‘Rubbish! You and I are practically sisters. And I told you speaking’s not the only thing Rory’s given up.’
‘I realise things must be rather strained. As he’s so depressed, I mean.’
Grace leaned forward, shielding her face with her menu and said in a stage whisper, ‘Hasn’t laid a finger on me since long before the accident. It’d already crossed my mind he might be having an affair.’
‘Oh, no - surely not?’
‘You think you’d know? The famous twin telepathy?’
‘I don’t know. I never used to see him much. But, no, I don’t think I’d have known.’
Grace opened her menu and scanned the pages. ‘I nearly had an affair.’
‘Did you? Who with?’
‘One of Rory’s friends. A chap who used to hang around a lot when Rory was away. Michael. Do you remember him? You met him at Snape. Sweet man. Wonderful musician. I was flattered, a bit tempted even. But I didn’t actually fancy him. I mean, he wasn’t exactly Warren Beatty, was he?’ The two women giggled. ‘Have you ever had an affair?’
‘Me? Of course not! When would I have had the time or the opportunity?’
‘Hugh was your first then?’
‘Yes, of course he was.’
‘Your one and only, in fact.’
‘Yes… My one and only.’
‘God, it’s really tragic a man that handsome isn’t interested in sex. What a waste! I suppose it’s all the God stuff. Dampens the libido.’
‘I suppose so.’
‘I don’t know what happened to Rory’s. He certainly wasn’t nobbled by God. You know, once upon a time we were always at it.’
Flora bent her head over the menu. ‘So - are we having pudding or not?’
‘I’m going to have another glass of wine. Several. Come on, drink up, girl! You’re letting the side down.’ Grace upended the bottle clumsily into Flora’s glass, then caught the eye of a waiter, a well-groomed young man with a discreet earring. Grace waved the bottle at him. He smiled pleasantly and went to fetch another.
Grace studied her menu. ‘Nice bum, but obviously queer.’ Flora choked on a mouthful of wine but stole a glance at the retreating posterior. ‘You know, it’s one of life’s tragedies,’ Grace said expansively. ‘All the attractive men are married or queer. Or both.’
‘Look, I really think we should order pudding if we’re going to have it. Time’s getting on and we mustn’t miss our train. I’m going to have cassata.’
‘We should have birthday cake!’
‘Cake’s not on the menu.’
‘Oh, I’m sure they can stick a candle in something!’ Grace snorted with laughter and spilt more wine on the cloth. ‘When he comes back with my bottle I’m going to smile sweetly at that young man and tell him it’s my birthday. What’s the Italian for cake?’
‘Haven’t a clue.’
‘Well, I shall do my best with sign language. If he remains impervious to my charms it will be proof categorical that he’s queer.’
‘I should have made you a cake. I don’t know why I didn’t think of it. I’m always baking for bazaars.’
‘Don’t worry, darling - I can’t afford the calories and Colin and Lottie would have scoffed it anyway. Home baking’s a treat for them. I only ever give them shop cake. My cooking skills are very limited. Maternal skills generally, in fact. I’m the world’s worst mother.’
‘No, that’s definitely me… Motherhood isn’t all it’s cracked up to be, is it? I mean, it’s nothing like the Mothercare catalogue.’
Grace laughed, then said, ‘We’re over-qualified for the job, that’s our trouble. To be a mother you need half a brain and the constitution of an ox.’
‘I know what you mean. A day spent in the company of a two year-old whose entire vocabulary consists of “juice”, “bicky” and “No!” is not a life-enhancing experience.’
‘And you can’t even read a book or daydream on the job because that’s when the little sods decide to throw themselves downstairs or drink Domestos.’
‘But some women do actually enjoy motherhood. Well, so I’ve heard.’
Grace shook her head vehemently. ‘Propaganda put out by male supremacists who want to keep us in our place. How can any woman with an ounce of intelligence or spirit enjoy looking after small children? OK, it calls upon reserves of patience and diplomacy and an ability to negotiate that most men can only dream about, but if a woman has those skills she should be working for the bloody UN, not pushing a supermarket trolley.’
‘I’ve tried to be a good mother… But I’ve failed.’
‘Don’t be daft. Theo is gorgeous, I love him dearly. I’d swap him for Colin any day. My son is such a thug. No chance of him becoming a musician.’
Flora picked up her napkin and began to fold it carefully. ‘I think I was miscast. In the theatre of life, I mean… Motherhood was a rôle I took on, at short notice, with no rehearsal. It never really suited me. But the show has run and run and now I find I’m… typecast.’
She looked up to find Grace wasn’t listening. Craning to see past Flora, she muttered, ‘D’you think that wretched poof is ever going to bring us more wine?’
At Easter Hugh was too busy with church services to help put in the potatoes - traditionally a Good Friday job - and Dora announced that it just wasn’t possible to keep the vegetable garden going without Ettie’s and Archie’s help. The family - minus Archie and Rory who’d stayed indoors - were gathered after lunch on the sheltered terrace, drinking coffee and watching Grace allow herself to be beaten at croquet by both Colin and Charlotte, a feat which took considerable skill.
‘Grace and the children have done their best to help with the spring clear-up of the garden, but I suppose we must be realistic,’ Dora said gloomily. ‘So I’ve decided to focus on the borders, especially those near the house. The lawn and the other beds can just go hang,’ she said with a dismissive wave of her hand.
Hugh said gently, ‘Wildlife will thrive on your neglect, you know. What you lose in tidiness you’ll gain in an increase of species.’ He looked down at Theo, seated at his side and explained, ‘Visitors to the garden.’
‘Animals you mean?’
‘Yes, and birds and insects. They love a wild habitat. Perhaps we should start a notebook for sightings of anything new.’
Rory had wandered on to the terrace and sat down on a low wall. The family had learned to make no fuss when he appeared, to accept his comings and goings without comment as this seemed the best way to induce him to stay. He looked unkempt, his hair longer now, stubble disguising hollow cheeks. Flora sensed Hugh had seen Rory arrive and was talking partly for his benefit. ‘You and your cousins could make a note of anything you saw, Theo. It would make a very interesting record.’
‘You mean like a sort of diary? With dates?’
Flora was already watching Rory so when he caught her eye and nodded towards Theo, she understood. Without taking her eyes from Rory’s, she said, ‘Your uncle used to keep a notebook like that when he was a boy. He kept it for years. I think it was a red exercise book?’ Rory nodded. ‘He made a note of all sorts of exciting things he’d seen.’
‘Do you know,’ said Dora, ‘I think we might still have it! I seem to remember Ettie refused to throw it away.’
‘One winter he saw a fox walking across the lawn,’ Flora continued. ‘And there were dragonflies and damselflies in summer.’
‘Damsonflies?’
‘Damselflies. And a hideous toad! He tried to catch it and put it down my neck!’
Rory lifted a hand and, looking at Flora, pointed towards the dense yew hedge.
‘Oh, yes! Once we saw a sparrow-hawk.’
‘Did you?’ Theo turned, his eyes wide and gaped at Rory. ‘Here?’
Rory nodded and smiled faintly.
‘It was lurking in that hedge, waiting to pounce on unsuspecting small birds. It flew out of the hedge and swooped over our heads. I was terrified.’ Flora laughed as she remembere
d. ‘I suppose we must have been quite young. I thought it was an eagle at the very least, but Rory knew what it was straight away. He’d never seen one before but he recognised it from his bird book.’
Hugh put his coffee cup down and leaned forward. ‘It might be interesting, Theo, for you to keep a nature notebook and compare notes with Rory’s if we can find it. See what has changed in twenty years.’
‘Uncle Rory would have to help. I’m not here all that often.’ The boy looked up at Rory who was staring down at the terrace paving.
Without glancing at Rory, Hugh deflected Theo’s attention from him. ‘Oh, I think we should all keep the nature notebook. Colin and Lottie will want to, I’m sure, and I’m bound to spot things when I’m gardening. I think we should call it the Orchard Farm Nature Notebook and everyone can contribute.’
‘All right. But I bet Uncle Rory sees the most things - and the most interesting.’
Flora turned to Theo and asked, ‘Why do you say that?’
‘Because he spends the most time sitting looking out the window. And because he’s very good at being still.’ Rory lifted his head fractionally to look at the boy. ‘He won’t frighten things away. Lottie will never spot anything. She’s too loud. And she fidgets.’
Hugh laid his hand on Theo’s shoulders and laughed. ‘It’s natural for children to be impatient! And don’t forget Lottie’s younger than you.’
‘Yes, I know. But you have to keep still and wait, don’t you, for wild creatures to come to you. They’re small and frightened of humans. I bet even that sparrow-hawk would’ve been frightened of a big human being! You’ve got to wait… Wait until they just don’t see you. Or until they trust you. Isn’t that right, Uncle Rory?’
Without looking up, Rory nodded.
Dora coped by living in and for her beloved garden. Increasingly unable to sleep as she got older, she rose early and was out in all weathers. When it was too wet to weed or prune, she patrolled the beds in galoshes with a notebook and pencil, planning the renovation of borders. I’m sure she wanted to get away from her men folk indoors: Archie who rarely emerged from his study and Rory who, when he did finally come home, rarely emerged from his bedroom. I called in most days with shopping for her, occasionally some home baking. Hugh dropped in several times a week to do heavy chores and, when the weather allowed, some gardening. He always went in to see Archie but his father-in-law seemed not to know who he was. He no longer recognised Hugh as a family member and spoke to him as if he were collecting money for charity. The children also baffled Archie. He was fond of Theo (whom he believed to be Rory) and would ask him in a plaintive refrain, ‘Where’s Flora?’ Theo told him of course, or would point me out, but this only distressed Archie further, as did the rare sight of Rory. If he saw Theo and Rory standing side by side, the one a miniature of the other, he became confused and irritable, as if he were contemplating some biological impossibility. When I looked at them I felt much the same.
Strangely enough, Rory allowed Hugh to sit with him. Hugh must have talked about books, poetry, plans for his own future. He got no response of course, but Rory never actually threw him out which always surprised me. I thought Hugh was the last person Rory would have wanted anywhere near him, but his animosity seemed to have vanished, along with every other emotion.
It was no wonder that my poor mother sought refuge in the garden. Without the buffer of Ettie between her and her family, Dora was at a loss to know how to cope, so she retreated, like her husband and son, into a world of her own.
Dora’s spring project was a white border. She condemned the wide herbaceous border that ran in front of an old red-brick wall and said it needed complete renovation. Hugh agreed and suggested they import the contents of the compost heap to enrich the soil before re-planting.
On a sunny day in late April, Dora, wielding clipboard and sheets of squared paper, supervised and encouraged Hugh as he dug out every plant from the border that wasn’t white, silver, grey or the palest of blues and lilacs. Theo, in attendance as gardener’s boy, couldn’t understand why anyone would remove all the colourful plants from a flowerbed and leave in all the dreary ones, but Dora captured his interest by adopting a mysterious voice and saying they were in the process of creating a ‘ghost’ border.
‘It will look nothing special during the daytime, Theo - except on a hot summer’s day when it will dazzle your eyes - but it will come into its own in the evenings, you wait and see. As the light fades, the white and silver flowers will sparkle and shimmer. It will be quite, quite magical, I promise.’
Impressed, Theo barrowed compost from the vegetable garden, tipped it on to the flowerbed and took away barrows full of weeds and discarded plants that Hugh and Dora had removed from the border. Rory and I sat on the terrace watching the activity. I didn’t speak to him but sensed that he wanted me there to keep him company. Watching the others work soothed him I think, as if he were somehow able to feed off their energy and industry. And Hugh’s was prodigious. I rarely saw my husband out of his cassock and just as rarely did I ever look at him as a man, but seated at a distance, seeing him dressed in old cords and a work shirt, the sleeves rolled back over muscular arms shadowed with dark curling hairs, watching him dig, hack, chop, rake and plant, with a word of encouragement for Theo or a joke for Dora, I remembered why I had fallen in love with him, asked myself if I didn’t in a way love him still.
My husband’s strength and energy moved me, aroused me and I felt the familiar cold anger that only his love and was available to me, not his body. The bitterness and resentment resolved themselves into a hunger, then a thirst. I realised I wanted a drink.
I remembered Rory and looked up to find him watching me. He knew what I was thinking, what I wanted, what I needed. A man. A drink. Either. Both. I looked into his dull grey eyes and saw nothing there, except perhaps pity. No hunger, no desire, not even companionship, just an empty sadness. He stretched out the long fingers of his good hand towards me and laid them on my bare forearm. Perhaps he was testing himself, to see if he felt anything, or he may have been trying to comfort me, I don’t know. He curled his fingers round the narrow bones of my wrist and I wondered if he could feel my pulse, feel it racing.
Without letting go of me, Rory looked towards the border where Hugh was leaning on his fork, watching us seated on the terrace. Rory turned back to me, a question in his eyes.
‘Yes… Yes, I do,’ I said softly. ‘I love you both. I love you more, but I love you both. And I know that both of you, in your different ways, love me. But as luck would have it, I can’t have either of you. I wonder if - as some small compensation - I could possibly have a drink? Would that be too much to ask, do you think?’
Rory turned my hand over and looked at it as if he were telling my fortune, then he pressed the palm briefly to his lips. In the warm spring sunshine his skin was moist and stubble grazed my fingers.
I rose abruptly from my garden chair and went indoors to the kitchen where I filled the kettle. I stood and waited for the water to boil, staring at my distorted reflection in the gleaming metal. While I tried to calculate how long it was since either man had touched me with any tenderness or desire, I found my eyes scanning the kitchen shelves and cupboards, wondering if Dora still kept cooking brandy and sherry in the kitchen, or if she’d never bothered to replace the bottles I’d emptied.
By the time I took a tea tray out on to the lawn, Rory had gone.
Chapter 18
Hugh provided Theo with a leather-bound notebook which he kept in the summerhouse at Orchard Farm. This little hut was covered in honeysuckle and Virginia creeper and blended so well with its surroundings we tended to forget it was there and rarely used it. It became a sort of hide and Theo would wrap himself in an old rug on cool evenings and peep over the windowsill, pencil poised, hoping to spot something interesting.
Theo told Rory about the book and invited him to record any of his own sightings. He issued the same invitation to the rest of the family but warne
d Lottie she should try to do her best writing. Colin announced he would help Lottie with her spelling (which was pretty much a case of the blind leading the blind.)
Over the years that notebook took on the significance of a family Bible, the sort in which births, deaths and marriages were recorded. It included not only what was seen at Orchard Farm but who lived there and who visited - animals as well as humans. It even revealed something of how the human inhabitants felt about all the others, both animal and human.
I don’t know at what point Rory turned a corner, began to invest something of himself in his family again, in his home, his surroundings. But when, to please Theo, he decided to scrawl in that nature notebook, using what Theo called his ‘special pencil’, given to him by Rory, a long, slow and painful process had begun.
Theo treasured that notebook for years. Perhaps he still does. But I think it far more likely he destroyed it - probably when he decided he wanted nothing more to do with Rory, the year it was Theo’s turn for the world to fall apart.
1987
Hugh had given a great deal of thought to how and where he would break the news to Theo. In the end, for reasons that were not at all clear to him, he’d chosen the Church of the Holy Trinity, Blythburgh, ‘the Cathedral of the Marshes’.
Hugh kept his own counsel, made sandwiches, and lured Theo away from greenhouse propagation with the suggestion of a visit to a local nursery in search of new stock, followed by a picnic. As he filled a Thermos Hugh prattled away to Theo, attempting to drive from his mind visions of Abraham about to sacrifice his son Isaac to the greater glory of God.
‘No, not the Earl Grey. Pass me the PG Tips. Altogether more robust and better suited to storage in a Thermos, I find. I’ve started taking a flask of tea up to bed with the Telegraph crossword. Gets me through the long watches of the night. I lie awake and contemplate the wickedness of the world and the deviousness of men - especially those who compile the Telegraph crossword.’
Lifetime Burning Page 24