How can I do this to you? You, who I love with all my heart? Because it’s better than the alternative. All that hatred flying around. A clean break, rather than a long-drawn-out agony. By the way, I went to the French Embassy and checked their census and found out that a Marcel Boyer, Croix de Guerre, is still living in Les Galets. On his own. Take the risk, my darling. Don’t be a coward like me.
Thank you for a lifetime of love and support, especially since our beautiful boy died. I’ve tried, but it has all become unbearable. I want it to stop.
If there is another life, I will be watching over you and one day we will all be together again. What on earth will poor St Peter make of us three? Our ‘pretended family’. Oh, but it was wonderful. Thank you, thank you and forgive me.
Tony.
Marguerite doubled up, moaning, ‘You bastard, you bastard, you bastard, you bastard.’ She collapsed onto the floor, writhing and howling, trying to black out the image of Tony alone in some squalid hotel. She found herself on her knees, praying that he had changed his mind, that his suicide attempt had failed. But the God she had rejected ignored her. The next day two policemen came to tell her of his death. They doubted if the coroner would want a public inquest. It seemed ‘an open and shut case’. Mr Stansfield had made it clear that it was suicide in his note. They were blunt with Marguerite, assuming, as she was not a relative, that the usual sensitivity was unnecessary. She was glad. She just wanted to get rid of them.
After they left she went up to Tony’s flat insanely looking for him. It was immaculate. She opened the wardrobe and inhaled the smell of him on his clothes. She sobbed, ‘Where are you, where are you?’
Then she felt numb, exhausted. She felt nothing. She tried to bring some order to her mind. All it contained were questions:
Could I have stopped him?
Why didn’t I talk to him?
Why didn’t he tell me he was HIV-positive?
How can I bear this?
How can I bear this?
Dear God, how can I bear this?
Chapter 44
Marguerite stayed at home the following day, not even phoning the school. But the day after, she got herself up and, like a robot, washed, dressed and went to work.
As she walked into the staff room, it was obvious they all knew. They stopped talking and stared at her, unable to gauge what tone to take. Were condolences in order? She wasn’t a wife or lover, the man was gay, they all knew that now, so how to behave towards this woman with the drawn grey face and dead red eyes? And anyway, suicide? What can one say about that? Apart from a few mumbled ‘sad’s and ‘sorry’s they opted to settle for breezy attempts to cheer her up with cups of tea and staff-room chit-chat.
The children were more forthcoming. Her first lesson of the day happened to be in a class with Geoffrey Wilkins, the lad Tony had tried to help, who had been questioned about that encounter, and James Matthews, who had accused Tony of molestation. When she walked into the room they were all in a state of high excitement, passing around a copy of last night’s London Evening Standard. She asked to see it.
‘Look, miss, there. It’s Mr Stansfield.’
It was just a few lines on page four. ‘Teacher found dead in hotel room.’ Her hands shook as she read it. It was so inadequate. Such a meaningless, throwaway summing-up of the death of the man she knew. The class stared expectantly at her as she sat at her desk.
‘And how does that make you feel, class?’
They were not expecting that. Silence.
‘He was a queer, miss.’ Giggles.
‘Yes. I know.’
‘My dad said, “Good riddance.” That all of them should be done away with.’ More giggles.
‘Why did he say that?’
‘Because they spread disease.’
‘It’s wicked being queer.’
‘And suicide too. That’s a sin. He committed suicide, miss.’
Marguerite looked around the room.
‘So that is what your parents feel. What about you?’
Nothing.
‘Did you like Mr Stansfield?’
After a long pause one of the girls raised her hand, blushing.
‘I did, miss. He was nice.’
‘Me too.’
‘And me.’
A few muffled murmurs of agreement.
‘And what about you, Geoffrey? How do you feel?’
The boy put his head down on his folded arms saying, ‘Sad, miss. I feel so sad.’
‘Oh he feels sad. Poor old Wilkins. Bloody pansy.’
James Matthews stood looking round at the class for approval.
‘What about what he did to me?’
‘And what exactly did he do to you, James?’
‘You ask my dad.’
‘I’m asking you.’
‘He interfered with me.’
‘Come here, James.’
The boy swaggered up to her desk.
‘Show me what he did.’
‘Don’t be disgusting.’
Marguerite shouted, ‘Show me. Richard Hopkins, come here, please.’
The boy moved to the front of the class nervously.
‘Thank you, Richard. You be James. Now, James, you are Mr Stansfield. Do to Richard what Mr Stansfield did to you.’
For a moment the boy stood looking defiant. Then suddenly, shockingly, he started to cry.
‘It’s not fair. It’s not my fault. I didn’t mean it. I didn’t want him to die.’
Marguerite took him in her arms.
‘Don’t worry. You’re right. It’s not your fault, James. Your father didn’t understand. Mr Stansfield wouldn’t have harmed you. Look, I’m holding you now. I’m embracing you. There’s nothing wrong with that, is there?’
The boy was not used to hugs. He clung to her awkwardly.
‘No, miss. It’s nice.’
‘Yes, Mr Stansfield was gay. Just as one or two of you may be.’ Gasps. ‘But he was a good man. He was my friend, you know, and I loved him very much. And he loved me. And all of you. There are all sorts of love. There are no rules. Apart from not damaging others. Mr Stansfield has left us, because the world finds it difficult to accept difference. And everyone’s confused and frightened about AIDS. When we are frightened, we turn on those people who are not like us, but we must be careful because that’s what causes wars. I beg of you to learn from this sad thing that has happened. Remember that Mr Stansfield was kind, and fun, and wanted to make the world a better place. Not just queer. That was only a tiny part of him.’
Only then did Marguerite realise that the door was open and that the headmaster was standing listening. Marguerite picked up her books and handbag.
‘Don’t worry, Mr Pryor. I’m leaving. Goodbye, class. Don’t be upset by my tears. Or yours. There’s nothing wrong with tears.’
Mr Pryor followed her down the corridor. Marguerite felt sorry for the man, as had Tony.
‘There’s bound to be a reaction from poor little Matthews’s father when he tells him what I’ve said. Don’t worry. I’m leaving for good. You can say you sacked me. That will make him happy.’
Mr Pryor put his hand on Marguerite’s arm.
‘The profession will be the poorer, Miss Carter. You are a wonderful teacher.’
Marguerite could not yet allow herself to contemplate a future without her lifetime dedication to teaching, so she threw herself into a frenzied organisation of Tony’s funeral. She would not let it be a debacle like Donald’s. She called upon Miss Scott, who had remained a friend, and was now head of a successful comprehensive, to conduct the ceremony in place of a token indifferent priest. Marguerite vetoed the crematorium’s canned organ music and substituted recordings of the exquisite Beethoven string quartet No. 14, Op. 131, and for the departure of the coffin, it had to be Judy and ‘Over The Rainbow’. In place of a eulogy Marguerite chose a poem. She thought how Tony would have loved Moira to read it. She had lost touch with her but thought someone at the St Martin’s Theatre, wher
e The Mousetrap, having moved from the Ambassadors, was still ploughing on, might know her whereabouts.
She was amazed to find Moira was still in the cast. When they met Moira explained that, after her stint as an understudy in the play, she had left. Then, in desperation, after enduring years of unemployment, apart from occasional engagements in tatty repertory or depressing third-rate tours, augmented by stints serving in Harrods, she had returned to the play to perform one of the parts. ‘My last gasp before I’m carted off to the actors’ rest home. It’s a boring old crone who gets bumped off in the first act. Sic transit bloody gloria, darling.’
The actress in her was gratified to be asked to do something well written for her old friend, despite her devastation upon learning of the circumstances of Tony’s death.
On the day of the funeral, Marguerite filled the bleak little crematorium chapel with sweet-smelling spring flowers, and dressed herself in a bright red frock, which was the last one that Donald had chosen for her. She wore the lace gloves that Ethel had given her all those years ago. Not long after Bert’s death of a heart attack Tony had organised Ethel’s move to an old people’s home in Oldham. Marguerite contacted them and arranged for a carer to accompany the old woman to London in a hire car. As Marguerite led her into the chapel Ethel looked around her, smiling broadly and stroking the gloves. She mercifully did not seem to understand what had happened to her son, or even that it was him in the coffin.
The chapel began to fill up. There were a few members of the ballet company, who had known Tony through Donald, Mr Duane and some of the old staff from his time at Risinghill, as well as a dozen or so men with thinning hair and chatting women that she recognised as pupils they had taught there. Looking even older were Pauline and Hazel from their Dartford days. She searched the faces to see if Elsie was among the crowd. Elsie would surely have been there if she could. Her absence reawakened Marguerite’s fears that she might be one of the drug addicts who had contracted AIDS. Miss Allum had given up teaching music some time before but still lived with Mrs Schneider. They arrived together, Miss Allum in a wheelchair pushed by a bent, gnome-like Mr Humphreys.
Just as the service was about to begin there was a disturbance at the door. Led by Geoffrey Wilkins, at least twenty pupils from 4b crept in and sat at the back. An unexpected moment of magic was created when the children, delighted to recognise ‘Morning Has Broken’, embellished it with the harmonies they knew from the Cat Stevens recording.
The poem she had chosen for Moira to read was by Primo Levi. The part that resonated agonisingly for Marguerite was,
I speak for you, companions of a crowded
Road, not without its difficulties,
And for you too, who have lost
Soul, courage, the desire to live . . .
As Moira joined her in the pew after her reading, Marguerite kissed her on the cheek.
‘That was beautiful. As Tony would have said, “Not a dry eye in the house.” ’
When the service was over Marguerite thanked all the children for coming and gave Geoffrey a special hug, mindful that he probably faced a battle against prejudice similar to Tony’s, but comforted to see, as they walked down the path to the gates, that he was the centre of the group, rather than trailing on his own.
The mourners repaired to a nearby pub, and reminisced about their friendship with Tony. There was laughter and some tears, but everyone avoided discussing the nature of his death. Ethel held tight to Marguerite’s hand, occasionally looking at the lace gloves with a puzzled expression.
When eventually Marguerite and the carer settled her into the car she said happily, ‘I’m glad you wore my gloves.’
‘That’s right, Ethel. They are the ones you gave me, remember?’
Ethel nodded.
‘Yes, I remember.’
Marguerite smiled. Delighted that Ethel’s confused mind had grasped something.
Then Ethel shook her hand formally.
‘Thank you so much. It was a lovely wedding.’
Marguerite thought how much Tony and Donald would have enjoyed that.
Back at home, Marguerite collapsed into the armchair with a large brandy. After the frantic preparations for the funeral, putting the flat on the market, tying up loose ends, she had nothing to do. She went over the events of the day in her mind. In the silent flat, she felt an agonising ache in her throat and chest. All the words that would have poured out when she shared experiences with Tony and Donald were choking her. They had nowhere to go. This was how it would be from now on. She went into the toilet, knelt on the floor and vomited.
Chapter 45
Marguerite had never known true loneliness. She had always had people to confide in, to share with, to love and be loved by. As a child she had had her parents and best friend Rachel, in the Resistance loyal comrades and Marcel, and during her teaching career, her colleagues, pupils, and fellow campaigners. Above all, for forty-odd years she had had Tony and for more than twenty Donald. Because of the all-consuming nature of their relationship, she had had no need for other close friends. Even when she was on her own she had not felt lonely. She was too busy thinking, planning. In fact, she had enjoyed solitude, an occasional pause in the symphony of conversation, argument, laughter. There had always been the knowledge that communication was a staircase or a phone call away. Now, in the space of three wrenching weeks, she found herself excluded from the companionship of work, and had no one at home to care how frightened she was.
She had no reason to get up in the morning. So she didn’t. For days she lay in bed, convulsively weeping or blankly staring at the ceiling, rising only to shuffle to the bathroom where she stared uncomprehendingly at the reflection in the mirror of an old woman, swigging a large glass of brandy. She didn’t eat. Or look out of the window. She could hear that life was going on in the outside world, and she wondered how that was possible. She couldn’t bear to think of the past, even less the future, so she tried to sleep away the present. That was worse, because inevitably she woke up, and agonisingly realised anew that everything she cared about had been swept away.
After several days in this stupefied state, she heard rain thrashing against the curtained windowpane, and had an overwhelming urge to go outside. She threw on the clothes that lay on the floor beside the bed, her funeral garb, the red frock that Donald had bought her, high-heeled shoes, lace gloves, and teetered out into the deluge. Outside the house, she stood, arms outstretched, face turned to the sky, and embraced the rain, allowing it to soak into her clothes and run down her face, arms and legs, in an attempt to wash away the pain. She automatically began walking towards school. The rain mingled with her tears and no one seemed to notice that she was unsuitably dressed and weeping. If they did, she was just a weirdo caught in a storm. And London is full of them. Weirdos and people caught in storms.
The gates of the school were locked. There was barbed wire on top of the fence. It kept marauders out and pupils in. That’s the way it was nowadays. As she stood, staring through the gate, rain dripping from her skirt and hands and chin, she remembered how it had been with Duane, when people came and went as they pleased, a community school, and she felt angry and guilty that she had gone along with the compromise of his vision. She wanted no more of it. The sterile approach to education. The kowtowing to the mindless law that had defeated Tony.
‘Fuck you all!’ she screamed through the gate.
I’m going mad, she thought, as she made her way home via the Carpenter’s Arms, only remembering when she saw its new blinds and pavement tables that Bob and Florrie had retired to run a bed-and-breakfast place in Devon. So they were happy. She tried to be pleased for them and the young couple that passed her, cuddling under an umbrella, but she just felt jealous. And even more alone.
When she got home, she stripped off her sodden clothes and sat, naked, eating a slice of stale bread and Marmite. Shivering, she ran a bath and lay in it, gulping a glass of wine. As her body thawed, she felt a flicker of life, t
he need to do something; she had no idea what. She got out of the bath and stood bewildered, muttering, ‘Pull yourself together.’ She examined in the mirror her hunched, skinny body, she tried to touch her toes, and couldn’t. Tony had always insisted that exercise was better for depression than pills, hadn’t he? He attributed Donald’s high spirits to his daily dance and practice regime.
‘OK, darling, I’ll try that,’ she said out loud.
She rushed into the bedroom, grabbed a pair of old slacks and a T-shirt. It had stopped raining so she just wore a cardigan and plimsolls. Wrapping her old bathing costume in a towel, she made for the local sports centre.
At the desk, she was about to ask for her ticket when the blonde receptionist shrieked over her head, ‘Benedict, Peter, how lovely to see you. Where have you been all my life?’
Mouth caught open, ready to speak, Marguerite turned to see two young men ambling through the door, swinging squash racquets, the personification of the young upwardly mobile breed that had been gentrifying her area. Marguerite hated both of them on sight on Tony’s behalf. Their vulgar offices were replacing the docks where men had done proper work, he would have said. She would have too, if she could have made herself heard, but now one of them was talking loudly into a huge, just-about portable, phone about some deal he was broking, whilst the other drawled over Marguerite’s head about his ‘out of this world trip to Ibiza with ecstasy of every sort’; this was accompanied by a discreet pantomime of swallowing a pill and reaching orgasm.
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