Ava gasps. ‘Oh my God. It’s … it’s … both of you. You’re … everywhere.’
They stand encircled by the paintings that hang on the walls. There are more suspended from the ceiling. Paintings that explode with the vibrancy of deep, thick reds and luscious pinks. Rings of yellow, and gold circles of light dance above the heads of the two women in the paintings, the same women in each rendition. In several paintings, shards of silver protrude from thick layers of paint. On closer scrutiny they are discovered to be delicate silver crucifixes. The glistening silver reflects the sisters’ white hair.
The effect is so powerful that Constance and Verity are left speechless and confused. They inch forward to the centre, where the largest of seventy paintings hangs on the wall in a majestic, gilded frame. The sisters are portrayed in profile, facing each other, and clearly, a tear streams from the corner of each of their eyes. Old tears, profuse with layered paint, give the impression of active tears, still falling. Above the sisters’ heads their aureoles are also thickly layered and finished with moon gold, a gold leaf that gives the golden shade a hint of pinkish brown – and will never tarnish. There are no crucifixes in this painting; instead, three-hoop fede rings extend from various points in the aureoles. They shine so finely.
The paintings are emotive, striking at the heart with pathos while at the same time offering hope with the sisters’ smiles, glimmering through their tears.
‘Happy tears.’ A man’s voice whispers behind them.
‘Auntie Connie. Auntie Very,’ he says.
The sisters turn. He stands in the pink fog, his dark-red hair shimmers in soft streaks of light. Eyes filled with emotion, he smiles.
‘I thought I would never see you again. So I painted you over and over.’
The sisters feel his arms around them. Constance places her hand on his rose-gold chain. Time stops completely, and now, in his embrace, their soft sobs contain a world of joy.
Ava and Willa, who have discreetly stepped out of the gallery, have lost any awkwardness.
‘You have made my aunts … God, I can’t talk. Wait a minute.’ Ava blinks. ‘You’ve made them so happy, Willa.’
‘They deserve to be happy. So does he.’
‘You must care a great deal for him.’
‘Yes, I do.’ She adds, ‘Like I would care for a dear brother.’
‘I see,’ says Ava, a flush of pink in her cheeks.’ Is this the first time you’ve been to the Tate since … well, since it was the penitentiary?’
Willa nods. ‘It’s strange to think you know about that. I don’t even know if I should be embarrassed. I really wasn’t guilty of anything.’
‘Of course not! I apologize. I don’t mean to pry. I handle all of Aunt Constance and Aunt Verity’s affairs now, and I would never break their trust. I’m the only living member of our family who knows. We’ve had a system in place since, well, since my aunts changed. Those of us who have known have always adhered to a strong familial duty.’ Suddenly pensive, she adds. ‘And love.’
‘Then you know that while Rafe was with your aunts I was here, right on these premises, in this swamp.’
‘Yes. I’m sorry. I don’t know how you’ve managed to survive it. Mentally, I mean.’
‘I almost came back to watch them knock it down. But I didn’t have as much freedom then.’
‘It is quite amazing that Rafe is showing here. His identity isn’t known, is it? Not to anyone at the museum?’
‘God no. They think they have a Banksy,’ says Willa.
* * *
It doesn’t seem at all strange to sit by the fire on a snowy night in December with the boy, who by some miracle has grown into a sane, talented man. The sisters and Rafe don’t attempt to catch up, but rather allow their shared memories to lead them where they may. There is talk of the cries of monkeys, and the sweat of fevers, shared tears for Bertie, and missed opportunities without blame. There are things left unsaid for now, the haunt of the want of suicide, the cruelty of one woman, and the gnawing aches when they could not find the arms of comfort. As they promised Elísabet, the sisters hold tight to their recent enlightenment. It is not yet time for another long-overdue reunion.
Two hours pass in a flash. Willa and Ava, who have been talking in the kitchen peek their heads into the sitting room to offer tea. Yes, please, comes the response, they are famished.
‘Oh forgive me, Ava! We’ve been so selfish,’ Verity says. ‘Please come in and meet Rafe.’
Ava steps forward to him. ‘I hardly know what to say,’ she says. ‘“It’s a pleasure to meet you” sounds so ridiculous when I’ve heard so much about you. But it is. A pleasure. A great pleasure.’ She wonders why she rattles on.
Rafe stands and takes her hand, half shaking it, half holding it, embarrassed by his awkwardness.
‘I am pleased to meet you, too. Thank you for being so attentive to them.’
Willa arrives with a heaving tray of food.
‘I just robbed your fridge,’ she says.
They nibble on cheese, pâté, smoked meats and fish, olives, bread and chutneys and salad. There’s cake, chocolate tarts, and tea, pots and pots of tea. Every few minutes the Fitzgerald sisters catch each other’s eye, and what passes between them is an acknowledgement that they stayed the course, the course of love – a long-tested, aged love. Lawless House is effervescent with love tonight. Its very walls throb with it. The fire spits out flames of love.
They talk late into the night. The old clock in the sitting room that once belonged to Averil Lawless strikes midnight, and the night turns over to the 17th of December. For the first time in many a long year the sisters will not take that fraught walk to St Martin’s Gardens later in the day. Their boy is home.
CHAPTER SIXTY-THREE
Early in the morning, a few days
