Shooting Butterflies Read Free

*
    On Monday morning Mrs Shield took a tumble as she ran behind the car, waving Grace off.
    When she emerged from the surgery an hour later, her voice was small as she told Grace, ‘I’ve cracked three ribs. Oh, I am a silly old woman.’
    In the car she said, ‘They can’t do anything, of course; that’s the fashion these days, leaving broken bones just to get on with it, but I will have to keep still. No bending or lifting.’
    Back home, she agreed to use the lift. ‘At least you’re in the right place,’ Grace said. ‘You have everything at your fingertips and a resident nurse.’
    Mrs Shield put a chubby finger to her lips. ‘The walls have ears.’ Once they had got inside the flat she explained, ‘It’s different when you really
need
to use it all. It’s not good to be seen to be incapacitated in any way. And I’ve got my commitments. Old Mrs Thompson relies on my Wednesday visits and now I can’t drive. And then there are the Lifeboats. I always do the Lifeboats.’
    Mrs Shield had known about the rules when she moved to the Gardens. The most important dictated that anyone who became too sick or frail to look after themselves would be asked to leave; Northbourne Gardens was
not
a nursing home. This rule, like most, was popular with everyone to whom it did not apply.
    â€˜I’m sure someone else will fill in for you. And a broken rib could happen to anyone at any age, if that’s what’s worrying you. Look at me, I fall over all the time.’
    â€˜You don’t break your bones,’ Mrs Shield said, sinking down into her chair with a grimace of pain. ‘Oh my dear, couldn’t you stay just until I’m a little more mobile?’ Before Grace had had a chance to formulate her excuses, Mrs Shield went on, ‘Please, Grace, you don’t understand what it’s like. People round here are vultures. They hover round if you’re the slightest bit unwell, just waiting … I’ve got a garden view. There’s a queue for garden views.’
    Grace inhaled on her cigarette as she thought about what to do. She was having four weeks off from her work for a London charity for the blind. She had planned some weekends in the country with various friends and there was any number of people to catch up with and things she had hoped to do with her free time back in London. She was still thinking of a way to get out of staying inNorthbourne when the phone rang. It was for Grace, her agent Angelica Lane. ‘There you are.’
    â€˜Thank you for the card. And when will you stop sending photographic ones?’
    â€˜When you become sensible. Now, what about the
papers
?’
    Angelica was surprised when Grace replied that she would like to track down the journalist, Nell Gordon, and ram her fist into the woman’s big mouth before turning her inside out like a glove.
    â€˜What’s the matter with you? It’s publicity and you know what they say …’
    â€˜Yes, thank you, I do know, but that doesn’t mean I agree. There’s definitely such a thing as bad publicity and this was it.’
    There was a pause, then Angelica spoke again with the determined cheer normally reserved for the terminally ill. ‘Anyway, great news; I’ve sold one of the photos in your
Illusions of Love
series this morning. It’s been months since anyone bought anything of yours. I bet you there’ll be more on the way. And don’t tell me the extra income won’t be welcome. Daisy phoned; she’d read it too and …’
    â€˜I have to go,’ Grace said and put the phone down. She turned to Mrs Shield, who had been leaning against the sofa back pretending not to listen. ‘I’ll stay a few days.’
    Mrs Shield’s pale eyes brimmed with tears. ‘Thank you, darling, that’s a great relief.’
    â€˜And I could pop over to Northbourne House. There’s