded through the windows, the whole display took on an ethereal glow, wood shining out, brass details glowing, candlesticks sparkling, handfuls of carefully scattered crystals glittering like jewels. But it was a private place of worship, so those times when visitors were expected, a sturdy fireguard draped with a large Thai cloth embossed with golden elephants covered all, ladder pushed up out of sight.