Shooting Butterflies Read Free Page A

something I want to ask Louisa. She is still there, isn’t she?’
    â€˜Of course she is. And I meant to tell you, I saw Noah the other day.’
    Noah, the Blackstaffs’ Canadian grandson, Grace’s childhood playmate. Noah, irritatingly cheerful, always busy doing something: digging holes, learning tricks on his bike, running faster than anyone else, riding his pony. Noah, with his shock of wheat-blond hair and those slanted amber-colour eyes, a chunky little boy growing into a lanky adolescent. Last time she had seen him they had both been nineteen.
    â€˜I did tell you Arthur Blackstaff died, didn’t I? It happened just before I moved back to the village. I missed the funeral. Someoneshould have let me know. I can’t be expected to keep up with everyone who dies.’
    â€˜I didn’t write to Louisa. I meant to.’
    â€˜One always does, dear. But you haven’t seen her since you were a girl. She wouldn’t expect to hear from you. Anyway, she’s almost a hundred. She most likely wouldn’t have remembered who you were even if you had written. That’s why Noah is here: to sort things out before the house goes on the market. And to write Arthur’s biography for the exhibition. It’s a retrospective.’ Mrs Shield nodded. ‘I shall have to go, of course. I can stay overnight with you.’ She shifted in her chair, pulling a face and putting her hand to her chest. ‘I think I shall have to take those painkillers after all, dear.’
    Arthur Blackstaff had been a famous artist in his day. A.L. Forbes had painted Grace’s picture at Northbourne House, so the Blackstaffs must have known him. If Noah was writing a biography of his grandfather, then he might have come across Forbes. Finally, she told Mrs Shield about the picture from Jefferson.
    Mrs Shield pursed her lips. ‘So that’s why you were so out of sorts when you arrived yesterday. That man has never been anything but trouble. Even now, after he’s been dead for two years, he manages to upset you.’
    â€˜Don’t go there, Evie.’
    â€˜Go where, dear?’ Her brow cleared. ‘Oh, I meant to tell you, Doctor Llewellyn had read the piece about you and so had Hazel, that’s his receptionist; and Percy Witherspoon, he’s two flats down the corridor, told me to say how sorry he was … you know, about your difficulties. He had no idea, he said. What’s that noise? Oh Grace, you’ve started grinding your teeth again.’
    â€˜That’s quite enough, thank you. Now, if you’ll excuse me I’ll just go and make a call to Mrs Williams, my neighbour, to ask her to feed the cat.’
    â€˜You don’t have a cat.’
    â€˜You’re right, I don’t. So I’ll just go and lie on my bed for a while and think about all the people in this world who are feeling sorry for me. Bastards!’

Nell Gordon:
Even as a young child Grace Shield showed signs of the morbid streak that came to categorise so much of her work.
    The mother placed the fireguard in front of the dying fire and told the boy to mind his sister. She wouldn’t be long, she said, but she was gone for ages and the boy grew bored sitting there with the baby. She, as always, seemed perfectly content just to watch. She was podgy. She was almost four, not really a baby at all, and she could speak perfectly well, but most of the time she chose not to, although you could hear her when she was alone in her room, talking and singing to her toys.
    â€˜Silly old baby,’ her brother said. She was no fun; difficult to tease because she was too stupid to notice. ‘You’re just a big silly baby.’ He glared at her and was rewarded with a wide smile that lit up her big eyes. Her mouth was like a rubber band, stretching wider than you had thought possible.
    He decided to try to make her cry. For such a baby she hardly ever did. He stuck his tongue out, but the