In her turn, she talked to me about her life, how good her grandmother had been to her.
“Sometimes,” she said, “I fear I shall never be able to repay her. She spent more than she could afford on my education. Sometimes I fear she has made me too much the centre of her life and I shall disappoint her. She has never said so, but I believe she would rather I was not interested in all this. I remember one day she said to me, ‘You are growing up, Fiona. I want the best for you. My daughter, your mother, meant everything to me and when she died there would have been nothing at all if she had not left you.’ Soon after that, I found the coins in the garden and everything changed. She hints that she led me to the coins. She had a premonition that they were in the garden and I should find them and they would change my life … lead me on to my destiny. Well, the coins aroused Sir Harry Harcourt’s interest, and he gave me a chance. You see, my grandmother believes she has special gifts and naturally she wants to use them for getting the best for me.”
“What is that?”
“I suppose most people … parents … grandparents … think it is a good marriage for their charges. They want security through what they call a good marriage. I think I could have a very happy life … working like this. But my grandmother probably wouldn’t agree on that. And your mother … I expect she planned something like that for you.”
“I suppose she would have wanted me to marry in time. But what I wanted was to be with her and for things to go on as they always had done. I rather think she wanted the same. And then … suddenly … it was all over.”
“Let me show you how the vase is coming on. I wonder if I shall ever be able to complete it.”
I looked at the pieces she was working on and she showed me some sketches of what she thought it might have looked like when it was complete.
I told her then that her grandmother had invited me to call on her.
“Yes, I heard her asking you. She’s very interested in people who come here, and she is particularly interested in you.”
“Because of my mother,” I said.
Everything seemed to lead back to her, and at any moment my grief could overwhelm me.
Fiona understood and we talked of other things.
The following afternoon I found myself making my way to Mrs. Carling’s house. I found the place easily. It was a large cottage, surrounded by shrubs, and there was a gate with a short path to the door. It was very quiet. I paused for a moment, wondering whether I wanted to go on. There was something very strange about the woman and I was a little disturbed by the probing nature of her interest and the manner in which she would suddenly lean forward and peer into my face.
I noticed some unfamiliar plants in the garden at the side of the house. Herbs, I supposed. Did she make them into concoctions which she supplied to people like Emmy Gentle in their troubles?
The door was overhung by creeper, which also grew round the windows. I thought of Hansel and Gretel in the witch’s house.
Did Roderick ever come here? I wondered. I sensed that he was fond of Fiona. But then he made me feel that he was tender towards me. There was something very kind in Roderick’s nature. He was considerate to everyone. It came naturally to him. I felt that it would be unwise to imagine that there was something special for me simply because of his kindness.
I lifted the brown knocker and I could hear the sound of it echoing through the house. I stood waiting. It would be pleasant if Fiona was there, and perhaps Roderick would call and join us.
The door opened. Mrs. Carling was smiling delightedly at me. She was wearing a long flowing gown with a tiger-skin pattern; the Creole earrings swung as she held out her hand to me.
“Come in. Come in,” she cried. “I am so glad you decided to come. I had a feeling you were hesitating.”
“Oh no. I wanted to come.”
“Then let us go in. I know we are going to have an enjoyable afternoon. I have been looking forward to this ever since we met. It’s more cosy than in that room of Fiona’s … all those bits and pieces and brushes and things … playing about with things
“Perhaps they would be rather pleased that we are so interested in them … if they could know it,” I said.
“Maybe. Maybe. You’d like a cup of tea, I am sure. I have the kettle on the boil.”
“Thank you.”
“I’ll get Kitty to bring it in. She’s my little maid.”
We were in a room with two small windows, each fitted with leaded panes. The heavy curtains made the room dark. The furniture was heavy, too, and there were several pictures on the walls. One was of a saint being stoned to death and another was of a woman, her body strapped to a stake of wood, her hands folded in prayer; she was standing in water and it was clearly meant to imply that when the tide rose she would be submerged. I read the title. “The Christian Martyr.” There was another picture of a big black cat with green eyes. The paint was luminous and it was most effective and inclined to be eerie. The creature seemed alive.
I felt oppressed and wished Fiona would appear, but I supposed at this time she would be working.
Mrs. Carling sat opposite me.
“I must explain about Kitty,” she said. “She’s a little backward. She came here one day, wanting me to do something for her. She had heard I cured people of some ailments. I took an interest in her. She had not had much of a chance, really. I thought a little care might help her. She could only stutter when she came to me … but she is improving. She is one of a large family. The father worked in the mines. Kitty’s brothers joined him and her sisters went into service. No one wanted to employ Kitty. They didn’t want her at home. Well, she came here and I took her in. I’ve trained her as well as I can. She’s a good child. She’s very grateful to me.”
“How kind of you.”
She smiled at me benignly. “I like to help people. Some of us are given special powers and we are meant to use them. If you don’t they can be taken from you.”
It was not long before Kitty brought in the tea. She was young, about sixteen, I imagined. She had a gentle self-deprecating manner and was clearly very eager to please.
Mrs. Carling indicated where she wanted the tray. Kitty set it down and gave a shy glance in my direction. I smiled at her; she returned the smile, which illuminated her face. I warmed to Mrs. Carling, who had clearly helped the poor girl considerably.
Mrs. Carling patted Kitty’s shoulder. “Good girl,” she said, and when she had gone, Mrs. Carling said: “Poor child. She is so anxious to do well. Now tell me, how do you like your tea?”
As we partook of the tea and little cakes, we talked. I asked how long she had been here.
“I came here with Fiona,” she told me. “It was when her parents had died and I had her to myself. So this has been our home all these years. The only time I was here alone was when she went away to school and then, of course, to Sir Harry Harcourt’s place. It was a blessing that she came back to me because of the work here.”
“You must have been rather sad when she went away.”
“Oh yes. But it was best for her and I knew she would come back. So I was able to endure the separation.”
“It must be very interesting to know such things.”
“Nothing is entirely fixed in life, you know. Disaster can threaten, but there are ways of avoiding it.”
“You mean it is up to a person whether he or she is involved in tragedy.”