Eliza
‘I had great hopes for you, you know, Eliza,’ Uncle Ian said. ‘You were such a bright lively girl.’
It was winter still in Sweden. At home I had left behind flowering cherries and green grass and, in the parts of London where pollution pushed up the temperature by a couple of degrees, even some precocious daffodils. It was different here. Heaps of packed snow still congregated in the shady corners of the courtyard and the grass was yet to green up.
Uncle Ian and I were sitting on the glass veranda drinking coffee; I had got used to Katarina’s bitter black brew boiled on the stove.
‘I remember soon after you were born, your father took me up to where you were lying in your nursery. And there you were, like a bug all tucked up. “A new generation,” he said. “There’s been enough latent talent and unfulfilled promise amongst the women of my family. This little one will be different.” ’
‘All parents think that about their children,’ I said, though the thought of my father showing me off with such pride to his friend made me ache to know this man I could not myself remember.
‘Perhaps that’s so, but as you grew up I began to think that in your case he had been right. Rose was a lovely girl but she was not intellectually or artistically gifted.’
‘Everyone adored her,’ I said. ‘That’s a gift. To be lovable.’
‘Did they? Did they really?’ He sat back, looking pleased.
I nodded emphatically although I’d realised as I spoke that I didn’t remember whether or not Rose had been especially liked. I had loved her, of course. And she’d been close to Portia. And the boys had all liked her. But otherwise maybe admired would have been a better way of describing the way she was regarded, and envied, of course. Because you could not look like Rose and not elicit envy.
‘The thing is, none of us know what she might have achieved,’ I said. And I had to look away because my eyes had started to tear over suddenly, without warning. ‘That’s what I can’t bear, that’s the greatest wrong done to Rose, to those who die young, that they were never afforded the chance to be the best they could.’
We sat side by side, on our chairs, looking out at the garden, at the in-between landscape of yellows and browns and greys that was Sweden in not quite winter and not yet spring. Then I felt his hand take mine. We raised our twinned hands in the manner of two people striding, then lowered them down between our seats before letting go.
‘And you, Eliza. Do you feel you’re the best you could be?’
I looked at him. ‘In the job I’ve chosen, yes, I’m pretty good.’
‘That’s very satisfactory, then.’
Katarina had gone shopping and in the silence of the house I listened to the old man’s breathing: heavy, wheezing. It made me think he must find it tiring just to be alive. It was warm in the room and I thought he might be about to doze off but then he spoke again, asking me about his mother’s stories.
‘You were going to illustrate them, wasn’t that the idea?’
I smiled, thinking about it. ‘All those plans . . . Though I expect she was just being kind.’
‘Nonsense. And God knows she needed someone to sort out all those notes. She only ever published two volumes of her fairy tales. She spent so much of her time travelling around the countryside collecting the stories; that was the thing. Then she died. Awful waste. But you could do it for her, write them out and illustrate them. I’ve got her notes as well as many of the recordings she made.’
‘I’m not good enough to be a professional illustrator.’
‘Says who?’
‘Says me.’
‘Don’t be so defeatist.’
‘You sound like my ex-husband. Anyway, I call it being realistic.’
‘Sometimes the two are one and the same.’
I gave a little laugh. ‘No doubt. But then you can’t build victory/success – whatever you think of as the opposite of defeat – on delusion.’ I thought for a moment. ‘Or perhaps you can. Anyway, I really enjoy the work I’m doing. I’m not looking for anything new.’
‘So tell me then, what is it with mending old pots that you find so fulfilling?’
I frowned at him but he didn’t notice so I tried to explain instead. ‘I like it because so often ceramics, porcelain, are a combination of art and craft, of the decorative and the practical. I like the idea of someone taking the trouble to make something that is essentially a utilitarian workhorse of an object into a thing of joy. I think it’s touching. And it makes me happy to think that instead of that thought and effort being thrown away and lost I can bring it back to usefulness.’
Uncle Ian said he could see the charm in that. He used that word, charm. I thought of the pieces that had passed through my hands; the refined Meissen and rustic Staffordshire, the intricate Willow Patterns and achingly sophisticated Sèvres, the humorous Tobys, the frail Minton, the joyful Wemyss, and I thought yes, charm was a good word.
‘So have you thought some more about my offer?’
I was yanked back into the world outside work. ‘Yes. Yes, I have.’
‘And?’
‘Uncle Ian.’
‘Yes.’
‘At the inquest I said I thought she was following.’
He looked at me, a question in his eyes, and then he nodded, slowly.
‘And that I thought she was just mucking around when she called out.’
‘Yes.’
I sighed and the sigh was so heavy I thought it might drag me with it to the ground. ‘But that might not have been completely right. I might have realised she wasn’t following. I was panicking, in a silly schoolgirl way; giggling and flapping both at once.’ I paused and looked down at my hands, the fingers twisting and untwisting like crazed snakes, then I looked up at him. ‘It’s all such a muddle, but I might have realised.’
There was a long silence. I looked down at my hands again. Keeping my fingers still and flat against my thighs.
‘Might?’
I nodded without looking up. ‘I honestly don’t know for sure. I realise that sounds just terrible because every second of that night should be seared on my mind, but the truth is I can’t be sure.’
‘Eliza. Look at me.’
I kept my head lowered but my gaze sidled towards him.
‘Did you mean for any harm to come to Rose?’
My chin jerked upwards. ‘Of course not. I loved her.’
‘Well, then, that’s all we need to consider, isn’t it?’
‘Is it? I mean, how can it be?’
‘How can it not be? We lost Rose. No one meant for that to happen but it did. I’m quite sure that if you really had thought that Rose was in trouble you would have turned back to help.’
My snake-fingers began their twisting, folding, entwining once more. I looked into his eyes; I couldn’t read his expression. ‘I’m not,’ I whispered. ‘I’m not so sure.’
I was laying the table for dinner. Katarina had pointed me in the direction of the Royal Copenhagen Flora Danica china.
‘We’re using it today again?’
It was the same with the silver cutlery, George Jensen’s Acorn, and the crystal, Orrefors; they used it all for everyday, but it was the china that took my breath away.
‘Your godfather wants to enjoy his beautiful things,’ she told me.
‘How sick is he?’ I asked.
‘He’s sick,’ was all she would say.
As we sat down to dinner Uncle Ian acted no differently from the way he had before our last conversation. I looked at him when I thought he wouldn’t notice, when he was busy helping himself to potatoes from the large Flora Danica bowl and butter from the cut crystal dish. I had laid out my soul on the ground before him and he had stepped daintily across while looking the other way. What was he thinking? Our eyes met for a moment. His were serious, considered. God knows what my own expression was like.
‘Did you know that Flora Danica porcelain was intended to be botanically informative as well as beautiful and useful?’ I heard myself say. I swallowed hard and continued. ‘The imagery on the original set included not just flowers but roots and seed pods too.’
‘I didn’t know that,’ said Katarina.
‘Nor did I,’ said Uncle Ian.
‘You see, the painting of flowers on porcelain was common enough at the end of the eighteenth century but the ornamentation conformed to aesthetic criteria. The decorations on the Flora Danica porcelain, on the other hand, were not chosen for their aesthetics but instead, and in tune with the spirit of the Age of Enlightenment, it was decided to make exact “scientific” copies of the plates of the highly praised book Flora Danica. It was no easy task, however, to transfer the pictures from the engraved plates in the book. They would have been square, whereas the dinner service required oval or round shapes and sometimes compromises had to be made . . .’