Lifetime Burning

by Gillard, Linda

  I asked Reception to call a doctor, telling them it was an emergency. Then Hugh marched into the Ladies with me ( which created a stir, especially as he was wearing his dog collar. ) He picked Grace up as easily as if she were a child and carried her to her room. I helped her into her nightdress and put her to bed, then Hugh and I retreated to the corridor to discuss his script. I said he was to leave a message backstage saying that I - not Grace - had been taken ill and that Grace was staying with me to look after me. Hugh said that didn’t sound very convincing. He would have been the one to stay to look after me, not Grace. What wife would desert a husband in his finest hour for the sake of a sister-in-law’s migraine? We agreed that Hugh would have to tell Rory the truth, but I insisted he make light of it. ‘Say she’s been bleeding, but that it’s stopped now.’

  Hugh looked at me gravely. ‘That’s a lie, Flora.’

  ‘Oh, for God’s sake, Hugh - don’t start preaching at me now!’

  ‘I meant that if Rory is going to lose his child, and it looks as if he might, it doesn’t seem right to raise false hopes.’

  ‘If you tell him the truth the performance will be wrecked, then Rory will be wrecked and then Grace will be wrecked.’ Hugh said nothing. ‘There are such things as miracles! She may not lose the baby.’ Hugh still looked uncomfortable. ‘What else can we do?’

  ‘We can pray.’

  ‘Well, you can bloody pray if you like. I’m going back in there to look after Grace. Tell Rory she’s going to be OK.’

  There was a lot of blood. Like a Hammer horror movie. I was very calm and just said, ‘Don’t look. The ambulance is on its way,’ which was meant to sound reassuring. I kept handing her wads of tissues to put between her legs and then when the box was empty I handed her a towel. As the pains got worse Grace started to cry. She clutched at my hand and yelled, ‘Oh, God, no - the baby’s coming!’

  It was tiny and perfect and covered in blood. You could see it was a boy. Grace was sobbing, beside herself. I wrapped the baby in the bloodstained towel, carefully, so as not to cover its face. Its skin hung in wrinkles like a wizened old man’s, but its forehead was smooth and its eyes were shut. It didn’t look as if it had suffered.

  I opened the door to the ambulance men who came thundering in with blankets and a sort of stretcher-chair. They handed me some thick, hospital-issue sanitary towels. I stared at them blankly till I realised they were for Grace. I handed them to her then picked up a carrier bag containing a box of new shoes and emptied its contents on to the floor. I put the baby and the towel into the shoebox, then realised it looked like a coffin. I set the gory package gently on the floor, helped Grace out of bed, pushed shoes on to her feet and kissed her on the cheek. The men helped her into the chair, wrapped her in a blanket and then strapped her in firmly, as if she were about to be executed. As they lifted her she shrieked, ‘The baby! Give me the baby!’ I handed the shoebox to her and she clutched it on her lap as they carried her out of the room.

  Hugh and Rory found me in Casualty. I hadn’t seen Grace for several hours. I’d been informed by a bad-tempered nurse that Grace had lost the baby - which we already knew - that she was in a gynae ward awaiting a D & C and no, I couldn’t see her.

  When he arrived Rory looked confused and physically exhausted. He was still wearing his DJ but his white bow-tie hung loose at his neck and his damp shirtfront stuck to his chest. Apart from his deathly expression he looked like a drunken reveller at a New Year’s Eve party. He stared at me in horror. I realised then what a spectacle I must present in my blood-soaked cocktail dress, looking like Jackie Kennedy after the assassination. He searched my face for reassurance. ‘She’s going to be all right? The baby’s OK?’

  ‘Grace is fine… But she lost the baby. I’m really sorry.’

  Hugh made the sign of the cross discreetly and bowed his head. Rory frowned. ‘She lost it? But she wasn’t bleeding much, was she? Why did she lose it?’

  ‘I think she was bleeding because she was about to lose it. There must have been something wrong.’

  Hugh put an arm round Rory’s shoulders and said, ‘It was probably for the best.’ I could have killed him.

  ‘She lost it?’ Rory asked again, groping for meaning.

  I nodded. There was a long silence. I took his hand. ‘You had a son. I saw him. He was beautiful.’

  Rory looked down at the floor, then his head jerked upwards and he stared up at the fluorescent lights, blinking.

  Rory wanted to sit in Casualty all night waiting to see Grace, but I insisted there was no point. She would be having a general anaesthetic and no one would be allowed to see her until the morning. I suggested we go back to the hotel to get some sleep and then come back first thing in the morning. Rory still refused to leave, almost hysterical now with tiredness. I wondered when he’d last eaten. We’d planned a celebratory dinner after the concert and none of us had eaten since an early tea.

  To pacify Rory, Hugh offered to stay at the hospital all night waiting for news of Grace and promised that he would ring the moment there was any. Rory went off to bully the ward nurses again, demanding to be allowed to see Grace. Hugh suggested I take Rory back to the hotel in a taxi. ‘He may be in shock, Flora. Keep an eye on him and call a doctor if you’re in any doubt.’

  ‘Was he good?’

  ‘I beg your pardon?’

  ‘Rory. The concert. Did he play well?’

  ‘Oh. Yes… Astonishing. Fiendish music, but somehow he managed to play it very simply. The audience gave him a wonderful reception. I wish you could have been there. He put me in mind of those lines at the end of Eliot’s Little Gidding. You know, A condition of complete simplicity… costing not less than everything.’

  I gazed up at him blankly.

  When Rory and I got back to the hotel the girl at Reception handed me our keys and said in a low voice, ‘Was everything all right?’

  ‘Do you mean the concert or Mrs Dunbar?’ I answered, too sharply.

  The poor girl looked abashed. ‘Both.’

  ‘Mr Dunbar was a great success. Mrs Dunbar lost the baby.’

  ‘Oh. I’m very sorry. We… sorted out the room,’ she said, her eyes sliding sideways towards Rory who was reading telephone messages. ‘We can’t do the carpet until tomorrow,’ she added. ‘But we laid a rug over the worst.’

  ‘Oh, bless you, thanks. Look, could you send us up some brandy? And some whisky and water, please. You couldn’t rustle up a sandwich as well, could you? My brother hasn’t eaten.’

  ‘Of course. We’ll send up a tray, Mrs Wentworth. In about ten minutes?’

  ‘Thanks very much.’

  I steered Rory towards the lift.

  I opened Rory’s door and went in, glancing round the room, relieved to see that the staff had removed all trace of the carnage apart from a trail of red spots on the carpet leading from the bed to the bathroom. A rug had been laid on top of the worst bloodstains and I hoped Rory wouldn’t notice them. The bed had been made up with fresh linen and there were flowers on the coffee table that hadn’t been there when we left. Rory walked into the room, sank down in an armchair and closed his eyes.

  ‘They’re sending up some food and some whisky,’ I said.

  ‘I’m not hungry,’ he replied listlessly.

  ‘I don’t care. You’re going to eat. You look awful.’

  ‘Not as bad as you. Do you think you could go and change, Flor? You look as if you murdered my wife.’

  I looked down at my stained dress. ‘Yes, of course. I’m sorry.’

  ‘That’s OK.’ He reached out, took hold of my hand and squeezed it. ‘I’m very grateful. It must have been bloody awful.’

  ‘It was certainly bloody.’

  ‘Why didn’t you phone me?’

  ‘She wouldn’t let us. You know what Grace is like.’

  ‘Yes, I do… I wish you’d been there, Flor.’

  ‘I wish I’d been there. Hugh said you were astonishing.’

  ‘Did he?’
/>
  ‘Yes. He seemed very impressed.’

  Rory laughed mirthlessly. ‘I don’t think it takes much to impress old Hugh.’

  There was a knock at the door. I opened it and took charge of a loaded tray. I set it down in front of Rory and said, ‘Pour some drinks while I go and get changed. Mine’s a very large brandy.’

  I returned wearing Hugh’s pyjama jacket which came to my knees and his dressing gown which trailed on the floor. Rory burst out laughing when he saw me and I wondered how much whisky he’d already downed. ‘What on earth are you wearing?’

  ‘They’re Hugh’s.’

  ‘Well, I didn’t suppose they were yours!’ he said, putting a brandy into my hand. ‘You look as if you raided the dressing-up box.’

  ‘I was cold. And all I had clean was a little summer frock. I wanted to be cosy.’

  ‘Don’t you have any pyjamas of your own?’

  ‘Not with me. All I’ve got is the ridiculous negligée I bought for my honeymoon…’ My voice trailed off as I remembered why I’d packed it for this trip.

  Rory swallowed a lot of whisky, then said, ‘Things any better? Between you and Hugh, I mean.’

  I sat down in the other armchair and curled my legs under me. ‘It’s none of your business, Rory.’

  ‘No, you’re right, it’s not. Sorry.’

  There was a long silence. Rory stared at the plate of sandwiches but didn’t take one. I wrestled with my principles for about half a minute, then said, ‘Things aren’t any better, actually.’

  ‘No, I didn’t think so.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘I suppose I meant I could tell. You don’t exactly radiate contentment, you two. You don’t even touch each other. Well, Hugh doesn’t touch you.’

  ‘You noticed that?’ I asked, surprised. Rory nodded and drank again. ‘I’d hoped it wasn’t that obvious.’

  ‘It isn’t.’

  I swirled the brandy in my glass and took a mouthful, shivered and took another. ‘Is it me, do you think?’ Rory looked up and blinked at me, his eyes struggling to focus. ‘Is there something wrong with me?’

  He was silent for a moment and then said carefully, ‘Not according to the prefects at St Columba’s.’

  ‘What?’

  A muscle twitched at the corner of his mouth. ‘They used to keep a list on the notice-board in the Common Room. Their Hit Parade. You were on it.’ Rory refilled his glass. He was clearly enjoying himself at my expense.

  ‘What on earth are you talking about? What sort of list?’

  ‘A list of the women they’d most like to… sleep with. You came third after Marilyn Monroe and Ava Gardner.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘You heard. I think in terms of genuine aspiration, Flor, you can regard yourself as Number One. You probably never realised this, but what little popularity I enjoyed at school was largely thanks to being your brother. My friends were always on at me to get you to make up a four for mixed doubles.’ He grinned. ‘I think they were talking about tennis.’

  ‘You’re pulling my leg!’

  ‘Nope… You were the subject of a hundred wet dreams. There’s nothing wrong with you, my girl. Any man who doesn’t want to screw you needs his head examining.’ He buried his nose in his whisky glass. ‘Or his cock examining.’

  ‘Rory - please!’ There was a tense silence, then I started to giggle. He looked up at me, then he too giggled. I heaved a cushion at him. ‘Shut up, Ror!’

  He ducked, spilling whisky. ‘Shut up yourself!’

  ‘You are insulting my husband,’ I said, trying to sound offended.

  ‘Husband in name only.’

  ‘That isn’t funny, Rory.’

  ‘No,’ he cackled, ‘It’s bloody tragic.’

  ‘Please stop it!’

  He clapped a hand over his mouth but then raised his eyebrows at me, snorting with laughter.

  ‘You’re so childish!’ I sneered, then spoiled the effect with another fit of giggles. ‘Anyway,’ I said, composing myself, smoothing Hugh’s dressing gown over my knees, ‘it’s all my fault.’

  ‘Why?’

  I emptied my glass with a flourish. ‘I refused to have the operation.’

  Rory sat bolt upright in his chair. ‘What operation?’

  ‘The one that all clergy wives have the night before their wedding.’

  Rory smiled slowly. He stood up, sloshed more brandy into my glass, then flopped back into his armchair, his eyes bright now with anticipation. ‘Tell me all.’

  ‘Well, you see, what most people don’t realise,’ I said, lowering my voice, ‘is that clergy wives have no private parts.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Really. You see, they’re surgically removed before the wedding ceremony. Without anaesthetic.’

  ‘Naturally. But what about babies? Clergy wives have traditionally shown a marked tendency to procreate.’

  ‘Immaculate conception, of course! No need for all that nasty sexual intercourse! When it’s your turn you get a visitation from the Angel Gabriel. No hanky-panky, it’s all very business-like. Then nine months later - bingo! They unzip you like a banana and pull out the baby!’

  One moment Rory was laughing, spilling whisky down his shirtfront, the next he was crying, sitting hunched in his chair. I launched myself across the room, knelt and put my arms round him, hugging him tight. ‘Oh, God, Ror - I’m sorry! I’m such an idiot. I can’t believe I was so tactless!’

  He shook his head. ‘It’s not that… It’s not the baby.’

  ‘What is it then? What’s the matter?’

  He took a napkin from the tray and wiped his face. ‘I’m… I’m just so bloody relieved! I’m glad the baby’s dead. I didn’t want it.’ I stared at him, speechless. ‘I’m a total bastard, aren’t I? I’m actually glad Grace lost the baby! Our baby… And shall I tell you why?’ He drained his glass. ‘Because now I can leave her.’

  ‘I don’t understand. You mean - leave Grace?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘But - don’t you love her?’

  ‘I thought I did. But I find I don’t,’ he said simply. ‘Grace loves me. A lot. But I knew almost straight away we’d made a mistake. She was already pregnant when we married, so I didn’t feel I could say anything. Or do anything… I just kept hoping she’d lose it. So I could walk away.’

  I stared at him, appalled. ‘For God’s sake, Rory - why on earth did you marry her?’

  ‘Why on earth did you marry Hugh?’ His level gaze, suddenly sober, defied me to look away, dared me to lie. I let go of him and sat back on my heels. After a while he said softly, ‘That’s why I married Grace. The same reason. To be free… Then I realised I couldn’t be free, didn’t even want to be free. Any more than you do, Flor.’

  I stood up and cinched the belt of Hugh’s dressing gown round my waist so tightly I could hardly breathe. ‘I’m going to bed, Rory. I think you should do the same. Try and eat something,’ I said mechanically, waving a hand in the direction of the sandwiches. ‘Then get some sleep.’

  As I headed for the door Rory hauled himself out of the armchair and followed me. I turned back to face him and, avoiding his eyes, said, ‘I’m really sorry about the baby. I hope you and Grace manage to sort things out somehow.’ He stood sullenly, watching me, saying nothing. ‘Goodnight, Rory.’

  I tried to kiss him on the cheek but he turned his head suddenly and kissed me on the mouth. I pulled away quickly and reached for the door-handle but he put his hands on my shoulders and pushed me against the door.

  ‘You’re hurting me! Let me go!’

  ‘I’m not hurting you. I’m being very careful not to hurt you. I know exactly what I’m doing. And so do you.’

  ‘Let me go!’

  ‘You’re sure that’s what you want?’

  My mouth worked. ‘Yes… That’s what I want.’

  He let go of me, shaking his head. ‘You paused too long, Flor! You’re lying.’

  ‘I do want to go, Rory
.’

  ‘So go.’ He didn’t touch me but he didn’t move out of the way either. His grey, unblinking eyes didn’t leave mine. ‘Go, Flora.’

  ‘Rory, I— ’

  Then his mouth was on mine again and this time his hands were purposeful. He tugged at Hugh’s dressing gown, pulled it open and slid the pyjama jacket up over my naked thighs. He tugged at my pants and slid a hand between my legs.

  ‘Rory, no!’ I shouted in his ear. He flinched and looked at me, searching my eyes again. Then without looking away, his hands went to his fly which he unbuttoned with all the speed and dexterity you’d expect of a concert pianist. I started to laugh, hysterical. ‘Dear God - are you going to rape your sister?’

  ‘It isn’t rape, Flora,’ he said calmly. ‘But if telling yourself it’s rape helps you live with what we are, that’s fine by me.’

  I started to weep. ‘Rory, no…’

  I felt his hand between my legs again, then he pinned me with his body-weight against the door. He pushed into me, slowly, tenderly. ‘For it to be rape you have to withhold your consent. You have to say no - and bloody mean it! Knee me in the groin, claw my face, gouge my eyes, draw blood!’ He was inside me now but unmoving. We both leaned against the door, breathing heavily, joined at last. ‘You have to hurt me, Flor. Do it! Hurt me, then I’ll know you don’t want this.’

  ‘Rory—’

  ‘Say no, Flora!’

  I raised a hand to his face and saw blood. Grace’s blood, on the inside of my wrist, where I hadn’t washed.

  ‘Say it!’

  I shook my head from side to side, sobbing. Rory started to move, murmuring against my ear. ‘You said it was what you’d always wanted, Flor… That’s what you said. In the bathroom. You said you wanted me. Me… Always…’

  My brother came inside me with a yelp like an animal in pain.