Bill picked us up at Heathrow, as planned, but instead of driving us to the cottage, he took us directly to the Pym sisters’ redbrick house.
“There’s no time to spare,” he informed us quietly. “They’ve taken a turn for the worse.”
Bree hastened through the wrought-iron gate without pausing to survey the house, as though she didn’t want us to suspect her of being more interested in her inheritance than in those who were leaving it to her. It was just as well, I told myself, because the front garden looked depressingly neglected.
Nell met us at the door. She greeted us serenely, but as she ushered us inside and took our coats, I detected an unmistakable trace of sadness in her eyes.
“They’ve asked to see both of you,” she said, and motioned for me and Bree to go upstairs.
The first bedroom on the left was much as I remembered it, subtly scented with lavender water and warmed by a crackling fire, but there was no denying that Ruth and Louise had changed. Their cheekbones stood out sharply in their hollow faces and their skin was almost translucent. Their eyes, which had always been as bright as a thrush’s, took a long time to focus after Bree and I entered the room.
I remained near the door, but Bree crossed to stand between their beds.
“Hello, Auntie Ruth and Auntie Louise,” she said softly, nodding to each of them in turn. “I’m Bree, your great-grandniece.”
“Of course you are,” said Ruth. “You have . . .”
“. . . Aubrey’s eyes,” said Louise. “We thought we would never see . . .”
“. . . his beautiful eyes again,” said Ruth. “Our brother was . . .”
“. . . so handsome,” said Louise, with a little sigh. “Perhaps a bit too handsome . . .”
“. . . for his own good,” said Ruth.
If Bree was confused by their unique manner of speech, she didn’t show it. She turned her head from side to side with great composure, then paused until she was sure they’d finished speaking.
“I never met my great-grandfather,” she said, “but rumor has it that he was a bit of a rat.”
I gazed at her in horror, but to my astonishment, both Ruth and Louise emitted wheezy chuckles.
“He was a naughty boy,” Ruth acknowledged. “But he had a good heart . . .”
“. . . to go along with his good looks,” said Louise. “Papa told us we were mistaken in him . . .”
“. . . and perhaps we were,” said Ruth, “but we loved him all the same. Rumor has it . . .”
“. . . that you have tattoos,” said Louise.
“May we see them?” the sisters chorused.
Bree looked so thoroughly disconcerted that I had to turn away to hide my grin. Ruth and Louise seemed to be stimulated rather than abashed by their outspoken great-grandniece. They didn’t need my help to handle Bree.
“We knew a sailor who had an anchor tattooed across his chest,” said Ruth, “and a farmhand . . .”
“. . . who had a naked lady on his biceps,” said Louise. “But we’ve never seen tattoos . . .”
“. . . on a young woman,” said Ruth. “Is it the fashion nowadays? ”
“Tats are, um, fairly popular in New Zealand,” Bree said, folding her arms self-consciously.
“The Maori influence, I expect,” said Ruth. “The peoples of the South Pacific have always had . . .”
“. . . such a creative way of expressing their spiritual beliefs,” said Louise. “Though it is, I believe . . .”
“. . . rather more painful than flower arranging,” said Ruth. “Your middle name, Aroha, is . . .”
“. . . a Maori word, is it not?” said Louise.
“It is,” said Bree. “Aroha is the Maori word for love. It was my mother’s idea. She liked the sound of it.”
“And the meaning, I suspect,” said Ruth. “You carry with you a reminder of your mother’s love . . .”
“. . . wherever you go,” said Louise. “And now love has entered . . .”
“. . . our home,” said Ruth. “Do show us . . .”
“. . . your tattoos,” Louise coaxed.
Bree sighed resignedly, then pushed her sleeves up to her elbows and held out her arms to allow Ruth and Louise to examine her body art.
“Splendid,” said Ruth. “I see a bamboo orchid . . .”
“. . . and red mistletoe,” said Louise, “and white tea tree blossoms.”
The expression on Bree’s face told me quite clearly that she’d never expected anyone, much less a pair of ancient and eccentric English spinsters, to take a horticultural interest in her tattoos, but again, she rose to the occasion.
“The Maori know them as peka-a-waka, pirirangi, and kanuka,” she informed the sisters, pointing to the relevant blossoms as she named them. “I have a Ruru, a morepork owl, on my left shoulder.”
“Fascinating,” said Ruth. “You must be . . .”
“. . . fond of nature,” said Louise, “and flowers in particular.”
“I used to cut pictures of English gardens out of magazines,” Bree admitted. “But I’ve never had a garden of my own.”
“You do now,” said Ruth. “But you must tend it . . .”