by Mavis Cheek
‘I know.’ Flora sipped her water and tried to look the part. ‘It gets better slowly,’ she added in a small voice.
Hilary just nodded. ‘At least you’ve got something tangible of his to keep you going . . .’ A silent tear escaped her eye and trickled slowly down to fall with a little silent splash on to the tablecloth, making Flora feel ten times worse. Hilary wiped her finger beneath her eye.
‘What’s that?’ asked Flora, softly. ‘Dad’s creative legacy. The History.’
She sounded, Flora thought, exactly like Edward. It was almost unbearable seeing her so miserable and to feel so unmoved herself.
‘Yes,’ said Flora nodding into her water. ‘At least I have that.’
‘The History of Hurcott,’ said Hilary, smiling now. ‘The place where I grew up. Its highways and byways, its ponds and streams, its fields and –’
‘Yes,’ said Flora carefully, wishing to deflect the creeping sentimentality. ‘Though much of the work is to do with Anna of Cleves, actually, rather than the village itself.’ As she said it she wondered if, like her favoured subject, her nose was getting longer. ‘He seems to have been quite taken with her, your father.’
Hilary blinked. ‘Was he?’
Flora nodded. ‘I think he must have admired her very much.’ Yes, there went the nose, right into the water glass.
Hilary looked nonplussed. ‘I thought he said she was a bit of an old boot.’
There went Flora’s conscience, right out of the restaurant door. ‘Did he indeed?’ she said, gripping the water glass very tightly. ‘Well, he must have changed his mind when he found out about her.’ Any more of this and her nose would be following her conscience out into the street.
‘Well, then – whatever he wanted. At least you’re getting down to it while it’s still fresh.’
‘Mmm,’ said Flora noncommittally. Since it was historical and went back at least seven hundred years, the idea of Edward’s history being fresh was an odd one. It was at times like these that she realised how wide was the gap between them. Any normal mother would be able to point this out – probably with a smile – without risking the Third World War any normal daughter might laugh at the silliness of what she said. That was the trouble, neither of them ever had the time to be silly enough.
‘I do think of it as Dad’s creative legacy you know – it’ll be something to show his grandchildren.’
Flora paused, glass to lip, wishing the wine would arrive. And waited. That would be the perfect solution. If Hilary was now pregnant then she could be a wonderful grandmother, shine in the role, be a wonderful mother of a pregnant daughter, shine in that role, too. ‘Oh?’ she said, as a question.
‘When they come,’ added Hilary, pinkening a little.
Flora removed the fine image of herself as a mixture of Florence Nightingale and Penelope Leach and tried not to contemplate Hilary and Robin’s sex life. ‘It’ll be hard to get anywhere near the perfection he’d want – but it will be so totally worth it in the end.’ Whereupon Hilary’s eyes filled up again.
At last the wine arrived. So totally worth it? She really does believe that, thought Flora. And how much she cares, she thought with envy, as she leaned over and squeezed her daughter’s shoulder and dabbed at her eyes with the napkin (they were always your baby, she realised, presumably until you became theirs) and gave her a glass of burgundy to sip.
‘Look,’ she said, just as she used to say to her when she needed to take her mind off something nasty, ‘I’ve brought you some photos. And I’ve had this one enlarged . . . We were so happy that day.’ She held it up for Hilary to see. ‘Remember?’ she said. And they spent some nice time looking through the pictures.
‘We should meet up like this more often,’ Flora said when the photographs were put away. ‘I never thought of it before but now that I’m on my own –’
Mistake. Oh mistake.
Hilary broke into loud sobs which Flora could not help but think were more self-indulgent than involuntary, a thought which made her feel twice as bad about her own shortcomings. No video for Hilary yet, that was for sure. But a mother’s instinct is usually right. Flora saw, as she somehow knew she would, a gleam of satisfaction in Hilary’s eyes as first the waitress, then the people at the next table, came over and asked what was wrong. Flora told them in hushed tones, and they left, but the light had been shone upon them and for the rest of the meal they were the stars of the restaurant starring in their own little melodrama called A Widow and her Daughter Being Brave.
The grieving did not, she was impressed to see, affect Hilary’s appetite, which meant that Flora could have a good old tuck-in too. It was the right kind of menu for it. She chose this place because Hilary (and Edward) could not resist solid British food and because, at the Laughing Lion, so she was told by Ewan, that was what you got. It was the sort of place that solicitors went to, she thought as she looked about her, with its plain and no-nonsense white napery and dark beams. She imagined herself sitting here with Ewan. An old-fashioned chop house wasn’t exactly the right place to get your blood racing but she had a feeling he would like it here, that he would feel safe. Mmm, she thought, perhaps that was why he would like it? She settled down to her meal and enjoyed the foolishness of wondering if he had ever sat at this same table.
Watching Hilary make her slow and determined way through the thick white onion soup and the thick meat-pink roast lamb, she had no doubt at all that Hilary was well on her way to recovery.
‘How’s Robin?’ she asked.
Hilary recomposed herself. ‘Oh – he’s bearing up, too. But I think it’s hard for him seeing me in such a state.’
‘It must be,’ said Flora, with feeling. ‘Pudding?’
They parted on affectionate terms. Hilary thanked Flora for the photographs and said that she would come down when she could but that just at the moment she was throwing herself into her work and they were decorating. ‘I know I said I’d come and stay but – it’s got to be done.’
‘Of course. That’s fine,’ said Flora, trying not to sound pleased.
Hilary and Robin were always decorating. It took the place of going on holiday or so it seemed. She even apologised for not yet having word from the calligraphy people. Flora was surprised but it seemed that despite Hilary’s taking them to task, the research was slow and painstaking and could not be hurried. So there certainly must be something wrong with the dates – which was both intriguing and daunting as Flora had not the slightest helpful theory. ‘I expect they are just being thorough,’ said Flora. ‘I’m in the same position myself.’
Hilary kissed her cheek, looked at her critically and said, ‘You know, we should start wearing brighter colours now. Dad liked them and – well – we have to begin somewhere. Maybe when we have our celebration of his life you can put on something a bit happier?’
Flora said, ‘Absolutely. A celebration of his life.’
‘We could mark the publication of the History with a party for him,’ said Hilary.
Publication? Party? Yes, absolutely, Edward to a T. ‘Well – let’s get it finished first shall we?’ Flora had not told Hilary about the Anna portrait coming to England, nor that the exhibition opened soon. Mean of her. But she had other plans.
Bright colours was an amusing thought. And after all, she had been given permission. So Flora dared to venture into her favourite shop again and buy a cherry-red silk and quite silly suit before catching the 5.22 back to Hurcott. And she hung it in her wardrobe like a luscious, tempting sin. It had been a good day. She’d talked about Anna’s prominence in the scheme of things and Hilary had accepted it which was a major hurdle over, and she had made up her mind that the video was not for showing – two important items ticked off. She felt on top of the world. She yawned. In one’s sixth decade, she thought smiling, bed becomes like a good old friend.
By her bedside was a pile of photocopied pages from various sources relating to the Cleves divorce. On top of the pile was a copy of the letter that An
na wrote to Henry VIII when Henry’s Council informed her that her marriage was null and void. Flora picked it up and reading it made her smile. In future, if ever Flora felt guilty about her own dissembling, she had merely to read this letter. It was an extraordinary bit of placatory nonsense – flattery was not in it, and – apparently – it went down very well with its recipient. Wise Anna. There was nothing she could not learn from the dumped Queen about the art of saying one thing while being another.
It may please your majesty to know that, though this case must needs be most hard and sorrowful unto me, for the great love I bear to your most noble person, yet having more regard to God and his truth than to any worldly affection . . . I acknowledge myself to accept and approve, wholly and entirely putting myself, for my state and condition, to your highness’ goodness and pleasure . . . Yet it will please you to take me for one of your humble servants, and so determine of me, as I may sometimes have the fruition of your noble presence; which as I shall esteem for a great benefit . . . And that your highness will take me for your sister for which I most humbly thank you accordingly . . . Your Majesty’s most humble sister and servant – Anna the Daughter of Cleve.
No wonder Henry gave her an extra palace, several more manors, most of Cromwell’s silver, a place at his table and the odd Crown jewel if she could write like that. Well, of course someone else, her Olisleger probably, helped, but there was something purely Anna about the way it was done. Humble, to the point, exactly what Henry wanted to hear – but just with that little flourish at the end, Daughter of Cleves, to remind him, to remind herself, who she was in her heart of hearts. Henry’s breast (if it could be found beneath his stomach) must have swelled with pride while Anna kept hers hidden. He probably pitied her profoundly for having such a jewel as himself taken away from her. He had a strongly sentimental streak and it would have touched him to the quick when he read it. Chink, chink – Flora could almost hear another chest of gold fall into Anna’s coffers. The proof of the syllabub was in the eating. Anna ate extremely well as a consequence and – as was reported – she bloomed – miraculously becoming – it was said beautiful again. She lived royally and happily and untrammelled by politics. And all she had to do was pretend to miss the monster. That I may sometimes have the fruition of your noble presence . . . Now that really was outrageous. Even for the rhetoric of the time. How could he fail to respond? How could he believe it? But he did. Perhaps if Flora had coloured the separate bedrooms idea like that she and Edward might have had a love-in after all.
In his office, at the serving of mid-morning coffee, which he seemed to need more than ever nowadays since Dilly had started going on about learning to fly a helicopter again, Ewan prepared to meet his new client with mixed feelings. On the one hand she was a young woman who might need his assistance, on the other hand she was the young woman who had deceived Flora and ensnared (for so he assumed it) his friend Edward Chapman. She might have information that was relevant to the Chapmans so he must see her. He was not sure how to approach the interview at all – or rather – he knew how to approach it, which was with absolute professionalism – it was whether he could do it without showing his distaste. He was prepared to dislike Miss Pauline Pike very much indeed.
Thinking this, he was quite unready for the shock – his cup midway from saucer to lips – when the door was opened by his secretary, the kindly, and very Christian, Cora Prout, and a veritable vision walked in. Kindly and very Christian Cora Prout did not approve of Miss Pike, he could tell by the disappearance of her lips, and he could also see why. Ewan did not think he had seen quite so much cleavage up close since he was a nursling. Indeed, Miss Pike seemed to be mostly made up of cleavage, with a pair of bright pink lips above and a quantity of bare knee below, the latter being just about as prominent as the first after the young lady was seated. This was not the way Miss Pike presented herself in her Brownie days. In her Brownie days Miss Pike, though always well turned out, had about her a fresh, country girl look. Now Miss Pike seemed to be a fresh young woman of a quite different kind.
‘Thank you for seeing me,’ she said.
To which he very nearly replied, No, no – thank you for showing yourself to me. But he merely folded his hands on the desk, leaned forward on his forearms (a pose which he felt was encouraging without being too friendly) and said, ‘How can I help?’
He rather wished he had not done so as Miss Pike also then leaned on the desk and rested on her forearms and the effect upon him was quite the reverse of encouraging and quietly friendly. The effect made him want to run as far away as possible – or not – or both.
‘Well, first,’ she said, looking him in the eye with a boldness that he might even call brazen. ‘I wanted to say how much I’m looking forward to acting with you.’ She put her head on one side and half-closed her eyes and smiled a smile that was both enigmatic and compelling. ‘You know I’ve applied to join The Players.’
‘Yes,’ he said.
‘You were so wonderful in French Without Tears.’ She leaned a little closer across the desk.
He cleared his throat. He leaned back. ‘Thank you. Now – what can I do for you?’
‘You were a real inspiration. Hope. After Edward. You know?’
He found himself nodding sympathetically. This cannot be right, he told himself, though he went on nodding.
Pauline fixed him with her eyes and her cleavage and shook her little head and said, ‘How could something that felt so right be so wrong?’
Ewan had to take firm control or he would be agreeing with her. ‘There was always the matter of Flora,’ he said, wishing he had not. This was all very unprofessional. ‘Mrs Chapman.’
Pauline cast down her gaze and was the very picture of contrition – and who knew what might have happened had Cora Prout, knocking perfunctorily, not entered at that very moment.
‘I thought the young lady,’ Cora Prout knew how to make the word lady sound like harlot, ‘might want a cup of something?’
Miss Pike looked at her little diamanté watch. ‘Well . . . considering the time,’ She looked at his coffee cup with desire in her eyes.
‘Ah yes,’ he said, ‘so sorry. Coffee or tea?’
Coffee was brought and the door was closed again, something that Ewan regretted. Pauline said playfully, ‘Do you know, I could do with a real drink actually . . .’ And she produced from her little yellow handbag, a smooth silver flask and waggled it at him. ‘How about you? It’s the very best Irish whiskey. Rather nice to have a splash with the coffee. Begorrah.’
Cora Prout told Valerie in the chemist’s shop later that afternoon that she did not know whether to laugh or cry at the sight of her Mr Davies. ‘A fish could have made more sense of himself,’ was how she put it to Valerie. ‘He didn’t know where to look.’ She shook her head and gave a grim smile over the pharmaceuticals counter. ‘Mind you – she was flaunting everything she’d got. Didn’t get her anywhere though – five minutes later she was out of the office with her cheeks all red and her eyes all damp and that little flask of hers tucked back where it belonged. When I went back in he was mopping his face with his hankie and as red as the rose in his buttonhole.’
Valerie tutted. ‘I wonder what she wanted,’ she said, hopefully.
Cora Prout lowered her voice. ‘Nothing of a legal take in those clothes, surely, I said to Mr Davies. And he said that he had recommended she speak to his brother next time who was better at that sort of thing.’
‘Very wise,’ said Valerie.
‘Yes. And if it doesn’t have four legs and a wet nose Mr Angus Davies just isn’t interested. Pity Mr Chapman didn’t say the same and send her on her way. Fancy choosing her.’ ‘Oh, he was too nice. She chose him, I’ll bet.’
Both women went into a little reverie for a fraction and then Cora Prout said, ‘As if Mr Ewan doesn’t have enough of that behaviour with Mrs Davies. A bottle of aspirin, please. All that chest . . . I ask you. She won’t be popping up on his Christmas list, I can tell y
ou that. Not with little silver whatnots of whisky floating about. I heard him telephoning Giles Baldwin after she’d gone. Something about The Players – but I couldn’t quite hear.’
‘Pity,’ said Valerie. ‘Did you want those aspirin?’
‘Not really,’ said Cora. And back to the office she went.
It did not take very long to track down Miss Penelope Murdoch, Brown Guides being available online. If Flora said so herself she had made very good progress with Anna and her portrait and with luck the datestone information would come in any day now and that would move it all along nicely. When she had finished typing it up she would get it bound into a beautiful copy for Hilary and Hilary could then decide to do whatever she liked with it. Publish and be damned. But it would have Flora’s name on the title page, in quite as large letters as Edward’s. Truth would out at last.
The exhibition of portraits opened in London soon and that is where Flora and Anna and Miss Penelope Murdoch would have their Philippi. With, Flora hoped, Ewan as witness. The plan was for him to be astonished and fall to his knees with admiration as she revealed how brilliantly she – not Edward – had accumulated, researched and made sense of all the information surrounding Anna of Cleves and the Hurcott connection. And if he didn’t fall to his knees then any other degree of display would be acceptable. Except having her hand shaken which, in her gloomier moments, she thought might be the case. Just once, she thought, just once, I am going to shine.
Quite where that left Hilary and her dreams of her father’s rather broader-based Grand Work Flora had not quite settled, but Hilary was not going to be in this scene – in this scene there was only to be Miss Murdoch, Ewan, Flora and – of course – Anna herself.