‘She was like that from childhood. Though many children are lovely to look at, even those who turn out to be terribly plain adults, so it only became properly noticeable when she was a young woman.’
Hal studies Aubrey, and thinks that he could only ever have been an odd-looking child, just as he is an odd-looking adult. But there is perhaps something to that sad brown gaze that, in another manifestation, could become something like beautiful.
As if he has guessed at Hal’s thought, Aubrey says, ‘Don’t imagine that we resembled each other, of course. Nobody knows where my looks came from. My mother used to despair over me.
‘My mother was obsessed with my sister’s looks. She had once been called a beauty herself, but she was first to admit that she hadn’t been anywhere in the register of Ophelia’s looks. I think that was probably where the trouble started. Ophelia wasn’t allowed in the sun, or at least not until any exposed area of skin had been covered. She couldn’t ride, or play tennis, in case she had an accident and bruised or – worse still – scarred herself. So she was extremely sheltered. We didn’t have pots of money, but what we did have was spent on Ophelia.’ He says it, thinks Hal, without rancour. ‘Then my sister had her coming out as a debutante. It’s an idea as old as time, of course, but my mother was convinced that she would be the one to restore the family’s coffers. It might have worked. My parents went to a great deal of expense over it: because it was an investment, in some respects. And one young man in particular was quite taken with her. But it all went rather wrong.’
‘How?’
‘The thing about Feely,’ Aubrey said, ‘was that she was too nice to people. She was too sheltered. It was the third visit of this particular young man to our house, and he’d been asking about the history of the place: very interested. She’d been telling him about the escape route, for priests, that led from our house to the nearby chapel. She was sheltered, but perhaps she had some romantic idea of their having a chance to be alone together – without my mother watching their every move. Anyway, she offered to show him the priest hole. And—’ Aubrey closes his eyes. ‘He attacked her.’
‘Oh, God.’
‘It turned out he’d had some trauma, in the First War. Had been in the tunnels – had some horrible experience of small spaces. He must have got confused, suddenly, frightened. He picked …’ Aubrey clears his throat. ‘Excuse me. I haven’t spoken about this in a while. It was ever such a long time ago, but—’
‘That doesn’t mean anything,’ Hal says.
‘Thank you.’ Aubrey nods. ‘He found a bit of brick, somewhere, and hit her with it. I got there too late. I mean – too late to stop him from hurting her. I mean, it was lucky, really – he could have killed her …’ He trails off. ‘It’s why I’m a pacifist. That war could do that to a young man who in all other respects might have been a kind and perfectly normal chap …
‘The problem with Feely is that she had been taught that her looks were everything, the only currency she had. And there was some dreadful scarring.’ He reaches for his drink, drains it completely. ‘She’s not in desperately good health, now. Physically, she’s fine, except a little frail. The funny thing …’ He stops, and shakes his head. ‘The funny thing is, she is one of the cleverest people I know – and the most talented. She’s a tremendous painter. I sometimes think that if only she’d been born ugly, or even just a little less beautiful, she might have had a chance to be happy.’
He looks across at Hal, and gives a funny smile. ‘There. Now tell me if that isn’t at once the most absurd and tragic tale you’ve heard for a while.’
‘It is tragic, certainly.’
‘So now,’ Boyd goes on, almost as though Hal hasn’t spoken, ‘all the women I choose to photograph – the ones I pick myself – seem to have some essence of her. The same look, you know – dark, exquisite bones, rather haunted-looking. I suppose I have this idea …’ he pauses, ‘this idea that through my photographs she is living the life she could have had. Does that make any sort of sense?’
Hal looks down at the book. On the current page, the model sits by a swimming pool reading a novel, a cigarette dangling from her hand. She looks like a woman with a story to tell, someone who lives a large life. ‘Yes,’ he says, ‘I think it does.’
18
Her
I lie awake. My thoughts move back and forth: between the humiliation of the afternoon, and the walk before it. Both a strange relief and a new burden, telling Hal about Spain. Relief, because I haven’t spoken of it in so long. But in doing so I have created a new tie between us, a bridge of knowing, when I had sought to do the opposite.
I hear my husband come into the cabin. I am turned away from him. I will pretend to be asleep.
‘Stella,’ he says, softly. ‘Kitten?’
I don’t answer.