Tania kept her eyes on Bannerman as he flicked through the drawings. She averted them only when he looked up, and then she felt embarrassed. It had been Sally’s idea to show him the drawings. Her father had not packed them and they were still in the folder beneath her bed.
They all sat around a small table by her bedroom window where the late afternoon sun streamed in to warm their skin. She could not remember ever having felt such pleasure, such warmth. She wanted to be with him always, to touch him, to feel his breath on her face. She sensed, too, his own happiness and it had not escaped her notice the way he and Sally looked at each other, even if they were not fully aware of it themselves. It did not make her jealous, and she was vaguely surprised at that. Perhaps she loved them both, and perhaps they loved each other. But with that extraordinary perceptiveness that she took for granted she was aware that they were reluctant to admit it.
Today had been the best day she had ever known, there had been none of the frustration. It was something wonderful to her. She glowed inside with it. They had eaten in a bistro not far from the park in the Boulevard de l’Empereur, where they had had cold chicken salad and a dry, white wine. Their faces glowed red from the cold and the exertion and they ate in silence, pleased just to look at one another and smile. After, they had walked back to the flat across the park.
Bannerman gathered all the drawings together. ‘They’re quite astonishing.’ He looked at Tania, waiting until she lifted her eyes to look back at him. ‘You have a marvellous talent,’ he said. ‘We can maybe get these published when we get back to Scotland. Would you like that?’
She wasn’t sure. They were such private things. She only wanted people she loved to see them. Perhaps Bannerman sensed her uncertainty. He said softly, ‘They say everything that you cannot say with words. They can tell the whole world that you’re a real person, that you see and feel and need like everyone else. And you should tell as many people as you can. It’s a way of getting out of yourself.’ She smiled and reached for his hand. He took it and squeezed it and tensed inside as he made a difficult decision.
He reached into the inside pocket of his jacket slung across the back of his chair and took out a folded sheet of paper. ‘I have a copy of one of your drawings.’
Without looking at Sally he felt her sudden anxiety. She had remained very quiet since the meal, but now her presence was very strong beside him. He stole a glance at her and saw the doubt in her eyes. He was not sure himself. A fine perspiration moistened his palms as he unfolded the paper and smoothed it out on the table. The child looked at it, almost carelessly, nodded slowly, and her face took on that now familiar expressionlessness.
‘Do you remember it?’ Nothing. He waited a long time before asking, ‘Do you know who it is?’ Again nothing. Sally’s hand came on his wrist.
‘Don’t,’ he heard her saying. But still he persisted.
‘Look at me, Tania. There are things that it is important for me to know.’ Her eyes seemed to be looking straight through him. ‘This is the man that killed your dad, and the other man, isn’t it?’
The quiet in the room was unbearable, and the clock ticked heavily to lend weight and depth to it. Then she nodded suddenly and looked away. ‘All right, all right,’ he said and he took her hand again and squeezed it tightly. It felt limp and small. ‘Just one more thing, just one. Would you... would you know him if you saw him again?’
He felt her hand tighten around his and saw the fear in her eyes. And he misunderstood. ‘It’s all right,’ he said. ‘He can’t harm you now.’ But still her fingers pressed into his hand and she shook her head savagely, frustration welling inside. How could she tell him? I have seen him, I have. She pulled her hand free and stubbed her finger several times on the drawing on the table in front of her. Then she nodded, two, three, four times and felt something like despair as she saw Bannerman’s confusion.
It was Sally who brought sudden understanding, sudden relief. ‘My God, she has! She has seen him again.’
Bannerman glanced at her for a moment and then back to the child and he saw that it was true. ‘But how...? When...?’ And then it dawned and he felt a strange sense of horror pricking his skin. ‘At the hospital.’ Where else could she have seen him? ‘Is that why you ran away?’ Her lips parted as though she were about to speak.
The telephone rang through in the living room and startled them all. Yet none of them moved. It was a quickening of the heart which you could not see. ‘I’m sorry,’ Bannerman said and he stood up and went through to the other room.
Sally smiled with a false cheerfulness and pushed her chair back noisily. ‘How about coffee?’ she asked brightly. ‘I’ll go and make some. Do you want to help?’ Tania didn’t move. ‘That’s all right, I’ll get it.’ Sally bustled quickly out of the room and Tania heard Bannerman’s voice in conversation with someone on the other end of the phone.
For her the day was going, the glow fading like the sun slowly sinking behind the rooftops. She knew that Bannerman would take her back to the hospital now. She had known it all day, but had pushed the thought aside, out of reach, out of sight. Wasn’t that the key to survival? The ability to grasp life’s happinesses when they came without worrying what tomorrow might bring, even if you know it will be sadness. How else can man survive when he lives with the knowledge of certain death at the end of life?
Whatever the future held for her, nothing could erase the memory of this day. She knew, or at least she felt she knew, that Bannerman would always be there, to help her through the difficult times, and surely he would not abandon her now. Didn’t he need her, too? It was something she couldn’t fully understand, but it brought back a bit of lightness to her spirit and she consoled herself with the thought that there would always be tomorrow and with the new day the possibility that she would see him again. He would keep her safe from... him.
She looked at the drawing and wondered why she had not drawn the face. She had forgotten that she had been interrupted before she finished. Would Neil be pleased, she wondered, if she drew the face now? But she had a better idea. Something that would say more. She tore a strip of paper off the foot of one of her drawings and reached for the pencil. It was always difficult for her to come to terms with words on paper. She squeezed the pencil tightly until her fingers went white and she began, with great difficulty, to sort out the letters in the right order. It was strange how, when she drew, the pencil rested easily between her fingers and flew across the page with such fluidity. Now the letters formed themselves clumsily, and the effort of it drained her. When she finished it felt as though it had taken hours. Three words. Quickly, nervously, she folded the paper, got up and hurried round the table, slipping the note carefully into the right hand pocket of Bannerman’s jacket. Then she ran her hand over the softness of the brown cord and put her face close to it, smelling Bannerman from it.
When he left the room, Bannerman was depressed, irritable. He felt guilty at having produced the drawing. The child deserved more than that. And yet it had confirmed many more things for him beyond doubt. There might even have been more. He snatched the phone. ‘Bannerman.’