Angel Walk [antikvár]

Chapter One Christopher "Tyke" Ditchburn tiptoed past the piano draped with a Spanish shawl and over the spare hand-woven rug, intending to switch on the lamp. Seated in the darkness in a Mission-style chair was his mother. Erect, she was just visible, staring fixedly into the winter garden. Corinne Ditchburn, the photographer. He savv^ her that w^ay, as a w^oman with a name, a title even. He always had, even as a boy. At the sight of her, he was suffused with admiration, rage and the half-humorous indulgence that had replaced his long-ago hurt. The lampshade, made of tiny gold glass beads, was from the island of Murani in the shallow sea basin off Venice. She had brought it home from the war; he didn't know the story. It hung over the long pine table, which had belonged to her mother, Eliza, and had been fashioned in Parry Sound by her grandfather. The carpenter grandfather, a fearsome bearded Irish Protestant, had also left a tool chest where Cory's papers and letters were jealously guarded against her son's intrusion. On the wall, framed and covered by glass, was a woman's kimono exquisitely patterned with lilies, another war memento the meaning of which he did not understand. The house, the garden, her few treasures would be his one day, although until now he'd had litde hope she would divulge the private self they sheltered. "Tyke?" Her voice was deep and dry. "I know you're there. No use trying to surprise me." He reached the lamp and pulled the chain; a cone of amber light fell over her. Her hair waved back from her forehead thick and white, short as a man's; her long neck was hned and her hands lay motionless in her lap. Her eyes were grey and steady, though her