The Kissing Gate

by Susan Sallis

  Victor smiled back. ‘Thank God you were so happy. I was never sure. Even when you arrived here, I wasn’t sure.’ He leaned over and put a hand on Ned’s arm. ‘Stay true to all of it. It’s so important, Ned. That’s what I am trying to say. Don’t do what I did. Be faithful.’

  ‘I still don’t get it,’ Ned said. ‘You haven’t told me exactly how you were unfaithful.’

  Victor was surprised. ‘I lost my wife and was ill with grief. Your mother had nursed her through the last months. She nursed me, too. And I thought I could forget Davie by loving Kate. She was so lovable, Ned. You know that.’ He dropped his head into his hands. ‘When she told me she was pregnant, I knew I would have to marry her. It was only right. Give the baby my name, protect them both … it was how I was brought up, Ned. You can understand that.’ He looked over his hands and Ned nodded.

  Victor’s voice dropped. ‘It didn’t work. When you were born, it came to me that it was never going to work. Davie couldn’t have children. I had been unfaithful to her twice over. Kate and I – we got right away from Gloucestershire. Went to St Ives and tried to live in the artists’ colony. That didn’t work either. Davie would have loved the place: the Newlyn School, the feeling of being back in the twenties.’ He put both hands in his lap and looked at Ned. ‘Can you begin to understand?’

  Ned swallowed and dropped his eyes from the pleading face. All he knew was that his mother had been rejected. Not even second best.

  Victor said, ‘I think – I am almost certain – that she was relieved. She knew Dennis better than I did at first. He was a bit of an outsider like me, and she had him to meals, that kind of thing. I’m surprised you don’t remember him, old man. He tried to teach you how to play baseball. He used to arrive on the beach and say, “Howdy, folks,” and you took him off.’

  Ned frowned, concentrating on a fleeting glimpse of a thin gangle of a man and then realized it was Jem who looked after the beach donkeys. He said, ‘I don’t remember anything much before I was five.’ He had started school then, and identified the girl in Standard Three who looked at things so intensely.

  Victor said, ‘I’ve tried to block things. I’ve managed to do it with the war. I couldn’t live with that.’

  ‘But what about your war paintings? They made you famous.’

  ‘A-a-agh.’ The sigh had become a groan. Frank was up with his chin on Victor’s knee. The long tongue came out and tried to lick sideways at the hand that was clutched into a fist. Victor immediately relaxed and fondled the dog’s ears. ‘It’s all right, old chap. No pain. No pain.’ Frank subsided slightly.

  Victor said, ‘The price we pay for true empathy, Ned. We see the cost of it when we see how our feelings affect animals.’

  Ned felt tears behind his eyes. He had always understood that his mother could not show him any more love than she showed to Gussie; now he could hear her words when she placed new-born Jannie in his arms. ‘Two sisters, Ned. Bit much, I suppose. Good job you can take it.’

  Victor said, ‘I didn’t want to do those paintings, Ned. But I knew they’d sell. And then I could paint what I wanted to paint. And I could marry Davie. And everyone – everyone in the family – would be happy.’ He leaned down and looked into Frank’s eyes. ‘And that’s how it was. I must never forget that. Never. We had over twenty years, precious years.’ He looked up. ‘I wish you could have known Davie. What a stupid thing to say – if Davie was alive, you wouldn’t be here, would you? But she would have loved you.’ He squeezed his eyes shut as if to clear them and then went on, ‘Ned, I’m sorry, I realize that every word I say is hurting you. Forgive me. I’m going to bed now and we’ll start again tomorrow. Fresh slate. No more memory lane, eh?’ He patted the dog. ‘Listen, you can have Frank again tonight. He’s all I have to offer, really.’

  He began to ease himself forward, ready to stand, and paused to gather himself. ‘Listen, Ned. If there is anything – if you came for something special – let me know. If you want me to donate my stuff to The Spirit of America – anything really – tell me. I betrayed Davie with Kate. Perhaps there might be something that would make it less of a betrayal. I don’t know.’

  He pushed on the arms of the chair and was halfway up when Ned put out a hand and managed to choke, ‘Please don’t go. Not yet.’

  Victor collapsed instantly, then laughed. ‘That’s easy. Easier than going.’ He turned sideways. ‘There is something. Tell me. I know McKinnon is a good man really. I don’t care where my work goes. Kate and your father were Trustees. It’s only right—’

  Ned said fiercely, ‘I don’t care about that either. Your stuff is never going to die wherever it goes. I want something else. I want something … something … to get my family back.’ Tears were pouring down his face. He thumped his chest painfully. ‘I want something here. Inside me. A knowledge.’

  ‘Perhaps we should sleep on it. Tomorrow is another day and all that?’

  ‘Mum said that. Did you get that from Mum?’

  ‘Probably. I got so much from her.’

  ‘That might be too late. You might die in the night.’

  Victor sat back, roaring with sudden laughter. Ned realized what he had said and tried hard to pull himself together and then deliberately went on, ‘It’s true. We’re here at rock bottom, somehow. Impetus. All that stuff. You have to go on talking. Something … something might come. Like an anchor … just to stop the boat from drifting. We’re drifting, you see.’

  Victor was silent. Ned took out one of Mark’s handkerchiefs and blew his nose fiercely.

  Victor said at last, ‘Where shall I start? Will it hurt you if I talk about Davie?’

  ‘I don’t know.’ Ned stared at the handkerchief. It had a wildly embroidered M and B in one corner, probably executed by Jannie several years ago. It was stained with paint. He stuffed it into his pocket. ‘Start where you can.’

  ‘I have to start with Davie. If it hadn’t been for Davie your mother would never have come into our lives. Your mother was a nurse, Ned. Of course you know that. She took on private nursing. Twenty-four-hour nursing. She told me she wanted to concentrate on one person, all the time.’ He looked down at the dog. ‘She did that. She was like my mother, who used to talk of wrapping me in cotton wool when I was ill as a small boy. Kate did the same sort of thing. She wrapped Davie in her love, they became two parts of a whole. I heard her say once, “Give the pain to me, Davie, let me carry it for you,” and Davie believed that she did just that. On good days Kate would lay a special afternoon tea on the trolley – one of those cake stands, with two chocolate eclairs and the bone-china cups that had belonged to my grandmother. After Davie died she kept it up and made me eat an eclair and drink tea from the cups and – and – oh God – make conversation.’ He tried to smile. ‘She said she would stay until I was on my feet and she timetabled my day, hour by hour, so that I wouldn’t fall into the hole.’

  He held up his hand as Ned opened his mouth to speak. ‘No, I’m all right. I need to say these things and you need to hear them. Kate’s goodness was … wonderful. Totally practical. We went for walks and she would ask questions about the city and the cathedral and Bishop Hooper. She probably knew more about the history of Gloucester than I knew myself but she never corrected what I told her and often I made it up so that we could go back to the house and eat pikelets and stare into the fire.’ He paused. ‘You can guess what happened. I never slept and I was probably half mad by the time spring came. I went to her room.’ He heard Ned’s protesting cry and said quickly, ‘Sorry. Sorry, old man. Let that go. Suffice it to say we got married as quickly as possible and you were born six months later.’

  They were both silent. Frank stood up and put his head on Victor’s knees. Ned knew that meant the old man was distressed. He gritted his teeth and tried to whip up some of his old anger.

  ‘So then you felt guilty and you tried living with other artists and it didn’t work so you dumped us. After all my mother – your wife – had done for you, you left
us. She had to work at the cottage hospital and I drifted around on the beach after school.’ As he said the words Ned recalled uneasily that there had been an ‘arrangement’ with someone who would look after him for that hour before his mother came home but he had skipped off to the beach and asked Jem if he could help with the donkeys. And then there had been Gussie.

  Victor was startled out of his other world. He turned in his chair, jolting the dog away as he did so. ‘We talked about it – Kate and Dennis and me. She knew – she understood. There was a weekly allowance – the little cottage – you remember the little cottage. And then we divorced and halved everything.’ He swallowed audibly. ‘Ned, you have to believe me. I was not a fit husband or father. All right, I came here for my own sake, but also for yours. I could have dragged you down with me.’ Frank put a sandy paw on Victor’s swivelled knees and gave a tiny whine.

  Ned shifted in his chair, stretched his legs against threatening cramp, took in the poorly lit room again. His father had lived in this solitary place for over twenty years, a lot of that time on his own. He closed his eyes, heard the old man settle back, say something soothing to the dog.

  ‘She never spoke about it. She was like that. I did not realize how much she disliked the studio cottage until we moved into Zion Cottage. When Dad’s stumps were hurting him she never asked him about it, but I knew she was worried.’ He sat forward and rubbed his legs. ‘Sometimes … well, I suppose I got the wrong messages. And I filled in big gaps with my own versions.’ He tried to laugh. Then he levered himself up. ‘But I know she missed you. That was probably why she worked at the hospital.’

  Victor moved too. ‘I missed both of you. I nearly came back. Lots of times. But I had no right.’

  Ned said, ‘I have to walk around a bit. Please don’t go. You haven’t really told me about your first wife.’ He looked at Victor’s face. ‘You said you had over twenty years together and they were happy years.’

  For a moment he thought Victor was going to clam up. Frank almost held him to the chair with his paw and Victor made to move it, and then left it where it was and settled back again. But all he said was, ‘I have a life here, you know, Ned. Conrad and me … we check the shore, we make notes about the weather every day. I have done what your mother did. I have blocked out certain memories – the ones that are negative.’

  ‘You still work?’ Ned had spotted a bottle and some glasses on a side table. He poured a small measure of whiskey into a glass.

  ‘Every day.’ Victor accepted the glass and indicated that Ned should join him. ‘Those abstracts McKinnon wants – they are actually scapes of one kind or another. I drowned myself in sand, sea and sky when Dennis left. They represented the universe to me. I told McKinnon he could have them. He wanted some of the others, too. I said no.’

  Ned sipped the neat whiskey and was reminded of Rory. He sat down again and put the glass on the floor. He was shocked. Mack had become an ally, a friend. And all the time he was angling for something else.

  ‘I had no idea,’ he said. ‘I promise you that is not why I came to see you.’

  Victor held up a hand. ‘I know. I know. He told me I must not involve you in any kind of argument. And I am not going to do that, Ned. But some time while you are with me, you must come into the shed – I refuse to call it a studio – and look at the stuff he wants. We won’t talk about it. We will just look. Will you do that?’

  Ned said, ‘Of course.’ And then, ‘With great pleasure.’ He was relieved; obviously Mack was … all right.

  Victor took an enormous breath and let it go. ‘There are many paintings of Davie.’

  Ned waited, gnawing his lip, tasting the unfamiliar whiskey.

  Victor said, ‘Did you know she was my cousin?’

  ‘I know nothing about her.’ But the words electrified him.

  ‘Her name was Davina Daker. Her mother and my mother were sisters, very close. I held Davie in my arms when she was born. We had always known each other. She was quite a bit younger than me and it made a difference for years. In fact, I was in love with her mother for a very long time. And Davie was in love with another cousin. It was all a bit incestuous. That’s another of those over-used words these days.’ He did not smile. ‘Gloucester was small then. My grandfather was a tailor with a large clientele. Davie’s parents ran a clothing business. My mother was a hairdresser and knew everything about everyone!’ He managed a small laugh. Ned gave him a quick, curious glance. The close-knit family picture that was appearing was miles from the hermit-like existence of this elderly man.

  Victor went on, ‘I was three years in a POW camp during the war, and when I came home she had changed. She was beautiful, talented – a singer, you know. But she had built a protective wall around herself. The love affair that had been a large part of her life since early teens – it was over. And she wasn’t going to let it happen again. Ever.’ He laughed again, a different laugh, almost a chuckle. ‘And then this crock of a cousin – another cousin – returned from Germany and couldn’t seem to talk or paint or shave or sleep …’ He shook his head. ‘She had a job to do. And she did it very well.’

  He sighed and finished his whiskey, then put the glass next to Frank, who sniffed it, shook his head violently and sneezed. They both laughed then.

  Victor said, ‘That’s it really. Davie achieved fame. She was soloist with a great many orchestras. I went on painting. After the war pictures, I did landscapes. We were surrounded by the Cotswolds. And then came the industrial scapes. I painted Gloucester while it was still a working port. We were sublimely happy. No children. It was my fault. I was glad it wasn’t anything to do with Davie. But … it was my fault.’

  Ned frowned and almost asked a question; but then did not.

  ‘The first we knew of the illness was when she lost her voice.’ Victor drew an enormous breath. ‘And the rest is history, of course.’

  He began to get up. ‘Time, gentleman, I think. Don’t you?’

  ‘Right.’ Ned leaped to his feet and held out an arm. ‘Grab this, if it helps.’

  It did not help but Victor grabbed the arm anyway and they staggered past Frank.

  ‘I’ll switch everything off, old man. You take the dog and go.’ Victor stopped by one of the lamps. ‘Did it help? In any way?’

  Ned hesitated by the door. ‘Yes. It helped. I’m not sure yet how or why, but I know it did. Just one thing.’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘You said that it was your fault there were no children from your marriage. But then … there’s me.’

  ‘Quite.’ Victor looked across the room. ‘It’s taken a long time to believe in you, Ned. Thank you for coming to see me.’

  He flicked a switch and said, ‘Go on, Frank. Stay with Ned.’

  Ned held on to the doorjamb; he could feel tears on his face. He said, ‘I’m all right, Victor. Let Frank be with you tonight.’

  He crossed the hallway into his bedroom. Conrad had switched on the bedside lamp and turned down the bed. Ned fell on to it, face down. He clutched the pillow and wept. These were new tears. These were tears for Victor and Davie Gould.

  Sixteen

  CONTRARY TO HER careful plans, Jannie went home at Easter.

  She almost wept when she told Robert Hanniford.

  ‘I know I’m leaving you in the lurch, Robert, but now that Kai’s family are taking him off on this adventure holiday, there will be only the three boys. And you always cope anyway.’

  ‘My dear girl,’ she always hated it when he called her that, ‘just relax, for goodness’ sake. Geoff and Elizabeth would normally be on their own, district nurses at the ready as usual, of course. I’m staying so that I can use the workshop. You know all this, Jan. Stop beating yourself up. I understand. In fact, I’m envious. My parents have both embarked on second marriages and certainly don’t want an adult son turning up. Not for a while, anyway.’

  He laughed but Jannie chose to think of him as rejected. She tightened her mouth against a flow of sympathy an
d that drew down her snub nose and made Robert laugh more.

  ‘What?’ she asked.

  ‘You look exactly like Kai looked when he was pestering his parents to take him on this holiday. And that’s another thing, Jan. He is the one who fusses and makes problems. With him out of the way, the other three are almost independent.’

  ‘And I’m like him, am I?’ But she knew what he meant, and she smiled and relaxed. He was right, of course; he always was. She said, ‘It’s just that I don’t want to leave you for three whole weeks.’

  He nodded. ‘I know. But, Jan, we have to slow down. We need to make a bedrock. We’ve known each other such a short time. You were twenty-one two months ago, I’m twenty-six. I work as a handy man at a residential school in the back end of Devon and you’re still a student.’

  ‘I know. But you’re a genius and I’m so good with geniuses! My dad was one and my mum was another in a different way. In fact, you and me, we’re just like them, Robert. No, honestly. And this isn’t a resurrection wish – have you not heard of that? It’s the absolute opposite to a death wish. Yes, all right, I made it up. But, oh my God, Robert, I know in my bones and my soul that we’re meant to be a pair. I can slow down if you like, but we both know that, don’t we?’

  He looked at her and sighed. ‘Yes, Brisket. We both know that.’

  She loved it when he called her that. Nobody ever had before. It was his special, special name for her. She loved it and she loved him.

  But she could not let Gussie be all alone at Easter. And Ned was staying in California indefinitely, it seemed. When she thought of the three of them so far apart it frightened her. Gussie had had that awful time in France with that dreadful woman who was her mother, then all the uproar when she got back home because the woman had accidentally pushed someone into a river and then dived in and rescued him. Luckily Gussie had been at Aunt Ro’s. But then she had insisted on going home and had already had over a month of her own company. And now Ned had announced he still couldn’t leave his father.