Isaac stared at Olive and Teresa. ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘I am.’
He got to his feet. The painting had caused an almost alchemical transformation in him. The new Isaac was solidifying, like smoke into gold, before their very eyes. He was a real artist, something that they could all sense but not quite touch – however much they wished to.
‘Teresa,’ he said, and Olive could hear the shake in his voice as he uncharacteristically stumbled over his English. ‘Come and help me in the kitchen. I brought the turnip you wanted for that soup.’
10
What the fuck have you done?’ Isaac hissed. He pushed his sister inside the kitchen, jabbing his hand between her shoulder blades.
‘I haven’t done anything,’ Teresa hissed back. ‘I can’t believe you said that thing about a turnip—-’
‘Shut up. I had to think of something.’ He closed the door. ‘Whose painting is that?’
Teresa stuck her chin in the air. ‘It’s Olive’s,’ she said. ‘It’s Olive’s, and it’s better than yours.’
‘Olive’s?’
‘She paints every day. She got a place at art school and stayed here instead. You didn’t ask her that, did you, when you had your tongue rammed down her throat.’
Isaac slumped at the kitchen table and put his head in his hands. ‘Oh, Jesus. She put her own painting up there.’
Teresa’s face flushed pink. ‘No, she didn’t. I did.’
‘You did? Why?’
Teresa stayed silent.
‘Oh, Jesus. This is about me kissing her, isn’t it? How petty.’
‘You promised you’d behave, you promised. You’re going to break her heart. You sneaked in here—-’
‘And what else did you do but creep through the orchard with your chicken as an offering, like a bloody Indian to Columbus—-’
‘I help them, every day. They would be lost without me.’
‘You could be anyone, Teresa. You’re just the maid.’
‘And you just cause trouble.’
‘Sarah Schloss asked me to paint her, so I did. And you might as well know. Alfonso has stopped my money.’
‘What?’
‘You heard – he doesn’t like the “taste of my politics”. And so the money from Sarah Schloss was supposed to keep us going. I wanted to keep this professional, Teresa—-’
‘And you expect me to believe that?’
‘I’ve got more important things to worry about than some rich guiri with a taste for big parties—-’
‘What, like shooting your pistol in the church and getting into Olive’s knickers?’
‘You’re just a spy. A stirrer.’ He stood up, his voice low and vicious. ‘You came to these -people, Tere, because you knew how your life was going. You’ve been doing it since you were little. With a dad like ours and your gypsy mother – don’t pretend to me you’re some saint. Don’t think I don’t know where Olive’s emerald necklace came from. I know all about your little box in the garden. But I left; I didn’t say anything. And now what? What are we supposed to do?’
‘You’re going to admit it isn’t your painting,’ Teresa said, pinch--faced and shaken, ‘and give Olive the credit she’s due.’
‘No, he isn’t,’ said a voice from the doorway. ‘He isn’t going to do that at all.’
OLIVE HAD OPENED THE KITCHEN door quietly, and had been listening at the threshold. Her expression was not easy to read. She looked incandescent – but with rage, or sorrow, or excitement, neither Isaac nor Teresa could easily tell. They froze, waiting for her to speak again. Olive moved inside the kitchen and shut the door.
‘Why did you do it?’ she asked Teresa.
Tears sprang into Teresa’s eyes. ‘I wanted – I wanted to—-’
‘She wanted to punish me. She saw us at the gate last night,’ said Isaac. ‘Think of this little trick as Teresa’s revenge.’
‘No! It is not revenge, se?orita,’ Teresa pleaded. ‘Your father should see how brilliant you are, how—-’
‘That’s not your responsibility,’ said Olive. ‘Tere, I trusted you. I thought we were friends.’
‘You can still trust me.’
‘How?’
‘I am sorry, I did not—-’
‘It’s too late now,’ Olive sighed. ‘We can’t all just stand here like some mothers’ meeting. They’ll be wondering what’s going on.’
Isaac ran his fingers through his hair again. ‘I will tell them it isn’t mine, se?orita. It is not fair Teresa should trick your parents. They have been good to her. And my own painting is ready. Teresa brought it over this morning.’
Olive looked thoughtful. ‘Where is Isaac’s painting, Teresa? Fetch it.’
Teresa went into the pantry. They heard her dragging barrels across the tiles, and she came tottering out with the large canvas, propping it up against the wall before she pulled away the protective cloth.
Olive stared in silence. She and her mother were recognizable, but their eyes had been made gauzy, their lips had a generic redness. Behind their heads were strange nimbuses of light, and beyond that, a plain green background. There was no humour, no spirit or power, no exciting use of colour or line, no originality, no intangible magic. No hint of secrets, no play, no story. It wasn’t terrible. It was two women on the front of a Christmas card.