Lifetime Burning

by Gillard, Linda

  The bedroom door was open. They lay sleeping in a tangle of sheets and limbs, their naked bodies entwined. Rory lay on his side, his head resting on Flora’s shoulder, his face pressed against the curve of her neck. Locks of her pale blonde hair had drifted across his face and stirred gently as he breathed out. A thin, pale arm curved round his shoulder and a small hand rested, its delicate fingers splayed, on the freckled ridge of Rory’s shoulder-blade. His left arm, so much thicker and darker than Flora’s, lay across her breasts, bent upwards at the elbow so that his fingertips - the ones that could still move, that still had sensation - touched the line of her jaw. Flora’s right arm was thrown back on her pillow, circling her head in a gesture of abandon, her hand cupped like a flower opening. Her lips were parted slightly, her brow smooth. Studying her face, Hugh realised he’d rarely, if ever, seen Flora at peace. He’d seen her happy; never at peace.

  Standing on the threshold, still grasping the door-handle, Hugh was gazing at Rory’s sleeping face when he opened his eyes. He blinked several times, the long lashes brushing Flora’s neck, then lifted his head slightly and looked towards the foot of the bed. He stared at Hugh and blinked again. Hugh held his gaze for as long as he could bear it, then looked down.

  Rory began to extricate himself from the constraints of Flora’s inert body. As he moved she rolled away from him, taking the sheets with her. He made a move to grab them, then thought better of it. He watched Flora as she settled again with a sigh, still fast asleep. Drawing up his knees, Rory circled them with his arms and said, ‘How did you find us?’

  Hugh’s voice was a whisper. ‘Dora.’

  Rory looked up, his face drained of all colour. ‘She knows?’

  ‘She guessed. A long time ago, apparently.’

  ‘Jesus…’ Rory covered his eyes with his good hand and began to shiver. Hugh wondered whether it was shock or if he was just cold in the unheated room.

  ‘She thought you’d be with Flora. And she thought you might be here. I took a chance.’

  ‘You’ve come to take me back.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Why?’

  Hugh suddenly felt like a very old man. He hesitated, then said, ‘You’re needed.’

  Rory registered his grave expression and, not breathing, waited while Hugh struggled to compose himself. At length, wiping a hand across his mouth, Hugh said, ‘Your daughter is in love with your son. They intend to marry… I think you’d better come home, Rory.’

  PART FIVE

  Chapter 25

  1987

  With Hugh seated beside him, Rory drove south, so fast that Hugh wondered if he’d decided once again that suicide would provide a solution to all his problems.

  When they’d been driving in silence for half an hour, Rory suddenly pulled the car over to the side of the road. He reached across his body to open the car door with his left hand and got out. Without closing the door behind him he made straight for a ditch. Hugh watched as Rory’s body suddenly jack-knifed and he vomited copiously into the ditch. He vomited again, sinking to his knees. Hugh got out of the car and hurried to his side. Laying his hands on Rory’s shoulders he attempted to support him but Rory jerked forward again involuntarily as his already empty stomach attempted to void itself again.

  Finally, when Rory was still, Hugh took a handkerchief from his pocket and handed it to him. Rory spat into the ditch several times, then wiped his face. Hugh helped him to his feet and guided him, stumbling, towards the passenger door. Rory climbed into the car and sat staring through the windscreen, white-faced. Hugh watched him for a moment, then got in behind the wheel and started the car.

  Neither man had spoken.

  Rory and Hugh went home and wrecked lives. Three of them, one after the other. It should have been four, but apparently Dora already knew. (I’d underestimated my mother’s capacity for suffering in silence, just as she’d underestimated mine.)

  After they’d gone and I’d finished sobbing, I packed up a picnic: the remains of the vodka, a bottle of tonic and an apple. I walked down to the shore and sat cradling the vodka, reading the label now and again, postponing the ecstatic moment. The beach was empty as usual, a desert of stones. I started to count them.

  In the distance I could see toy fishing boats, cheerful splashes of blue and red. Huddled against the rocks, I drew my raincoat over my knees. Staring out over the greasy, grey sea, I unscrewed the vodka bottle and put it to my mouth.

  1952

  Rory scrambled up the rocks, his strong hands gripping and pulling, until he stood upright, hands on hips, precariously balanced on the tiny summit.

  ‘I’m the King of the Castle!’

  Flora looked up from below and shouted back, ‘Get down, you dirty rascal!’

  ‘Who are you calling a dirty rascal?’

  ‘You!’ Flora slipped and, scrabbling at the rocks as she fell, landed on her bottom, sprawled in an undignified heap on a pile of seaweed. The surprise was considerable, the pain negligible, but she thought she’d cry anyway. It had the desired effect. She watched as her brother vaulted down to the ground and knelt beside her.

  ‘Have you broken anything?’ he asked eagerly.

  She wailed and squeezed a grazed knee to encourage the flow of blood.

  Rory stood up and wagged a finger. ‘You shouldn’t try to do what I do. You’re only a girl.’

  ‘But I want to do what you do. If I don’t keep up with you, you’ll leave me behind!’

  ‘No, I won’t. I’ll never do that. I’ll always wait for you.’

  When the tonic bottle was half empty I topped it up to the brim with vodka. I spilt a little on my coat but it didn’t show because by then it had started to rain. I thought of going back to the house but felt exhausted at the thought of moving, so I just turned up my collar. I’d lost the top off the vodka bottle so I scraped a hollow in the pebbles and wedged it upright with more stones.

  The rain fell steadily and the waves thrashed at the shore leaving behind a dirty white scum which foamed over the stones. There was no way of telling what time it was. On the horizon leaden sea met leaden sky.

  The tonic bottle was empty now. I had a little rest and then lifted the vodka.

  1952

  ‘What shall we do with the drunken sailor?

  What shall we do with the drunken sailor?

  What shall we do with the drunken sailor

  Ear-ly in the morning?’

  Rory sat in the grounded wreck of the rowing boat, singing to Flora and pulling at invisible oars.

  ‘Put him in the longboat till he’s sober—’

  ‘What’s that mean?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Sober.’

  ‘I don’t know. The opposite of drunk, I think.’

  Flora baled rainwater from the bottom of the boat with a rusting tin can. ‘How did the sailor get drunk in the first place?’

  ‘Don’t know. He gets drunk before the song starts.’

  ‘They should just throw him overboard,’ Flora said cheerfully. ‘Then they wouldn’t have to sing all those boring verses.’

  Rory stared, astonished by his sister’s ruthless logic, then he laughed and started to row again.

  When the sea began to boil like molten metal, I sang. Nursery rhymes, hymns, hits from the shows. I couldn’t remember all the words of ‘Jerusalem’ so I did ‘Abide with me’ instead: ‘When other helpers fail, and comforts flee…’ It seemed appropriate.

  I didn’t notice Rory until he knocked the vodka bottle over. I lunged and caught it just in time.

  ‘For God’s sake, Rory - where’ve you been?’ He said nothing but sat down beside me, the bottle between us. ‘You gave me a scare back there. I really thought you were leaving me! You’re so bloody selfish!’

  He ignored me and stared out to sea.

  ‘Are you listening? Rory, did you hear what I said?’

  Still ignoring me, he got up and walked down the beach and into the sea. Except that he didn’t walk into the
sea, he walked on it, didn’t he, like bloody Jesus. He walked out over the sea towards the fishing boats.

  When he was well out to sea he turned round and looked back towards the beach, then had the nerve to wave at me. He waved his hand slowly in the air above his head, then turned and carried on walking.

  I was livid. I stood up and hurled the empty tonic bottle after him. ‘I hope you bloody well drown!’

  Who is born to be hanged, will never be drowned.

  He just kept walking, his figure becoming smaller and smaller as he strode out to sea. ‘This is it, Rory! This is the end! Don’t come crawling back to me because I won’t want to know. I don’t need you! I don’t even want you any more! I’ll be fine on my own, d’you hear me? Just fine! So you and Hugh and Grace - and all your bloody children! - you can all go fuck yourselves. And each other! I’ve had enough of you, the whole bloody lot of you - and that includes you, Rory Dunbar - d’you hear? I want to be on my own, so piss off and leave me in peace!’

  But Rory was a speck on the horizon. Sinking down on to the wet stones, I screwed my fists into my eye-sockets until orange sparks shattered the darkness. I cried out and opened my eyes. He was gone.

  Above the moaning of the wind and the roar of the waves I could hear a convulsive rattle. It sounded like somebody’s teeth chattering. I stood up again, unsteady on the shifting pebbles, my legs numb with cold, my hand shaking uncontrollably as I reached for the bottle.

  It will be easier to hate him, I thought.

  Love has failed me.

  You know where you are with hate.

  There was a crunch of pebbles behind me. I wheeled round, clutching my bottle. A couple of young men in walking gear with rucksacks stood a few paces away, peering at me, hesitating, trying to decide if I needed help. One of them stepped forward, his hands raised to indicate he was harmless.

  ‘You OK, love? Are you lost?’

  I didn’t answer but stood swaying, trying to decide how many men there were. I thought it was two but sometimes there were four. I said, conversationally, ‘The wicked are like the troubled sea, when it cannot rest… Whose waters cast up mire and dirt…’ I wiped my nose on the back of my frozen wet hand. ‘Mire… and dirt.’

  A pair of red-haired twins stepped forward and spoke in unison. ‘Can we give you a lift somewhere?’

  I shook my head. ‘No. No, thanks… There is no peace,’ I explained, ‘Unto the wicked…’

  One of the twins suddenly vanished into thin air. The other one said, ‘Och, will you no’ go in out of the rain? You look awfu’ cold and wet, hen.’

  I turned my palm upwards and laughed. ‘Rory will be getting wet too! Serves him right.’

  The young men looked at each other. One whispered something to the other, then turned back to me. ‘Do you live round here, love?’

  ‘No, I don’t.’ I thought hard for a long time and then it came to me. ‘I don’t live anywhere, actually. I’m squatting in a house nearby. I think technically,’ - the word was an effort - ‘I’m homeless.’

  They looked at each other, alarmed. Their good turn was getting out of hand. ‘Is there anyone we can contact? Husband? Children?’

  ‘No…’

  ‘A friend?’

  ‘Haven’t got any.’

  ‘Isn’t there anyone?’

  ‘No, there isn’t. Not any more.’ I straightened up and tossed my dripping hair out of my eyes. ‘There you have it - in a nutshell!’ I lifted the bottle and declaimed: ‘O God! I could be bounded in a nutshell and count myself a king of infinite space, were it not that I have… bad dreams.’

  Someone started to whimper. Or perhaps it was the wind. I held the bottle out towards them. ‘Would you care to join me for a drink, gentlemen? I’m afraid I had the last of the tonic some time ago…’

  Rory told me what to do.

  He was sitting on the stairs waiting for me when I got back to the house. He was draped in seaweed but his clothes and hair were dry. His eyes looked dead and I could see that the bad news and all the shouting had really taken it out of him.

  I was so relieved he’d decided to come back, I didn’t ask why we were carrying the paraffin stove upstairs. I thought he just wanted us to be warm. I thought we were going to bed. It must have been very late by then and we were both exhausted.

  But we didn’t go to bed. I watched as Rory lifted the paraffin stove on to the bed, unscrewed the cap of the fuel tank, then pushed the whole thing over. There was a slopping sound as paraffin splashed over the bedding and on to the floor.

  I said, ‘Now where are we going to sleep?’

  Rory didn’t answer but up-ended the stove, shaking it over the bedding. It was very awkward for him and I had to help because I could see it was hurting his bad hand. He pointed to the mantelpiece where the matches were and I handed them to him. He stood back from the bed and motioned me to do the same. I stood beside him and waited. He struck a match, waited for it to burn properly, then tossed it on to the bed.

  There was a “woomph” and a big flash. I started to laugh. It was so exciting, like bonfire night. We didn’t have any fireworks and we didn’t have a Guy, but it was a lovely fire. The smoke didn’t seem to bother Rory, but it filled my lungs and made me cough. My eyes were smarting so much, I couldn’t really see. I reached for Rory’s hand to pull him out of the room, but the smoke was so thick, I couldn’t find him.

  I missed my footing at the top of the stairs and fell but I managed to clutch at the banister halfway down and break my fall. I found I couldn’t put weight on one of my ankles, so I crawled towards the front door, coughing, calling Rory’s name. I looked back at the upstairs landing but there was no sign of him. Flames filled the bedroom doorway now and were creeping along the hall carpet.

  The front door opened and I heard voices. They seemed familiar but I couldn’t see who it was because of all the smoke. A man almost fell over me on the floor. He bent down and tried to help me to my feet. I cried out as my ankle took my weight. The man swore, then said, ‘You’ll be OK now, hen. Hold tight!’ and then he lifted me up in his arms. He staggered towards the front door and I shouted, ‘My brother! He’s upstairs! You have to go and get him!’ My rescuer stopped in the doorway and looked at his companion. They both turned and looked upstairs. The landing was a now a wall of flame.

  The men said nothing and carried me outside, struggling and screaming.

  I don’t really remember much more. Not in any detail. Not after Tigh na Mara. My story becomes… blurred.

  It ended then for me. The rest was just tying up ends. The end of my tether, mainly. There was no happy ending. There never could have been. Not for Rory and me.

  He tried very hard to find me. He and Hugh. It was Hugh who identified my body. They asked him because he was still my husband, though Rory was of course my next of kin.

  A little more than kin and less than kind.

  Rory insisted on going with him and Hugh didn’t try to stop him. He knew Rory would never accept I was dead unless he’d seen my body. That was the first time I saw Rory from my current perspective. I mean, Rory being alive and me being dead. Finally we were separate. It was a strange feeling, though even then I wouldn’t concede defeat.

  It was only after that final separation that I discovered how my brother really felt about me. I suppose I’d always known in a way, but it was still a terrible shock, to be the cause of such grief. It was unbearable. For both of us. I think it nearly killed Rory. If I’d been alive the spectacle would have killed me. To see him suffer so and not be able to comfort him… And I’d thought death would be the end of my torment. It was just another beginning.

  World without end. Amen.

  Hugh held him. He held him up with his massive hands while Rory sagged in his arms like a rag doll, sinking towards the floor, as if his skeleton had been removed. He looked like Raggy Aggie, the rag doll Ettie had made for me as a child. Rory decided one day, with arbitrary cruelty, that we should ‘execute’ Aggie. He got a pe
nknife and stabbed her where her heart would have been. We watched with morbid fascination as Aggie leaked sawdust on to the ground, slowly emptying herself until she was nothing but a handful of worn, grubby rags sewn together.

  That’s what happened to Rory. As I watched, grief emptied him. He collapsed in on himself, cried out, swore, sobbed until he retched. Hugh just held his limp form and said nothing, his face impassive. As a clergyman, Hugh had seen his share of death, but in any case his entire mind and body were bent on supporting Rory, willing strength and love into him. Into what was left of him.

  Hugh and I fought a battle for Rory then and I believe Hugh knew it. I was willing Rory to join me - God knows, it was what he wanted! - but Hugh refused to let him go. He wouldn’t give up. His solidity, his physical and moral strength, his bloody-minded determination anchored Rory, tethered him to his body. Rory stood on the brink and looked down, but Hugh dragged him back.

  So Hugh won.

  Perhaps because he loved Rory even more than I did.

  Did he? I’ve never been sure. It depends what you mean by love. Hugh never needed him as I did. He wouldn’t have killed for Rory, as I would have. But he loved him enough to let him go, to let him be. Until the end. My end. Hugh wouldn’t let him go then. He held on to Rory and wouldn’t let him go.

  We all have our limits, I suppose. Love too has its limits, though they are not - as I discovered - temporal or geographical. Rory and I never accepted those limits, didn’t even really know what they were. When you don’t even know where you end and someone else begins, you grow up with a hazy understanding of boundaries. You might not know you’ve crossed a line that should never have been crossed. You don’t even see the line.