Read Online A Charm of Powerful Trouble by Joanne Horniman - Free Book Online
Authors: Joanne Horniman
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and he raised them up and planted them along with all the seedlings left by the birds.â
âAnd all these years later they're all still here,â said Emma.
âYes,â said Em. âAnd he knew they would be. He said to me, "Auntie, when we're all long dead these trees will still be alive. That fig has already lived for a hundred years or more." Oh, he loved trees. And he didn't want to be a lawyer like his father and grandfather. He said he'd die if he sat in an office all day He liked going out to where it was wild. He dreamed of finding a new species, a plant that no one had discovered. He said there were still plants out there that hadn't yet been identified.â
Emma glanced quickly at Em's face and then back down to the drawing of her father's fig. Em didn't look sad; her face was calm, clear, remembering. Her hairbrush was forgotten on her lap, her hair awry and only partially unpinned.
Emma put her sketchpad aside and stood up. With one hand on her great-aunt's shoulder, she leaned forward and took up the hairbrush from her lap. She removed the last few pins from Em's hair and began gently to brush it out. She noticed the pale skin of her scalp, the delicate whorls of her ears, the fine strands of white hair, and she was breathless with awe that you could be this close to someone.
Ever so slightly, Em leaned against Emma's body âHe was such a funny little boy,â said Em. âWhen I arrived to look after him when his mother died, he said in the kitchen on the first morning, when I was about to cook breakfast, "Don't you use my mother's saucepans!"â She laughed at the memory.
Emma moved in front of Em and knelt down. Aunt Em's skin was so lined and wrinkled that her face seemed decorated with a beautiful deliberate pattern. She put her hand at the side of Em's face, smoothing the hair over her ears, so that all she could see of Em now was her face. Em's eyes looked steadily back at her and Emma held the gaze, wanting to remember, wanting to capture this particular view of Em so that she'd never forget. Then quickly Emma stood up, kissed Em on the forehead, said âAll done!â and put the hairbrush back into her lap.
Em took up the hairpins and put her hair up again. She needed no mirror; it was something she'd practised for most of her eighty-three years.
When Emma, alone in her room that night, drew a portrait of her great-aunt from memory, the whole page was filled with a face, not the whole face, but the part around the eyes. And her drawing wasn't symmetrical, but slanted and partial, and when she'd finished, it wasn't a picture of an old woman at all but of a child.
At the beginning Emma had counted down the days till she could leave, but now she found she didn't want to go home. She loved it here with Em. And miraculously she became ill, just a day before she was to go. She came down with a fever, felt dizzy, sweated, then felt as cold as ice. Perhaps it was all that wandering around on humid nights, coming in with her hair beaded with raindrops, that did it.
She floated on a wave of illness. Aunt Em called the doctor, who said she should rest, and have plenty of liquids. Flora came, and changed the tangled, damp sheets for cool crisp ones. She changed Emma's nightie for her too, when she was too weak to even lift it over her head. Stella brought grapes, carrylng them into the room reverentially in a cut-glass bowl.
At last, in the middle of one morning, Emma woke from sleep and felt well, and strong. She got out of bed and found that she could walk. But once she was up she found she wasn't strong, she was weak. She went out onto the verandah. Em was in the garden, a pair of clippers in her hand. Emma watched as she drew a red rose towards her and, with her eyes closed, breathed in the scent. Emma saw how surprised and pleased she was at being alive.
Emma got up at dawn the following morning and put on a long red dress.
In a red dress and in her bare feet my
âAnd all these years later they're all still here,â said Emma.
âYes,â said Em. âAnd he knew they would be. He said to me, "Auntie, when we're all long dead these trees will still be alive. That fig has already lived for a hundred years or more." Oh, he loved trees. And he didn't want to be a lawyer like his father and grandfather. He said he'd die if he sat in an office all day He liked going out to where it was wild. He dreamed of finding a new species, a plant that no one had discovered. He said there were still plants out there that hadn't yet been identified.â
Emma glanced quickly at Em's face and then back down to the drawing of her father's fig. Em didn't look sad; her face was calm, clear, remembering. Her hairbrush was forgotten on her lap, her hair awry and only partially unpinned.
Emma put her sketchpad aside and stood up. With one hand on her great-aunt's shoulder, she leaned forward and took up the hairbrush from her lap. She removed the last few pins from Em's hair and began gently to brush it out. She noticed the pale skin of her scalp, the delicate whorls of her ears, the fine strands of white hair, and she was breathless with awe that you could be this close to someone.
Ever so slightly, Em leaned against Emma's body âHe was such a funny little boy,â said Em. âWhen I arrived to look after him when his mother died, he said in the kitchen on the first morning, when I was about to cook breakfast, "Don't you use my mother's saucepans!"â She laughed at the memory.
Emma moved in front of Em and knelt down. Aunt Em's skin was so lined and wrinkled that her face seemed decorated with a beautiful deliberate pattern. She put her hand at the side of Em's face, smoothing the hair over her ears, so that all she could see of Em now was her face. Em's eyes looked steadily back at her and Emma held the gaze, wanting to remember, wanting to capture this particular view of Em so that she'd never forget. Then quickly Emma stood up, kissed Em on the forehead, said âAll done!â and put the hairbrush back into her lap.
Em took up the hairpins and put her hair up again. She needed no mirror; it was something she'd practised for most of her eighty-three years.
When Emma, alone in her room that night, drew a portrait of her great-aunt from memory, the whole page was filled with a face, not the whole face, but the part around the eyes. And her drawing wasn't symmetrical, but slanted and partial, and when she'd finished, it wasn't a picture of an old woman at all but of a child.
At the beginning Emma had counted down the days till she could leave, but now she found she didn't want to go home. She loved it here with Em. And miraculously she became ill, just a day before she was to go. She came down with a fever, felt dizzy, sweated, then felt as cold as ice. Perhaps it was all that wandering around on humid nights, coming in with her hair beaded with raindrops, that did it.
She floated on a wave of illness. Aunt Em called the doctor, who said she should rest, and have plenty of liquids. Flora came, and changed the tangled, damp sheets for cool crisp ones. She changed Emma's nightie for her too, when she was too weak to even lift it over her head. Stella brought grapes, carrylng them into the room reverentially in a cut-glass bowl.
At last, in the middle of one morning, Emma woke from sleep and felt well, and strong. She got out of bed and found that she could walk. But once she was up she found she wasn't strong, she was weak. She went out onto the verandah. Em was in the garden, a pair of clippers in her hand. Emma watched as she drew a red rose towards her and, with her eyes closed, breathed in the scent. Emma saw how surprised and pleased she was at being alive.
Emma got up at dawn the following morning and put on a long red dress.
In a red dress and in her bare feet my
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