Sea of Memories (Page 48)
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.’
He nods. Then says, ‘I think I would like to go and look at the real boats now.’
‘Well, that can certainly be arranged. In fact, I think it’s lunch-time, so why don’t we go and find a table beside the harbour? That way we can look at the boats and eat at the same time.’
Caroline closes the gallery and leads us along the quayside towards the harbour-master’s offices, to a quiet corner where there are fewer people milling about. We settle ourselves at a table shaded by a broad canvas umbrella, from where we have a good view of the boats, and order moules-frites along with a chilled bottle of Sancerre.