‘Anonymously,’ Alfie muttered.
Viv turned to him and spoke sharply. ‘Yes. But that’s not really the point, is it? The point is the stories and the pleasure they bring to children.’ She turned back to face me and there was a sadness in her eyes I hadn’t seen before. ‘I never had any kids of my own, but I rather wish I had. I can’t say I ever wanted a husband, but I do love children. I regret that I’ve never been a mother.’
‘You were more of a mother to Hattie than Rae ever was,’ Alfie said.
‘I suppose so. Hattie was a lovable child. It wasn’t difficult mothering her, it’s just that Rae wasn’t the maternal type. Some people just aren’t. Rae wanted marriage, but she didn’t want children. Well, in those days - I was born in 1957 - you didn’t get to vote. Children were expected of you and most women didn’t have careers. Rae didn’t exactly choose motherhood. Things were all very different then.’
‘Do you think she started writing to escape?’
‘From the family? Oh, yes, I’m sure she did! And when she more or less turned her back on Harriet, it fell to me to look after her. So, in a way, I feel I have known motherhood. I might have had the best of it, in fact. The pleasure without the pain. What’s more, my other children - my readers - will never grow up.’
‘Like bloody Tom Dickon Harry.’
Viv looked across at Alfie with a sad smile. ‘Yes, like dear old Tom. They’re for ever young. As they grow up, they’re replaced by the next generation, so all those letters to Rae—’
‘To the author of the books, you mean,’ said Alfie, interrupting.
Viv smiled at him again. ‘Thank you,’ she said. ‘The letters are always much the same. Though nowadays, they aren’t as well spelled and punctuated as they used to be! But they’re always lively and affectionate and… full of wonder. It’s an enormous pleasure and privilege to receive them. I don’t ask for any more. That would be greedy.’ She stood up and started clearing away the breakfast things. ‘Anyway, I must go and pick some sprouts and dig up some parsnips for tomorrow’s lunch. Hattie will load the dishwasher, you don’t need to bother about that. Oh, and there’s some vegetable soup thawing in the Aga. Help yourselves when you feel hungry. If the weather stays fine, I may stay outside and get a few chores done.’
Viv disappeared into the lobby. After a few moments we heard the back door open and close, then she walked past the window in the direction of the kitchen garden. Alfie didn’t speak and neither did I. Eventually I said, ‘You knew?’
‘About Viv and the books? Yes, I knew. I’m family. I know all their dark secrets.’
‘And they know all of yours?’
‘God, I hope not. I like to think I still have some remnants of a private life. I know about them, but they don’t really know about me. It’s not exactly a two-way street and that’s the way I prefer it. It’s how I hold on to a sense of identity. Some things need to be… inviolate.’
I looked at him across the table and noticed the tension in his shoulders. He looked tired. ‘You’re really rather a private person, aren’t you? For an actor, I mean.’
‘Yes, I’m afraid I am.’
‘Why are you apologising?’
‘Because I think maybe you didn’t realise that.’ His steady gaze held mine. ‘And because I think it might be a problem for you.’
I pushed my empty coffee mug away. ‘Does anyone know you, Alfie? I mean, really know you?’
He thought for a moment, then said, ‘No, I don’t think so. Fanny probably knows me as well as anybody. But I wouldn’t say she knows me well. Does anyone know you? The real Gwen?’
The question threw me and I hadn’t realised until he asked, how I would have to answer. ‘No, I don’t think they do.’
‘You see. We’re kindred spirits.’
‘But there’s a difference, Alfie. A big difference. You don’t want to be known. I do.’
‘Why?’
I thought for a while, then said carefully, ‘Because I don’t think you can love someone without knowing them.’
He looked thoughtful. ‘What about love at first sight? Do you believe in that?’
‘Yes, I think I do. But it isn’t really love, is it? It’s a rapport, an intuitive understanding, perhaps just a strong sexual attraction that quickly becomes love. Until you know someone, you don’t love them, you just love the idea of them. Something you’ve constructed in your head, like a character in fiction. You could be totally wrong about them.’
‘You might love the fiction more than the fact, you mean?’
‘Yes.’
‘Is there any real harm in that? If the fiction can be sustained, I mean?’ He drained his coffee cup. ‘We all have fantasies, don’t we?’
‘I suppose there’s no real harm. So long as—’
‘What?’
‘So long as people are aware of the boundaries.’
‘Boundaries?’
‘Where fact stops and fiction starts.’
‘Ah!’ His eyebrows rose in mock surprise. ‘And do you know where your boundaries are, Gwen? Are they clear? Is there a line drawn between the little girl who was neglected, possibly completely screwed up by her family, and the calm, capable, socially-skilled career woman who can handle sexually importunate men with wit and aplomb?’ I didn’t reply, which was a mistake. He went on. ‘Where do you keep Little Gwen, when she’s not required? What sort of an emotional lead-lined box do you use to contain her? Because you don’t ever let her out, do you? She was buried alive years ago, alongside the rest of your family.’
‘Stop this, Alfie.’
‘Why? Are your boundaries getting blurred?’
‘Stop it! This isn’t fair!’
‘No, you’re right, it’s not. But I think I’ve made my point. Real love, Gwen - if such a thing exists - is when you love someone despite what you know about them. Or don’t know about them.’ He began to recite.
‘Love is not love
Which alters when it alteration finds,
Or bends with the remover to remove:
O no! It is an ever-fixed mark
That looks on tempests and is never shaken.’
‘Is that Shakespeare?’
‘Sonnet 116. And what we know about him wouldn’t fill a small pamphlet. Love is unconditional, Gwen. Or should be. “Love the sinner, not the sin”, and all those other worthy clichés.’ He leaned across the table, his head cocked on one side, and appeared to study me. ‘You think being known increases your chances of being loved, don’t you? Maybe it does in your case. It would certainly increase your chances of being admired and respected. But I don’t think the same can be said of me. I don’t think you’d like the real me. You’re beginning to see more of the real me here and you don’t like it much, do you? You prefer the Alfie Donovan confection I first presented you with. Well, so do I. Which is why I didn’t want to bring you to Creake Hall. I’m known here. By my family. And it isn’t possible for me to pretend. Truth seeps out. Old Alfie bleeds into new. It gets… messy. Because there aren’t any boundaries. Not here. Not for me. Not in the bosom of my family. No boundaries between who I am and who I was. Who I could have been. Should have been. Was I Tom?… Am I Alfie?… It’s not clear, not for me.’ He ran his fingers through his hair in a gesture of exasperation. ‘Sorry, I know I’m not making much sense.’ He reached across the table and grabbed my hand. ‘Gwen, I want you to love me, but I don’t want you to know me.’
I shook my head. ‘That’s just not possible, Alfie. Not for me.’
‘No, I know.’ He looked at me, his eyes defiant. ‘But it’s what I want.’ He released my hand and leaned back in his chair. ‘What do you want?’
‘I don’t know. To be trusted, I suppose. To feel able to trust.’
‘Love comes cheaper.’
‘Maybe it does. I’ve known love. I never doubted for a moment that my family loved me. But I didn’t trust them. Any of them! I couldn’t. I daren’t. If you gave me a choice, Alfie, between love and t
rust, I’d choose trust, every time. Love you can get in the bargain basement, on special offer. Trust is much more expensive. And harder to find.’
‘So…’ He folded his arms and wouldn’t meet my eye. ‘Will you go back to shopping around?’
‘I don’t know. I need to think. I’m so confused by what I feel—’
‘Gwen, if you knew how difficult all this was for me—’
‘Exactly! If I knew how difficult it was… Tell me, Alfie! Explain! Take me into your confidence. I’m not difficult to talk to! I listen. And I don’t judge. Trust me.’
‘You don’t know what you’re asking.’
‘No, I don’t. But I am asking.’
‘Not here, Gwen. Not now. When we’re back in London, maybe. I hear what you’re saying and I understand. I do want to make our relationship work. I mean that, I really do. But it can’t work here. And maybe one day I’ll be able to tell you why.’
‘And until then?’
‘Until then, I think we just have to… play the game.’
‘What game, Alfie?’
His grin was lopsided and quite mirthless. ‘Charades.’
Chapter Twelve
Gwen
It was a morning for revelations.
I left Alfie clearing up the kitchen and went to find Hattie. She’d finished wrapping her presents and agreed to come up to the attic where we took out the Thousand Pyramids quilt, spread it over our knees and set to with a seam-ripper each. Soon the floor was littered with threads and paper triangles.
I suppose there’s something about sitting in close proximity to someone, yet having no eye contact, that encourages the sharing of confidences. Friends tell you they’re gay/having an affair/leaving their spouse while staring woodenly at the motorway through their car windscreen. There’s something about not having to look someone in the eye that makes you brave.
I wasn’t thinking about that at the time. It only occurred to me afterwards, when I thought about the conversation I’d had with Hattie, whom I’d known for just over twenty-four hours.
~~~
Without looking up from the quilt, Gwen said, ‘Are you looking forward to the concert tonight?’
‘Yes. Well, yes and no. I’m looking forward to it being over and everyone saying how much they enjoyed it,’ said Hattie, her curly head bowed over her work.
‘Will you be nervous? I’d be petrified.’
‘I’m a bit nervous now, but I won’t be once I start playing. There’s isn’t room. I shall be totally focussed on the music. And Tyler. He’s a very calming influence.’
‘Yes, he is, isn’t he? I’ve noticed that. He’s very solid somehow.’ Gwen discarded a paper triangle. ‘Have you always played the piano? Since you were small?’
‘Always. Apparently I climbed on to the piano stool at three and demanded that someone teach me how to play.’
‘You must be very good then.’
‘I was. I’m not now. I don’t practise. To be good you have to do hours of practice every day. I used to, but I don’t now.’
‘Why’s that?’
‘I went to music college for a year, got pregnant, had an abortion, then decided I didn’t want to be a musician any more.’ Gwen looked up, astonished, but Hattie’s head remained bent over the quilt, her face hidden by an abundance of unruly hair. She continued to cut stitches and remove papers at speed and Gwen watched as they fluttered to the floor. Hattie continued. ‘I realised I just wasn’t strong enough, you see. I wanted to be the best, but I realised I wasn’t and never would be. So I stopped striving. Now I just play music when I want and how I want.’
Gwen bowed her head and resumed her unpicking. ‘Do you feel sad about that? Disappointed?’
‘Oh, no, it was a tremendous relief! I reverted to my other love, which was sewing. All the hours I used to spend at the piano I now spend making things. I’m much happier. I’m still being creative, you see, and sewing is much less repetitive than music-making. Mind you, there’s no real outlet for passion. Or despair, for that matter. Though I did once see a nineteenth-century widow’s quilt. It was heartbreaking! It was called Darts of Death. There were big black arrows on a white background. Single bed size, of course. Imagine making that!… Anyway, when I feel tumultuous, I play Schubert. Or I go and listen to Tyler play his cello. You perhaps wouldn’t think it to look at him, but that man knows about passion. I think it’s his Polish blood. Well, and his Celtic blood too, I suppose. A double dose. Watch Tyler playing Bach! He bares his soul. I think that’s terribly brave. I wouldn’t do it, never could, and they hammered me for that at music college. Said I was twee. Well, I was only nineteen - what did I know of passion? Enough to get pregnant, that’s all.’
Gwen was aware of the presence of a lump in her throat that made it difficult to speak. She swallowed and said, ‘Do you have any other career plans? You’re still quite young. Are you much older than Alfie?’
‘Six years. So I’m no spring chicken,’ Hattie said with a sigh. ‘I teach a patchwork class locally and Viv says I could develop that. I’ve got City and Guilds, you see, and there’s certainly the demand. But I’m not sure if I could cope with all the people, several days a week. But I’m thinking about it.’
‘I think you should do it if you can. You have so much enthusiasm to share. And skill.’
‘That’s what Viv and Tyler say. Tyler says it would be like playing the piano. I’d be scared until I started, then I’d get so involved in the projects, I wouldn’t have time to be nervous.’
‘I’m sure he’s right.’
‘I know he’s right. Tyler always is. He’s the oracle we all consult. If ever Viv has a problem, she consults Tyler. Not just gardening problems. Things to do with the house. And Rae.’
‘Viv and Tyler… they aren’t an item, are they?’
‘Good Lord, no!’ Hattie snorted. ‘I don’t think Viv’s interested in men at all, if you know what I mean. She’s never talked to me about it, but she had a very close friend in the village for some years, until she died of breast cancer. Viv took it badly, so I did wonder about them.’
‘Has Tyler ever been married?’
‘Not that I know of.’
‘Does he have a girlfriend?’
‘Well, if he does, neither Viv nor I have ever heard a word about her.’
‘That seems surprising, doesn’t it? I mean, he’s quite an attractive man, wouldn’t you say? And he seems very nice. I wonder why he isn’t in a relationship?’
‘Well, who knows what he gets up to in his spare time? Perhaps he goes clubbing in Kings Lynn. And the Young Farmers have a disco twice a year. Perhaps he goes there to pull.’
‘Do you?’
Hattie looked up sharply, then her face crumpled as she burst into giggles. ‘I think I’d do better with the Saga louts at the local day centre. You know, I’ve always fancied learning to play bowls. But they say it’s viciously competitive. Not sure I’ve got the requisite killer instinct.’ She sat up straight and surveyed the floor. ‘Oh, look at the mess we’ve made! You pick up the papers, I’ll pick up the threads. I brought an envelope to store the templates in. It’s on the bed.’
Gwen stacked the papers neatly. The templates cut from letters appeared to be from two people, one of them Alfie. Gwen could discern only two hands and she noticed Alfie’s name signing off a letter, the boy’s clear, bold signature nothing like his writing now.
Hattie was scraping away at the rug, trying to pick up the threads. ‘Hang on a minute,’ said Gwen. ‘I know a better way.’ She opened her sewing box, pulled out a gadget with a revolving sticky cylinder and rolled it over the rug, catching all the threads.
‘What a good idea! I must get one of those.’
‘It’s the wardrobe mistress’ standby. Removes fluff, hairs, threads and dandruff from actors’ costumes. We get through reels and reels of the sticky tape.’
‘Right, I’m going down to heat up some soup. We’d better have some lunch before my sisters arrive. Are
you all right clearing up?’
‘Yes, I’ve almost finished. I’ll be down in a minute.’
As Hattie left the room, the draught from the door lifted the templates stacked neatly on the bed. As she kneeled on the floor, Gwen was showered with the enigmatic confetti of the past.
Gwen
I know I probably shouldn’t have examined the templates. It only happened because I had to gather up the paper triangles again. I found a Dear Ma and a Love from Alfie, so there was no doubt what some of the letters were. I couldn’t resist reading snippets of what I took to be Alfie’s letters home from boarding school, sent to the mother from whom he’d been parted. I assumed the letters were neither particularly private nor cherished as they’d been recycled for patchwork, but I did wonder at the cold heart of a mother who could treat family letters as so much scrap paper. But then I’d never received a letter from any member of my family, apart from one from Uncle Frank when he was doing time in Wormwood Scrubs. Evidently some people didn’t revere hand-written missives the way I did.
So curiosity got the better of me and I tried to decipher the triangular jigsaw pieces of Alfie’s school days. Some were incomprehensible, but others were clearer and I was able to deduce little bits of information from them. From this piece:
I learned there was a boy called Laurie who was in the school play with Alfie, a production of Toad of Toad Hall. Laurie played Badger and Alfie was cast as Toad, a notion which brought a smile to my face. Later I came across an adjacent piece of the same letter:
Reading this piece, I realised Laurence (or Laurie) had been Alfie’s best friend.
The other letters were from Alfie’s father, and were also addressed to Rae. I didn’t examine these any further as it seemed an invasion of privacy, although, once again, I assumed the letters couldn’t have been of a very private nature if Hattie had been given them.
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