They left the stone boy and went up the steps to tell her.

  A Touch of Magic

  It was a lovely June afternoon and Clare Ridley, with Aunt Jessica in her wake, carried a tray of iced tea out on to the patio.

  ‘Where are the children?’ Aunt Jessica asked in her deep voice.

  ‘Playing somewhere with their friends.’

  ‘And Howard?’

  ‘He had an appointment in town.’

  ‘Poor man, downtown on a day like this.’ She lowered herself gingerly into a deck chair. All Aunt Jessica’s movements were deliberate and cautious, not only because she was approaching seventy, but because she was large. Not fat, exactly, but tall and stately. In her colourful, mismatched clothing, she reminded Clare of a beautiful Bohemian.

  Jessica was not Clare’s aunt, but Howard’s, and she lived only a mile from the Ridleys’ in a small enviable house with a large well-tended garden. She had lived there most of her life, alone, because she had never married.

  ‘Now,’ said Aunt Jessica, coming right to the point, ‘what did you want to talk to me about?’

  Clare handed her a glass of tea. ‘Josh is coming for the weekend.’

  Aunt Jessica glanced up. ‘Oh.’

  ‘That was exactly my reaction.’

  The two women sat in brooding, sympathetic silence. Josh was Howard’s brother and, if not exactly a black sheep, had all his life posed certain problems.

  The inherited artistic streak, which ran like a fine thread through generations of their family, had come out in both brothers. In Howard it had taken a practical form, meanwhile Josh was a true artist – a painter – with all the charm, temperament, and instability that that single word can conjure up.

  ‘Josh needs a wife,’ Aunt Jessica said flatly.

  It was an opinion shared by Clare, but now, after years of trying to interest Josh in settling down, she had made up her mind that it was hopeless. ‘Time’s run out, Aunt Jessica.’

  ‘He wouldn’t look at her,’ Clare said. ‘He has only to look at the right sort of girl and he runs like the wind.’

  ‘I’ve been thinking about that,’ Aunt Jessica said, her eyes sparkling with mischief. ‘It’s because he’s an artist, with an artist’s perception. Now if his visual attention could be caught—’ She paused, a small smile lighting up her face. ‘You must all come to lunch on Sunday.’

  ‘Aunt Jessica, are you plotting?’

  ‘Of course not, dear,’ she said, with a hurt expression. ‘I just want to have all my family together on Sunday.’

  * * *

  From the end of the yard came the sound of a gate opening and shutting. The next moment Clare’s children appeared in jeans and T-shirts and faded sneakers, looking dirty, red-faced and happy.

  ‘Hello, Aunt Jessica,’ said nine-year-old Katy and came to give her a kiss.

  Danny, at eight years old, detested being kissed. ‘Hello, Aunt Jessica,’ he said, keeping a safe distance.

  ‘What have you been doing to yourself?’ Aunt Jessica asked him, noting the healing cuts on his knees and elbow.

  ‘I was riding Charlie Taylor’s bicycle and I fell off.’

  ‘Why weren’t you riding your own bicycle?’ asked Aunt Jessica.

  ‘It’s so small.’ All at once, and mostly for his mother’s sake, his voice rose plaintively. ‘I’ve been saving and saving for a new one, but I still need twelve dollars. I’ve just had a birthday so I’ve got to wait a whole year for some more money.’

  ‘There’s Christmas,’ his mother reminded him.

  ‘Christmas is ages away.’

  Aunt Jessica tactfully changed the subject. ‘You’re all coming over for lunch on Sunday.’

  ‘Oh, good. Can we go on the lake?’ Katy asked.

  Aunt Jessica’s garden had a small lake in the middle of it, once created for some wealthy gentleman to stock with trout. But for the children it was the best treat in the world to be allowed into the old boat to row themselves around in circles pretending to be explorers.

  ‘If it’s a fine day,’ Aunt Jessica promised.

  * * *

  By Friday morning Clare was ready for Josh’s arrival, and by Saturday morning she was fuming. How like him not to call to warn them he would be late. When the doorbell finally rang late in the afternoon, Clare jerked open the door, anxious to unleash her anger, but one look at Josh standing there, looking familiar and dear, and the words died in her throat.

  ‘Clare,’ he said, reaching out to hug her. ‘You look marvellous.’

  ‘So do you,’ she told him and it was almost true. He was tan and healthy, but he was older. He needed a haircut and she saw the first hint of grey at his temples. There were smudges beneath his pale blue eyes. In faded jeans, a frayed plaid shirt, and sagging corduroy jacket, he looked more like a penniless waif than an internationally known painter.

  From the rest of the family, he received a rapturous welcome. They were all so fond of him, Clare thought, as the children flung themselves into his arms and Howard’s face lighted with joy at seeing his brother again.

  Everyone helped to carry the luggage to the guest room and to assist in opening the suitcases. Out came photographs, ill-matched socks, books, magazines, and un-washed shirts. In no time the room had been taken over by his possessions and his towering personality. Clare gathered up a bundle of laundry and went to put it in the washer before serving drinks on the patio.

  Minutes later Josh leaned back in his chair and stretched, turning his face up to the warm setting sun. ‘Why do I ever go away?’ he said.

  A moment’s hesitation, and then Clare said, ‘Why do you?’

  ‘I don’t know.’ He sounded hopeless. ‘For the life of me. I don’t know.’

  * * *

  But after dinner, with a cup of coffee in front of him, Josh opened up to Howard and Clare. He was getting too old, he told them. Too old to keep up with the pace of a life which he had set up as a student. Now, the physical labour of painting, the loneliness of his work, drained him of energy; and yet, because it was expected of him, he found himself partying half the night – expected to go here, there, and everywhere.

  ‘Then stop it,’ Howard told him bluntly. ‘Learn to say “no”.’

  ‘It’s more complicated than that. When I think about changing even one facet of my lifestyle. I have the classic painter’s nightmare: the genius will disappear, my fingers will get stiff, my eye will falter.’

  ‘But you don’t need to change yourself,’ Clare told him. ‘If you just had a home of your own, then you wouldn’t be at the mercy of all those creative, eccentric people you are expected to work with.’

  ‘You mean a little woman?’

  ‘You make it sound so banal.’

  ‘If I could find a little woman like you, it would be easy.’

  ‘You wouldn’t last a day with a woman like me.’

  ‘I suppose I wouldn’t.’ He sounded sad. And then he yawned, looking at his watch, and announced he was going to bed.

  It rained in the night, and the next morning the world was hazy with mist. But as the sun rose, it burned the mist away, and by the time they left for Aunt Jessica’s it was a hot and breezy day.

  * * *

  In ten minutes they were there, turning in through the open gate and driving up the short curve of the drive that bordered the little lake. There were deck chairs set out on the lawn, and Aunt Jessica was waiting for them. Clare saw, with a start of surprise, that there was someone with Aunt Jessica. A young woman in a brown skirt and beige blouse. Her hair had been bundled casually into a soft knot at the back of her head. The effect was distinguished, but colourless. Clare wondered what Aunt Jessica was up to. Did she think this was a woman to capture Josh’s visual attention?

  ‘Josh!’ Aunt Jessica came forward to embrace him. ‘I’m so happy to see you.’

  She stepped back and circled her arm around the young woman’s shoulders, propelling her forward. Before she could speak, the woman said shyly, ‘Hello, Josh.’

  ‘Good lord!’ he said. ‘Elizabeth Kennedy.’

  ‘I didn’t think you’d remember me.’

  ‘Of course I remember you. How are you?’ He grasped her hand warmly. ‘What are you doing here?’

  ‘My father retired here. He hasn’t been well lately and I’ve come to live with him. I’ve been writing children’s stories since I graduated from school. It’s work I can do anywhere.’ She turned to greet Howard and Clare. ‘Josh and I met in college,’ she explained. Her smile transformed her face. Why, she’s beautiful, Clare thought.

  They settled into chairs to drink wine outdoors, but went inside to eat lunch. Crowded around the polished oak table, they feasted on chicken and roast potatoes. The conversation never faltered, but Clare was silent. Across the table Elizabeth and Josh sat side by side. It occurred to Clare that if Josh really wanted to settle down, Elizabeth Kennedy would be perfect for him. She was intelligent and self-contained. They had memories to share and they would share the same sort of friends. More importantly, they would balance each other. Her calm aura of quiet efficiency would soothe his mercurial temperament, and his vitality would fire response into that pale, quiet, dark-eyed face. It needed something to bring it to life. A touch of makeup, a touch of sunlight, a touch, perhaps, of love?

  Clare looked at the long clean line of Elizabeth’s throat, the neat tilt of the small nose. She is beautiful, she thought again. She really is beautiful.

  After lunch they returned outside. Howard was deep in a deck chair, reading the Sunday paper. Josh had taken himself off to a distant and sheltered corner and was fast asleep on the lawn.

  ‘Unsociable devil,’ muttered Aunt Jessica.

  From across the smooth water of the lake came the creak of oars as Katy painfully rowed the old boat. Elizabeth was her passenger. Danny waited at the water’s edge for his turn.

  ‘Hurry up, Katy!’

  Aunt Jessica walked down to the little boy. ‘Don’t be impatient,’ she told him. ‘You’ll get your turn.’ She pulled him down to sit beside her on the grass, under the shade of a frilly parasol that she always carried in sunny weather. Their voices sank to a companionable murmur.

  The prow of the boat bumped against the pier and Danny rushed to take the oars. There was a great deal of splashing and shouted instructions, but finally he got himself settled, and Elizabeth was once more on her way around the lake.

  * * *

  It was all very peaceful. But suddenly, the drowsy afternoon was pierced by a shriek from Danny. ‘Look!’ he cried, jumping to his feet. The boat rocked violently, he lost his balance and, trying to save himself, trod heavily on the gunwale. The next moment, the boat tipped and turned. There was a splash and both Elizabeth and Danny disappeared into the water.

  Clare and Howard sprinted for the water’s edge. Elizabeth and Danny stood waist deep on the muddy, shallow bottom, gasping for breath. Elizabeth pushed long strands of wet hair from her face and started to laugh.

  ‘You will both have to get out of those wet clothes,’ Aunt Jessica said when everybody and everything had been hauled back on to dry land.

  ‘I think I’d better go home,’ said Elizabeth, wringing out the hem of her skirt.

  ‘And you should go home too,’ Howard told his son. ‘I’ve never seen you do anything so idiotic.’

  But Aunt Jessica would have none of it. ‘Rubbish,’ she said. ‘There’s no harm done. I can find something for Elizabeth to wear. Stop scowling, Howard, accidents happen.’ She took Elizabeth’s arm. ‘Come along, dear …’

  Clare found a pair of old swimming trunks in the car and handed them to Danny. ‘I thought you know never to stand up in a boat. Why did you do such a silly thing?’

  ‘I thought I saw a big fish.’

  ‘Well, if you see another fish, don’t stand up.’

  ‘No,’ he said, ‘I won’t.’

  Katy and Howard were in the boat, baling out the last of the murky water. Josh had slept through it all.

  * * *

  Fifteen minutes later the back door opened, and Clare, turning to apologise to Elizabeth for her son’s carelessness, was struck speechless. For with Aunt Jessica was a very different woman – tall and elegant in a long, flowing gown of ruffles and lace. It was one of Aunt Jessica’s dramatic timeless relics of the past. The skirt flowed from Elizabeth’s narrow waist and gently brushed her ankles. The splash of colours brought a glow to her cheeks. She looked sensational.

  Clare found her voice at last. ‘Elizabeth!’

  ‘You look like a princess,’ Katy said.

  ‘Well, thank you,’ said Elizabeth. She picked up Aunt Jessica’s parasol and raised it above her head. ‘I think this adds the finishing touch, don’t you? And now who’s going to take me out in the boat again?’

  ‘You mean you want to go out again?’ Danny asked.

  ‘Of course. If I’m dressed up like this. I have to go out again. You and Katy can both be my gondoliers, but if you rock the boat, I promise to hit you with my parasol.’

  ‘I won’t rock,’ Danny promised. ‘I won’t rock this time.’

  They were all out in the middle of the lake before Josh woke. He yawned and sat up, rubbing a hand across his eyes, pushing back his hair from his forehead. He saw the scene before him: the water, the reeds, the distant trees and sky. And framed in all of this, the boat, and the girl in her lace dress with the parasol held high over her head.

  ‘Good lord!’ He got to his feet and went slowly down to the water’s edge. He could only look at the girl in the boat, afraid that if he stopped staring she would disappear. He reached into his pocket to find the piece of charcoal, and the sketch paper he was never without. An almost visible impulse flowed from his eyes down to his fingers. He began to draw.

  * * *

  At the end of the day the family went home alone because Josh and Elizabeth had drifted off in the direction of Aunt Jessica’s rose garden and did not reappear again.

  ‘Leave them,’ advised Aunt Jessica, her face aglow.

  Clare could only smile and shake her head in wonder.

  At eight o’clock that night the telephone rang. It was Josh. Josh, who never called to explain where he was or if he’d be late.

  ‘Clare. I’m with Elizabeth. We’re going out for dinner.’

  ‘I’ll leave the front door open for you.’

  ‘Bless your heart.’ His voice sounded young again and full of life.

  Smiling thoughtfully, Clare replaced the phone and went upstairs to see her son. Danny was almost asleep. She moved cautiously across his littered room and sat on the edge of his bed.

  He put out his hand and she took it in hers.

  ‘I want to ask you something very special,’ he told her.

  She waited.

  ‘Tomorrow after school, would you take me down to the bike shop?’

  ‘But Danny … you don’t have enough money yet.’

  ‘Yes, I have.’

  She stared at him. He reached under his pillow and pulled out a little fistful of riches. ‘Aunt Jessica gave it to me. I did something for her and she paid me.’

  ‘What did you do?’ Clare asked, but she knew.

  His face, against the pillow, was innocent.

  ‘I upset the boat,’ he said.

  Despite herself, Clare began to laugh. ‘Oh Danny. Bless your heart. And Aunt Jessica’s too!’

  A Smile for the Bride (also published as ‘Oh Heavenly Day’ in Good Housekeeping)

  Amelia awoke at six o’clock. It happened suddenly, as though some person had shaken her, or an alarm bell had rung. Sunlight lay across her bed. The open window revealed a summer sky already blue, traversed by racing clouds. A wind thumped and nudged at the house, rattling her bedroom door and sending cotton curtains billowing like badly set sails.

  She got out of bed and went, in her nightdress, to inspect the day. The tide was out. The estuary lay empty, a sheet of sand and mud, spattered with tide-pools which reflected the blue of the early sky. A pair of gulls were perched on the summerhouse roof, screaming their hearts out, and below, in the garden, her mother’s syringa bush was heavy with fat, fragrant white blossom.

  It was the same as any other summer morning, and yet it was like no other morning. In all the eighteen years that Amelia had lived at this house, the view from her window had remained unchanged. But, after today, she knew that it would never appear precisely the same. After today home would no longer be this shabby, comfortable, loved old house, it would be a tiny two-roomed flat off the Fulham Road, with a view from the front window of nothing more exciting than the houses opposite, and only a flagged yard at the back to make do for a garden. Because today, at half past eleven, in the ancient village church where she had been christened, Amelia was going to be married, and she would not be Amelia Bentley ever again, but Mrs David Easton.

  The morning air was sweet and cold and smelled of the sea. The only sounds were the gulls’ scream and the buffet of the wind. Within the house no person stirred. Amelia leaned on the sill of the open window and waited for significant emotions to stir in her breast. Surely a bride on her wedding morning should feel some special way. Romantic or excited, or even vaguely apprehensive. Amelia felt nothing only an irresistible urge to be on her own on such a beautiful morning, and, perhaps for the last time in her life, totally free.

  She turned away from the window, pulled off her nightdress, and got dressed in ancient jeans, a pair of turn sneakers, and a sweater which had once belonged to one of her brothers – the only clothes which had not been mended, washed, ironed and packed in her honeymoon suitcases. She went out of the room and, soft-footed, down the stairs. In the hall stood the telephone and on the pad beside this she scribbled a note for her mother to find.

  Gone out. Don’t worry, back in good time to wash my hair. Amelia.