He has been very supportive about my new job. I’m the temporary fund-raising manager for the Lady Isobel Centre. Philomena Hill has warmed to my idea of a learning centre attached to the women’s refuge, and I’m working on a finding strategy to raise enough to have it built and staffed. I’ve even persuaded Brandon to offer a little concert for the opening.
Brandon now has his own little following at the refuge, thanks to Doris. God bless her, she keeps inviting girls to come and listen with her. She seems to relate best to teenage girls and especially those unable to relate to anyone else. Like Lou, who’d escaped with her mother from what sounds like a horrific abusive family. Her first year on La Canette, she was sullen and uncommunicative, but now she’s a regular at Brandon’s Tuesday afternoon practice sessions.
And that’s another thing that makes my heart squeeze painfully. He calls them practice sessions, but really, he only plays because Doris and Lou come. Lou even trusts him enough now to come into the house and make tea for all of us. She loves the music and her eyes sparkle watching him set up his instruments.
But how long can this go on? Sooner or later, he’ll have to find real work. No, not later, sooner. His year of living here, the year he promised his brother, comes to an end in two months.
A little later there’s a knock on the front door and I go downstairs.
“Hello, lovely.” Laura comes in, her arms full of packages wrapped in plain brown paper.
“Did Brandon stop for a drink at the pub and send you with his shopping?”
She laughs. “I did see him in the village as it happens. He mentioned the pomegranate is growing fast. So, I came to see for myself.”
I take her upstairs; she brings one of the packages with her.
“My goodness, Brandon wasn’t lying. She’s changed so much since I last saw her, what, a fortnight ago?”
“Yes, half an inch and 410 grams. She’ll be eighteen weeks old on Friday.”
“And her face is more defined.” Laura says. “She’s gorgeous. Don’t tell Brandon I said this, but she’s all you. Hasn’t inherited any of his features.”
I don’t know what she sees in my face, but her smile falters. “But babies change, I’m sure she’ll start to look like him as she develops. And who knows, she might have inherited his musical talent.”
She holds out the little package. “Look what the ladies at the Casemates have made for you, little Malinara.” She coos, opening the package to reveal a stunning blanket in softest cashmere. It’s cream with what looks like pomegranate flowers and seeds scattered all over it.
“Oh Laura, you shouldn’t have.”
“I didn’t. We have a loom that weaves all this.”
She’s being modest.
“I know it’s your design.”
“We’re launching a new range of baby blankets that we’re namingMalinarain her honour.”
I don’t know how to thank her, or if I even should, but my daughter gives Laura one of her heart melting smiles, so I suppose that’s a thank you.
The baby blanket isn’t the only gift. Downstairs, with mugs of steaming tea in hand, we move to the sitting room, and she gives me the other package. I don’t have to be a mastermind to guess it’s more of her textiles.
There’s a wicked glint in Laura’s large dark eyes.
“Laura? What else?”
She takes the rocking chair while I sit down on the sofa.
“Well… You know Brandon ordered a bedspread from London which has been delayed?”
I didn’t actually. “How do you know?”
“Oh, everyone knows everything on the island.”
Of course. I must be the only one who doesn’t. But why would I know, I don’t sleep in his bed, do I?
“I asked Clark to, uh, ‘lose the order’.” She mimes inverted commas. “I wanted to make this for you.” She hands me the package. “Sorry, it’s so late, we’ve been a bit swamped the last few months, but now we have a new loom, things move a lot faster.”
The gift is, in fact, a bedspread. It echoes the curtains I bought him four months ago, but this has more flowers. It’s beautiful, but altogether too colourful for a man’s bed.
