Liberty Silk (40 page)

That night Cat got very, very sick. It started with a headache. Initially she put it down to emotional stress combined with too much sun. But then her limbs began to ache as they had used to when she was a little girl, a condition her mammy had described as ‘growing pains’. Back then the cure had been to go to bed with a hot-water bottle and a mug of cocoa and sleep tight; here in her hotel room there was no chance of sleep. On Ledra Street the night was ablaze with Sten gun fire. Bullets were ricocheting off the walls of the building – one hit the air-conditioning unit attached to her window with a clang that made her yelp; sirens screamed, and from below came shouts, the sound of running footsteps and the anguished wails of women.

All was confusion – both outside and inside her room. People were sprinting along corridors, but Cat scarcely had the energy to drag herself out of bed. She remembered crawling into the bathroom to puke, slipping and knocking her head hard against the tiles; she remembered crouching on the lavatory and shitting until there was nothing left to shit. She tried to drink tap water, knowing how important it was not to dehydrate, but she couldn’t keep it down. She just retched it all back up, then dry-heaved over and over again, feeling as though a sinewy creature was twisting and flexing in her gut.

Somehow she got through to reception on the phone, and then Don was in the room, telling her he’d organized transport, asking who he could contact, going through her bag. There was a hospital next – but it was overcrowded, there was no room, they would have to go to the community centre. But that was crowded too, crowded with dying people covered in blood. Was he OK, the boy on the ground, the one with the headscarf over his face? No, he was dead, she’d forgotten: his young wife had kissed his dead face. Cat wasn’t dying, was she? She just needed a mug of cocoa and all would be well, and her kitten could come and snuggle up with her all cosy under the blankets. She was sleepy now. She wanted to go to sleep.

Don’t worry. The jeep will take you to the airport, there’s no need to need to worry.

Why should I worry?

There’s a line coming. Hurry!

Murray Mints Murray Mints the Too Good to Hurry Mints.

Are you OK?

I’m fine
. – no it’s.

Medevac will get you to a hospital.

Medevac? Funny name, Medevac. What was that snack? It Bridged That Gap.

You’re strong, you’re fine. Hook her up to the line.

Yes, I’m Tough and Strong – I’m the Milky Bar Kid. Just Can’t Go Wrong.

You’ll be safe in Athens, someone is going to meet you there.

Mammy?

Just a sting, another little one in your arm. There. Good girl.

Will Mammy be there?

Yes. Somebody will be there in Athens for you.

Yay! The Milky Bars are on Me!

She woke in a white bed. Her mouth was dry, her eyes felt rusty. Her head upon the pillow was too heavy to move. She felt someone touch her hand.

‘Mammy?’ she said.

‘Yes,’ came the answer.

Cat smiled, then sank back into a deep sleep.

WHEN LISA GOT
the call it was one of those strange middle-of-the-night moments. Raoul answered, then covered the mouthpiece with his hand and said, ‘It’s some guy – I didn’t catch his name. He got the number from directory enquiries. He needs to talk to you about Cat.’

‘What?’ Lisa sat up in bed, shaking off a dream of Sabu laughing at her because she was wearing the wrong costume.

‘He’s calling from Nicosia.’

‘Nicosia?’ The dream was vestigial already. ‘What’s Cat doing in Nicosia?’

‘Ask him,’ said Raoul, handing her the receiver.

‘Hello?’

‘Is that Lisa Reverdy?’ The line wasn’t great, but Lisa could make out that the man had an English accent.

‘Yes. Who is this?’

‘My name is Don McCullin. I’m a colleague of Cat’s.’

‘Oh, God. There’s something wrong, isn’t there?’

‘Yeah. She’s in a pretty bad way.’ He sounded brusque, matter-of-fact. He clearly had neither the time nor the inclination for pussyfooting. ‘It’s probably dysentery.’

‘Dysentery!’

‘The symptoms correspond. We’re trying to get her on a plane to Athens.’

‘Oh, God – oh, God.’ Lisa reached for Raoul’s hand, and clutched it.

‘Can you get there?’ asked Don McCullin.

‘To Athens? Of course. Where is she now?’

‘She’s at the airport in Nicosia. She’s in good hands.’

‘Is she going to be—’

‘She’s a little druggy, but with a bit of luck she’ll be OK.’

‘Thank you. Oh, thank you.’

‘She’s asking for her mother.’

‘How did you know to contact me?’

‘I found your address on a postcard. You’re her aunt, yeah?’

‘No, I’m . . . I mean yes. Yes, I’m her aunt.’

‘I’ll tell them you’re on your way. When you get to Ellinikon—’

‘Ellinikon?’

‘– the airport – put in a call to Medevac and they’ll tell you where she is.’ In the background came the sound of a siren. ‘I gotta go. She’s some chick, your niece. Tell her to get in touch with me once she’s better and I’ll buy her lunch.’

‘I’ll do that. Thank you again, Mr McCullin.’

‘Don.’

Lisa put the phone down and shut her eyes, trying to process what had just happened. Then she leaned over and brushed Raoul’s lips with hers.

‘Is everything OK?’ he asked.

‘Yes. Yes! It’s got to be. Everything’s going to be fine.’ Throwing back the sheets, she grabbed her bathrobe. ‘Can you get some coffee on? And then drive me to the airport?’

‘You’re not going to Nicosia, are you?’

‘No. Athens.’

‘Why Athens?’

Lisa gave him her bravest smile. ‘I’m going to get my daughter,’ she said. And then she burst into tears.

Cat was beautiful. Her skin was milky and translucent, her hair thick and red gold. Her lashes – look at them! – were impossibly long; her ears were whorled like perfect shells – the kind you’d want to pick up on a beach as keepsakes. She had a little mole – how cute! – just above the left corner of her lip, and a dusting of freckles on her kissable nose. Her mouth curved upward a little at the corners, she had elegant fingers and – Lisa hadn’t had the chance to check yet, but she was reasonably certain – she had elegant toes.

The nurses had told her that Cat was stable. She’d had three bags of saline solution administered intravenously since she’d been admitted, and once she was fully rehydrated they would take her off the drip. Then she would be allowed to go home.

Home! There was no question of Cat going back to London, where she would have no responsible person to take care of her, and it was unthinkable that she should try to get to Connemara: the journey would exhaust her.

No. The nursing staff agreed with Lisa that the best thing for Cat would be to fly back to Cannes with her aunt, and spend some time recuperating by the sea in marvellous Cap d’Antibes. So Lisa telephoned Róisín with the news, and assured her cousin that she, Lisa, would take care of everything. And then she sat by Cat’s bedside and waited for her to wake up.

She sat there for hours, scarcely stirring. The nurse asked if she could fetch her something to eat, but Lisa declined the offer. She could sit there for ever, feasting her eyes on this wondrous sleeping beauty. At one point the girl opened her eyes, blinked twice and said, ‘Mammy?’

Lisa couldn’t help herself. She laid her hand over Cat’s and said, ‘Yes.’ Then, as she watched her daughter slide back into the embrace of Morpheus, she added, ‘Mama’s here. You’re going to come to a boathouse by the sea for a rest. Mama’s going to look after you for a little while, just until you’re better. There, there, my little Cat. Mama’s here and everything’s going to be all right.’

Raoul popped the champagne cork. It came away with a sigh, and a plume of vapour escaped.

‘You’re like a phoenix risen from the ashes!’ said Lisa, gazing fondly at Cat as Raoul poured Moët into champagne flutes. ‘Just think, when I arrived at the hospital, you’d had three bags full!’

‘Three bags full of what?’ Raoul asked.

‘Saline solution. She was like Ba Ba Black Sheep.’

Cat laughed. How Lisa loved to hear her laugh! The joke was of course lost on Raoul, who had been brought up on French nursery rhymes.

They were on the terrace of the Boat House, drinking champagne: they’d popped a bottle a day since Cat had arrived. Lisa had to smile at the notion that Cat might think this was standard practice in Salamander Cove. If she only knew that, while her daughter was here, every day was an occasion to celebrate!

Cat was stretched out on a sun lounger in a bikini. She was a little too skinny for Lisa’s liking, but the dysentery was most likely responsible for that, and Lisa would see to it that her daughter would eat nothing but the finest home-cooked fare while she was under her roof. Right now she was scoffing pretzels, of which Lisa heartily approved since they were high both in calories and in salt. She had recently acquired a copy of Elizabeth David’s
French Provincial Cooking
, and was determined to prepare as many of the dishes contained within its pages as was humanly possible in the days before her daughter flitted off again like the sprite she was, to London or Cyprus or Connemara, or wherever in the world she was bound.

Lisa had spent three days in Athens, visiting Cat’s hospital room at every opportunity, glorying in her daughter’s recovery; marvelling as the bloom returned to her face and the lustre to her hair. She’d urged Cat to tell her all about her time at art college and about her love life and her career, and when Cat grew tired, Lisa read to her. She’d have loved to read fairy stories to her daughter, but she knew if she did that Cat would think she was stark raving mad, and the last thing she wanted to do was frighten her off. So instead she read from any English newspapers or magazines that were available at the newsstand in her hotel. The gossipy ones didn’t interest Cat; her preference was for international publications like the
Illustrated London News
, the
Spectator
and the
New York Times
; she wanted updates from Cyprus and the Congo and Vietnam. She didn’t care about the look that was trending in the colour supplements, the ‘floating chiffons coloured with a painter’s palette’, or that the Beatles had won a Variety Club showbiz award. But when Lisa pointed out a picture in the
Observer
magazine by Don McCullin and mentioned that he had referred to Cat in their phone conversation as a ‘colleague’, Cat’s peach bloom complexion became suffused with a becoming pink.

On her arrival in Salamander Cove, Cat had retrieved an unsent postcard from her backpack – the one addressed to Lisa that had been responsible for Don contacting her – and delivered it personally. Lisa was using the postcard as a bookmark in
French Provincial Cooking
. She reread it now, before sliding it between the pages where a recipe for
Daube de boeuf
had caught her eye.

‘“
Sun, sea and sand just don’t do it for me?
”’ she scoffed. ‘Ha! Just look at you now!’

To watch Cat soak up the rays and dive through the waves that washed the shore below, you would think that sun, sea and sand were as much part of her constitution as they had been Aphrodite’s. After less than a week of taking things easy in Cap d’Antibes, she had the appearance of a golden goddess. They’d driven into town a couple of times, and Lisa had persuaded Cat to venture into two or three boutiques on the Boulevard Albert. She’d insisted on paying for anything in which Cat expressed interest, until Cat had finally refused point-blank to try anything else on, lest Lisa produce her wallet again.

Today, as well as her bikini, she was sporting a batiked sarong and pretty coral earrings that Lisa had bought for her. ‘You look great,’ observed Lisa with a smile, then wished she hadn’t said anything, because Cat replied, ‘I
feel
great. I guess it’s time for me to move on and stop abusing your hospitality.’

‘You’re doing no such thing!’ said Lisa. ‘You’re welcome to stay as long as you like – isn’t she, Raoul?’

‘Of course,’ said Raoul. ‘It’s lovely for Lisa to have her . . . to have a surrogate daughter around.’

Something had clogged the atmosphere, because Cat said, in an artificially jokey voice, ‘Oh, you’re better off without daughters, surrogate or otherwise! Mam says I bring her nothing but grief!’ A silence ensued, and then Cat said, ‘I’m sorry. That was insensitive of me. For all I know, you would have loved to have a daughter, or a son.’

‘We did want a family,’ said Lisa. ‘But unfortunately it didn’t happen.’

‘I’m sorry.’

‘We have our dogs,’ said Raoul, ruffling the ears of their most recent acquisition, a sleek Lab called Orlando. He glanced at Lisa with a smile, then stood up to refill their glasses. ‘We’re very happy.’

‘I can tell.’ Cat looked around at the house and the view and the dogs stretched out on the terrace. ‘There’s a real sense of peace here. I’d love to take photographs.’

‘Do,’ urged Lisa. ‘Stay a little longer and take as many as you like.’

‘I don’t really do landscapes,’ said Cat. ‘I’m more into portraiture. Or rather, I was until I visited Cyprus.’

‘What happened in Cyprus?’

Cat shook a veil of hair across her face the way Lisa had used to, to mask her expression. Clearly things had happened there that she did not want to talk about. Lisa guessed she had seen horrors.

‘A sea change, I guess,’ Cat said lightly, rubbing a finger around the rim of her glass. ‘I got to take some extraordinary pictures. At least, I think I did. I can’t wait to get back to my darkroom in London to see how they turned out.’

Lisa saw her chance. ‘You don’t have to wait! Develop them here.’

‘There’s no darkroom.’

‘We can rig one up, no problem. I know it won’t be possible here, in the Boat House, but Gervaise has lots of spare rooms you could use as a darkroom.’

‘I need a supply of water, and—’

‘He has lots of spare bathrooms, too!’