Shooting Butterflies by Marika Cobbold Page B

her. ‘No,’ was Grace’s answer.
    Grace was about to go back to bed when she spotted a pale figure moving out from the moon-shadow cast by tall oaks. Sleepy still, Grace lit a cigarette and leant against the window looking out. Somewhere a dog barked and the figure turned round and vanished back into the darkness, leaving Grace with an impression of silver moonshine rippling down a slender back. Grace stubbed out the cigarette, having waited in vain for the figure to return.
    â€˜Could be Edna,’ Mrs Shield said the next morning when Grace told her. ‘And I don’t mind telling you that I didn’t sleep a wink myself, not one wink.’
    â€˜I’m sorry. How are your ribs?’
    â€˜Not good. I’m in considerable pain.’ Mrs Shield did look pale. As Grace searched for the painkillers, she raised her hand, grimacing. ‘I’ve taken them already. They don’t help, not one bit. Anyway, Edna’s hair is dark – and short. I keep telling her that very dark colour is all wrong for an ageing face, much too harsh, but she won’t listen; oh no, she goes and gets all huffy instead.’
    â€˜Maybe it was Noah’s ghost?’
    â€˜And combined with such a deep shade of red lipstick she’s beginning to look like Baby Jane. The older you get the less makeup you should be wearing, that’s what everyone says. Although in your case, Grace, I think you could do with some more. You look awfully pale.’
    â€˜I
am
awfully pale. I always have been, remember? That’s why all my childhood you used to run after me and feel my forehead saying, “Are you running a temperature, Grace, you look awfully pale.” Anyway, I do wear make-up; I’m just subtle about it.’
    â€˜Well, there comes a time in a woman’s life when subtlety isn’t the answer.’
    â€˜You’re contradicting yourself.’
    â€˜Am I, dear? I don’t think so. I would love another cup.’
    â€˜Have you seen him, Noah? What is he like these days?’
    â€˜We saw each other in the churchyard the other day. He looks just the same to me. Then you all do. He was putting flowers on his grandfather’s grave and I was visiting your father. Of course he didn’t recognise me, not at first. But when he did he asked after you. Anyway, you’ll see for yourself. I’ve arranged for us to go over there today so that you can ask about your artist. Some people seem to have nothing better to do than lie in bed all day; he was really quite offhand when I called earlier on.’
    Grace glanced at her watch. ‘It’s only eight o’clock now. Anyway, you should rest, shouldn’t you, not run around the village.’
    â€˜I’m perfectly all right if we take it slowly, dear. And you have the car anyway. As long as I don’t have to bend or lift.’
    â€˜I still think it was Noah’s ghost I saw.’
    â€˜Of course you don’t.’
    Grace got to her feet. ‘You’re right; I don’t.’
    * * *
    But for his eyes, an amber colour not easily forgotten, Noah Blackstaff looked nothing like Grace remembered. Had he been a photograph, she thought, she would have suspected him to have been a composite. There was Pete the Poet’s sensitive delicate face on Steve the Strongman’s body. The effect was far from unattractive, just a little unusual. They made as if to embrace and ended up shaking hands. Grace thought, I don’t know if you are married, if you have children. I don’t know what you do for a living, how you decorate your home, yet I’ve hugged you when you cried. I know that shellfish makes you puke and once, when we were scared, we shared a bed. She said, ‘You’ve grown.’
    He looked sideways at her and grinned. ‘Come into the kitchen.’
    â€˜I’m sorry about your grandfather.’
    â€˜Thank you.’ There was the kind of embarrassing pause that