Sea of memories, p.25
Sea of Memories, page 25
I hold my breath as Finn clambers out of the car at last – he’d refused at first, so we’d left him sitting in his seat as we opened up the house and began to unload the bags. He sat there with his comforter, crooning softly to himself, which is one of his self-soothing techniques when he’s feeling anxious or stressed. Dan and I exchanged a guarded glance, both wondering whether this trip was going to turn out to be another horrible mistake to add to the list of abortive attempts at holidays we’d had in the early days, before we gave up trying.
I pretend to rummage in one of the bags as Finn walks up the path and stands in the doorway, his slight frame backlit against the sunshine beyond. A waft of breeze lifts the white muslin curtains on either side of the French doors in the kitchen and they billow voluminously, filling like the sails of a ship. Automatically, I tense, bracing myself for his high-pitched scream if he is panicked by this unfamiliar sight. But, to my amazement and relief, he begins to laugh. I feel my shoulders drop as they relax, and I laugh too, with joy, at his rarely heard response. Because he laughs so seldom, it’s all the more precious when he does.
He points. ‘Look, Mummy, it’s ghosts. Friendly ones, like Casper.’
For a second I wonder whether he truly is seeing spirits, whether his mind allows him to glimpse worlds the rest of us cannot. And it seems plausible that he might, because the house feels full of friendly ghosts. It’s already welcoming and familiar, even though we’ve only just walked into it, filled as it is with the spirit of Marianne’s gentle kindness, and Monsieur Martet’s love for his family, and Christophe’s passionate sense of beauty. But when I turn to follow Finn’s gaze, it’s just the joyous, billowing dance of the curtains in the sea-breeze that is amusing him so.
‘Come upstairs and see your bedroom. I think it might have curtains like that too.’
With calm acceptance, he takes my hand – another treasured rarity – and we climb the stairs together.
‘I like holidays, Mummy,’ he tells me as he stands on the bright rag rug in his room, watching as I open the shutters and allow the sunlight to flood in. I know better than to scoop him up in my arms and hug him tightly to me, even though, instinctively, it’s still what I yearn to do. But I hold my hand up, fingers spread like a starfish, and he presses his own tiny starfish hand against mine in our agreed gesture of love.
I nod, smiling into his wide green eyes, so like the eyes of his great-grandmother in the photographs when she was young. ‘I like holidays too.’
After supper, he settles under the counterpane on his unfamiliar bed without a murmur. I pull the shutters to, but leave the window open, drawing the curtains across. ‘Look,’ I whisper, ‘the friendly ghosts are keeping you company.’
He nods, his expression grave as usual, and spreads his comforter on his pillow so that the familiar smell of home will keep his night terrors at bay.
‘Good night, Finn. Sleep tight.’
I tiptoe back downstairs to the kitchen, where Dan is running water into the sink to start the washing-up. ‘Leave that,’ I say, handing him a towel to dry his hands. ‘Let’s go and sit on the terrace and finish our wine.’
He pulls me to him and I bury my face in the comforting breadth of his chest. We haven’t shared a moment like this for ages. It feels good to stand here like this, together.
With his arm around my waist, he guides me back to the garden and we sit at the table picking at the cheeses and the bowl of glossy cherries that Caroline had left for our arrival, sipping the dark red wine in our glasses. Dan raises his glass to mine with a soft clink. ‘Here’s to Ella, who brought us here. What a paradise it is.’
‘To Ella,’ I echo. And I smile as I reach for my husband’s hand, our fingers interlocking. We sit there in silence for a while, watching the stars come out as a crescent moon, delicate as an eyelash, drifts in the dark sky above our heads. I breathe in the honeysuckle-scented air and I remember Marianne.
I don’t know whether it’s the wine, or the novelty of sitting out so late in the warm night air, or perhaps it’s the fact that the two of us are light-headed with relief – and not a little disbelief – that Finn seems so relaxed here and that we are finally having a family holiday. But suddenly I feel closer to Dan than I’ve done in ages. Years, in fact. The ten long years since Finn was born.
Sitting here beside my husband, holding his hand in the soft glow that escapes through the slats of the shutters from the lamp that lights the night in Finn’s bedroom, to keep the terrors that torment him at bay, I know what a toll all of this has taken on Dan and me. But the Île de Ré seems to be weaving its subtle magic around us, just as it did around Ella and Christophe all those years ago, binding us to one another again, reminding me how much I love this man who has shared the struggle to understand our son and to try to get him the care he needs. I’m reminded of Ella’s single-minded determination when it came to caring for Robbie through his battle with polio, cajoling the authorities into providing the right treatment for him. I must have inherited that gene from her, I think, and it renews my sense of purpose to think that, in some way, she will be with me to keep on fighting for Finn, whatever the future may hold. It’s a frightening prospect, to put it mildly. How can we create an environment where he’ll feel safe? What will happen when he outgrows the specialist school where, even now, the resources and support available for him are limited? Will he ever be able to work? To support himself? And the unthinkable thought is always there, the dread that consumes me in the sleepless hours on my worst nights: what will happen to him when we’re gone?
As if he’s read my mind, Dan laces his fingers over mine, and I turn to smile at him.
‘It’s been tough, hasn’t it? You’ve been a star, Kendra. Keeping it all going while I’m lazing about at home.’
‘It’s hardly your fault you lost your job. And you never laze at home. I know what hard work Finn is. You’re doing a fantastic job. He loves having you there to look after him. Look how he enjoyed the gardening project while it lasted. How he loves working with you in the allotment.’
Dan nods. ‘He does, doesn’t he? You know, I’m really rather proud of our vegetable patch. And the other day, after we’d visited the City Farm, he told me he wants to make it bigger and maybe get some chickens too.’
I laugh. ‘Can you imagine what the neighbours would have to say about that?’ Our pocket handkerchief of a suburban plot is no smallholding.
‘It would be great, wouldn’t it, to move to the country some day? Finn definitely seems more relaxed in a rural environment. Just look at how well he’s adapted to being here. We could have a proper vegetable garden, maybe an orchard too like that one’ – he waves his wine-glass towards the trees just visible beyond the gate at the far end of the garden – ‘Finn could learn some proper gardening skills, maybe get a job at a plant nursery eventually, or on a farm . . .’
‘Would you enjoy that, do you think? Giving up city life and moving to the country?’
He’s silent for a few moments, contemplating. ‘Do you know? I really think I would. I’d like to be my own boss, start some kind of project of my own, something creative that Finn could be part of. Be master of my own fate, for once, instead of reliant on other people’s business for my salary. Or lack thereof!’
In the dim light, I glimpse the way his mouth turns down, a flicker of despair contorting his features briefly. But he pulls himself together, as he always does, protecting me from his sadness and his frustration, his sense of failure.
‘What about you?’ He squeezes my hand again gently. ‘What would you do if we won the lottery?’
I laugh again. ‘We’d better start buying tickets!’ Then, more seriously, I say, ‘I’d love it, I think, living in the country. I could write, and help with Finn, and collect the eggs from the chickens and cook you both delicious, nourishing meals with our homegrown produce.’ I sip my wine. ‘Isn’t it a pity that the city is where the jobs are? The minor flaw in our cunning plan.’
Dan stretches, leaning against the back of his chair, raising his face to the starlight far above us. He sighs, a despondent breath of frustration. Then turns to face me again, leans in to kiss me. ‘At least we are dreaming. And that, in itself, is progress. I’ve just realised that I stopped dreaming a long time ago. It’s time we started again. Life is definitely the better for it.’
I smile, remembering my grandmother’s words. ‘Ella once said something very much along those lines too.’
He releases my hand and draws a finger along my jaw-line, caressing it softly. ‘You have the same-shaped face as her. I only realised it when I saw the photos of her when she was young. How lucky I am. I love you, Kendra.’
And I realise in this moment that he is my first love and my lasting love. Together, we are Finn’s parents. Together, we will make it work, whatever life sends our way. And that – I see suddenly – is all that matters.
My eyes meet his and I notice that they are the clear blue of a summer’s sky: the sadness, the fear, the guilt and the pain that have clouded them so often of late, have all been washed away. His gaze is unequivocal.
The sighing breath of the ocean enfolds us both as we stand up and, with arms twined around each other’s waists, make our way back inside. Dan leads me up the quietly creaking staircase to our bedroom where the pale muslin curtains billow towards us in the night breeze, beckoning us in silently. In the light of the moon, lulled by the hushing sound of the waves, we drift together, holding fast as we lie beneath the painting of a wind-blown boat, sailing free across an ocean lit with the light of a summer’s love. And we know that we are saved.
‘It must be the sea air,’ comments Dan the next morning.
Finn has slept through the night and is now tucking into a second croissant, slathered with French butter and cherry jam (the latter clearly homemade, presumably by Sandrine). He pauses for a moment, licking crumbs from his fingers, to observe, ‘I like eating breakfast in the garden,’ then focuses his full attention on manoeuvring another spoonful of jam on to his plate.
‘Me too,’ grins Dan and I notice his hand lift slightly, as if to reach out and ruffle his son’s hair; but he catches himself in time and lets his hand rest on the table between them instead. It’s going to be a day of unknown challenges for Finn as it is. We can’t risk any extra upsets.
Some days – rare, precious days – he’ll let us touch him, hold his hand, help him get dressed. But we have to wait for those moments, read the signals carefully, let him come to us, or else we risk invoking the tempest of his rage and panic which will splinter our fragile little family group into distraught fragments until we are all fraught with exhaustion once again.
But today is a good day and, so far, the risk that we’ve taken coming on holiday has paid off. So we proceed with caution, taking tiny, tentative steps into this new territory, holding our breath and hoping – as we spend our whole lives doing – for signs of progress.
I keep my voice light. ‘Today Mummy’s going to go and meet a friend in a town near here. She’s the lady who owns this house. There are boats in the town. I wonder whether you would like to see the boats, Finn?’
He ignores me and carries on picking up the flakes of buttery pastry that freckle his plate with his sticky finger, intent on transferring every last one into his mouth. I know better than to push for a reply. The three of us sit in silence, Dan and I carefully sipping our coffee. No pressure.
Once the very last crumb has been picked up, Finn regards his perfectly clean plate, his expression unchanging. ‘I would like to see the lady,’ he says. ‘And perhaps the boats as well.’
The sun is high and hot as midday approaches, shrinking our shadows to dark puddles beneath our feet on the cobbles of the quayside. Mercifully, Saint Martin isn’t too busy as it’s still early in the season and I thank my lucky stars, as well as the Scottish education system, that the school broke up well before most of the rest of Europe does. Dan and I flank Finn, automatically trying to create a buffer between him and a world that his mind can find so confusing and terrifying. We’re always trying to second-guess his reactions, although usually we fail. ‘It’s not that his mind is misinterpreting the world,’ the psychiatrist once explained. ‘It’s just interpreting it differently. Who’s to say – perhaps he’s the one who’s getting it right and it’s the rest of us that are wrong. It all makes perfect sense to him, the way he reacts. We just need to try to see things through his eyes.’
I glance at him, anxious that the sudden onslaught of noise and colour and people in the busy harbour might panic him. But he’s using one of his coping strategies, focusing hard on his feet, looking at patterns in the cobble-stones, intent on tracing a path across them that allows him to feel secure in this strange new environment. Any other child his age would be looking around, exclaiming over the boats on their moorings, and the ice-cream shop, the cafés with their bright umbrellas and the smell of hot sugar from the crêpe stall on the quay. But he knows that if he can just stay focused then the demons that lurk within these new sights and sounds can’t get to him. So, he plods on, biting his lip as he places his jelly sandals carefully on those stones that look safe to him, not looking left or right until we have crossed the bridge that links the two sides of the harbour and are standing in front of the gallery.
We step over the threshold into the gallery’s outer room, where matte grey walls are hung with a series of bright-coloured abstracts, shaded by the awning which keeps the sun’s bleaching rays at bay. Finn surveys the paintings gravely and then his face splits into his widest grin. ‘Look, Mummy, there are the boats.’ And I realise he’s right. What look like abstract geometric shapes resolve themselves, seen through his eyes, into a regatta of sail-boats splashing through a sparkling sea.
‘My child, you are absolutely correct.’ A woman appears in the archway that leads through to the gallery’s inner room. She is very old, her pure white hair drawn into a soft chignon, at the nape of her neck, her dark eyes hooded; but she stands upright and her features are still elegant in her lined face. ‘Those are indeed the boats. Not everyone can see them. You clearly have an eye for art.’
Finn turns his serious, wide-eyed gaze upon her. ‘Are you the lady?’
‘You know, I do believe I must be. Caroline Martet, very pleased to meet you. And I think you are Finn, n’est-ce pas?’
She holds out a hand towards him and I tense, expecting him to cringe from it, or to slap it away as he has done to other strangers who’ve attempted to shake his hand before now. But, to my surprise and relief, he reaches out his own small hand and clasps hers briefly.
‘Did you paint the boat pictures?’
‘No, my child. I wish I had, but I was not given that talent. My brother was the artist in our family. Although he didn’t paint these particular pictures. They are by a friend of mine.’
‘Which ones did your brother paint? Can I see them?’
‘I have just one of his left here in the gallery. The others have all been sold. But you might have noticed the paintings in the house?’ Finn nods. ‘Well, most of those were painted by him.’
Finn continues to survey her gravely, but, where most people would be disconcerted, she meets his gaze with a calmness and wisdom that seem to reassure him. ‘I like the one of the boat on the sea best. It’s in Mummy and Daddy’s bedroom.’
‘I know the one to which you refer,’ Caroline smiles. ‘That is indeed one of his. It was one of your great-grandmother’s favourites too. She had one quite like it, also by him, in her home in Edinburgh, so perhaps you are reminded of it by the one in the house here. You are clearly a young man of discerning tastes, Finn. And these must be your parents, I suppose?’
She embraces me tightly, then holds me at arm’s length. ‘Kendra. It is good to meet you at last. You have Ella’s complexion . . . the shape of her face too.’ She touches my cheek softly, her fingers knotted and arthritic. ‘But you, Finn’ – she turns to him again – ‘have her eyes.’
‘Can we see the painting?’ he asks. ‘The one your brother did that you have left?’
‘Come,’ she beckons. ‘It’s through here.’
Dan and I follow the unlikely pair of art-lovers into the back room. And then my breath catches and I have to stifle the sob that rises in my throat.
My fragile son stands, gazing upwards, dwarfed by the canvas which almost fills one wall of the inner room, lit by a single spotlight. His straight, gold-streaked hair is the same as the woman’s in the painting, the colour of the beach-grass that blows in the dunes. Her eyes are closed, watching her dreams behind the veil of sleep, but I know if they were to open they would be the same colour as his, the colour of the deepest ocean, out beyond the point. Her beauty has the same ethereal quality as his. A Botticelli Venus with a Mona Lisa smile.
Tears spill from my eyes. Dan reaches for my hand and I sense that he, too, is as overcome as I am. It’s not just the juxtaposition of Finn, our tiny, delicate son, beside his great-grandmother’s portrait. It’s the realisation that this is more than just a painting . . .
In this moment, I see my grandmother for who she truly was – a pure force of beauty, love, joy and compassion. And I see, too, that that is all that matters: it is everything. If I can try to live my life with this in mind, then I know that I will be happy, wherever I may be and no matter what challenges surround me.
‘Do you like the painting, Finn?’ Caroline asks gently.
‘I think it is a very good one.’
‘And why is that?’
‘Because she looks like she is dreaming a good dream. Not a horrible nightmare with monsters that chase you and try to make you be someone different than who you are.’
‘You’re right, Finn. She looks very peaceful, perfectly contented being who she really is. As we all should be.’
