The Silent Woman. Terry Lynn Thomas

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СКАЧАТЬ in turn would become a tangible thing she could keep with her.

      She put the key back in its hiding place and went upstairs to the living room that overlooked the street. Now an old sofa covered with a sheet rested against the far wall. The big window flooded the room with light so vivid that its brightness jumped out from both of Aunt Lydia’s works in progress. One of the canvases portrayed Hector the Horse, the beloved character of the children’s books Aunt Lydia illustrated. The other was a still life depicting a large bouquet of flowers arranged haphazardly in an old milk jug that had at one time belonged to Cat’s mother.

      The bunch of foxgloves, sunflowers, a stray imperfect rose, along with a handful of desiccated stems and twigs, didn’t appeal in their natural state. The flowers were on their last legs and the design of the arrangement was flawed. But Aunt Lydia used these flaws as the theme of her painting. Cat saw it right away. It gave the work an emotional pull that had successfully marvelled critics and enticed collectors for decades.

      A large piece of wood positioned across two sawhorses served as her aunt’s work table. A cup of unfinished tea sat near a jar full of brushes and a box of paints. An open sketchpad lay on the table, revealing a pencil rendering of Hector the Horse arguing with a milkman. Next to it, a mock-up of the book was covered with Lydia’s unique angular scrawl.

      An unbidden tear, hot and wet, spilled onto Cat’s cheek. Surprised, she wiped it away. She moved to the window and looked up and down the street before she went to the upstairs bathroom for a cool cloth.

      Upstairs, Cat moved down the corridor to the room that used to be her own until her marriage to Benton. It was a dear room, situated in the back corner of the house, with a cosy bed, a dresser, and a case full of books. She and Aunt Lydia had painted the walls sky blue. On a whim, Lydia had painted the sun, with puffy white clouds floating by. She shook her head to clear the nostalgia. The motion caused her eye to throb.

      In the bathroom, she splashed cold water on her face before she stared at herself in the mirror. The glass was old and warped, but Cat was accustomed to the waves and distortions. When she moved in, she asked Lydia to replace the mirror with a newer one that portrayed an accurate reflection. Her aunt had refused. She explained that looking in the mirror was a stupid way to spend time. Cat remembered laughing at that. The memories didn’t do a thing to lift her mood.

      Her eye was nearly swollen shut now and had turned a vivid red. Cat rifled through drawers for something with which to cover it, but Aunt Lydia didn’t wear cosmetics. Cat sighed. Nothing to be done except go home and lie down with a cool cloth on her eye. She would try to disguise the bruising with make-up before dinner.

      Aunt Lydia arrived home just as Cat went down the stairs. She carried a large basket of groceries, a bottle of champagne sticking out the top.

      ‘Cat? What are you doing here? My God, what’s happened to your eye?’

      ‘Hello, Aunt Lydia,’ Cat said.

      ‘Catherine, tell me that Benton didn’t do that to you. I swear, if he so much as laid a finger on you, I’ll throttle him myself.’

      Lydia Paxton’s hair was once as thick and curly as Cat’s. Now, at sixty-nine years old, the vivid locks had turned a burnished ginger spun with silver threads. She was shorter than Cat, and paid no attention to fashion. Today she wore baggy trousers – probably purchased at the men’s stall at some jumble sale – which were too long. Lydia rolled them up just enough to reveal the bright purple socks and the pink ballet slippers that adorned her feet. She wore a long-sleeved button-up shirt, another reject from some jumble sale, which was now splattered with paint. A network of fine lines sprayed out from the corners of her eyes, the result of a thousand smiles.

      ‘He did not,’ Cat said. ‘Promise.’

      ‘Come keep me company while I put away this lot.’ Aunt Lydia held up the grocery bags.

      ‘Let me help you,’ Cat said. She took one of the bags out of Lydia’s hand.

      Cat followed her aunt into the kitchen, trying to concoct a story as she walked, knowing full well that if she told Lydia the truth about being attacked, Lydia would know that Cat was holding something back. She always knew. Cat learned at a young age there was no keeping secrets from Aunt Lydia. Neither spoke while Cat took the items from the wicker grocery bags and put them away. Lydia tended to the kettle. While she waited for it to boil, she turned her attention to Cat and studied her face, letting her gaze linger on Cat’s eye and cheek, which throbbed with pain.

      ‘What’s happened, Cat? You’re in some sort of trouble. I can see it all over your face.’ The look of concern in Aunt Lydia’s eyes broke Cat’s heart. She girded herself to lie to her aunt, something she had never done.

      ‘I was attacked in Kensington. A woman grabbed my purse. We scuffled. I didn’t let go. She hit me.’ Cat laughed it off. ‘It was rather ridiculous, actually, and would have been funny if she hadn’t hit me. Now I’m left with a black eye and swollen cheek.’ Cat waited while Lydia digested her words. ‘God knows how I’ll explain this to Benton.’

      ‘Did you report it to the police?’ Aunt Lydia took a clean linen cloth out of a basket on the worktop and drenched it with cold water. She wrung it out and handed it to Cat. ‘Hold that against it. The cold will help.’

      ‘I don’t think it would do much good. She didn’t actually steal anything, so I figured there was no sense in bothering the police for nothing.’ Cat took the cold cloth from Lydia and dabbed it on her eye. She winced when the rough cloth touched the tender skin.

      ‘You’ve gained some weight back, and your cheeks aren’t as pale,’ Lydia said.

      ‘I’m fully recovered from my influenza, Lyd.’

      Aunt Lydia stuck a cigarette in her mouth and left it dangling out the corner. She didn’t light it. She never did. She gazed at Cat through squinted eyes, staring at her with that inscrutable glance that was her trademark.

      ‘Why are you looking at me like that? It’s just a black eye. People get attacked in London every day.’

      ‘Maybe. But they rarely get attacked in Kensington. It just isn’t done. And something’s different. You’ve lost that haunted love-is-lost look.’

      ‘Haunted love-is-lost look? I don’t know what you mean.’

      The kettle whistled. Lydia poured steaming water into the pot, grabbed two cups, and set the lot down on the table.

      ‘I know that things haven’t been good between you and Benton for a long time, Cat. And don’t bother to deny it. You’re a horrible poker player. You wear your feelings on your face for all to see. It broke my heart when you lost your baby, and the two that came after.’ Lydia grabbed Cat’s hand and squeezed it tight, as if she knew she was treading into dangerous territory.

      Cat resisted the urge to pull away. That familiar knot of grief, the anguish that she made it her life’s work to hide, shimmied to the surface. It pushed on her heart, contracted her lungs, and threatened to take her breath away. She had loved Benton. He had been her first. She believed he would be her only. They lost three children together, each tragedy adding another brick in the wall that grew between them. After the third miscarriage, Benton had forsaken Cat and turned his love to another. Devastated, Cat waited for him to return to her, return to the love they shared when they first married. That would have been enough for Cat. It was not enough for Benton.

      When she was hospitalised with СКАЧАТЬ