Читать книгу Naked Angels - Judi James, Judi James - Страница 11

Nothing was spoken, then, and as Evangeline grew a little older the question ‘Why?’ hung constantly in her head, like a small bird on a perch in an empty cage, pecking away all the time. When she got a little wiser she asked Cecil how he knew and he said he’d just known, that was all, which seemed to her a stupid kind of an answer.

Then she thought about it properly and she started feeling better. If Cecil had ‘just known’ they were dead then maybe she knew that they just weren’t. Maybe you could sense these things and Cecil was wrong. She tried not to think about it too much. It had made her ill the first time and she didn’t want to be ill again.

It was as though a fog slowly settled around the whole affair and as time pushed an ever-widening space between herself and her parents she began to despair of ever finding out the truth.

And just as Evangeline grew older, so Grandma Klippel seemed to grow younger. She was not such an old lady, after all. When she had first come to the house Evangeline had thought her grandmother to be about ninety years old, but now she knew she was nearer fifty. Maybe Darius’s disappearance had made her younger because she spoke a lot about when he was a boy and acted half the time as though she were just a young mother again.

Shock over the deaths created some sort of malfunction between Evangeline and her grandmother. She needed the old lady’s sympathy and pity, but she knew she could never seek it because that would have meant giving away the secret that was so important to hide.

They lived in the same house, then, and her grandmother was kind, but that was all. Each of them was too empty inside to nurture any real affection. Grandma Klippel would not allow crying in public, though Evangeline heard her grief at night sometimes, when she was alone in her room. She wanted to please her grandmother. Most of all she wanted to please her parents, wherever they were. It was as though they were always there somewhere, watching and waiting; holding their breath until she did something they could be proud of at last. Darius and Thea: beautiful and talented. All of them, some place special, some place she couldn’t reach because she wasn’t special enough.

Evangeline felt like a ghost. She grew to realize that wishing she were with her family was the same as wishing she were dead too, but that was all she could think about. It was impossible not to imagine that they were having fun somewhere without her. Every bone in her body ached to join them.

When Cecil left to get married, another man took his place. The new man was older and Evangeline imagined out of boredom that he was in love with her grandmother. Unlike Cecil the new man knew nothing about her parents. He spoke little English and he went home at night. They would be all alone in that house then, with just the sea for company.

Evangeline thought about Darius as a small boy, playing happily in the surf. She even tried it herself a few times. The beach was OK in the summer. The sand would be warm on top, though it got colder and wetter the further your feet sunk. She liked the white driftwood and even took a few pieces home, which pleased Grandma Klippel for some reason. She remembered Cecil telling her he’d seen a whale swimming off the coast and that the next day it had been dead and washed up on the beach. Maybe that was how she’d find them one day – Darius, Thea and Lincoln, lying in a row on the sand, bleached and blistered by the sun and the salt in the water. She became afraid to go down onto the sand at all after that fancy.

For Evangeline’s eighth birthday Grandma Klippel had organized something extraordinary, though she refused to say what. Things stirred in the old house at last. Two rooms were decorated, which meant there was some life in the place as local handymen arrived along with radios, kettles and twenty cans of apricot-coloured paint. Even when the rooms were finished the smell of paint lingered for a couple of weeks.

On the morning of her birthday Evangeline went to school as usual, but when she got back there was someone waiting on the porch with her grandmother. The woman was small with wiry black hair, and dressed in clothes that reminded Evangeline of her mother.

Grandma Klippel was beaming.

‘Today is a special day, Evangeline,’ she said. ‘This is Miss Clayburg and she’s to be your tutor, stopping with us for the whole of the summer.’ She bent down closer, to be on Evangeline’s level. ‘You remember what a famous artist your father was, Evangeline?’ Her breath smelt of violets. ‘And your mother, of course. They had great talent, both of them. I told you. Never forget that.’

The small plane buzzed overhead, drowning out some of her words, but Grandma Klippel ignored the noise. It was almost as though the plane was eavesdropping. Evangeline looked upward. The sun had caught the plane’s wings. There was a white trail winding behind it, like a long smokey cloud.

‘I know Darius was not your father by blood but I believe somehow you may have inherited his talent. I have seen the green shoots in you already and I want to nurture those shoots. You are to learn to paint, Evangeline. Miss Clayburg is an art tutor from one of the greatest schools in New York. We can thank God she has been kind enough to come all this way out here and take you under her wing.’

Miss Clayburg smiled. She had crooked teeth but they were white, like the driftwood.

‘It was no kindness, Evangeline,’ she said. ‘When I received your grandmother’s letter and read who your father was I felt honoured to have been asked at all. I was Darius Klippel’s greatest devotee. If he has passed on half his talent you will be a very special little girl indeed.’

Grandma Klippel had more in store. ‘Close your eyes,’ she told Evangeline.

Evangeline closed her eyes and felt herself being led inside the house. They laughed as they took her up the stairs, counting each step out loud and warning her to take care on the last one. Then they went up again and again, towards the attic.

Evangeline had never been to the top of the house before, Grandma Klippel always kept those doors locked. She could hear the key turning now and then she felt the sun on her face and a greasy smell of oil in her nostrils.

‘Open!’ Grandma Klippel exclaimed.

The sun was dazzling, blinding. Evangeline squinted, trying to make out the shapes in the room. Miss Clayburg took her by the arms and turned her about slowly. They were in an artist’s studio, much like the room Darius had worked in at home, only bigger. The light came from the roof, which was all windows, and the smell came from the tubes of paint, which were lined up in their hundreds, ready for use. There were canvases and easels and several unfinished paintings of Darius’s, piled up along the walls.

Grandma Klippel clapped her hands together.

‘Well, Evangeline?’

Evangeline had stopped breathing. The smell of the oil paints was like a knife cutting into her soul. Every time she breathed in she was back in the studio in Boston and Darius was fooling around and making her laugh.

Sometimes he put paint on his face. Or he would do lightning scribbles with charcoal and draw funny pictures of Lincoln with his eyes crossed. Once he let Patrick loose with a paintbrush between his teeth and framed the result. Her mother used to joke it was the best work of art in the house.

Not breathing was difficult but she didn’t want to know that smell any more, it hurt too much. ‘What do you think, dear?’

It wasn’t Grandma Klippel’s fault, she wasn’t to know. She was looking happier than Evangeline had ever seen her. Miss Clayburg looked as though she was in the throes of ecstasy.

Evangeline smiled. ‘It’s an artist’s studio,’ she said.

‘It was Darius’s studio, dear, when he was at home,’ her grandmother told her. Her eyes looked pale and filmy with excitement and memories. ‘Now you are to use it.’

‘But I don’t paint.’ It seemed like a simple truth.

Grandma Klippel was busy looking round. ‘We’ll see, we’ll see,’ she whispered. ‘I know you have the flair, Evangeline. Look at the driftwood you bring home, just like my son did when he was your age. He used to spend hours gazing at the shapes. You have an eye for beauty and that is an important start. Miss Clayburg can teach you the rest.

‘Knowing that this place will be used again has made me happier than I can imagine.’ She was speaking to Miss Clayburg now, above Evangeline’s head.

Miss Clayburg must have seen her expression, though, because she smiled down at her.

‘Don’t worry, Evangeline,’ she said, ‘we’ll treat it as a game at first – just have some fun messing around with all the colours and things. Look,’ she took Evangeline across to a table covered with paintboxes, ‘did you ever see a rainbow? Yes? Maybe we could create one on this sheet of paper here, using these colours. Do you remember how it looked? Draw the shape.’ She pressed a pencil into Evangeline’s hands.

Evangeline reached across the vast expanse of white paper. It was important to do well. It was important not to make a mistake. She had to be good. She had to be careful. People were watching. Live people. Dead people. She leant across and slowly drew a neat but teeny arch in the middle of all the white, being more careful than she had ever been before in her life. Miss Clayburg’s smile became a little more squeezed.

‘Good,’ she said, ‘but wouldn’t you like to make it bigger? How about filling the whole page?’

Evangeline reached for the rubber and erased the first arch, making sure all the marks were gone and the page was clean as a whistle again before drawing a slightly larger second one in its place. She used her elbow to make sure the arch was perfect in shape. She was careful again and took a long time about it. Any bits that went wrong would be rubbed out right away. In the end Miss Clayburg took the eraser away from her altogether. Evangeline was aghast. The picture would never be perfect now.

She watched the tutor wet a brush and sloosh paint all over the arch. Nothing looked right now. The colours ran into one another. Warm tears welled in the back of her eyes. Miss Clayburg should have known better – anyone could see she’d made a mess. Evangeline began to cry more but she kept the tears balanced inside her eyes, so they didn’t spill.

‘What do you think?’ Miss Clayburg said.

‘It’s very messy,’ Evangeline told her in a small voice. She tried to sound polite. Miss Clayburg smiled.

‘Look,’ she said, pointing to some of Darius’s paintings. The paint was all over the canvas. Colours clashed. Edges had been blurred. Nothing looked like anything. ‘You don’t have to be neat to be an artist.’

‘Maybe,’ Evangeline replied, but she didn’t sound convinced. She wanted to be neat. She wanted to be perfect. Then her parents could be proud of her and Grandma Klippel would go on smiling the way she was now.