Signs for Lost Children Sarah Moss (best way to read books .TXT) 📖

railings around the garden in the middle of the square have been repainted. A nurse with a perambulator and a child of two or three at her side is unlocking the garden gate. Ally turns away. You must rest, says Aunt Mary, but there is nothing restful about idleness. Mamma’s voice mutters in her head: are you then wholly abandoned to self-indulgence, Alethea? You have seen fit to excuse yourself all justification of your existence in this vale of tears? She stops herself putting her hands over her ears. Nothing in this room needs doing. There is no disorder, nothing to address. She begins to align the spines of the books on the shelf along the long wall, mostly Uncle James’s collection of voyages and travel writing. One or two are out of alphabetical sequence and can be replaced, but it doesn’t take long. She strokes Aunt Mary’s ferns on the plant stand, but there are no brown leaves and their soil is moist. George is right, it is a nice day outside. Annie won’t be here for another hour at least; perhaps she will take a walk in the park. Frittering away your time, says Mamma, casting around for ways of passing your very life. For shame, Alethea, for shame.

She can’t concentrate on the novel Aunt Mary has put into her hands, something about three sisters living in a small town in Scotland. The middle sister, Aunt Mary says, is terribly clever and a great supporter of women’s suffrage and things like that, and the book always makes her think of Ally. It makes Ally think of doing something else. It is not five minutes since she last looked at the clock. It is too hot beside the fire anyway. She puts the book down on the side table and walks to the window.

‘Dear Al. You have never learnt to rest yourself.’

Aunt Mary is settled in her usual chair, with her feet crossed on a needlepoint footstool of her own making, writing a letter on paper that rests on a padded tray balanced on the chair’s arm. The impedimenta of idleness, Mamma would say. Ally thinks that she should write to Tom, but she is too ashamed of herself, would not know where to start. Dearest Tom, I am with Aunt Mary once again because I found myself incapable of the work I had undertaken to do. Because I allowed my difficulties with Mamma to make me break my word and leave the most desperate and needy patients without any hope of medical attention until the spring. Because in the name of personal troubles I betrayed my profession. What will Miss Eastman be thinking now, having reached the Welfare Centre and found that Ally has not returned from the Christmas holiday? What will Mamma tell her? The breakfast kedgeree and coffee churn in Ally’s stomach. She has abandoned two posts, two sets of patients, in the last month. Who would write her a reference now?

Aunt Mary sets aside her letter. ‘There now. I expect this will be Annie at the door.’

Ally had not heard the bell, but there are voices in the hall and then Annie blows in before Fanny has time to announce her. A grey skirt, bustled and swagged, and a cream blouse with lace at the collar. Her hair somehow different.

‘Ally! It is such a joy to see you again. And up! I thought you might be in bed.’

Aunt Mary comes to kiss Annie. ‘How are you, my dear? A happy Christmas? She should be in bed, but she is very naughty about resting.’

Ally stands up. She had forgotten that Annie likes to kiss on arrival and departure. ‘I am glad to see you too. And really, I have slept. I am not unwell. I feel no need to lie in a bed.’

Aunt Mary and Annie exchange glances. What on earth did Aunt Mary write in the note that summoned Annie? Ally has run mad. Ally is in the grip of a nervous crisis. What might be called a touch of hysterical tendency in a young girl bears a more sinister name in a woman over thirty.

‘Good,’ says Annie. ‘It is an excellent sign. But later, Ally, perhaps after we have taken a walk, you will allow me to examine you? For I gather you have had a shock and I see that you have lost flesh. You are a little pale, darling, and—forgive me—look tired even if you don’t feel it.’

Ally returns to her chair, since it appears that the promised walk is not immediate. She is like an eager dog, following everyone who moves towards the door. Aunt Mary waves Annie to the sofa.

Aunt Mary and Annie speak of Christmas, of Annie’s sisters, of the boys. Of Annie’s mother’s difficulty in replacing her cook. Of a play that both of them have considered seeing but not seen. Outside, the sun moves across the sky. In Manchester, Mamma tends to her fallen women, persuades her subscribers to give just a little more. In Truro Dr. Crosswyn visits the wards, writes letters, makes notes, reasons with the committee. Aunt Mary and Annie speak of a book that Annie cannot recommend. The sky turns pink and Aunt Mary rings the bell for tea.

A P

ATTERN OF

B

UTTERFLIES

A blade held between two fingers opens the silk like skin, lifts away the white shape as a surgeon might raise a tumour. Tom finds himself craning to see the flesh underneath but of course there is only the cutting board.

Tatsuo leans over his shoulder. ‘Now the dyeing. Very beautiful.’

There is a wooden tray full of steaming blue liquid on the bench under the window. The craftsman carries the breadth of silk tenderly, over both arms, and lowers a portion of it into the dye. Bright blue, azure, laps at the grey, and then the cloth is lifted and draped over a rack so that the blue drips into a tray without crossing the grey. The man’s hands are blue and his