by Susan Moody
‘Again, I don’t know.’
Nine
That year, as spring gave way to summer, the weather deteriorated. Unseasonable rain lashed the country, rivers burst their banks, floods devastated areas from Scotland to Devon, people and animals drowned, cars and houses were washed away. London itself was dreary and miserable. In the small back garden behind my house, grey rain slanted down on to sodden earth, despairing plants lay collapsed on the beds, roses were weighed down by the sodden mass of their blooms. It was too wet for me to enjoy my usual weekend activities of strolling in the parks, or walking through the city. Instead, I made a point of visiting all the art exhibitions on show, catching up on missed films or eating out with friends.
I had evaluated the days I had spent at Weston Lodge nearly two months before and found that although my visit there had only partially achieved its intended purpose, at least the horror and rawness of Sabine’s death, which in all these years had never left me, was now so muted that I knew I was finally putting it behind me. For good, I hoped.
A few weeks weeks later, while I was drinking a cup of coffee before heading for Chauncey’s, my mobile bleeped.
Gavin Vaughn. ‘Hope I’m not calling at an antisocial hour,’ he said.
‘Eight fifteen? I don’t think so.’
‘I’ve just got off a flight from Singapore. And all the way across all those mountains and oceans, all I could think of was calling you to see whether we can meet up.’
‘I would think so.’ I felt my heart lift.
‘Tonight would be bad,’ he said. ‘I’d just fall asleep over the soup. But tomorrow?’
‘You’re on.’
We met the next day in front of the National Gallery. I’d spent the years since Ham’s death taking responsibility for everything in my life, and I felt a huge relief as Gavin gave me a friendly hug. For this evening, at least, I would have to make no decisions.
He took my arm and folded it into his as he led me towards a small Greek restaurant tucked away behind the London Coliseum theatre. I remembered my certainty, the first time we met, that this was a man who would always have a spare can of gas in the boot of his car. Steady, reliable – but also full of enthusiasm and vitality. And very sexy.
‘I wanted to get in touch much much earlier than this,’ he said over a Greek salad and kebabs – I don’t mind gastronomic clichés: at least they have the ring of faux-authenticity about them – ‘but my firm sent me off to Valparaíso almost as soon as I got back from that weekend, and I’ve been on the run since then. But that didn’t stop me thinking about you.’
I couldn’t help smiling. ‘Good,’ I said.
‘And before we go any further, shall we agree not to discuss …’ He made a comic face, widening his eyes and raising his eyebrows. ‘… you-know-what?’
‘Oh God, yes,’ I said. ‘Anyway, what else is there to say about it?’
So we talked about everything under the sun, as they say. He told me about his days in Singapore, that clean, crime-free city; I told him about Rome.
‘Never been there,’ he said. ‘Maybe I should go some time.’
‘My father lives there,’ I said. ‘I’m sure he’d love to see you.’
‘Or us. I couldn’t just show up on his doorstep. Remember that guy who wrote a book about doing up an old house in Provence? He made it sound so idyllic that he had every third cousin twice removed of anyone he’d ever spoken to in his life showing up for a free holiday.’
‘OK.’ I laughed. ‘We’ll go together.’
‘When, when? The Eternal City … there’s so much to see and do.’
‘Soon. I’ll call my father and let you know.’
‘You’re on!’
We looked at each other. Broke into spontaneous laughter. Tipped our glasses at each other. And that was it. The beginning … or perhaps the continuation … of exactly the kind of relationship I had been longing for.
As someone once said, though, men are like buses. Either none at all, or six in a row. A couple of weeks later, Malcolm Macdonald called me up. ‘I’m in London for the weekend,’ he said. ‘Could I take you out for dinner?’
‘That would be great,’ I said, really meaning it. He was a nice man, and I had enjoyed his company at Weston Lodge.
‘This evening? Tomorrow?’ he asked.
Having fixed time and place, I wondered what Dad would say if I told him. All too easily I could hear his voice: ‘Isn’t this a step too far, honey? First the same courses as your sister, then her university, then the kind of job she wanted. And now dating her boyfriend? Come on, Chantal. Get a grip. Time to get a life of your own.’
And he’d be perfectly right. Except for the dating bit. Since Malcolm’s main connection to me was my sister, that would really be bordering on the crazy. And, in any case, it wasn’t the fact of Malcolm’s former relationship with Sabine that I had liked. It was his Scottishness, the voice that was so like Ham’s, the person behind the kind eyes.
That first time we met up, I told myself that I wouldn’t mention Sabine at all. We’d talk generally, learn a bit about each other, have a nice evening, maybe at the end of it make a date for the next time he came down to London.
And as all women do, and despite Gavin, I asked myself whether, if the opportunity arose, I could go to bed with him. Could I sleep with a man who had slept with my sister? If we got that close, would Sabine have any bearing on what might occur? I really didn’t want to go there.
Malcolm was wearing a business suit when we met at the restaurant he’d suggested in Soho. He looked elegant and in charge. I liked that.
‘Right,’ he said, after orders had been placed, wine ordered, small talk exchanged about how nice it was to see each other again after … what was it? … goodness me, over three months, ‘I wanted to talk about your sister.’
‘Is there anything more to say?’
‘I thought you might like to know some of the things she wrote to me about before her death. They would be very different from the kind of information she was sending home to you in California.’ He reached into the breast pocket of his jacket and pulled out a few envelopes with my sister’s distinctive hand on them. ‘Obviously, I don’t mean the personal stuff. But things about the family, the house, the … uh … lads, her employers.’
‘She wrote pretty comprehensively to me,’ I said. ‘Actually, Malcolm, if you don’t mind, I’d rather not talk about Sabine at all. Not tonight, at least.’ How was that for not taking decisions?
He seemed surprised, even taken aback. ‘Oh. All right. If that’s what you—’
‘Are you married, Malcolm?’ I asked.
‘I have been.’
‘What happened?’
‘Oh.’ He shrugged. ‘The usual. She found someone she liked better than me.’ He refilled our glasses. ‘What about you?’
‘Would you and my sister have got it together?’ I asked, avoiding the question.
‘Who knows?’ He smiled. ‘It was lovely while it lasted.’
‘How often do you get down here?’
‘At least twice a month. Maybe next time, we could—’
‘I’d like that,’ I said. The second interruption in three minutes. ‘We could take in a play. Or a concert, maybe.’
And suddenly we were away from what had originally brought us together. We began to discuss our likes and dislikes in music. From there we moved to books, theatre, the worst programmes on TV, the best, our favourite movies – all the trivia that two newly met people talk about. Of course there had been men in my life since I lost Ham, but until Gavin, none of them had been very important. Nor did I perceive Malcolm as being of any importance, either, but I liked him more than others I’d met.
When the evening came to a natural end, he pulled out his diary and told me when he would next be down in London. He said that he would telephone in advance. He didn’t try to extend the evening. Was I disappointed? Maybe, just a little.
This is not a story about a love aff
air. But that summer constituted some of the happiest weeks of my adult life. Gavin and I seemed destined for each other. He knew a tremendous amount about the kind of world I moved in, and I knew almost nothing about his. But we had a shared enthusiasm for rugby, and frequently found ourselves at Twickenham, or in Wales at Cardiff Arms Park, as it was still called then, cheering on one side or another. ‘My father’s from Abergavenny, as it happens,’ he told me. ‘So I get to root for two sides.’
‘What happens when Wales plays England?’ I asked.
‘Then I can cheer them both on.’
All our conversations seemed to lead to hilarity. It was simple, harmless, frivolous stuff, and I loved it. I began to see that over the years I had smiled little and laughed less. Now everything, seen through the prism of Gavin’s far-from-solemn gaze, amused me.
The question of whether we should eventually move in together was one which hovered over the two of us, though we never discussed it. I think we both felt that although there was no hurry, it was inevitable. And we did indeed go over to Rome to visit Dad and his contessa. The first night we were there, Gavin gave my father a present wrapped in soft tissue paper. ‘It’s not valuable,’ he said, sounding almost shy, ‘and you’ve probably got a copy already, but it’s such a pretty edition that I couldn’t resist buying it for you.’
‘Oh, my goodness.’ Dad gazed down at the beautifully bound volume of Thomas Hardy’s poems which lay between his careful hands. Seventy-five years old, it was bound in scarlet leather with gorgeous marbled endpapers, and the covers were decorated with gilt titles and double rules around the panels. The paper was tissue-paper thin, with a hardly faded scarlet silk-ribbon bookmark. Having lived with my father for so long, I knew the jargon. ‘This is incredibly kind of you, my boy.’
‘I’m really glad if you like it, sir.’
‘Iss beautiful,’ said the contessa. ‘Where did you find it?’
‘There’s a little second-hand bookshop round the corner from my flat. Chantal told me you were both into books, and when I saw it, I thought it would be just right.’
‘It is just right,’ said Dad.
My heart was touched by Gavin’s thoughtfulness. He couldn’t have chosen a more apposite gift. ‘Oh, darling,’ I said tenderly, my heart melting. I rested my hand on his shoulder.
He smiled and reached up to cover my fingers.
Rome was wrapped in the amber light of autumn, and we walked hand in hand through narrow streets to visit galleries and churches and the usual tourist destinations, or simply to sit at pavement cafés and watch the world go by. I was happy in an unshadowed, uncomplicated way, and I believe Gavin was too. We were at the start of the rest of our lives: we both knew it.
Gavin had to get back for work on the following Monday, but I had a few days of leave owing me, and I travelled with Dad and Ingrid to her villa on the coast.
After a lunch of freshly caught fish and salad, Dad and I were sitting on the patio of the seaside house. We could see for miles, to where the horizon misted into nothingness in the heat. Far below us, the peacock-blue sea rolled slowly in to a small white beach.
‘This is almost too much,’ my father said. ‘Sometimes I feel that something dreadful needs to happen, to make up for such beauty. There needs to be a grain of sand in the oyster. A serpent in the Eden.’
‘Why not just enjoy it?’ I said from where I sat on the swing-seat. Tomorrow I would be returning to England, and the weather reports had not been encouraging.
‘It’s the Protestant work ethic,’ said Dad. ‘I was brought up to believe that we were not put on this earth to enjoy ourselves. We’re supposed to work hard and live frugally, not lounge about in sybaritic idleness.’
I wasn’t really listening as I lazily turned the pages of the Corriere della Sera, which was delivered every morning by the store down in the little white town.
‘Yes,’ Dad continued, sniffing the thyme-laden air, shading his eyes to look out at the sea. ‘Plain living and high thinking, as the poet has it: that’s what we were supposed to be aiming for.’
I looked at him with love. He wore nicely cut shorts and a striped shirt: he was tanned and fit, with a head of thick greying hair. He looked good. He looked happy.
‘Do you miss Mom?’ I asked suddenly.
‘Of course I do. But life is not about regrets, it’s about moving onwards as well, bursting joy’s grape and all that. Don’t you miss Hamilton?’
‘All the time.’ But, I realized, with a sharp pang of disloyalty, I had dwelt on the loss of Sabine to a much greater extent than that of Ham.
A bird trilled suddenly from one of the fruit-laden lemon trees which stood in blue ceramic pots around the garden. The sky was criss-crossed with vapour trails from planes taking off or landing at the nearby airport. There was no sound except the distant murmur of the sea.
‘So what did you think?’ I asked.
‘About what?’
‘About Gavin, of course.’
‘I thought he was extremely nice. So did Ingrid.’
‘Nice? Nice? What kind of a word is that?’
‘It’s the first time we’ve met him,’ he said mildly. ‘Give us a chance to get to know him.’
‘You sound as though you have reservations.’
‘Absolutely not. It’s just … the two of us would like to know more. But that’s our age, I guess. Certainly, on first meeting, your Gavin seems intelligent, thoughtful, energetic – and he’s resolved to win you, like some medieval knight. Bringing that beautiful edition of Hardy was a master-stroke.’
‘You make him sound so calculating.’
‘Not in the least, darling. But he’s obviously a determined young man—’
I couldn’t help thinking of Sabine, those mutilated little boys: lucky, lucky Gavin, to get away physically intact from that madwoman, even if not completely emotionally, and lucky me that he had.
The contessa’s manservant appeared across the marble tiles of the patio on well-trained silent feet and asked if there was anything he could get us. Dad looked at his watch. ‘Thank you, Sergio,’ he said, ‘I’d like a glass of rosé. How about you, Chantal?’
I looked at my watch. Four o’clock in the afternoon. ‘Whatever happened to plain living?’ I said.
‘The hell with it,’ said Dad.
I smiled. He and my mother had been happy together for many years, but the new Dad had settled easily into a different kind of happiness. More hedonistic, less earnest. And why not? The premature deaths of two of his family must have contributed largely to his current laissez-faire attitude.
‘I’ll join my father,’ I said, trying hard to sound as if my arm were being twisted.
Below us, light flashed like electric signals on the kingfisher-blue of the water. Two white-sailed yachts drifted from one side of the bay to the other; a group of seagulls bobbed in the waves. Sergio reappeared with a tray holding a silver bucket and an opened bottle of wine. He poured us each a glass, handed us each a small dish of black olives and returned to the house.
‘Here’s to heaven,’ my father said, tipping his glass at me.
Over the roof of the house, we heard the swirl of gravel from the courtyard in front of the building. The slam of a door. Brisk footsteps. The contessa had arrived.
She swept out on to the patio, all exclamations and kisses, a poppy-splattered white sundress showing off her tan and long Scandinavian legs. ‘Sandro! Chantal! Buongiorno, buongiorno! Come stai? Ah, you are drinking. I too shall have a glass of vino. No, no, do not call for Sergio, I shall share your glass, caro mio.’ She sank down beside my father and took the glass from his hand.
‘And how are you, cara?’ he said. ‘Did you get your business done?’
‘Perfectly, thank you, perfectly. And now see what I have brought you, Alessandro.’ She handed Dad a small package.
He opened it and gazed at the contents transfixed. ‘My God, Ingrid, where did you get this?’
‘I have been looking for
some time, caro. And then it came up for sale. I knew you wanted it, so I bought it for you.’ The contessa stroked my father’s thick white hair, then playfully pinched his cheek, while I looked elsewhere. I was so glad that Dad had found new happiness, but that couldn’t stop me wishing that maman was there instead.
‘Look at this, Chantal.’ He held up a small book.
‘What is it?’
‘It’s an extremely rare first edition. Take a look.’ He handed it to me.
I opened it at the title page and read: The Life and Strange Surprizing Adventures of Robinson Crusoe, of York, Mariner. There was a frontispiece illustration of Crusoe in his goatskin coat and hat, and behind him the posts of the stockade he built. A large starfish lay beside his bare feet, while his ship – supposedly wrecked – tossed on the stormy waves out to sea. ‘Lovely,’ I said. ‘Lucky you.’ The little volume felt smooth and gentle in my hands.
Later, after a dinner of grilled lamb and risotto ai funghi, eaten under the grape arbour at the side of the house, accompanied by a carafe of the coarse local wine, and served by Sergio in a starched white jacket, I borrowed a torch and made my way down the steep little steps which had been cut out of the rock and led down to the beach. There was nobody about so I stripped off my clothes and ran into the milk-warm sea. Phosphorescence trailed behind me, sparkling in the dark water like the tail of a comet. Floating on my back, I gazed up at the stars, languidly lifting an arm now and then to watch the incandescent light pour down my arm. No other lights were visible from Ingrid’s private little bay: I felt as though I had the entire world to myself. And my life at last seemed to be on an even keel.
When I got back, my father and the contessa had retired to the small private sitting room attached to their bedroom. I poured myself a last glass of Ingrid’s excellent Chianti and tiptoed along the marble corridors to my bedroom, where I dialled my closest friend and colleague in London.
‘Hi, Lorna,’ I said. ‘How’s it all going?’
‘Dreadful, darling. We need you. Desperately! We’re going to rack and ruin without you. Come back!’ Lorna was always theatrical.