If I’d died at Tigh na Mara, would it have been a better end? If I’d died in a domestic conflagration like mad Mrs Danvers or the equally mad Mrs Rochester? If I’d gone out with a bang and a puff of smoke like the Demon King? It would have spared my family a great deal if it had all been over and done with then. But being one of life’s bloody survivors, I still had a good few years to run. It wasn’t yet my cue to bow out. My incendiary brush with death was just a false alarm.
A dress rehearsal, you might say, for my farewell performance.
1987
At around midnight Rory and Hugh stopped at a motorway service station. Hugh had been dozing while Rory drove. He sat up and looked around the car park.
‘Where are we?’
‘England,’ was Rory’s laconic reply.
In the brash and noisy cafeteria Hugh brought tea and bacon rolls to a table where Rory sat slumped, staring into space.
‘I’m not hungry.’
‘Eat it anyway. You must either eat or sleep. You can’t dispense with both and continue to function.’
Rory picked up the roll and chewed without enthusiasm.
After a while Hugh said, ‘One wonders whether this music is provided for the benefit of the customers or the staff. There’s no escape, even in the lavatory. You must find this kind of musical vandalism more of a trial than most people.’
Rory swallowed a mouthful of tea, his face expressionless. ‘I can shut it out. I play Beethoven in my head. Or I think about which poor sods prostituted their art to pay the mortgage and whether I’d rather not play at all than have to play such crap.’
‘And what conclusion do you come to?’
‘That I’d have liked the luxury of choice.’
They finished their meal in silence then walked back to the car. As Hugh got behind the wheel Rory said suddenly, ‘You realise I only went to Flora to prove it couldn’t work, that it was over before it even began. She never would have accepted it without… proof.’
‘I don’t think she does, even now.’
‘We should have brought her home.’
‘We did try.’
‘I thought of knocking her out. Abducting her.’
‘So did I, funnily enough. But I couldn’t bring myself to batter my wife. I know it’s very hard, but Flora must be allowed to choose her own path.’
‘Do you choose insanity?’ Rory asked as he fastened his seat-belt. ‘Or does it choose you?’
‘A bit of both I suppose. Like homosexuality. We do the best we can with what we’re given.’ Rory turned his head and gave Hugh a look that would have blistered paint. ‘Sorry. I’m sermonising, aren’t I? Old habits die hard.’ Hugh put the key in the ignition. ‘What were you going to do afterwards?’
‘Afterwards?’
‘After you’d made your point. Convinced Flora you had no future together. Would you have gone home?’
‘No. I told Grace we were finished.’
‘Is that true?’
Rory paused. ‘I don’t know.’
‘So… afterwards?’
‘Unfinished business. Finishing something I started a long time ago.’
Hugh was silent for a moment. ‘Then you and Theo are quits. You gave him life… and he gave you back yours.’
‘I didn’t want it.’
Hugh sighed. ‘I rather fear Theo might feel the same way once he knows.’
‘Does he really have to know?’
‘Charlotte does. You must tell her.’
‘And she’ll tell Theo.’
‘No, if you don’t mind, Rory, I’ll tell Theo.’
I woke up in a hospital bed. I didn’t know where I was. I didn’t know who I was.
They asked me my name and I said ‘Joan.’ The nurse said ‘Joan what?’ and I said, ‘Just Joan… Saint Joan, if you must know.’ She went away and came back with a hatchet-faced Sister who asked a lot of questions. I didn’t bother to answer. They told me I was being treated for superficial burns and asked if I knew how the fire had started. I said I couldn’t remember. But I did. I knew I had to find Rory and see if he was all right.
I sat up in bed and told them I had to leave immediately. They said I was being kept in for observation. I told them, no, I bloody wasn’t and asked for my clothes back. The Sister and I had a row and I won by yelling loud enough to upset the other patients. When they finally brought me my clothes, they smelled of smoke. And Rory.
I discharged myself, stepped outside the hospital into the rain and realised I didn’t have a coat. I started looking around for a bus or a taxi. It was only then it occurred to me I didn’t have any money either. I wasn’t going to go back in and let that snotty cow laugh at me, so I started walking, keeping an eye open for a phone-box. I thought I could ring Colin. I could reverse the charges and he’d come in a taxi and pick me up. I was trying to remember his number when I noticed that the buses were the wrong colour.
I wasn’t in London. I stared in disbelief at the names on the front of the buses. Culloden. Aviemore. Grantown on Spey.
I wasn’t even in England.
I’d been taken to Inverness. I’d just discharged myself from Raigmore Hospital, Inverness. I didn’t have a coat and I didn’t have any money, not even a coin with which to make a phone call. I was standing in the rain in the short summer dress and sandals I’d thrown on earlier that day at Tigh na Mara. I was six hundred miles from anyone I knew.
So I kept walking.
I stopped and asked a woman if I was going the right way for the city centre. When I got to the outskirts I asked for directions to the station. I wondered how far I could get without a ticket, if I could even get on a train without one. Fighting panic, I decided when I got to the station I would ring Orchard Farm, reverse the charges and ask Hugh what to do. Then it occurred to me Hugh wouldn’t be there.
How did I know that?…
I’d seen Hugh recently. Today, in fact. Or was it yesterday? When I’d left the hospital I’d thought it was daytime but now I knew how far north I was I realised it could in fact be quite late, even though it was only just beginning to get dark.
I knew Hugh wasn’t in Suffolk. He’d been to see me. Rory and me. Then he’d left. With Rory. But Rory had come back. Hadn’t he?
Where was Rory?
I stood in a phone-box, sheltering from the rain, shivering, rehearsing the words I would say to my mother when she picked up the phone. But there was some reason I couldn’t ring Ma, I knew there was. Some really important reason, only I couldn’t remember what it was. Then it came to me. The shock was so bad I was nearly sick on the spot.
Ma knew.
She knew about Rory and me. Had known for years. She even knew about Theo. Hugh had said. He’d gone home to tell her he’d found us. That he’d found me in bed with my brother.
My mother knew.
She knew, but she’d never understand.
I stumbled out of the phone-box shaking uncontrollably. I started walking again, fast, to keep warm, but my feet were hurting. The streets got darker, there were fewer shops, fewer people. I stood under a lamp-post and looked up and down the road, trying to decide what to do. I was hungry and I needed to pee. I thought I’d look for a pub but I had no idea what time it was. I hadn’t seen a bus for nearly an hour and I suspected the pubs were shut. A car pulled up and the window slid down. I thought for a moment it was Hugh - the driver was a big man and he had thick grey hair. I stepped towards the car and leaned in at the window, smiling.
It wasn’t Hugh.
The man didn’t smile at me. His manner was quite curt. He asked me something. I thought it was about directions but his accent was so thick I didn’t catch what he said until he told me to ‘Stop fucking about and get in the car’.
Then for some reason I remembered the man with the sweets. The barley sugars. The man who’d been kind when it was raining and offered me a lift home from the park. Who’d touched me with his warm, rough hands, hands that shook while I unwrapped my barley sugar. I n
ever told Ma. She would have been so angry. And I knew she wouldn’t have understood…
I told the man my name was Joan. He said, ‘Get in,’ and pulled away from the kerb before I’d even closed the door.
1987
Rory turned the key in his own front door, bracing himself. As he entered, Grace called out from the kitchen.
‘Lottie, don’t go out leaving me to do your washing-up! How many times do I have to tell you? And if you must burn scrambled egg,’ She turned away from the sink, wrestling with rubber gloves. ‘Do you think you could - oh my God - Rory!’
Standing in the doorway, he watched her curb the impulse to take him in her arms; noted in a distant annexe of his exhausted brain where stimuli still registered faintly, that he wanted to take her in his. Grace scowled, her usual stratagem for avoiding tears. ‘You’ve got a bloody nerve. After that letter!’
‘I know. I’m sorry. Where’s Lottie?’
‘At Orchard Farm.’
‘She’s sleeping there?’
‘Yes. Things have moved on a bit in your absence.’
‘I know. We need to talk, Grace.’
‘Too bloody right we do. Where the hell have you been?’
‘No. Talk about Lottie. And Theo.’
‘How about talking about Rory and Grace? If you’ve come back to lay down the law about those two, you can just bugger off again. They’re deliriously happy and I won’t have you spreading any more of your wretched misery. This family deserves some happiness! We’ve paid our dues, Rory. We’ve suffered with you and for you, but it’s time we all moved on.’
‘Grace, please - I’ve been on the road for fourteen hours. Will you stop ranting and sit down? There’s something I need to tell you—’
‘Where on earth have you been?’
‘At Tigh na Mara.’
‘Dear God.’ Her hand flew to her mouth.
‘I went to see Flora. She was staying there.’
‘Did you bring her back with you?’
‘No. She’s still there.’
‘God, I hope not.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Tigh na Mara’s burned down. It’s destroyed. Dora was on the phone an hour ago. The police have been in touch. They said it looked like arson. Dora’s been out of her mind with worry. She must have known Flora was there… Rory? Where are you going? Rory! Come back! There’s nothing you can do now!’
Grace watched as the front door slammed.
Chapter 26
At some point I died. Not in the fire at Tigh na Mara, although I believe some part of me must have died there. The person on the road, on the streets, the person who ended up in London was… damaged.
Damaged goods.
She wasn’t whole. There was something missing, something important…
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.
Rory…
A single soul dwelling in two bodies.
I got back to London. Eventually. I thought I could ask Colin for money, just a loan until I got straight, but when I went back to his house they said he’d moved. They wrote down the telephone number for me on a piece of paper but I lost it. I went back again the next day but there was no answer.
I found a hostel. A bag lady told me where to go. She was kind. People are. People on the streets are very kind. They look out for each other. Even the crazy ones.
In the early months I got work now and again, but the trouble was, when I did get work I spent the money on booze. Then I lost the job. It was a vicious circle. I was only ever drunk when I was working. Sally used to say, ‘Oh Joan, what are we going to do with you?’ then she’d laugh and show a set of large yellow teeth that always made me think of piano keys.
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?
Or indeed at any other time?
Sally found me crying in a doorway. That wasn’t her name. She was called Evangeline or Adeline - something grand. I called her Sally because she belonged to the Salvation Army. She didn’t mind. In fact she laughed. Sally laughed a lot. She was the jolly sort. It got a bit wearing after a while, but she was very kind.
Sally talked to me. Well, mostly she listened. She tried to persuade me to contact my family. She said they’d be very worried about me. I told her it just wasn’t possible and she seemed to understand. Then we had a nice chat about Jesus and how he would always look after me. But it was Sally who got me into another hostel, not Jesus. (There was a man there who said he was Jesus, but he wasn’t.)
I never liked mixed hostels. I never felt really safe. Men looked at me. The way Rory sometimes looked at me. And Hugh never did.
I tell thee, churlish priest,
A ministering angel shall my sister be,
When thou liest howling.
I didn’t stay at that hostel long. I preferred to keep moving on.
The wicked are like the troubled sea, when it cannot rest…
1987
‘It’s at times like this that I wish I smoked.’ Grace placed her hand over her mouth and her eyes filled. Seated on the piano stool, his back towards the instrument, Rory looked away. She composed herself and went on in a low voice, ‘I’ve always known you weren’t faithful. I’d learned to live with that. It wasn’t easy. But then nothing about loving you has ever been easy.’
Rory said nothing and they sat in silence.
‘Hugh loves you as well, doesn’t he?’ Rory looked up, astonished, his lips moving soundlessly. ‘Oh, I guessed years ago. After Flora left him. He was totally immune to the charms of various attractive widows who made it clear they were available. I don’t think Hugh even saw them. I wasn’t sure if you realised, if I should tell you…’ A thought struck her and she put her head on one side, regarding Rory with narrowed eyes. ‘Did you sleep with Hugh as well?’
‘No, of course not!’
‘So you do draw the line somewhere. That’s comforting.’
‘And that was cheap.’
‘Yes, it was, wasn’t it?’ Grace gave him a tight little smile and leaned back in her chair. ‘But I think I’m allowed a little bad behaviour as well, don’t you? I’ve surely earned the right?’
‘Yes, I suppose you have.’
‘Did Flora sleep with you because of Hugh? She must have known. Was it spite?’
‘No. She loves me. She’s always loved me. But she married Hugh.’
‘And you always loved her.’
‘Yes.’
‘And married me. Did you ever love me?’
‘Yes.’
‘Do you still?’
He hesitated. ‘Yes.’
‘Why should I believe you?’
His grey eyes were candid. ‘Because it’s true?’
‘You left me for Flora.’
‘No. I left you to… finish things. Finish with Flora, finish with life. I’d had enough. And it got Colin off the hook. That was what you wanted, wasn’t it?’
‘But it isn’t finished. Flora almost certainly isn’t dead. They haven’t found a body. It isn’t over yet.’
‘It is. She won’t come back now. She’s lost. She’s living in her head. In the past. She’s in her own private hell - where she’s no doubt making new friends. People always take pity on Flora. She looks so helpless.’
‘God, you’re callous!’
‘Only if you regard me as a human being. For a music machine I’m quite sensitive.’ He spun round on the music stool, put his foot on the sustaining pedal, and, spreading the fingers of his left hand, played a soft, low chord. The harmony echoed in the dining room, persisting for many seconds. As the sound died away he said, ‘The trouble is, I’m neither one thing nor the other now. Hugh’s been giving me lessons in humanity. I’m not a very apt pupil, but fortunately he’s a dedicated teacher.’
> ‘The man’s a bloody saint.’
‘Yes, I think he probably is. No wonder Flora found him impossible to live with. She preferred lying in the moral gutter with me.’ Putting his foot on the pedal again, Rory raised his damaged hand to the keyboard, formed a question mark with his index finger and picked out a succession of notes, one by one. They hung in the air, vibrating with each other, forming an eerie chord.
Grace said nothing for a while, then, as if with an effort, she breathed, ‘Poor Flora. I don’t know why I should blame her for loving you or expect her to be able to stop… I’ve never managed to do it.’
Rory stared down at the keyboard, his head bowed, his spine rigid. Grace rose from her chair, moved forward and took him, unresisting, in her arms.
Rory was right. As usual. He’d said I’d get offers. From men.
Plenty of them.
I did.
Mire and dirt…
How can loving someone be wrong?
It’s not the love that’s wrong, Flor, it’s what love makes us do.
I saw Rory once. On a television screen. It was winter. It might have been Christmas. I remember the streets twinkled and there were fairy lights in all the shops. I was walking to get warm - it was too cold to sit and beg - and I passed an electrical shop with a bank of television screens. I stopped to watch. I often used to do that. It passed the time.
It was Rory. He was conducting something. I’d never seen him conduct before, didn’t even know he could do it. It looked like a young people’s orchestra. I couldn’t hear anything of course. Rory was just waving the baton about, like a conjuror doing tricks.
He looked exactly the same. More lined, but basically the same old Rory I remembered. He slowly disappeared as my breath condensed on the cold plate glass. By the time I’d wiped it with my sleeve he’d gone. There was a man talking to camera but it wasn’t Rory, so I moved on.
Colin practically tripped over me. Not long before I died. Well, it might have been months, I don’t really remember, but it wasn’t years. It was all the same to me by then.
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