Familiar Rooms in Darkness

by Caro Fraser

  She picked up her book again, but was unable to concentrate. She kept looking at Charlie’s window, as though expecting it to tell her something. Then Derek came out of the house. She watched anxiously as he crossed the lawn towards her. He and Charlie had hardly been together for fifteen minutes.

  ‘Where’s Charlie?’

  Derek sat down on a sun lounger next to her. ‘Taking a shower.’ He took a swig from his half-finished beer.

  ‘How was it?’

  Derek shrugged. ‘Not easy.’

  ‘In what way?’ Bella closed her book and looked at him tensely.

  ‘I dunno. Just not easy. I thought I might, like, give him a hug or something, but you could tell that wasn’t on. He’s not like you.’

  ‘No. No, he’s not.’

  ‘So I said something about how this was a big thing for both of us. And he said yeah. And so I said, tell us a bit about yourself, we need to get to know one another.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘And he said he was a barrister, and told me a load about what he did. And he asked me about my business. So I told him. And then I asked him if he’d met Joyce, and he said no, he hadn’t. Then he asked me if I’d ever played rugby, and I said no. Then I couldn’t think of anything to say, and neither could he, and he said he was going to take a shower, he’d see me later, nice meeting me.’

  ‘It doesn’t exactly sound like a great emotional reunion,’ said Bella.

  ‘It was like standing around at some party talking to someone because you have to, when they don’t much want to.’ Derek took another swig of his beer. ‘That was what it was like.’ He glanced at Bella. ‘I’m sorry. He didn’t exactly make it easy. I would have tried to make it all a bit more friendly, more brotherly and that, but he wasn’t having any.’ He smiled thoughtfully. ‘He’s good, though, isn’t he? I always used to want a brother.’

  ‘Not a sister?’

  ‘Yeah, well…’

  ‘Don’t worry. I’m joking. I understand. I just hoped it would be better, that he’d be really glad to meet you at last. I mean, all those years…’ Her eyes filled with tears again, the tensions of the day rising up in her and spilling over.

  Derek leaned over and hugged her, holding her. ‘He’ll be all right. You’ve handled all this a lot better than he has. I reckon he’s still confused. Don’t worry. Don’t worry. It’ll be all right. Just give it time.’

  From his window, Charlie stood looking down, rubbing his wet hair, watching the pair of them, trying to fathom his feelings, wondering jealously whether Bella could finish up caring more about this long-lost brother of theirs than she did about him.

  Compton-King and Frank came back late in the afternoon in high spirits. They unloaded the spoils of their trip from the boot of the Bentley, in the shape of more wine and a considerable quantity of groceries.

  Compton-King presented Bella with a bottle of parfum des violettes de Toulouse. ‘ “To throw a perfume on the violet is wasteful and ridiculous excess,”’ he declaimed. ‘Actually, it wasn’t terrifically expensive, but we thought you’d like it.’

  ‘If the French police catch you driving over the limit they’ll take your car away,’ said Bella.

  ‘I didn’t drive,’ said Compton-King. ‘Frank did. Sober as a judge. Now –’ He pulled items from carrier bags and spread them on the kitchen table. ‘Cheese, fruit, bread, all that heart could desire and more. And two legs of lamb, which I shall personally marinade. Special recipe.’ As Megan and Claire put the purchases away, Compton-King began to assemble olive oil, balsamic vinegar, herbs and wine for his marinade, and unwrapped two large butterflied legs of lamb. He glanced up as Charlie came into the kitchen. ‘Ah! Bella’s brother. We haven’t met. Richard Compton-King. Hello!’ He extended a hand. Charlie shook it. ‘Bloody good of you to let us stay in your fantastic house.’

  ‘Not at all,’ said Charlie. He smiled, recognizing something in Compton-King that cheered him up and made him feel more at home. He indicated the lamb and the marinade ingredients. ‘Can I give you a hand with that?’

  ‘Of course! Clear the decks, everyone. Charles and I are going to create dinner.’ He picked up a bottle and a corkscrew. ‘We’ll start with a glass of red wine, shall we?’

  Half an hour later, while the dinner preparations were underway, Frank and Bruce began to dispense cocktails of their own devising at the poolside bar.

  ‘What’s in it?’ asked Adam, when Frank offered him one.

  ‘Well, a gin base, plus Cointreau, a dash of fresh orange juice, and a high note of – what was it, Bruce?’ Frank turned to Bruce, who was agitating the cocktail shaker in a frenzy.

  ‘Brandy,’ replied Bruce.

  Adam took one to Bella, who was lying in the hammock with her book. She had just put her book down, as the light was growing too dim to read by, but when she saw Adam approaching she quickly picked it up again.

  Adam offered her a glass. ‘No thanks,’ said Bella. ‘I’ve had Frank’s cocktails before, and they’re always lethal. Besides, I’ve got the beginnings of a headache.’ She turned to her book again.

  Adam lingered, wanting to talk, to broach what had happened before in the hallway. ‘Charlie and Compton-King seem to have hit it off.’ The sound of Compton-King’s voice raised in song, followed by hoots of laughter, came from the kitchen.

  ‘Like calling to like,’ said Bella, without looking up. ‘Public schoolboys bridging the generation gap. A couple of glasses of wine and the bread rolls start flying.’

  Adam crouched down next to the hammock so that his face was level with Bella’s. ‘What happened earlier–’

  ‘Don’t. It was my fault. I’m sorry. I don’t want to mess up things between you and Megan.’ She closed her book and got out of the hammock. ‘I’m going to help the girls put things out for dinner.’ And she had crossed the lawn before he could say anything else.

  The girls lay the table, lit candles, and Adam and Bruce manned the barbecue while Megan and Claire brought out salads and bread. Then everyone sat down to dinner. Bella watched Charlie uneasily as the evening progressed. He and Compton-King had consumed a good deal of wine during the preparation of the lamb – which, basted with its special marinade and barbecued, was adjudged a great success – and throughout the meal they kept up an effortless, raucous banter. It was amusing and infectious, and everyone seemed to enjoy themselves, but as Charlie got louder and boozier, Derek appeared to grow more withdrawn, as though he couldn’t quite find his place in the public-school hilarity. He didn’t drink much, and when it was time for the girls to go to bed he disappeared with them into the house and didn’t return.

  Bella, noticing his departure, went in after a while to see what had become of him. She found him watching French football on television.

  ‘Aren’t you coming back outside?’

  ‘Nah. Not my scene, really. I’m not on their wavelength.’

  ‘Charlie’s had too much to drink, I’m afraid. It’s all largely defensive, the way he’s behaving. It’s probably got a lot to do with you, having to meet you.’

  ‘Yeah?’ Derek shifted round on the sofa and raised a hand to hers. ‘I told you maybe it wasn’t a good idea, me coming on holiday with your friends.’

  ‘Oh, Derek, that’s rubbish. It’s been fine up until tonight. Just Charlie behaving like a hooray. Compton-King’s too pissed to see what’s going on.’

  ‘Well, anyway–’ He looked up as Bruce came in.

  ‘Fancy a hand or two?’ said Bruce. ‘It’s getting too bloody silly out there.’

  ‘Absolutely.’ Derek switched off the television and they sat down together at the table in the corner.

  Bella went back outside to the noisy dinner table. Frank and Compton-King were singing, swaying together, Charlie banging time on the table with his hands. Megan and Claire looked on in amusement, Claire stifling yawns every now and then. Even Adam seemed to find it uproariously funny. Bruno had long since sloped off to the orchard with a joint to contemplate
the stars and his future recording career.

  Bella came up behind Charlie and put what she hoped was an unobtrusive hand on his shoulder. ‘Charlie, can I talk to you for a moment?’

  Charlie looked round. ‘Yeah, sure thing.’ He got up a little unsteadily and left the table, following Bella down the steps to the darkness of the garden. Claire watched them go.

  ‘Look, Charlie,’ said Bella, when they were out of earshot, ‘it isn’t going to work if you carry on like this.’

  ‘What d’you mean?’

  ‘You and Derek. You haven’t spoken to him all evening. All you’ve done is get drunk and carry on with Compton-King like you were still in the sixth form.’

  ‘He’s a bloody good bloke! I can’t help it if my so-called brother doesn’t share our sense of humour. Don’t know what makes them laugh south of the river, I’m afraid.’

  ‘That is so rotten of you! If you weren’t so drunk, you wouldn’t say a thing like that. But that’s your answer to everything these days, isn’t it? Get pissed and hope it’ll all have gone away by the morning. Well, it won’t have. Derek will still be here, and you’re going to have to make more of an effort. He wants to get to know you, Charlie! He likes you.’

  ‘How can he bloody well like me?’ Charlie threw his arms wide and stumbled slightly to one side, then steadied himself. ‘He doesn’t know me! I don’t know what to talk to him about! We stood there this afternoon like a couple of prats!’

  ‘Well, I really like him, he’s my brother as well as yours, and I want you to try a bit harder!’

  ‘Oh, yeah.’ Charlie nodded. ‘Yeah, I know you like him. He’s a bit of a novelty, isn’t he? I’ll bet he hasn’t got any of my faults. I’ve heard it all from you before, Bell, how great he is. I bet you wish I was more like him. Fuck it all, you wish I was him, don’t you?’ His eyes suddenly brightened with tears as he leaned drunkenly towards her, yelling, ‘Don’t you?’

  ‘Sshh! Stop it! Stop shouting!’ she hissed. ‘Why do you have to feel so sorry for yourself all the time? Why can’t you think about other people? God, there’s no use talking to you when you’re like this. I’m going in. And tell that drunken rabble to keep it down. Emma and Leanne won’t be able to get to sleep.’

  She went off round the side of the house to avoid the party on the terrace, and through the French windows into the living room, where Derek and Bruce were absorbed in their game of cards. She said goodnight to them and went wearily upstairs to her room. She sat in bed brooding for some time, envying Bruno his blissed-out solitude in the orchard. She could do with some of that. The business of bringing Derek and Charlie together wasn’t working. Charlie didn’t intend to make it work. At this rate, he and Derek were going to finish up as good as strangers. By behaving the way he had this evening, he’d hoisted up the class barrier and was standing firmly on the other side of it. It was horrible. Still, as Adam had said, it was their problem. It was up to both of them to sort it out between them over the next few days. Not that she thought they possibly could.

  When Bella left him in the garden, Charlie stood unsteadily at the edge of the lawn. He heard laughter from the terrace, but had no desire to go back there. Bunch of boozers. The brief conversation with Bella had left him utterly fed up. He just wanted everything to be the way it had been when he and Bella had come on holidays with the old man. He didn’t want to stay around here with these people. He wanted it to be the way it was fifteen years ago. Christ, he was pissed… Best thing was to go for a walk, clear his head, think things through. He set off across the garden into the orchard, stumbling over a low wall and on to the track which wound down to the village of Sainte Levroux. The moon gleamed palely on the silent melon fields as Charlie made his erratic way, tacking from one side of the track to the other, miraculously avoiding the ditches.

  Reaching the sleeping village, he wandered purposelessly through the streets. A cat skittered out of the darkness and across his path, almost causing him to fall over. The fright moved him to childish, drunken tears. He sobbed to himself as he walked along, going nowhere, hating himself. Nobody knew. Nobody could ever understand how much he had wanted, from the moment he had first set eyes on his brother, to be able to show him what it meant to him. He had wanted words, a means of expression for his overwhelming feelings. He had a brother. He had looked at him and been moved, dazed by the realization of what fate had done. But he hadn’t the means to say it. Instead, he’d been offhand, snobbish and downright patronizing. Out of nowhere and into his memory came the image of a boy called Jewison, a younger boy at school on whom Charlie had developed an intense crush. Charlie had adored Jewison from afar. Then one day he’d found himself standing next to him in line, and Jewison had said something to him, something friendly and pleasant. Even now, as he leaned drunkenly against a stone wall, Charlie felt burning shame at the memory of how, in his confusion and infatuation, he had been able only to articulate some contemptuous response, lofty and dismissive. He had loathed himself for weeks afterwards. He felt that way now. His behaviour with Derek had been in complete contrast to his own feelings and desires. He badly wanted his brother, wanted to know him, create some manly, brotherly warmth, whatever all that shit was… As he thought these things, Charlie snuffled in a maudlin way. Then he looked round, trying to work out where he was. He realized he was cold. He had come out in just his shirtsleeves, and now his drunkenness had ebbed sufficiently for him to appreciate the chill of the night air. He decided he would go back.

  As he turned, he caught sight of the church on the other side of the square. He had always liked the Sainte Levroux church. It was small and comforting, without austerity, its Catholic contents ranging from the beautiful to the tawdry, and Charlie, in his unhappiness, was drawn instantly to its familiarity. He crossed the square and tried the handle of the wooden door. It was open. He stepped inside, inhaling the musty perfume of age and incense, feeling his way forward as his eyes grew gradually accustomed to the dim interior. He walked down the flagged aisle, bumped against the side of a pew, and lurched into a stone font with a brass domed lid. The lid shifted with his weight, and he grabbed its cross-shaped handle to stop it clanging to the floor. Ssshhing in admonition, he righted the cover and looked around. The ghostly gleam of the moon through the stained-glass window above the altar painted everything with an eerie light, and he sighed. A serene and drunken peace descended upon him. He walked forward, narrowly missing kicking over a number of small brass pots containing flowers which had been placed on the altar steps. He mounted the shallow steps and felt his way along a row of wooden seats. He knew of old the carved gargoyle faces on the misericordia, and smiled to himself in the dark. He flipped one down and tried to sit on it, but he slipped forward, his feet rucking the thin carpet which covered the stone flags behind the altar. The carpet gave him an idea. He knelt down. It smelt dusty and kind, and so he lay on it, and contrived to roll himself up in it a few times, grunting. He lay there, cocooned, enjoying its canvas-like warmth, not quite sure what he was doing there. He stared into the darkness, his thoughts groggy and confused, and fell asleep.

  14

  Bella stayed in her room, reading through one of the more promising scripts for a second time, listening to the sounds of the party breaking up and people going to bed. When at last the house seemed silent, she went quietly downstairs to make herself some tea. The events of the day had unsettled her, and she knew she wouldn’t sleep for a while.

  There was a light on in the kitchen, and there was Claire, in a long cotton robe, sitting at the table, sipping from a mug.

  ‘Can’t you sleep?’ asked Bella.

  Claire shook her head. ‘I was waiting for you and Charlie to finish your talk.’

  ‘Charlie? I left him out in the garden ages ago.’

  ‘Oh – I thought he must be up in your room with you.’

  ‘No. When did you last see him?’

  ‘I haven’t seen him since he left the dinner table to talk to you.’

&nb
sp; ‘I’ll bet he’s fallen asleep on the sofa,’ said Bella. ‘It’s not unknown.’

  But the living room was devoid of Charlie.

  ‘Is the car still there?’ asked Bella. ‘He was pretty upset when I left him. He might have gone off somewhere.’

  ‘He can’t have. He was too drunk to drive anywhere, surely.’

  Bella switched on the outside light and looked through the kitchen window. The hired Renault was still there.

  ‘My guess is that he’s gone off to one of the guest rooms and crashed out,’ said Bella. ‘I’d let him sleep it off.’

  ‘You’re probably right.’ Claire sighed and ran a tired hand through her hair. ‘I wish he didn’t think that getting drunk was the answer to everything.’

  ‘I’m not sure it was intentional. I think Richard Compton-King set the pace on the red-wine front, and Charlie felt honour bound to keep up.’

  ‘Maybe. Anyway, see you in the morning.’

  ‘Night.’

  Bella made some tea and sat sipping it, thinking about Charlie and Derek.

  Charlie opened his eyes, and the first thing he was conscious of was the chill silence of his surroundings. Christ, he was cold. Cold and stiff. He moved his joints against the folds of the carpet, panicking a little, uncertain where he was. Then he remembered. He blinked, his gaze focusing on a woodcut of Saint Sebastian hanging above the choir stalls. He lay for a while, encased in carpet, staring at the saint’s tortured body with an acute sense of empathy, the arrows in the flesh echoing the searing pain of his own hangover. Bloody local wine. Worst thing in the world. How on earth had he finished up here? He remembered coming into the church and thinking the carpet looked supremely comfortable – which just showed how off his face he must have been – but he had no clear recollection of walking from the house to the village. He turned his head, and found himself staring at an electrical socket in the back of the altar, just below the cloth, with the words ‘micro autel’ printed above it. He yawned hugely, and even this movement made his head thud atrociously. He hadn’t felt this hellish in a long time. He prised his elbows free and wriggled into an upright position, pushing back the carpet and rubbing at his legs. He heard a faint sound, and, peering out from behind the altar cloth, he saw an old woman with a bucket and duster at the far end of the church, going about her duties. As quietly as possible, he kicked himself free of the carpet and rearranged it flat on the stone flags. After resting on his hands and knees for a moment or two, breathing heavily, he pulled himself stiffly to his feet, leaning for support on a large candlestick at the side of the altar, and tried to straighten his clothing and hair. God alone knew what he looked like.