He tried not to dwell on their lovemaking and the few happy hours they had shared. He remembered putting his hand over hers on the wheel of the yacht and he smiled mentally, as it had caused a momentary loss of concentration on her part and the boat almost went “about”, the sails flapping frantically.
He remembered the perfume of her. The smell of her newly washed hair. The soft silkiness of her skin and her responsiveness to his touch. He banished thoughts like this regularly, but as time went by, when he saw a figure in a crowd that for a split second he thought was her, his heart would miss a beat. Then when he drew closer, or the woman turned around and it was not Elizabeth, he would feel bereft, a feeling almost like losing Helen again, and that made him feel guilty.
The only good thing was Jack. He seemed happier these days. He was glad his father was in Paris, which meant exeats could be taken at home, rather than having to stay behind in school or stay with friends and their families who probably he felt, incorrectly, were having him, and sometimes Jamie too, out of a sense of duty.
It was on one of these exeats that Philip found the letter. He was helping Jamie repack his small bag to take back to school, when he noticed a letter under some shirts he had picked up to hand to his son. Jamie saw him spot it and reached for it, just as Philip picked it up. “That’s mine,” Jamie said, a little panic in his voice. He just didn’t know how his father would react.
“What is Elizabeth doing writing to you?” Philip asked, his voice registering genuine curiosity.
“She just does,” Jamie answered resolutely, tying his shoelace as he was trying to think what to say. “Because she likes me, that’s why.” He added a shade defiantly.
“Well,” said Philip with a smile on his lips which he didn’t feel. “She doesn’t write to me does that mean she doesn’t like me?” The now eleven-year-old Jamie looked puzzled.
“I think she does like you,” he said carefully. “But she doesn’t ever say it.” Philip thought the subject best left alone, he longed to know what was in the letter but didn’t feel he could ask to read it, and Jamie didn’t offer to show it to his father.
Philip found he felt hurt and then had to rationalise things to his satisfaction. She doesn’t write to me because…it was like a game. He kept starting the sentence off and when he got to the “because” he put different endings on the sentences. She didn’t like him. She was cross with him. She was offended. She had other things to do with her life. She had a new lover. It was all most unsatisfactory, particularly when he realised the last thought was probably the most accurate!
He tried again to erase her from his thoughts, but at night she would feature in his dreams. Occasionally, wonderfully, they were making love as they had that amazing night on the yacht. He felt the warmth of her kisses, he felt her touches and her responses as he touched her. Other times she was running away from him, glancing back then running again, always elusive.
chapter 25
Jamie’s letters arrived, full of the exciting exeat in Paris. He loved the Metro. He loved Montmartre. He loved the Eiffel Tower and the Bateau Mouche that went up and down the River Seine. He thought the embassy even grander than the one in Delhi and he had made some friends in Paris already. He still loved her and he enclosed a photograph of one of the school cats he had painted. Liz felt he had really caught the animal’s personality. It looked a real feline, which Jamie said was its name. The cat, Jamie explained in his letter, is called Feline and people say he is. What do they mean Liz, please? Oh, and by the way M – which was what he called her nowadays – M, could you please send me a photo of you? I have a frame and I’d like to be able to say goodnight to you – please, like the other boys do with their mummys.
Reading it, Liz felt a lump in her throat. She had thought about sending a photo when he had mentioned it before and she realised he was not going to give up. She looked through her selection and found one of her cuddling the mother cat, who she could tell him was called Mother Cat – about as ridiculous a name as Feline she thought.
Jamie looked forward to her letters. She always signed them “Lovingly L”. He understood that the “L” really stood for Mummy, which is why she didn’t sign Liz, which would have spoilt it. One of his friends saw a letter once: “Why does your mother sign herself like that?” he wanted to know.
“It’s a big L meaning ‘big love’,” Jamie had responded quickly. His friend accepted it in the way friends do. When he received a letter from India they would say, “a letter with a big L Jamie.” He didn’t care – he knew deep down Liz loved him like a mother should, and he thought of her and wrote to her in those terms. He was asked sometimes if his parents were divorced and he was able to answer quite truthfully, “No”. He explained that his father used to live in India and now lives in France and L goes between the two countries. He knew it was a lie and it was certainly wishful thinking, but he convinced himself that it was acceptable. His friends were suitably impressed and soon the subject was forgotten.
One of his friend’s mothers was slightly mystified when she heard of the supposed living arrangements of Jamie’s parents, as she remembered when the very sad news of Helen’s death was made public, but wisely decided to keep her own counsel and say nothing.
Jack had grown up during the last twelve months. At thirteen, sex was often a topic of conversation amongst his friends. There were times when it seemed, apart from sport, the most major discussable “thing”. With the space of time, he began to understand a little better that his father wanted to fuck Liz. He acknowledged she was pretty in an old sort of way. One night he told his closest mates how he had found his father stark naked by the side of the bed, with the obviously naked body of a woman, partially covered by a sheet. He hadn’t noticed more than Liz’s horrified face peering out of the covers, but a good story was always better for embellishments. He had to tell the story several times, adding a little more with each telling because they were all laughing so much.
Jack’s description was not graphic enough, so they wanted details. “Had he got a hard-on?” one friend asked, whilst another wanted to know about the smell. “Did it smell of you know – sex?” Jack made up what he couldn’t remember and, somehow, though the whole incident had been blown out of all proportion, it all began to seem less important than it had at the time when he was so shocked to see his father in that light. Now talking about it with his friends put the whole episode into better perspective.
He found, to his surprise, he was beginning to forgive Liz – just a little. He had already forgiven his father, for they had grown closer after the showdown in London some months ago. He blushed, remembering how he had sobbed in his father’s arms and even felt the wetness of his father’s tears too.
Now he had his friends rolling on their beds with laughter. Liz was now totally naked too, and as his father got off her as Jack had entered the cabin, he saw his father’s cock was wet and glistening. No one bothered to remind him the story had changed, they enjoyed it far too much for that.
Jack knew Liz wrote to Jamie – he had found a little stack of letters under his brother’s clothes in a drawer. Jamie had been out, so without any compunction, he took them to his room to read. He noticed Jamie had numbered them in the top left-hand corner. This was very helpful as he wouldn’t muddle them up.
He started with number one. It was written to Jamie at school, asking if he was fully recovered, hoping she had the correct address, saying how much she had enjoyed being with him on the yacht. She would never forget their secret pact and how she so loved sharing the dolphin experience with him. Jack felt real pangs of jealousy. The second and subsequent letters were even warmer, more loving. Like a mother’s letter. Jack went through a gamut of emotions. He wanted to burn the letters or tear them into tiny pieces. He wanted to kill Liz and punch his brother for his disloyalty. But, the more he read the more envy he felt, and he decided that every holiday from now on he would make sure
he continued to read the letters that were written since the last number he had noted.
There were sometimes references to him. One letter, obviously in reply to something Jamie had written, read: Of course, Jamie darling, I love Jack. I only wish I had been able to get to know him like I’ve been able to get to know you. I hope one day Jack will forgive me and know, as you do, that I never wanted to either “steal” your father away from you or to take your mother’s place. That is inviolate and always will be. If you don’t know what that means sweetheart – look it up!
The letter continued cajoling him to work hard, so that in due course he could join Jack at Eton and then went on to tell him about the second horse she had bought. It’s silly really, she wrote. I can’t ride two horses at the same time, so I ride one in the morning as the sun comes up, and the other in the evening as the sun is setting. Coco is great at following when I am riding Guinness. But when I ride Coco I have to put Guinness on a long rein as he goes swimming out to sea and won’t come when I call. I hope he will soon learn to behave better because it is a nuisance having him on a leading rein.
Perhaps, when you are older you can come and canter on my beautiful Benaulim beach with me and feel the magic.
Jack could visualise her, black hair streaming, she didn’t seem old anymore and he began to realise why his father had been attracted to her vibrancy. If Jamie noticed the letters were not exactly as he left them, he never said and it was only years later when they were both married and with families of their own that Jack told Jamie that he had read the letters, and Jamie confessed he knew.
Liz’s letters brought them closer because, although it was Jamie she wrote to, she never failed to mention Jack, almost as if she knew he was reading her letters too. Liz opened Jamie’s letters with a smile. He always had so much to say. This time he was full of news of Eton. He was going and she would, he informed her, have to write to his new address from September.
He also wrote that he had thought for some time that Jack was reading the letters she wrote to him, which, he informed her, he kept in chronological order, carefully numbered. Because of his suspicions, he had placed a hair through the elastic bands that held them together, and when he returned from some event or other, the letters were as they had been, but the hair was missing.
It was from then on, particularly, that Liz started thinking of Jack for a portion of the letter. Jamie noticed and commented that it was nice for Jack, but of course Liz could never comment back. Over the next year or two, on one pretext or another, Jamie would make sure the last few letters from Liz were available for Jack to read. He loved the conspiracy, unspoken of, of course, but apparent to Jamie in every letter. He loved her more than ever, but with his new friends at Eton, he didn’t lie. He could face the truth better now, Liz was Liz – a very special friend was how he described her, but in his head, he knew that Liz was a second mother to him and he felt very happy with that thought.
Jamie often wrote that he would like to see her, and one day she decided to succumb. She would be in London in June on book business, as she called it. Why, she suggested, didn’t he meet her for tea at a tea shop she named in Windsor? Jamie could hardly contain himself and Jack, when he read the letter, started to work on a plan to see her himself.
chapter 26
Liz arrived in Windsor just after lunch. Having finally found a parking space she went straight to the tea shop. She reserved a table for three-thirty, hoping that the atmosphere and tea would be rather better than the dour-faced woman who took her booking. She explained it was a booking for two but it was possible that they might need a third place. “I’ll have it set for three then.”
Liz explained as carefully as she could that if the third person arrived she needed to seem surprised and therefore she would really appreciate some cooperation. With a hurump and a shrug of the shoulders, the woman agreed, writing something down on the reservation book on the desk. “It all sounds a bit odd to me,” she said somewhat sourly. Liz did something she had never done before. Pulling out one of her cards and giving her brightest smile she said sweetly, “I so appreciate it. I am a well-known author and this is an important occasion for me.” With a warm thank you, Liz left the tea room with a sigh of relief, smiling inwardly at the change of expression that her words and the card had made, even extending to the offer of a special cake the woman had suggested, consulting her watch. Liz had shaken her head. “They will choose from your excellent menu, thank you.”
Wandering around Windsor gave Liz a rare opportunity to browse, checking the time regularly as she wanted to be first to arrive. The bookshop, she noted with pleasure, had several of her books on display and a small boutique prompted her to buy a rather beautiful scarf.
At exactly three-forty she was sitting at the table in the tea shop, and at precisely three-forty-five Jamie arrived. She hadn’t seen him arrive, being momentarily distracted by the menu just delivered by a pretty young waitress. When she felt a tap on the shoulder she stood up immediately and they hugged each other before they sat down.
“I can see the road perfectly from here,” Jamie said. He was almost as excited about the possibility of Jack turning up as he was to see her, but that didn’t matter to Liz. He was here, grown so tall in a relatively short time. “It’s so good to see you Mother,” he said, savouring the word.
“Oh dearest Jamie, you are the son I never had – the baby I craved just about the time you were born.” They grinned at the stupidity of the conversation, though in their hearts they knew a special bond existed between them.
“He’s coming,” Jamie whispered urgently. He leaned slightly forward nearer the window, he wanted to be sure Jack would see him without any difficulty. Liz’s heart gave a leap. Please, God, we are doing the right thing. Jamie waved – he wanted to be sure Jack saw him. The tinkle of the bell announced his arrival. “Hi there, bro what—” He stopped in his tracks. “Liz, what a surprise!”
As Liz would say to Jamie afterwards, Jack deserved an Oscar, his look of feigned astonishment was a wonder to behold. “Hello Jack,” Liz said quietly. “Won’t you join us for tea?”
“There isn’t a place,” he began. On cue, at a raised hand from Liz, the previously dour woman came forward with a smile.
“Are you ready to order now Madam?”
“We would like another chair and place setting first,” she replied. The woman nodded and bustled away. “That old battleaxe is never as polite to us Etonians,” Jack commented in mild surprise. “The advantage of age,” Liz answered smoothly.
For a short while the conversation was a little strained, but with the arrival of tea, cucumber sandwiches, scones with thick clotted cream and strawberry jam, followed quickly by fruit cake and another round of scones they relaxed a little. They were like hungry boys the world over and Liz, sipping her Earl Grey tea, watched with contentment. She couldn’t help but laugh at the speed with which everything was consumed – she had eaten only one small cucumber sandwich and enjoyed two cups of tea in comparison with their mountain of consumption.
Finally, every plate was cleared, every crumb tucked away. It was, of course, Jack who raised the subject – overly casually he asked, “So how’s Dad these days? We haven’t seen him since exeat.”
“Then you have seen him a lot more recently than I have,” she replied. “The last time I saw him was on the yacht in the bay we sailed to from Fiskardo. Remember that Jack?” He had the grace to look abashed and to Liz’s astonishment, he suddenly blushed bright scarlet. She surmised he was remembering seeing his father standing naked in his cabin. She would have been horrified if she had known he was blushing from remembering the embellishments he had given to the story.
Possibly as a result of his guilt he turned on the Broderick charm. He looked so like his father, his gestures, his mannerisms – even the way he laughed. It gave her quite a jolt and the empty space in her heart longed to see Philip.
&nbs
p; She walked back to school with them, hugging both before saying goodbye. She didn’t know about them, but she certainly had tears in her eyes as she walked back to where she had parked her car.
Writing to Jamie had never been difficult, or even a chore, but now Liz decided that, as Jack had obviously enjoyed the letters she had written to Jamie, she would write to Jack too. At first, it was not always easy, but Jack wrote back, stilted at first, but gradually becoming more fluid and relaxed. He wrote mainly about school, his sporting activities and languages which, like his father, he was developing a flair for.
He managed to drop in, casually, of course, mention of his upcoming birthday. She sent him a book of Hindi which she thought he might find fun, bearing in mind he had spoken a little when they lived in India. Over the next year or two, it became a regular occurrence to meet up once or twice a year. If her sister wondered why she made these short visits from India she didn’t question it, for Liz seemed happier again now.
Liz had grown increasingly fond of Jack, who decided she should have an official title. Adopted Mother, he finally came up with which was soon shortened to AdMo. Liz wasn’t sure this was either right or proper, pointing out that when their father married again they would have a new mother anyway. “He won’t get married,” Jack announced confidently one cold wet afternoon over tea.
“Only to you,” Jamie piped up.
“I’m afraid that was over a long while ago, and if he does find someone to make him happy you two had better behave. None of that old Jack treatment.” They both looked at her carefully.
“I think Dad still loves you,” Jamie said solemnly. Liz burst out laughing.
“And why, young man, do you think that?”
“Well, every time he takes a lady out he always says she can’t hold a candle to you.”
The Portuguese House Page 13