Lifetime Burning

by Gillard, Linda

  Looking at her hastily scribbled notes, Flora thought on the contrary, bananas and custard were much simpler, but she thanked her mother for her help and replaced the receiver.

  There was a small selection of bottles in the sideboard where Flora kept alcohol. Most of these had been given to Hugh at Christmas by grateful parishioners. The bottles rarely emerged. Hugh occasionally offered sherry to couples during wedding interviews, believing that a small drink helped everyone relax. There was a whisky bottle, almost untouched. Hugh had made Flora a hot toddy when she’d had a bad cold, but she’d hated it and said it made her feel worse. The bottle of brandy was unopened but Flora felt comforted by its presence. She knew that in cases of shock, particularly bad news, brandy was administered and so the bottle made her feel prepared for emergencies.

  Flora looked at the labels on three different bottles of sherry. None of them was described as ‘sweet’. She wondered whether ‘Amontillado’ was Spanish for ‘sweet’. She took the three bottles out of the cupboard and set them on the dining table. Withdrawing the cork from one, she sniffed experimentally. The aroma transported her immediately to Christmases past and vivid memories of the glass of sherry and mince pie she and Rory used to leave on the mantelpiece for Santa Claus. She remembered explaining to Rory that the disappearance of the mince pie and the presence of crumbs on the plate the following morning proved beyond all doubt that Santa did in fact exist. Rory had remained sceptical. His recent experiences at boarding school had modified his world-view. Rory’s universe now encompassed the existence of unkind, deceitful grown-ups, the least of whose sins might be removing a mince pie with intent to mislead.

  Flora poured a small amount of sherry into a glass, then raised it to her lips. It didn’t taste particularly sweet, or indeed pleasant. She wondered whether sherry could go off. Pouring from a different bottle, she sipped again. This one tasted sweeter and more palatable. She took another mouthful to confirm her judgement, then set the glass down. Opening the third bottle, she sniffed, then poured, feeling as she did so quite proud of herself for dealing with the investigation in such a thorough and scientific way.

  Having savoured the third sherry, Flora decided it was not as pleasant as the second, even though it was sweeter. Her preference was for Number Two, but Dora had said men had a sweet tooth, so perhaps the Bishop would prefer Number Three? Flora decided to sample Number Two again and gazed down at the glasses on the table. She couldn’t remember which was which. Had she stood the glasses next to their respective bottles? She thought not and realised she hadn’t been quite as scientific as she’d intended. Picking up the glass containing sherry Number Two she took a mouthful and realised at once that this was in fact Number One. She pulled a face, swallowed, then set the glass carefully next to its bottle. Flora raised another glass which she thought was probably Number Two. She sniffed, then still uncertain, took a mouthful. It was getting rather difficult to tell now but she believed this was almost certainly Number Three which was really much too sweet, even for a bishop.

  Feeling a little like Goldilocks, Flora raised the remaining glass to her lips and swallowed. Yes, this was just right! Pleased with her own decisiveness, encouraged by the warm feeling of her own certainty, Flora drained the glass for no better reason than that she wanted to. She set it down in triumph. She knew that her trifle would be a splendid confection, that the Bishop would shower her with compliments and that Hugh would be proud of her. Really, it had been so silly of her to worry about the Bishop’s visit! Hugh had said he was a jolly nice chap and although Flora had never met him, she felt sure the Bishop must be a jolly nice chap if he was a friend of Hugh’s, who was himself a jolly nice chap.

  All in all, Flora concluded, as she corked the bottles and replaced them haphazardly in the sideboard, it was a jolly nice world when you came to think about it. She simply couldn’t imagine what she’d been worried about.

  When Hugh appeared for supper Flora surprised him by suggesting a sherry before dinner. Without waiting for a reply she marched into the dining room to fetch the bottle from the sideboard. Examining the labels carefully she extracted Number Two and poured out two glasses.

  The apéritif raised Hugh’s hopes that dinner might for once be something substantial or at least unusual, so he was disappointed when Flora asked if rissoles and bananas and custard would be all right. He said, ‘Yes, of course,’ then put his unfinished sherry on the kitchen table. ‘It’s a bit sweet for me, darling. Not really a sherry man, to be honest. But it was a nice thought.’ He smiled apologetically. ‘I’d love a cup of tea.’ Pleading paperwork, Hugh headed towards his study and Flora set the kettle on the hob.

  When she turned round, Hugh’s glass, hardly touched, caught her eye. Flora debated with herself for a moment. She decided that she would take Hugh his tea, wash up and peel some potatoes before she allowed herself to finish off his sherry. After all, it would be a pity to waste it.

  It was the first of many such deals Flora made with herself.

  It wasn’t that drink made me feel happy. It made me feel myself. I remembered who I was, or rather who I’d been. Drink turned me back into the lively, funny, attractive girl I felt sure I used to be.

  There were great gaping holes in my life and I papered over them with booze. I felt I’d been deprived of a proper marriage, babies and my family. All I had left was Hugh and God, both of whom were proving an inadequate substitute for the things I’d lost. Drink didn’t give them back to me, but it made me mind less.

  So to begin with I wasn’t drinking to forget, I was drinking to remember. Drink heightened all my senses, made me feel alive. It dispelled the dismal fog of life at the vicarage and gave me access to sunny memories of my childhood at Orchard Farm.

  I suppose drink made me miss Rory less.

  1964

  As Dora wrapped and labelled Christmas presents she thought how sad it was that this year neither of the twins would be present on Christmas Day. Rory was spending the day with Grace’s family and this year as last, Flora and Hugh would be busy with a vicarage Christmas, beginning with a family carol service and then Midnight Mass on Christmas Eve, followed by Holy Communion and a sherry party for friends and lonely parishioners on Christmas Day itself.

  Christmas was a busy and stressful time for a clergy wife and Dora had invited her daughter and son-in-law to stay for a couple of days afterwards so they could have a well-earned rest and celebrate the New Year at Orchard Farm. Rory and Grace had also been invited and Dora hoped that, with all her family assembled once again, it would seem quite like old times.

  1952

  ‘Rory, there’s no such word as mekon.’

  ‘There is.’

  ‘No, there isn’t. You made it up, just so you could get rid of one of your Ks.’

  Rory stood abruptly and went over to a pile of opened presents spread under the Christmas tree. He picked up an Eagle annual and returned to the table. He opened the book at the contents page and ran his finger downwards. He cried ‘Ha!’ and thrust the book under Flora’s nose. She took the book and read Dan Dare and the Mekons.

  Flora looked up at Rory who was already placing his tiles on the Scrabble board. ‘But it’s not a proper word! It’s just a made-up word for silly creatures from outer space,’ she said scornfully.

  ‘It’s still a word.’

  ‘But you won’t find it in the dictionary, so it doesn’t count.’

  ‘Who says?’

  ‘Everybody! In Scrabble you can only use words that are in the dictionary.’

  ‘I bet it is in the dictionary,’ Rory said, throwing down his pencil.

  ‘Well, go and look then.’

  Rory rose again and went to the other pile of presents under the tree. He returned with Flora’s new dictionary and started to thumb the pages.

  ‘Give it here! I shan’t believe it unless I see it with my own eyes. You’re quite capable of lying,’ Flora said severely. She took the book from her brother and found the page. Her lips
moved silently as her finger ran downwards. ‘Mmm… As I thought. No Mekon.’

  ‘Show me!’

  Rory tried to grab the book but Flora held on tight and recited with some difficulty, ‘Megrim… meiosis… Meissen… melancholy… You see? No Mekons.’ She handed the book to Rory.

  ‘But it is a word.’

  ‘Yes, but it isn’t in the dictionary, so you can’t have it.’

  Rory was struck by a flash of inspiration. ‘It doesn’t need to be in the dictionary because everybody knows what it means!’

  ‘I didn’t.’

  ‘That’s because you’re a girl and you don’t read The Eagle.’

  ‘Well, then - not everybody knows what it means, do they? And if it was a real word, it would be in the dictionary, wouldn’t it?’ Flora savoured her moment of triumph, but it was a Pyrrhic victory.

  Rory pushed his tray of letter tiles away. ‘This is a stupid game.’

  ‘Just because you’re losing!’

  ‘Actually,’ he said, pointing to the score pad, ‘I’m winning, but I can’t be bothered to play any more. Not till you get a better dictionary anyway.’ He picked up his Eagle annual, hugged it to his chest and stalked out of the room.

  Flora was livid. She knew she’d been right, but somehow Rory had still managed to win. Before packing the game away she took up her pencil and added a zero to the end of her score.

  1964

  Ettie and Flora cleared away the remains of the Stilton, port and mince pies while everyone else adjourned to the music room, leaving Archie to doze and digest in front of the fire. Dora set up the Scrabble board on a card table.

  ‘Are you playing, Rory?’

  He shook his head. ‘I wouldn’t want to humiliate you again, Ma, not after the ignominy of yesterday’s defeat. But if you get stuck I’m happy to make a few suggestions.’ He seated himself at the piano and started to sort through sheet music. Dora, Hugh and Grace sat round the table and began to help themselves to letter tiles from a cloth bag.

  ‘You’ll find the dictionary to your left, Grace, on the shelf,’ Dora said. ‘We keep it handy as Rory is inclined to be argumentative when he plays. He’s been known to coin new words when in a tight spot.’ She added in a stage whisper, ‘Can’t bear to lose, you see.’

  ‘If you’re not careful, Ma,’ said Rory sounding dangerous, his hands poised above the keyboard, ‘I shall play Bartók. Fortissimo.’

  Dora’s tiny hand fluttered and clutched at her throat. ‘Good Heavens, anything but that! We shall be quiet as mice!’ She turned and winked at Hugh who smiled indulgently.

  Rory played Debussy instead, so beautifully that Hugh found it impossible to give the Scrabble game his full attention.

  Later Rory brought everyone coffee and brandy, then hovered, looking over the shoulders of the Scrabble players.

  ‘Go away, Rory,’ said Dora. ‘I’m planning something quite devastating and I don’t want you spoiling my concentration.’ Rory pulled a face behind Dora’s back for Flora’s benefit and moved away. He drew up a chair and sat down next to Hugh.

  ‘I’ll help poor old Hugh, then.’

  ‘Poor old Hugh doesn’t need any help, thanks very much,’ Hugh said amiably.

  ‘With three Os and an X? I admire your confidence.’ Rory stabbed at the board with a long forefinger. ‘You could make “moron”.’

  ‘Trust you to think of that,’ Flora said as she helped herself to more brandy.

  Rory looked up. ‘Well, it would get him a double word score and it strikes me he needs all the help he can get.’

  Ignoring him, Hugh leaned across the card table and placed several tiles on the board. Rory’s mouth fell open.

  ‘Oxymoron? What the hell is that?’ He held out his hand. ‘Dictionary please, Ma. The man’s desperate.’

  ‘It’s a figure of speech,’ Hugh said calmly. ‘When you put two words of opposite meaning together for effect. “Organised chaos”, that sort of thing. Look it up if you like.’

  ‘Oh, well done, Hugh!’ Dora exclaimed, clapping her hands together.

  Hugh added up his score, which was impressive. ‘But thanks anyway, Rory.’

  ‘What for?’

  ‘Your suggestion.’

  Flora whooped with laughter and drank her brandy.

  Dora sat in front of her dressing table, removing her earrings. Archie had already retired to one of the single beds that had seemed so much more sensible as husband and wife grew older. Archie was a light and restless sleeper, often up at dawn, pottering in the greenhouse in summer; in winter sitting by the Aga, wrestling with a crossword. Dora had suggested twin beds when symptoms of the menopause had left her drenched with sweat night after night. Since the marriage had long ago dwindled into a state of affectionate physical self-containment, she saw no reason why their double bed shouldn’t be moved to the old nursery to make a guest room for the children and their future spouses.

  Dora unscrewed the lid of a jar of cream and dipped her fingers in. She assumed Rory would one day acquire a spouse. She wouldn’t have been disappointed if he eventually married Grace - a good-natured girl, steady, warm-hearted, if perhaps a little dull - but Dora suspected the love ran one way. Grace was clearly besotted. She touched Rory constantly, watched him when he moved or spoke. When Rory was out of the room Dora had a sense that Grace’s life was in abeyance, waiting for him to return. But what did Rory think of Grace? Dora realised she hadn’t the slightest idea. She couldn’t recall Rory ever saying anything about Grace except in answer to a question. Choosing not to explore this surprising avenue of thought, Dora spread cold cream on her face, wondering as she did so whether, at fifty-seven, it was really worth all the effort, but the routine had become a soothing ritual and helped unravel her tangled thoughts before bed.

  Grace would make a loyal, loving wife and doubtless a good mother. Childbirth would hold no fears for Grace with her wide accommodating hips. As she removed the last of the greasy cream Dora wondered whether Grace’s hips were already accommodating Rory. She thought it likely given the length of time they’d been courting. The physical intimacy they shared suggested to Dora that certain boundaries had been crossed some time ago. She supposed too that if her son put his considerable mind to it, he’d be quite capable of seducing a young woman. Questions of moral rectitude had never troubled Rory (so different from his sister!) and he was a personable young man. Gazing at a favourite photo on her dressing table of the twins, aged ten, standing outside the house in Wester Ross, Dora tried to visualise Rory as Grace must see him.

  A slim young man of medium height with a quantity of thick, fair hair - far too long and untidy, but a modern girl like Grace wouldn’t mind that; a compact, athletic body with elongated, expressive hands; large eyes - so like Flora’s, but a dark sea-grey. And about as warm, Dora thought. It had never been easy to guess what Rory was thinking and, faced with that unnerving stare, Dora hadn’t always wanted to know.

  There was sensuality in the wide mouth; the rare smile when it came lit up his face with a radiance that didn’t quite reach his eyes, as if he were keeping some part of himself reserved, untouched. The suggestion of strength, even stubbornness in the jaw only served to remind Dora what a handful Rory had been as a child. A boy to be reckoned with and no doubt he’d become a man to be reckoned with, especially as far as women were concerned. Her son was attractive in his way, Dora concluded, but could never be thought of as - what was that peculiar word Grace and Flora used about men?… Dishy. Rory wasn’t dishy. Certainly not compared to Hugh, who was everything a young woman of romantic disposition could wish for.

  Yet there was no getting away from it - Flora was not happy. Her over-indulgence in drink at dinner had rendered her cheerful and talkative, but she wasn’t content in her marriage, of that Dora was certain. Picking up a hairbrush, she dragged it through her fine white curls, trying to suppress her irritation with her daughter. Hugh was kind, attentive, affectionate in his undemonstrative way. He was a middle-aged m
an and a clergyman. What had Flora expected?

  A baby possibly.

  They had been married eighteen months now. It was early days. Flora was still very young… Setting down the brush with a sigh, Dora remembered all the encouraging things her own mother had said, year in year out, when her daughter failed to conceive. She removed her quilted dressing gown and turned back the sheets to reveal the hot water bottle Archie had placed in her bed before retiring to his own. Dora smiled. Such thoughtfulness… It was the little things that made a marriage last and it was the big things that destroyed it. Barrenness. Drink. Infidelity.

  Try as she might, Dora couldn’t ignore the fact that her daughter was thin, unhappy and drinking too much. She hoped that was all Flora was up to and switched out the light.

  At New Year Rory and I slept in our old rooms at Orchard Farm but Dora had replaced my single bed with a double for Hugh and me. Grace was put into the spare bedroom which wasn’t far from Rory’s. Doubtless they made the most of that proximity. I don’t suppose Dora and Archie minded, so long as the formalities were observed, but had I been single and in love I doubt they would have granted their daughter the same freedom as their son to wander round the house in search of nocturnal relief. (The Sixties swung, but only if you were male.)

  I lay awake in the old nursery, staring up at the ceiling, my hands fingering the quilt Ettie had made before we were born. The patches were so worn and thin they felt like skin, a membrane wrinkled and scarred by the ridges of her tiny stitches. My finger found a patch of satin - Dora’s old nightdress perhaps? - and came to rest. I stroked the fabric like a cat, enjoying the sensuous feel of the material.