A long and lean five-year-old, Rafe’s hair gleams in multiple shades of red; from fiery, striped with golden streaks, to the colour of dark orange burning coal. It falls with a faint wave just above his shoulders and he brushes it away from his face, annoyed that it interferes with his task. Verity offers him the stems of a pair of horn-rimmed spectacles.
‘These need a good clean, Rafe.’
Absorbed now with arranging the spectacles to his liking, he scoots along the floor.
‘Constance, what are you doing?’ Verity asks.
Verity joins her sister, who stands in front of the elegant mirror hanging above the mantel. They are just tall enough to see the reflection of their faces, which stare back at them in perfect symmetry.
‘I am sixty-eight years of age now, Verity. You are sixty-six. Is it possible that time has not touched our faces, not a single line, no fleshy jowl or drooping chin, these past five years?’
Verity tilts her head to the side.
‘I cannot see a change, sister. But perhaps sharing the air with the trees and pastures has been kind to us?’
‘I compare my face to Angela’s. Their narrowboat passed by less than six months ago, and five years have noticeably aged her.’
‘Angela!’ Rafe repeats. Angela and the boats.’
‘Yes, Rafe. That’s right, clever boy.’
‘And Marland and Captain Emil! They will promised a ride.’
‘They have promised a ride. Not will promised.’
‘They will have promised a ride!’ Rafe announces.
‘Theirs is a difficult life, Constance, always battling the elements. It is hardly a fair comparison.’
‘It is not only that. Angela’s back is rounding and she stoops a bit. Something is drained from her, and the captain as well. It is natural and I might not even notice, if it weren’t for our situation.’ She turns to her sister. ‘Though I still do not believe it Verity, people are growing older around us.’
‘It is the long sleep that unnerves me. When it occurs I fear one of us will not wake.’
‘And yet we always do.’
Constance feels a tug on her skirts. Rafe stretches up his arms wishing to be held. She lifts him and swings him onto her hip.
‘Let me see, let me see.’ He reaches towards the mirror.
She lifts him higher and settles him on her waist so that he might see his reflection. He places his hand on her face while gazing into the mirror, using the reflection to guide his hands. He turns to Verity and traces the contours of her face as well. Then he looks into the mirror again as if he is trying to memorize their images.
‘Auntie Connie and Auntie Very,’ he says simply, studying their faces; he looks back and forth from the mirror to the breathing versions that hold him.
‘Happy tears!’ He catches Verity’s tear and tastes it.
‘Yes, Rafe, happy tears. Happy that you are with us.’
His face clouds with a frown. ‘I want to be with you always,’ he says to the mirror.
‘You shall be, my darling,’ Constance says.
‘When will my mother take me away?’ he asks.
‘Not for a long while. You needn’t worry about that right now. If that should happen, we will always be here, this will be your second home.’
‘Do I look like my mother?’
‘You have her colouring. She is very beautiful and you are very handsome,’ Constance says.
‘But do I look like her?’
‘No, not really,’ Verity admits.
‘Verity!’
‘Well. He does not and that is a simple fact. Only, as you say, the colouring. There is a faint resemblance.’
Constance studies him for a moment.
‘Rafe, would you like to visit your mother?’
‘No. I do not ever want to see her.’
‘But she is your mother, Rafe. We have spoken of this before.’
‘She must be very, very bad. I am punished for one day for throwing pebbles at the birds. She is punished for much longest.’
‘Longer. Punished much longer.’
‘Do not let her take me away, Auntie Very. Will you pray for me?’
‘I pray for you every day, Rafe. Now, now, you are upsetting yourself. We do not know what the future brings, but there is no reason for you to worry.’
‘I will not go.’
‘Let’s look at what you have made here, shall we?’ Constance distracts him.
Verity’s assorted spectacles are arranged on the floor in the shape of heart.
‘Art,’ Rafe says.
‘It is beautiful.’ Constance strokes his hair.
‘Sacred heart for Auntie Very. I making a saint for you, Auntie Connie.’
He wriggles down from Constance’s arms.
‘Come.’ He pulls their hands.
They follow him across the hallway to the library. He runs to a bookshelf where from the bottom row he edges out a thin volume. Squatting on the floor, stretching the velvet of his green skeleton suit, he opens the book and sheets of blue, loaf-sugar wrapping scatter at the sisters’ feet. Rafe displays images of what appear to be a saint across the rug. Painted on the wrapping is a robed man with a long beard of deep crimson that tapers down to his waist. Above his elongated head fans a pale-pink aureole. It is crude, but the intention is clear.
‘Rafe, did you paint these?’
‘Yes, Auntie Connie. This one is for you.’
His eyes widen and sparkle as he thumbs through another volume. Slipped in its pages is the most recent, more refined version. The colours are more brilliant against the thick blue background, the eyes more lifelike.
‘It is stunning, Rafe. I shall treasure it. How did you do it? What materials did you use?’
‘Bertie gave me them. Beetroot juice and eggs, and flour, and the sparkly is salt. And the sugar paper. And the toothbrushes.’
‘You painted these with
