The Twilight Hour

by Nicci Gerrard

  ‘You look it.’

  Peter leant the wheel against a wall, underneath a rack of helmets and bike lights.

  ‘But that’s not what you’re here for, is it – to ask me if I’m well?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘She died.’

  ‘She’s in a coma.’

  ‘So why are you here, not with her?’

  ‘The hospital’s nearby. I needed a break. I’ve been there for days and it could last days more. We have a rota.’

  Peter, looking at him properly for the first time, saw that Samuel was exhausted, little veins ticking, hollows at the temple and purple under the eyes.

  ‘I’m very sorry,’ he said.

  ‘I watch her lying there, very peaceful, and I ask myself if she knows that she’s dying. If she’s scared. If she’s ready. She’s ninety-six, after all – seventy years older than my father when he died.’

  It took a few seconds for what Samuel had said to sink in. Peter felt as if someone had punched him in the stomach.

  ‘What?’ he managed eventually.

  ‘That’s why I’m here in fact. Eleanor gave me something to pass on to you.’

  Samuel handed him a small padded envelope; Peter opened it and pulled out a faded, dog-eared photograph. A thin face looked at him, wide-set eyes and a wing of hair falling over his forehead. Not smiling, but perhaps slightly amused. Watchful.

  ‘She said it was for you, but I was hoping you would give it to me.’

  ‘I don’t understand.’

  ‘Don’t you?’

  ‘How long have you known?’

  ‘Some years.’

  ‘But how? I thought – I mean, Eleanor said …’ He stopped.

  ‘Eleanor never said anything to me.’

  ‘Was it Gil?’

  ‘No. It was my aunt.’

  ‘Merry.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘So she knew everything, after all. Even that.’

  ‘I have no idea what she knew and what she suspected. Her memory was going and she was rambling and not making sense. A young man who was head over heels in love with her – and a story of betrayal. She was sentimental, then vituperative. When she talked about Eleanor she actually bared her teeth, like a horse. I hadn’t known she had so much anger stored up. I always thought she was sweet but when she was going into her fog I suddenly saw her as someone who was full of passion and fear and pain. It made me like her more. She showed me his photo – the one she has now in her room.’

  Peter nodded. He remembered it.

  ‘I looked at it and it was like looking at a photograph of myself as a young man. There was no mistaking it.’ He tapped his chin. ‘We even have the same little cleft here.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I knew, like a flash of lightning illuminating the landscape. My whole life stood clear and cast in a different meaning.’

  ‘Were you upset?’

  ‘I was more – electrified is the word that comes to mind. Startled with a new awareness. I did the maths. The large gap between myself and my siblings which I had just put down to the war. The dates of Eleanor and Gil’s wedding and my own birth: why had it not occurred to me before? And then the way that they were with me.’

  ‘How were they?’

  ‘Solicitous. Careful.’

  ‘But you never talked to Eleanor about it?’

  ‘If she didn’t want to tell me, I didn’t want to know. And I can understand why she never spoke. But it must have been a heavy weight on her, to keep silent all her life. Why did she tell you?’

  ‘Because I’m a stranger, someone who didn’t matter, someone who it wouldn’t matter to.’

  ‘Like a priest.’

  ‘Oh no.’ Peter felt almost shocked. ‘She didn’t want absolution. She just wanted to tell her story at last, before she died.’

  ‘But not to me.’

  ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘It’s hardly your fault.’

  ‘Of course you should keep the photograph. Perhaps I should tell you that when she talked of Gil, she was very—’

  ‘No.’ Samuel held up his hands, palms upwards. ‘I don’t want you to tell me anything of what she said. The only person who could ever tell me would be her, and now that’s not going to happen. Her story will stay with you and die with her. She was always very insistent that everyone had to have their private space. She never tried to find out our secrets and it would seem quite wrong to try to find out hers, especially as she lies dying. I’ve never talked to anyone about it myself, above all not my siblings. Half-siblings, as it turns out. There has always been something mysterious about my mother. Something none of us could get at, however loving she was.’

  The doorbell jangled and a young woman entered. Her face warmed as she saw Peter, whose own face lit with pleasure. He smiled across at her and held up his hand. Samuel looked at him, pleased.

  ‘I should be going,’ he said.

  ‘Is Polly all right?’

  ‘Polly is quite contented.’

  ‘I hope—’ Peter stopped. For what did he hope? He thought of Eleanor moving slowly and lightly towards the death that she had told him when they first met that she no longer feared. A long journey ending. ‘That it’s peaceful,’ he finished.

  ‘Thank you. She was fond of you. Do you have a message for her? In case she can still hear what we say?’

  What do you say to a dying person? ‘I don’t know. That I think she is very fine. That as long as I live I won’t forget her.’

  ‘I’ll tell her.’

  He rested his hand on Peter’s shoulder for an instant, gave his curious little bow, and left the shop.

  ‘Who was that?’ asked the young woman, going up to Peter and taking his hand between her own.

  ‘Someone I met when I was still in my darker days.’

  ‘You both looked very solemn.’

  ‘Yes. But it’s all right. It’s good.’

  29

  He was very close to her this evening. She could see his face and feel his body, not far from hers. She could feel his eyes watching her and because he was watching her, she was beautiful again and full of fresh, fast joy.

  ‘You’ve come at last,’ she said. ‘I knew you would.’

  ‘I’ve never been away, Nellie.’

  ‘Sometimes I didn’t know that. Sometimes I couldn’t see you.’

  ‘It’s all right. It’s always been all right. Everything.’

  He was so tender tonight. His eyes were deep and full of love. He took her hand. He said her name. She didn’t need to pretend any longer. She didn’t need to try any more.

  ‘I never forgot,’ she said. ‘Not a day went by. Not an hour.’

  ‘What’s she saying?’ Esther bent closer. ‘She’s saying something but I can’t make it out.’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘Are the others coming?’

  ‘Yes. They’ll be here soon.’

  ‘I wish I could make out what she’s saying. It could be important.’

  Samuel took hold of his mother’s hand once more, the bunch of thin sharp bones, the crooked fingers with their ridged nails.

  ‘Hello,’ he said. ‘We’re all here. We’re with you.’

  ‘Be with me now, at the twilight hour. When the light fails.’

  ‘I’m here.’

  ‘Tell me.’

  ‘What shall I tell you?’

  ‘Tell me about us, when we were young. What was it like? What was I like then?’

  ‘A summer day. The sun throbbed in my eyes. I was going to see my new sweetheart and try to forget, but my leg hurt and my mind was full of grim thoughts that I was unable to shake off. A group of people gathered; young men; women in pretty frocks, like flowers. I saw you standing apart in a green dress. Your shadow slanted across the road. You had soft dark hair and grey eyes and a slow stare. A door opened in me.’

  ‘A door opened in me,’ she repeated. ‘Yes.’

  ‘Mother. Eleanor. What are you saying?’ />
  Leon had arrived. He pulled up a third chair and sat close to her. He put his thumb on her wrist to feel for the reedy quiver of her pulse, professional, then leant forward and kissed her on the forehead.

  ‘We can’t make it out. We think that perhaps she’s trying to tell us something.’

  ‘She doesn’t seem agitated,’ said Samuel. ‘She’s smiling. Look.’

  ‘Should we call the nurse?’

  ‘What for?’

  ‘How long will it be?’

  ‘They said not long.’

  ‘Eleanor,’ Samuel’s voice was low. ‘We’re with you and Quentin will be here soon. Your children. We aren’t going to leave.’

  ‘No.’ Esther clutched at Eleanor’s hand. ‘We won’t go away. We want you to know how much we love you. We all love you. I’m sorry we used to argue. I took things out on you, but I always loved you. I hope you know that.’ She wiped the back of her hand across her eyes. ‘I wish I knew if she could hear me. That it’s not too late.’

  ‘And it was too late. Everything else became muted and insubstantial. The rest of the world fell away. I just felt your gaze on me. Merry led me across to you and told us we were obliged to get on and you said, “Hello Michael. I’ll do my best.” You gave me your hand and I took it in mine, like this. I don’t remember what I said.’

  ‘You said, “I’m sure you will, and so will I.”’

  ‘And we did, didn’t we?’

  ‘Yes. We did. We have. We are.’

  ‘We sat by the river.’

  ‘The river.’

  ‘I tried to talk to them all. I tried to laugh and there you were, with your shapely legs and your smooth throat and the way you turned your head. I could drown in you.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘We talked about books.’

  ‘Virginia Woolf. I remember. I remember it all.’

  ‘She’s thinking about Virginia Woolf!’ Leon gave a bark of sudden laughter. ‘How like Eleanor is that! To be thinking of Virginia Woolf on her deathbed. Can you believe it?’

  ‘It’s making her happy.’

  A nurse came in. Her shoes clacked across the floor. She picked up the chart at the foot of the bed and looked at it. She stood by Eleanor, examining the monitors above her bed. She felt for her pulse. The family sat quietly and waited for her to leave again. She smiled at them. She was thinking of what time she could get away. She had promised her daughter she wouldn’t be home late, but she felt she ought to stay and see this one out. It couldn’t be long now.

  ‘Do you think she is scared?’ Esther asked Samuel.

  ‘I think for some time she has been ready to die.’

  ‘Have you ever felt so in love that you almost wanted to die?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And you can’t tell if you’re feeling happiness or grief?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘You need to hold and be held. You need to lose yourself and be lost.’

  ‘Ah yes.’

  ‘Is she in pain? Does it hurt?’

  ‘I don’t know. I don’t think so.’

  ‘And it hurts.’

  ‘It does hurt. Like loss. An absence.’

  ‘You act out a self in the world. You talk and eat and smile and listen, and all the time you long for the other.’

  ‘I have felt these things. You know I have.’

  ‘I would have traded my entire life for a day of you.’

  ‘Such a short time.’

  ‘When you were mine.’

  ‘When you were mine.’

  Quentin rushed into the room, out of puff, stopping on the threshold and looking at the huddled group around the bed, the motionless figure barely disturbing the sheets.

  ‘I’m not—?’

  ‘No. She’s still here.’

  ‘Good. Good.’

  He lifted the chair from the side of the room. He sat and laid his hand on Eleanor’s body and closed his eyes for a moment. Leon glared at him suspiciously: was he praying for her mortal soul? Eleanor wouldn’t like that. For a moment, hostility pulsed between them.

  ‘Has she said anything?’ Quentin asked.

  ‘Yes, but we haven’t been able to understand much of it. Just snatches.’

  ‘She mentioned Virginia Woolf.’

  ‘Virginia Woolf! That’s typical.’

  ‘And we think she said it was a short time.’

  ‘You mean a short time until she dies?’

  ‘We don’t know.’

  ‘She looks as if she has found peace.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I found you.’

  ‘Found me.’

  ‘I held you. I kissed your eyelids and your mouth and your throat and I heard you cry out. My love. My love. In the churchyard.’

  ‘Under the quince tree.’

  ‘Did she say quince tree?’

  ‘I think so.’ They were whispering now, watching her and solemn. Like a feather, she could be lifted away at any time.

  ‘Isn’t it strange? I wonder what is going through her mind.’

  ‘She always loved quince trees.’

  ‘Do you remember the quince jelly she would make every year? We used to help. The smell of honey filled the house.’

  ‘The sun was like honey. The leaves were bright. You lay in my arms. Birds sang. Everything was opening, everything was dissolving. You said yes.’

  ‘I said yes. I do.’

  ‘By the sea. In our house. Such anguish and such love. To hold you one last time. To say goodbye.’

  ‘Don’t go.’

  ‘Nellie.’

  ‘Please don’t leave me.’

  ‘Of course we’re not leaving, Mummy.’

  ‘Mum, it’s all right.’

  ‘Eleanor.’

  ‘We won’t go. Shush now.’

  ‘We’re here.’

  ‘All of us.’

  ‘Don’t be scared.’

  ‘Don’t be scared, my love.’

  ‘Without you.’

  ‘I’ll come back.’

  ‘I can’t. All alone.’

  ‘Nellie. Nellie.’

  ‘I never forgot.’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘I loved Gil. I loved my children. But not a day. Not an hour.’

  ‘She’s talking about Gil.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Do you think she knows she’s dying?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘Don’t be upset, Esther. Sad of course, but not upset. She’s very old.’

  ‘So young. On the bank of the river. Under the quince tree. Beside the great sea.’

  ‘Listen. Her breathing’s changed.’

  ‘Does that mean—?’

  ‘I think so.’

  ‘Ah no. No.’

  ‘Hush now. It’s all right. She needs to let go. It’s her time.’

  ‘Time. It’s time. They say that time is a river, stopping for no one, spilling its dams, sweeping everyone up in its currents. Sometimes deep and fast and clear; sometimes widening, slowing, so you can no longer see that it’s moving at all. But still it is implacable. And they say that time is a one-way journey; you set off in a jostling, hopeful crowd, but it thins as you travel, and at last you realize you’re alone. You’ve been alone all the time. You gather up burdens as you go, memories you have to carry and sins you can’t dislodge, and you can’t stop. You can’t go back. But they are wrong. Time is no longer a river or a lonely road; it is a sea inside me. The ebb and the flow, the tug of the cold moon that shines on its waters. Knowledge drops away; innocence returns; hope freshens. It is spring again. I did not know what a long journey it would be to come home.’

  Like a feather lifting. Like a petal falling. Like snow melting. Like a touch on the door, which opens.

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  Published in Penguin Books 2014

  Copyright © Joined-Up Writing, 2014

  Cover image © Sarah Perkins; image of women © Jake Olson/Trevillion Images

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  ISBN: 978-0-141-96387-7