Page 63 of A Sky Painted Gold

“It said goodbye,” she says. Her eyes open and she looks at me levelly. “Now, for heaven’s sake, let’s go home.”

CHAPTER

EIGHTEEN

That was four days ago and now I am back at the farm. It is also my eighteenth birthday. I wake up to the sun streaming through the small window above my bed. As I lie under my soft white cotton sheets I watch the odd cloud roll across that little square of blue sky. Eighteen. How old that sounds. And how much older I feel now than I did even a week ago. Since we returned from London I haven’t seen much of Caitlin, but when I have I’ve had a careful eye on her, watching for signs of unhappiness. Her mask is firmly back in place, and she has given nothing away, been nothing but bright and breezy. Robert has been away again, so I haven’t been able to talk to him about it … not that I’m sure what I could say, and the others don’t seem to have noticed anything amiss with her. I know that preparations for the party are keeping her busy, and when I try to suggest she take a break she tells me in a firm voice that staying busy is what she needs at the moment. It’s hard to know if the confrontation with Lucky has made her better or worse. She seems the same, but I don’t know what that means. I realize that, as close as I feel to Caitlin, there’s so much about her I still don’t know.

The party this evening is a bright spot that we are all focusing on. I can’t quite believe that it’s happening at all. A party, in my honour, at the Cardew House. A party to celebrate the end of summer. Like Caitlin I am choosing to look forward to it, refusing to think about what comes afterwards.

My plans for the day are exciting – a birthday lunch with my family before heading to the Cardew House for the big party tonight. I haven’t been over there for the last couple of days. Caitlin has strictly forbidden it so that I don’t see any of her preparations and ruin my surprise. I stretch and wiggle my toes, testing out my eighteen-year-old body.

“Happy birthday to you…” The sound of singing drifts up the stairs, along with giggles and eager footsteps. I sit upright, bringing my knees to my chest as the door bursts open. The triplets are first, singing noisily and climbing straight on to the bed with me, burrowing under the blankets like a basketful of eager puppies. Tom is behind them, frowning with concentration as he carries a wobbling cake alight with candles. (He is not singing because, as he later points out, he has enough to do, what with stopping the cake from burning the house down, and if I will be so old that I need so many candles as to become a fire risk then that is my own business.) Freya next, who looks younger and more vulnerable than usual, still in her pyjamas, with her arms full of presents wrapped in brown paper and red string. Finally, behind her came Pa, who is carrying a big parcel, and Midge, who is carrying the baby. Pa’s voice is deep and warbling, Midge’s thin and reedy, but I love hearing them sing together.

The room is small and not made for nine people, but somehow we all squeeze in, and when their song comes to an end I clap as hard as I can and blow out my candles. Tom places the cake on top of the dresser with a profound look of relief and flops into the chair. “What a family of musicians, thank you!” I say, as Freya dumps the gifts unceremoniously into my lap and joins Pa and Midge in perching on Alice’s empty bed.

I open my presents – sweets from the triplets and Anthea, a book of poetry from Freya, ribbons and a prized green marble from Tom.

The present from Pa and Midge is bulky and it weighs a ton. I peel back the brown parcel paper, so slowly that Tom and Freya howl with impatience. Finally, I unwrap a hard black case, and when I prise open the shiny gold latch I reveal a beautiful, gleaming typewriter. There is a piece of paper already sticking out the top, and on it in uncompromising black ink are the words:

For the next adventure.

“Oh!” I exhale. My heart thuds in my chest. I turn to look at Pa, and his eyes are glittering.

“A serious piece of equipment for a serious writer,” he says. His words feel like another kind of gift, and I luxuriate in them for a moment. I look back at the words and feel a thump of sadness, a tremor of anxiety. The next adventure. As far as I can see, my adventure is coming to an end. It is hard to see how returning to life as normal in Penlyn can possibly be anything but a disappointment. At least I can write, I think, and maybe this is the gift that the typewriter represents – writing is an escape, an adventure in itself. I will have to hope it is enough.

I stand then, hugging everyone I can reach. “Thank you, thank you!” I exclaim. “I love them all!” I can’t resist stroking the typewriter keys, thinking about all the words I will capture with them.

“Well, I had better get back to preparing lunch,” Midge says briskly. “And you had better get dressed. Your guests will be here soon.”

Everyone leaves, and I hum to myself as I dress in one of the Madame Carradice creations that Caitlin bought for me in London. It is a light, clotted-cream-coloured dress with violets embroidered around the neckline and hem. It makes me feel pretty.

After primping for a while, I examine my presents once more, setting the typewriter up on the dressing table where it looks enormous and – I have to admit – a little intimidating. I decide to name it Gladys, and once that decision has been made the typewriter looks a lot friendlier. “I’ll see you later, Gladys,” I call over my shoulder as I make my way downstairs. There is a lot of noise coming from the kitchen where Midge, true to her word, is baking up a feast composed of all of my favourite things. Aren’t birthdays wonderful?

There’s a knock at the door and Alice and Jack arrive. I run forward to greet them, but then I falter. It has been so long since I’ve seen Alice and so much has happened. I see her now, the shock in her eyes as she takes in the sight of me in my new dress.

“Happy birthday, little sister-in-law,” Jack says, oblivious, as he crushes me to his chest.

“Don’t crinkle her, Jack!” Alice exclaims, but her jollity sounds a bit forced. “Look at that dress! You’re too fine for us, Lou.” She shifts on the spot, and I know I’m not supposed to, but I notice the tiny movement of her hand as she tries to cover the darned bit on the sleeve of her own dress. It’s an instinctive motion, I understand, because of course I know the dress is darned. I’m the one who ripped it when I borrowed it last year.

I stand awkwardly in front of her. “It was a present,” I say. “You can borrow it any time,” I add quickly, and it feels strange although I don’t know why – Alice and I have always shared everything.

Alice makes a visible attempt to rally. “That’s why you’re my favourite sister,” she says with a smile that makes her look more like her usual self.

“I can hear you, you know,” Freya says from her position at the kitchen table.

“How would I know that, when you haven’t even lifted your nose from your book to say hello?” Alice puts in sweetly.

“Children, children,” Midge interrupts. “If you’re going to bicker, then please go through to the living room.”

“First –” Alice lifts her finger “– a birthday crown for the birthday girl,” and she runs back outside, returning with a ring of baby’s breath. She places the crown of tiny white flowers on my head, although I think her fingers are trembling a little. She’s standing so near and I can smell her familiar Alice smell, and I want to hug her and laugh with her and tell her everything that’s happened to me over these past few weeks, but for some reason we’re being so stiff and polite with each other that I can’t do any of those things.

Freya is looking at us with her head tilted to one side like a little bird. Her eyes narrow thoughtfully.

“Very nice,” Midge says briskly, blissfully unaware of any awkwardness. “Now off you go, out of my way.”

At that moment Aunt Cath arrives with Uncle Albie, closely followed by Aunt Irene. We spill through to the sitting room, which is decorated with streamers and paper chains, and I feel my heart lift at the sight.

Aunt Irene presents me with a set of handkerchiefs, and I swear I hear her mutter something about how I’ll be needing them soon enough, before settling herself regally in the corner and sending Tom into the kitchen for a cup of strong tea. Aunt Cath and Uncle Albie are much jollier and give me a new Duke Ellington record that I insist on playing immediately. The huffing sounds issuing from Aunt Irene are just a bonus as we dance around the living room furniture.