that Meredith said really made you think. Maisie liked the idea of things being what you decided they were. After all, the fluffy green rug between her bed and Zoe’s was actually a magic carpet but she hadn’t told Zoe.
‘Have you ever seen an abstract painting?’ Meredith asked the inquisitive girl. Maisie shook her head and Meredith leaned forward and pulled a book from the slatted shelf under the oval coffee table. It was called Finding Joy in Modern Art. She opened the book and flicked through the pictures. They were a miscellany of colours and shapes. Maisie took a few tentative steps towards her and peered over the top of the book. Nothing was actually anything but Maisie thought she glimpsed a face or an animal lurking in the muddle.
‘I’m sure the artists had something very definite in mind when they created these images, but when I look at this picture …’ Meredith tilted the book in Maisie’s direction, ‘On White II by a very clever and innovative Russian artist called Kandinsky, I see horses and a bird in the sky, a stopwatch and a chequered racing flag – so to me as a young woman this was a picture about horse-racing, maybe at nearby Newmarket. But when I was older and read more on the subject, I learned it was supposedly about life and death. In the end, does it matter what he intended when he painted it or what I thought I saw? It made me think and looking at it made me happy because it reminded me of a special day I had at the races with a young gentleman I knew at the time.’
Maisie could tell the memory wasn’t really a happy one by looking at the old lady’s face. It was like when Mummy said to Grandma how delicious her fruit cake was and then put the whole foil-wrapped loaf in the pedal bin as soon as they returned home.
‘I admire the skill in a Gainsborough or a Turner, but I do so love the challenge of a Dalí or a Klee.’
Maisie studied the curious picture – noting the sharp black lines, slicing across the canvas, the jumble of colour and the tiny chequerboard patterns. For a few moments she was reflective, then she looked back at the teapot.
‘I think it’s jigsaw puzzle bits,’ she said. ‘All floating around the teapot, needed to be put back in their puzzley holes.’
‘I think so, too,’ said Meredith, and Maisie gave a gap-toothed grin. ‘Keep the book, sweetheart. I know you’ll treasure it.’
Nigel was clinging to the door of his cage as soon as Maisie approached the sideboard. He wasn’t daft and always began to hare around the bottom floor of his cage when he heard her return from work, occasionally optimistically launching himself at the small, square door that opened like a wire drawbridge to the outside world. Maisie pulled back the hook and the door fell forward as he waddled towards her, ever hopeful of a tasty treat. She scooped him up and he nestled happily in her soft, warm hands, munching on sunflower seeds, as she sat recounting the events of the day.
After he’d finished his seedy snack, she placed Nigel carefully in his clear plastic ball and let him explore as she went into the kitchen to unpack the china, mindful that working at the auction could lead to all sorts of impulse acquisitions. Colour co-ordinated ones only, of course.
The box had an unpleasant stale cigarette odour and most of the contents were stained yellow but after a good soak the cups came up shiny and clean. There wasn’t much else of interest inside so she lugged it into her petite garden shed with the other boxes – the rosy, bearded faces of the naughty gnomes still laughing at her every time she entered.
She sat down to a quick spinach omelette and then remembered she hadn’t taken her phone off silent since the auction. She found a missed call and a text from Zoe – both from earlier in the day.
BIG news but don’t want to put it in a text. Skype tomorrow around ten GMT? Zoe x
It would be the early hours for Zoe now but she texted back in agreement and wondered what the news could be. Perhaps a baby. That would be exciting. Their mother was desperate for a grandchild and Lisa had made it clear babies weren’t part of her life plan – too selfish and demanding – which everyone decided was rich coming from her. Oliver and Zoe had been together forever and, although Zoe had never mentioned children, perhaps she’d changed her mind now they were in the land of milk, honey and the perennial outdoor barbecue. And at thirty, Zoe’s biological clock would be counting down that final decade in readiness to sound the alarm.
‘Maisie!’
Zoe’s beaming face appeared on Maisie’s laptop, slightly glitchy as the signal sorted itself out, and resplendent in mammoth sunglasses, and a floppy raffia sun hat wider than the screen. While Maisie was still de-icing her car every morning and bemoaning the winter weather, her sister was basking in a gloriously hot Australian summer.
‘Look at you – all tanned and sun-bleached. It’s about two degrees outside and a smattering of the white stuff is forecast for this weekend. If ever you want to swap lives, I’m sure I could make the sacrifice – but only because I love you so much. It would be a purely selfless act on my behalf.’
Zoe adjusted her hat and the smile crept further towards her ears.
‘Funny you should say that; I’m coming home.’
‘Oh wow.’ So that was the news. A UK vacation, and looking at her sister’s beaming face, perhaps a sizeable one. ‘How long for? Does Mum know? Give me the dates and I’ll book some time off work.’
‘No, sweetheart, not for a holiday. For good.’
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