Lifetime Burning

by Gillard, Linda

  I was careful to make sure Hugh never smelled alcohol on my breath. He rarely came close to me anyway and I developed a trick of having my head bent over some task - mending or washing up - when he came home, so he just used to kiss the top of my head. I drank when Hugh was out at evensong, weddings and christenings, when I knew he wouldn’t come home unexpectedly and surprise me. Sometimes I would get up at night when he was asleep and come downstairs to drink brandy. He was none the wiser.

  In any case I always had my alibi ready: a large box of liqueur chocolates I’d won in the tombola at the vicarage garden fête. If Hugh were ever to mention a smell of alcohol on my breath I would confess I’d wickedly indulged in one of my precious chocolates. These were in fact all empty. I had long ago pierced them with a darning needle and drained off the cherry brandy contents, but the chocolate shells still sat in their be-ribboned box, meticulously rewrapped in their silver foil, ready to be called upon as evidence for the defence.

  Such subterfuge became unnecessary after I saw a comedy programme on television in which a straight-laced spinster became tipsy because someone had laced her orange juice with vodka. Vodka, it appeared, had no smell.

  The answer to a maiden’s prayer.

  Chapter 11

  1969

  When the doorbell rang Flora set down her glass on the kitchen windowsill behind the curtain. She then changed her mind, thinking a glass of orange squash left behind a curtain would be difficult to account for if found. She thought, very briefly, of tipping the vodka-laced squash down the sink but couldn’t bring herself to do it. Supplies were low. The doorbell rang again. Flora set the glass down among a pile of dirty breakfast dishes on the draining board and then hurried to the front door, smoothing her hair and hoping that the bell hadn’t woken Theo.

  She opened the door to Rory.

  ‘Hello, Flor.’

  ‘Rory!’

  ‘Well, don’t look so surprised.’

  ‘You never visit! I hardly ever see you—’

  ‘So ask me in, then. I’m getting cold standing on your doorstep. And I can’t stay long.’

  Flora stood back and closed the door behind him. There was a hiatus in which she expected Rory to kiss her, at least on the cheek, but he didn’t. She looked at him expectantly. He was dressed in dark corduroy trousers and a black polo-neck sweater. She thought he looked thinner than she remembered, but decided it was probably the dark clothes. He had the remains of a tan, a by-product of a southern European tour, but there were shadows under his eyes.

  Removing her apron, Flora broke the silence. ‘Have you come from Orchard Farm?’

  ‘Yes. Thought I’d go and see everyone. Ettie’s not been well. And Ma had a fall in the garden apparently.’

  ‘Yes. I think she’s been overdoing things. I expect they were all pleased to see you.’

  ‘Seemed to be. Is Hugh in?’

  ‘No. It’s Saturday. He’s marrying people. Theo’s upstairs having a nap, I’m afraid.’

  ‘I haven’t come to see Theo.’

  ‘No, I didn’t suppose you had. Do you want a drink? Tea, I mean. Or coffee? Have you had lunch? I could make you a sandwich. Or there’s some soup left over from—’

  ‘Shut up, Flor. I’m not one of your parishioners. You can stop doing the vicar’s wife routine.’ He reached out and grasped her fingers, swinging them back and forth in a childlike gesture.

  Flora smiled, felt the first intimation of tears and laughed to suppress them. ‘Sorry! I was on automatic pilot. So used to feeding the five thousand, you see. The doorbell goes and I immediately start totting up loaves and fishes.’ She laughed again. ‘It’s good to see you, Rory.’

  ‘You too.’ There was a long silence in which neither of them moved. Rory continued to hold three fingers of Flora’s hand and she registered the cool softness of his skin, the familiar long bones of his fingers. He nodded his head. ‘Perhaps I will have a cup of tea.’

  ‘Yes, of course. Come and sit in the kitchen while I make it for you.’

  Rory followed her into the kitchen and sat down at the table. Flora filled the kettle, checking as she did so that her glass was still where she’d left it, or rather, that she could remember where she’d left it. She was getting a little absent-minded these days, There were so many things to remember.

  She turned back to Rory and sat at the table. ‘You’re looking very well.’

  ‘You’re not. Have you been crying?’

  ‘No!’ Flora couldn’t actually remember if she’d been crying this morning, but she thought not.

  ‘You’ve lost weight.’

  ‘Oh, I was always thin.’

  ‘Now you’re even thinner. You don’t look well, Flor.’

  ‘I’m just worn out, that’s all. Theo’s had a cold and it went to his chest. I’ve been getting up at nights. He catches up on sleep during the day, I don’t. You know how it is… How are the children?’ she asked brightly.

  ‘Fine. Charlotte had an ear infection recently but… They’re fine.’

  ‘Oh, good. It’s hateful when they’re ill, isn’t it? So worrying. It’s such a relief once they can talk and tell you where it hurts.’

  ‘Why do you keep looking at the dishes?’

  ‘I don’t!’

  ‘You do. Am I interrupting something? Do you need to get on with cooking?’

  ‘No, of course not! You’re imagining things. How’s Grace?’

  ‘Fine. Well, tired, I suppose.’ He frowned and said, ‘Flora, can we drop all this? It’s just you and me. We don’t have to pretend.’

  The kettle came to the boil but Flora didn’t rise from the table. ‘What is it that you want, Rory?’

  ‘I don’t want anything. I just wanted to see you on your own for a little while. I never do.’

  Her voice faltered. ‘I’m not sure it’s a terribly good idea.’ There was another long silence. Flora felt an impulse to check the glass but kept her eyes firmly on Rory’s hand, resting on the table, his fingers spread as if he were about to play a tune.

  ‘Are things… any better?’

  ‘Between me and Hugh? No. Worse, if anything.’

  Rory was silent. Flora watched the hand clench then spread again. ‘Have you ever thought of leaving him?’

  She looked up, her eyes wide. ‘For you?’

  ‘No, of course not! Don’t be stupid, Flora. Even if I didn’t have a wife and kids we couldn’t have any kind of a life together.’

  ‘We could go abroad,’ she said quickly. ‘No-one would know us. We could start again. Hugh loves Theo, he would look after him, I know he would. And I could work! There must be something I could do… I can type! I could wait tables or work in a shop. My French is pretty good. You could send money home to Grace and the children. She’d manage. She’s very capable.’

  ‘Jesus, Flora! Are you out of your mind? Is this the little fantasy world you live in? What about my career? Do you expect me to turn my back on that?’

  ‘People do.’

  ‘Not me.’

  Flora checked the glass again, folded and re-folded her hands carefully in her lap. ‘I saw you on the telly last night. And we heard you on the radio. The concert from Madrid. Hugh and I listened together. You were very good.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  ‘Hugh said your great virtue as a pianist is that you manage to unite head and heart. He said he used to find your playing a bit intellectual but now he thinks you have the balance exactly right.’

  ‘Does he? Well, bully for Hugh. And what did you think, Flor?’

  ‘I didn’t think anything. I just cried.’

  ‘Well, thank God you weren’t in the audience.’ He screwed up his eyes suddenly as if in pain. ‘I don’t know why I said that. I always wish you were in the audience.’ He watched her as she bowed her head and scraped long strands of untidy blonde hair behind her ears. It looked none too clean and she was wearing no make-up, not even a touch of lipstick. Her eyes swivelled up towards the draining board
and then back again.

  ‘Why have you come, Rory?’

  ‘I wanted to say some things. Some difficult things.’

  ‘Such as?’

  ‘I think you should leave Hugh.’

  Flora laughed then stood up and started to make a pot of tea. ‘Now who’s living in a fantasy world? How can I? Why should I?’

  ‘You’re not happy. You never will be happy with Hugh. You’ve tried. I think you should call it a day and try to start again. You might find love… with someone else.’

  She looked at him over her shoulder. ‘Are you trying to set me up as your mistress somewhere?’

  ‘No, of course not! For God’s sake, Flora, can you imagine what it would do to my career if it ever got out about us? I’d be finished! No performer could survive that sort of scandal.’

  ‘Oh, I see! You’re trying to match-make so I’m not such a threat to your career. Had you got anyone lined up for me? Have you been grooming anyone for the job? Who could possibly step into your shoes? Rather a tall order, I would have thought. Of course you could always try offering me money - I believe that’s the standard procedure. You pay a regular amount into my bank account and I keep quiet about your incestuous bastard child. Will that help you to sleep at nights, Rory? Will that stop you worrying about your precious career?’

  ‘I think I’d better leave.’ He stood up then plunged his hands into his pockets. ‘There’s one more thing I wanted to say.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘I want you to stop drinking.’

  ‘Don’t be ridiculous! I don’t drink.’

  ‘I want you to stop drinking and if you can’t, I want you to get help.’

  ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’

  Rory took a step towards the draining board, picked up Flora’s glass and tossed the contents into the sink. She shrieked and watched appalled as the orange juice and vodka drained away down the sink.

  Rory set the empty glass down. ‘Get help, Flora.’

  She lifted both fists and brought them down on his chest with a thud. ‘You beast! I hate you! I hate you!’

  He grasped both her wrists and shook her. ‘Flor, d’you realise how dangerous this is? Disguising booze as orange squash? Supposing Theo drank it? It could kill him!’

  ‘Why should you care? You’ve never shown the slightest interest in him!’

  ‘No, I haven’t and I think that’s what’s best for him and probably best for you. You know you only have to ask if you need money for him. I thought it would be easier for you and Hugh if I kept out of things. I thought maybe you could pretend—’

  ‘You could pretend, you mean! Pretend Theo doesn’t exist!’

  He released her arms. ‘The other thing I wanted to say was… I’m sorry.’

  ‘Sorry? What for?’

  He stared down at his feet and his heavy hair flopped forward over his brow. For a moment Flora saw her boy-brother, blinking back tears, standing in disgrace before Archie. ‘I’m sorry I didn’t stop you marrying Hugh… Sorry that I ever told you I loved you… Sorry that I got you pregnant… I’m sorry. For all of it.’

  ‘You’re sorry that you loved me?’

  His head lifted suddenly. ‘No. I’m sorry I told you.’

  ‘So that’s it, is it? Case closed, we all move on? I’ve heard your confession, you’ve repented, so now you can go back to your oh-so-important career and your devoted doormat wife and just get on with your very successful life.’

  ‘Flor, please—’

  ‘I’m going to make you suffer for what you’ve done to me, Rory.’

  ‘You already have,’ he said quietly. ‘You exist. I can’t have you. How could things be any worse?’

  ‘I could ruin your career. All I have to do is say the word and you’re finished.’

  ‘You wouldn’t do it. I can’t believe you’d hurt innocent people. I can believe you’d want to hurt me that badly, but not Theo. Not Hugh.’

  ‘Theo has a right to know who his parents are!’

  ‘Oh, really? And a right to be unhappy and ashamed? Like us, you mean? Did we have rights, Flora? What happened to them? Did we deserve all this? Or were we damned even before we were born? Is this what your precious bloody God wanted for us? Was our misery part of the divine plan? Divine bloody lottery more like! An accident of birth means we can never be together, never admit what we feel for each other. Is that how you want things to be for Theo? Living every hour, every minute in silent shame, wishing he’d never been born? Is that what you want for our son?’

  Flora started to shake. ‘I - I shall tell Hugh!’

  ‘You do that!’ Rory yelled. ‘Tell Hugh what you feel for me - maybe he’ll understand! He might even find it in his big manly heart to forgive your sin. Tell Hugh, Flora, then tell Theo. Why not ruin all our lives while you’re about it?’

  Flora wrapped her arms around her body, bending over at the waist and groaning as if she were in agony. ‘Oh, I am in hell!’ Rory took a step towards her and she shouted, ‘No! Don’t touch me! If you touch me I shall die… Get out of this house, Rory. Leave us. Leave us in peace.’ She reached up with a trembling hand and touched a wooden crucifix hanging on the wall. Her lips moved but at first there was no sound, then she began to recite in a high, sing-song voice.

  ‘And Jesus called a little child unto him and set him in the midst of them and said, Verily I say unto you, Except ye be converted, and become as little children, ye shall not enter into the kingdom of heaven.’

  Rory turned and left without saying another word. As he strode down the hall Flora called after him.

  ‘Woe unto the world because of offences! For it must needs be that offences come; but woe to that man by whom the offence cometh!’

  The front door slammed. As Flora walked into the sitting room, she heard Theo begin to whimper upstairs. She closed the door, went to the sideboard and withdrew an almost empty bottle of orange barley water in which she kept her vodka. Carefully unscrewing the top, she continued to recite, her voice becoming gradually steadier.

  ‘Wherefore if thy hand or thy foot offend thee, cut them off, and cast them from thee: it is better for thee to enter into life halt or maimed, rather than having two hands or two feet to be cast into everlasting fire.’

  Flora lifted the bottle to her lips and drank. As the spirit warmed her she closed her eyes and a beatific smile spread across her face. She sank to her knees, bowed her head and thanked God for vodka, for delivering her from sin and for giving her another chance.

  I didn’t curse Rory.

  I didn’t

  I didn’t

  I didn’t

  1971

  Theo was singing hymns. He sat at the kitchen table drawing chorus lines of angels. In the centre of the picture was an attenuated figure with a broad smile and a long pointed beard. One hand was raised in the air above the angels.

  As she passed, Flora peered over his shoulder. ‘Is God blessing them?’ she asked, curious.

  ‘No, He’s waving,’ Theo replied, without lifting his fair head.

  His mother smiled. Given the choice of a blessing or a wave from the Almighty, Flora thought she might settle for a wave.

  Theo surveyed his colouring pencils in their plastic wallet and selected three. ‘Andrew Temple’s got a new baby sister.’

  ‘Has he? That’s nice,’ Flora said absently, tying on her apron.

  Theo drew myriad stars in the firmament with different coloured pencils. ‘Will we have any more babies?’

  ‘No.’ Flora was startled by the promptness of her reply. So certain? At only twenty-nine?

  ‘Why not?’ Theo asked.

  ‘Because Daddy and I don’t want any more babies.’ And, Flora added mentally, another baby would require sexual congress to take place, a miracle of the first order. Flora doubted the Almighty thought she deserved any miracles.

  Laying his head down on the table, Theo wrestled with the technical challenge of drawing circles for the Sun and Moon.
‘Does God give you babies?’

  ‘Yes, in a way. Some people think babies are the gift of God.’

  ‘You mean, like a present?’

  ‘Sort of.’

  ‘For being good?’

  ‘Well, no not really…’ Sometimes for being bad, thought Flora, scraping the remains of breakfast into the bin under the sink. ‘It’s just a wonderful thing that happens when mummies and daddies love each other very much. They make a baby, a new person, someone they can both love together.’

  ‘Do they love the baby for ever?’

  ‘Yes, they do. The baby grows into a child, then into a man or woman, but the parents always love them.’ Flora thought of her own mother and added, ‘In their way.’

  ‘And do the mummies and daddies always love each other?’

  Theo, being only five, was not aware of the pause before Flora replied. He wasn’t looking at his mother and even if he had been, he wouldn’t have noticed her shoulders tense nor registered the change in her breathing, but he did hear her say, ‘Would you like a sweet?’

  He looked up, astonished. ‘Yes… Please,’ he added quickly.

  Flora rummaged in the pantry, found a packet of dolly mixtures and tossed them on to the table. Theo tore open the packet and started to cram them into his mouth before his mother could change her mind.

  ‘Do they?’ he persisted, his cheeks bulging.

  ‘Do they what?’ Flora asked, playing for time, feeling the prickle of tears as they crept under her eyelids.

  Theo swallowed and said patiently, ‘Do mummies and daddies always love each other?’

  Flora took a pile of dirty plates from the worktop and dumped them noisily in the sink. She turned the hot tap on full. ‘No, not always. Sometimes mummies and daddies decide that they don’t want to live together any more because - because they don’t love each other… in the same way.’

  The boy looked up and saw his mother silhouetted against the kitchen window, her head bowed, her arms plunged into the sink. ‘But they still love their children?’