White Nights - Ann Cleeves [105]
Fran enjoyed walking through the house on her own, the glimpse into other rooms through half-open doors. She had, at times like these, a sense of images stolen and saved for future use in her painting.
The photographs were exactly where Bella had said they would be – in a battered shoebox on a shelf in a tall dark-wood cupboard. Fran wondered if she’d been looking at them herself. All the photos were loose and seemed to be in no chronological order. Many were in poor condition, the edges tattered, the corners bent, the print faded and discoloured. She was tempted to sit there, on the floor, and to spread them out until she found a pattern, or people she recognized. But they belonged to Bella and that would have been an intrusion too far.
In the kitchen Bella cleared the table of the teapot and mugs and Aggie Williamson’s fruit cake. ‘Now,’ she said. ‘Let’s see what we have here.’
Fran would have tipped out the photographs in a heap, fanned them out like playing cards, but Bella kept them in the box and took out one at a time. The first was of Roddy as a child, wrapped in a towel, his face brown from the sun and freckled with sand. Many were of Roddy, and Fran had to hear the story behind each one. At one point Bella started to cry. Fran went up behind her and put her arm around her.
Going back to her place at the table, she stole a look at her watch. Of course she was sympathetic, but she’d have to leave very soon. Cassie was going to play with a friend after school, but still she’d need collecting before teatime. She’d phone Perez about the photographs. This wasn’t really any of her business. She’d have to learn not to meddle in his work, not to ask questions, if they were going to make their relationship work.
Then at the top of the heap in the box there was a picture of a group of adults. They were wearing party clothes. It had been taken in the garden with the house in the background. Everyone looked stiff and formal. Beyond the house a cloudless sky. And all of them held in their hands masks, glorious, elaborate affairs, fastened to a cane. Fran felt suddenly very cold.
The implication of the masks seemed lost on Bella. She left the photo where it was and stared at it.
‘I remember that night,’ she said. ‘It was the evening before most of them went. We held a real dinner party to mark their leaving. I made everyone dress up, set the big table in the dining room. I wanted something special and came up with the idea of the masque. How pretentious I must have seemed! I thought we were so sophisticated. We’re none of us very young there, are we? I remember it as a time when I was young, but that’s not true at all.’
‘Where did you get the masks from?’
‘I hired them from a theatre company. The one which still turns up in Lerwick every year on the boat. I made friends with one of the actors.’
‘How long ago was it?’
Bella stared into space. ‘Fifteen years? Roddy had his sixth birthday the next day. He came here to collect his present and those of us who were left had such hangovers.’
‘Do you know who everyone is?’
Bella lifted out the picture. It was larger than most of the others, which were just snaps, and almost covered the area of the shoebox.
‘This is me. Right in the front. Of course.’ She was wearing a red silk halterneck dress. Her hair was cut very short, almost exactly the same style as she wore today. Fran was reminded of the self-portrait that had caught the attention of Jeremy Booth at the Herring House party.
‘You look lovely.’
‘I made an effort,’ she said. ‘Oh how I made an effort! I’d got it into my head that Lawrence would propose that night.’
‘Is he in the photograph?’
‘No,’ Bella said briefly. ‘I’d invited him to the dinner, but he never appeared.’
‘Isn’t this Peter Wilding?’ Fran turned the