The Still Point Read online

  The ship upon which Edward had sailed in 1892 — leaving Emily to her adolescence — set out to explore the known, and no more. It reached a respectable enough latitude. The summer was spent hunting, and refining the contours of other men’s maps. They were far enough north to be embedded for two winters, and when the ship was released by the ice in the second spring, having survived the crush and the dull months of darkness, the captain set a course for the coast of Canada, with an enraged Edward stationed at the stern, furious to be turning back. He bade farewell to the lightening world he was leaving behind, jade and lilac in the slow dawn, and swore he would return as his own master. There was still space enough for his name to be writ large across that vast white semblance of a land, visible for ever in the snow, bright under the Arctic moon and the brilliant day alike.

  When he heard Dr Nansen speak, at his brother’s invitation, in the family’s own drawing room, he thought: I might take that path, and sail north-east for Spitzbergen. And also, he thought: I could go further. Further than this man’s Farthest North; to the northernmost point, to find it, to fix it, to feel the world turn below me. This, then, was what Emily saw burn in him, the flare of ambition outshining the fire’s blaze.

  Edward, for his part, had spent many months at sea without female company, and can surely be forgiven for following the wildness of his heart upon his arrival in London; but while the charms of Leicester Square’s ladies were not negligible, he had, after all, his duty, and had reluctantly returned to the family home. It would be a duty sorely borne, for the women with whom he was expected to associate bored him. He was bored by their adoration for his one great adventure. He knew that the likes of Jane Whitstable would never tire of being wedded to an explorer, a hero, provided he was never so rash as to explore any further, ever again. He would for ever be known for this single futile expedition, a glory enough for the small town he’d be trapped in. And he would be respectable and sire children and his wife would sit and stitch; their girls would play the piano prettily, the boys would all be called John and Edward. There would be kippers and baked eggs and bacon for breakfast, there would be luncheons, casseroles and cutlets, and then there would be tea and muffins and buns and toast, and then there would be dinner, there would be asparagus soup then sole then quail then veal and cherry clafoutis for dessert, then cigars then port then sleep in separate beds then gout or rheumatism and then, eventually, death.

  Then Emily Gardiner shook his hand, and blushed in confusion because he’d meant to kiss it, and she blushed deep crimson rather than pink and was really a terrible flirt — that is, she was terrible at flirting and didn’t seem even to try. But when they spoke about the snow, her eyes danced like the light upon it. She loved him for the dangers he had passed… and he loved her that she did savour them. She would never hold him back from the brink, but spur him over it to greatness.

  And so began the Mackley family’s favourite story.

  China

  On the table in the hallway, there are flowers in a vase. Arranged with an artlessness that says they have art enough alone — surely by Julia’s hand. Bright blooms thrown together, yellow, blue, white and vibrant; imagine her, coming in from the garden, her arms full of summer, trailing hyacinth and lily scent behind her. But, you notice, they are dying. They have been snapped off and tossed in this china vase with no care for their frailty. Even as we watch, a petal shudders, seems to sigh, and slips onto the heap of those already fallen, gently and suddenly over the last hour. They are browning about the edges. Their leaves, left to stand in the water, are rotting. If we draw close enough to be daubed orange by their stamens, we will smell something foetid from the depths. There is a rusty stain where pollen has silently exploded on the linen tablecloth that John’s wife, her Great-grandmother Arabella, hand-stitched. (Simon, in the city, is thinking of buying his wife flowers; but of course he is not here to witness the petal fall, and it is only a coincidence that he should think of this just as the lily is dying — he has other reasons, which will become apparent perhaps, in time.)

  The last petal to fall shivered itself free in Julia’s wake, for we caught her in the hallway in a momentary gilt-framed pause, and she has since moved off, breaking the gaze of the past in the mirror. In the kitchen, the spoils of her recent venture are spread before her in brown paper bags. She has kicked off her sandals and is standing in a square of light where the sun has warmed the tiles, and she works her toes into the stone for a moment. Terracotta, she thinks, the baked earth beneath her feet.

  Terra cotta, terra firma, old maps with the infirm edges so unlike the warm earth stone under the soles

  And then a wiry softness around her ankles. Julia bends to lift Tess and press her flat cat face against her own, tells her she stinks and sets her gently down again, with which the cat is quite satisfied — she did not enjoy the hand under her belly, having gorged herself on tuna while Julia was out. Julia stands barefoot at the kitchen table, mopping olive oil with a torn chunk of bread. The tomatoes are sliced thickly, plucked from a ripe basketful on the pavement, and taste still of the sun. Italy filling her mouth and mind again, she bought three, full of that dark green vine-scent, that earthy almost bitter tang that belies the sweetness. Strawberries, too, in a punnet, she lifted them to her nose and the grocer, watching, felt his heart swell with redness. Then, next door, to the baker. It is indeed a very pretty market town, and there are still shops like these to be found on street corners, baking their own bread, selling local produce, eggs fresh from the farms, yolks of all yellows within their brown, nubbly shells.

  Julia on her way back to the house, minutes ago, loaf tucked under one arm, the other swinging the bag of fruit: she’s humming to herself. The hot road smells of summer, she nods to her neighbours as she passes. The grocer, filling a tray with lettuces Peter Rabbit might have plundered, soft and frilled and grassy green, watches her go. A man mowing his front lawn pauses to admire her, her pale brown back and the narrow straps of her dress, her head on one side, her hips insouciant in the sunshine, as if she’s dancing home. He thinks of his wife, who died last year and was also young once; he shades his eyes from the sun. If this shopping trip is little more than another way to sideskip boredom, if Julia is momentarily elated simply to have the eyes of others upon her, this man would never guess it.

  The woman who lives in the house opposite Simon and Julia’s and two doors down is just locking her door behind her. She has the afternoon off, and is on her way into London, to do some shopping. She has a date this evening but is too restless and excited to wait until then; dates have been rare since the divorce, all she wants is to feel she has a chance. By the time she turns, Julia has passed, crossed the road and reached the house, and slipped inside unseen. The neighbour in the dressing gown (now fully dressed) has escaped the discomfort of polite conversation with her rival.

  This is the journey from which Julia returned, slamming the door to alert us; and now she is in the kitchen, kneeling on the floor. There is a splash of oil on her dress and a broken plate before her. Tess, in the corner, licks a reproachful paw.

  Stand up. In a minute. I’ll get up in a minute and do some work. I’ll clear away the plate, I will need to clear away the plate, second thing broken in a week, they were cheap we’ve had them for years I must never use the good china I break everything. Aunt Helen saying silly old woman as I knelt on the rug to mop up and he gave me his hanky.

  Julia’s cheek rests on her left palm. With her right she holds a piece of the plate which is in five other pieces on the floor. Her eyes fix on a space somewhere between them.

  Stand up

  She slides her fingers down the side of her face and taps the tips against her top lip slowly.

  Stand up and go back to the attic. Back to the animals, back to the snow, the sunrise this morning so beautiful pale blue

  With sudden unexpected decision she rises, takes the dustpan from below the sink, sweeps up the pieces of the plate, throws them into the pedal bin
and bends to pet Tess (who instantly forgives the alarm she caused) as she leaves the room, clasping the diary she has recovered from the garden. She trips lightly up the stairs, but pauses on the landing to admire the butterflies.

  She has left a joint of lamb marinating in the kitchen, in wine and herbs and anchovy, the savoury smell of it twitching at Tess’s whiskers. Tess is as agile as any self-respecting feline should be but has learned her lesson from the last time she tried to reach the top of the tall, smooth-sided fridge, and succeeded only in scrabbling at the dish there and upending a fish pie on herself. It’s true she had the chance to lap a little off the floor before Julia, alerted by the crash, found her, but it had all been most undignified. So the lamb remains out of paws’ reach, ready to be offered up this evening.

  Julia wants to please Simon today; she knows, although neither one has said it, and despite the fact that they made love (on a Wednesday), that she annoyed him last night; that the nuisance of an evening he would rather have avoided, and hadn’t expected to have to endure, will hang over him all day and her too. ‘Remember dinner tonight with the Watsons’ — she was irritated at breakfast, imagining him saying it, when in fact it is she that should have reminded him, and didn’t, whatever she chose to call them. He is right to be annoyed; she is annoyed with herself, for being so hopeless and disorganized and always proving him right. When did this lethargy set in? When did she cease to enchant him?

  She remembers, with a clutch of pain and shame, her tears; the bird’s black eye; when did she last cry in front of him? Not when Aunt Helen died; not when… there was a time when she should have gone to him and let him hold her, and could not. But it won’t do to dwell on it. She must try to work hard, today; she will work hard so that he will see she is happy here as the family archivist; it was his gift, he wanted to make her happy. She must try. It will be like the days a decade ago when she told him the story, imagining it over for him as they lay safe together all through the winter, his head in her lap as they lay outstretched on the bearskin and she stroked his dark hair back, tracing with a fingertip the slightly receding hairline that only she could see. She will find something new to fascinate him. She will set about her task with renewed vigour.

  So, when she lifted those strawberries to smell them, she was breathing the scent of new optimism, of hope for the evening to come — this was the hope that swung in her hips past the man in his garden, past her opposite neighbour (who is even now making her way across town, trying to make the last hours before the evening go faster).

  When she tasted the tomatoes at the table, when she stroked at Tess’s soft fur, when she wriggled her toes on the warm stone, she was full of the possibilities the long day proffered, wide and clear as the sky. She chopped rosemary and garlic and rubbed olive oil into the meat and watched her own strong hands with pride and imagined a version of herself and Simon sitting down to dinner and laughing together; she would think of something to say that he would laugh at and he would forgive her; there would be nothing to forgive. When the plate slipped from her hand the day threatened to darken but she wouldn’t allow it, it was just a cheap plate, and tonight she would set the table in the conservatory with silver and their glasses would shine in the lamplight and the night would gleam with moths and fireflies dancing, out in the dark blue garden.

  The butterflies that Julia is now admiring were not captured by Simon, although they were placed in this prominent position in his honour, for they are what brought him to her. A collection of Arctic Whites gathered in Alaska and mounted by a friend of Edward’s from his first expedition, presented as a wedding gift: these are the pale ghosts now hanging in the stairwell, but they were once kept in a little-visited guest room. There are fifty of them, arranged in series, five by ten; it is one of the finest, most complete collections of this particular species of Arctic Lepidoptera, and includes — and it is this pair of tiny wings that Simon, years ago, came to see–a variety now thought to be extinct, a female, with a bluish tint. They are less than two inches in wingspan and like many northern creatures they have no need for boldness. These butterflies never know darkness; they will wait in their pupae for two years or more, shifting fuzzily, growing by increments, waiting for their day in the perpetual sun; and, once emerged, will die before it sets for winter. They are not, perhaps, spectacular. It takes a careful, patient, searching eye to see the subtlety of their whites, like an egg, like a petal, like snow. An eye like Simon’s. Even when his father was chasing Ladies, Simon was content with the quiet moths and the pale green brimstones. It isn’t dullness, on Simon’s part. It is not a lack of imagination, but a love of the delicate.

  Now, as Julia passes them on her way to the attic, she remembers Simon as he was when they met ten years ago, and feels an unexpected surge of affection which reveals, by contrast, the complacent irritation that has become her customary feeling towards him. What a strange creature he is, she’d thought then, somehow old-fashioned and adolescent at once, a man with a hobby that drives him to overcome such obvious shyness and seek out a bunch of butterflies in a stranger’s house. Yes, this is the house where he found her. He wore a tie, on that first visit, he’d come from a meeting, and he held it between his fingers (which she could see, looking sidelong, were suited to delicate tasks), and he rubbed the fabric of the back of it with his thumb, a tiny movement, a kind of almost-static fidget that she caught out of the corner of her eye. She remembers his tremor beside her and the surprise she felt at the answering warmth of her skin. Taking out his glasses and pushing them on, bringing his face nearer the glass with a ‘Hm’ so that she, too, pushed her pointed chin forward — she had to crane upwards to follow his long finger to the particular insect that seemed to have settled on its tip.

  She thinks of the ordered stack of drawers he showed her a few months later so bashfully, which have found their home now in the new shed out in the garden; the innocent pleasure of sliding out each one in turn on its smooth runners to reveal the jewels within, twenty pairs of wings to a drawer, seagreen in one, pearl in another, pale brown like her eyes he said once, in an unguarded moment (when had she last seen Simon unguarded?)

  the powdered sheen, bronze into the finest line of indigo at the edges, exactly like your eyes, he said, a female Mazarine Blue, he told me, you’re the only one left in England, and blushed. That word a gift he gave me that I haven’t forgotten, Mazarine, between an antique sea and an azure sky.

  Each drawer so meticulous, the subtle shifts in size and shape and colour so carefully accounted for in Latin. Looking at the butterflies on the landing now, she feels inspired by the neat labels beneath each one, still true a century later. And she thinks that if she were to somehow emulate him, if he were to come home to find everything in order, that this too might somehow please him.

  Let us follow as she makes her way up the stairs, staying close to the wall to avoid the creaks that sound softly under her feet. She is thinking of lining the attic with glass cases and placing her relics in them; of making a label for everything.

  The archivist

  There is a soothing continuity to Julia’s life, these days; it has slowed to a comforting dawdle through the rooms of her childhood. When she sees old friends — which is rarely — they laugh fondly at her easy life, and are unsure whether to feel pleased or concerned. She seems happier than she has been in years, since her beloved Aunt Helen was first taken into care; she laughs more readily, never looks as if she might have been crying alone, enjoys herself guiltlessly again. But she is also somehow distant, somehow gauzy.

  She has spent so many hours here, since she was a child, picking up whatever comes to hand and setting it down again, each handling adding to the patina, the shine on scratched glass, the lustre of a fabric now faded. Now, her wanderings have a purpose; she will eventually have to bring it all to account, and present Edward Mackley in a neat package–a catalogue, a Life, a bill of sale, she is unsure of the binding. She prefers not to dwell on it; she will know when the time
comes. She prefers not to dwell on when that will be. So, she makes occasional notes in notebooks; she wraps, unwraps, rewraps; she reads letters and journals and jottings; she strays from the task to straighten cushions or make jam.

  If she is daunted by her task, if she has been procrastinating, can we blame her for preferring to lounge in the sun? Can a life be composed of other men’s accounts, diaries, journals, notebooks, newspapers and relics of a wrecked expedition any more than it can of — for the sake of argument–a concerto, a dead pheasant, a cat in the garden, a trace of lipstick, the taste of vine tomatoes, of aniseed, a lily? How can we hope to do more than snatch at our quarry? It cannot be netted and pinned. Even butterflies, so captured, show only one side of themselves. What of that Comma that escaped Simon’s sentence of death? He would have it show its colours, certainly, but in doing so would hide the subtler underside, some would say the more lovely part.

  Perhaps this underestimates Simon. It may come to pass, one summer’s day like this one, this year or in ten years’ time, that he will catch his Comma and find that its blues and browns and bruise purples are indeed more intriguing than the upside, and decide to buck convention (for he is not in all things conventional), and mount it downwards. It may be that he places it alone in a frame, and presents it to Julia as a gift, and she will hang it above her desk where she will, at last, have settled, and will sometimes glance up mid-sentence and pause.