Читать книгу Once Lost - Ber Carroll - Страница 10

Chapter 5

Louise

My shoulders and neck ache from the strain. All morning, I’ve been bent over the painting, cleaning it, millimetre by millimetre, using a mild alkaline solution. Everything about this painting is delicate. Nothing can be rushed, so it has taken me two weeks to get this far. Once this first layer of dirt has been dealt with, I can move on to the varnish removal, which is even more painstaking. Non-professionals find it startling that the whole process takes so long. I find it equally startling that something so important, so very delicate, should be rushed.

Heidi appears at my elbow. ‘Time for cake,’ she announces excitedly.

My colleagues seem to have a fetish for cake. On my first afternoon they surprised me with strawberry sponge cake. After two slices, I felt resoundingly welcome. And last week we had chocolate mud cake for Peter’s birthday. It was a bit too rich for my liking, but this did not deter me from having a second helping, just like everyone else. Today Analiese is meant to be popping in with the baby, and the cake is in her honour.

Following Heidi to the staff kitchen, I wash my hands at the sink. Peter is standing nearby, already scoffing cake, catching the crumbs with his plate.

‘Oh,’ Heidi drools. ‘It’s hummingbird cake, my favourite.’

Gabriella slices and deftly transfers the piece to a plate, which she proffers to Heidi. ‘I don’t know what’s happened to Analiese. She texted twenty minutes ago to say she was in the car park. What on earth is she doing?’

‘She’d better hurry,’ Peter grins. ‘Or there’ll be none left.’

Gabriella waves the sticky knife at him. ‘You’ve had your share. Keep away.’

As Gabriella is serving me, Analiese and an oversized pram finally appear at the doorway.

‘Sorry, sorry.’ She’s clearly flustered. ‘I needed to change her nappy, and then she started fretting so I fed her. And then there wasn’t room for my pram in the lift, and I had to wait for the next one …’

Gabriella drops the knife, the clatter startling all of us, including the baby, who lets out a sharp cry. Enveloping Analiese in a hug, Gabriella’s hands then rise to clasp either side of her face. ‘Oh, you poor thing. Sit down. I will mind the bambina. Would you like coffee? Peter, make yourself useful and get this new mother some coffee.’

Analiese is not what I expected. She’s short, like me, and has dark curly hair, a little longer than mine. I had married her meticulous notes to a thin, sparing personality, but she’s not sparing at all. Everything about her is generous — her smile, her figure, her honesty.

‘You must be Louise. Sorry I wasn’t here to hand over as planned. And that I haven’t even phoned to see if you have any questions. The last few weeks have been a blur.’

I smile in return, and nod at the baby, whom Gabriella is presently extracting from the pram. ‘You’ve clearly had your hands full.’

Heidi takes over cake-dispensing responsibilities, allocating an extra large piece to the guest of honour. Meanwhile, Peter has come through in the coffee department. Analiese looks touched by their attentiveness.

‘This is such a treat. Coffee and cake. I don’t think I’ve managed to finish a cup of coffee since Stella was born. As for cake, I don’t have the time to buy it, let alone bake it …’ She fills her mouth with a bite, some of the icing lodging on her lip. ‘Oh, it’s heavenly …’

Her gratitude conjures up memories of Emma when Isla was a newborn. The glazed look in Emma’s eyes, the dark roots growing through her highlighted hair, her jerky movements as she tried to settle the baby in her arms, and how she burst into tears when I offered to take Isla for a walk so she could enjoy the luxury of a shower without straining to hear if the baby was wailing in the background. We were so young, both of us. Analiese is older, so much more mature and accomplished than Emma was, but as I watch her I realise that all first-time mothers, no matter what age or background, battle with sleep deprivation, the uncertainty of each day and night, the anxiety about whether or not they are doing things the right way.

Analiese begins to speak about the painting. Between spoonfuls of cake and sips of coffee, she enquires about where I am up to in the project, my opinion on how we should deal with the damage to the face, and if any new information about the origin of the painting has come to light. Heidi and Peter join in, while Gabriella concentrates solely on Stella, rocking her in her arms and murmuring to her in Italian. Though Analiese is clearly engaged in the conversation, her eyes intermittently flick in the direction of her baby daughter, assuring herself that she’s happy and safe. Analiese, like Emma, is a good mother. Over the years, I’ve done my fair share of mother-watching, and I’m familiar with the on-tap hugs, the resignation and rolled eyes, the prouder-than-proud smiles. I’ve noticed how mothers sweep their children out of danger’s way, and how they hoist them on their hip, even when they are too big and heavy. Even the reprimands and discipline are evidence that the mothers care.

Stella lets out a wail and Analiese instantly jumps up and goes to her, lifting her out of Gabriella’s arms and propping her on her shoulder.

A good mother comforts, chides and praises, but more than anything, she protects. A good mother always knows where her children are. She never leaves her children for longer than necessary, and she knows, sometimes before her child knows, when she is needed.

For many years after my mother left, I truly believed that if I cried hard enough or behaved badly enough, she would react the same way as other mothers, and come rushing in with a cuddle or a scolding. And so I howled and screamed and acted out, time after time. As a young teenager, I smoked, drank and got into all sorts of trouble with Emma and Jamie, but my mother still didn’t come. She was a no show at my hospital bed when I had appendicitis, a no show at my graduation ceremony and a no show at Simon’s funeral.

Nothing, it seemed, was strong enough to draw my mother back to me.