There she was. She was picking up leaves and petals from the floor of the shop. She looked up at him with narrow green eyes. Her face was covered with hundreds of pink freckles. She was much younger than he was. Early thirties?
She smiled and said hello.
Aurora loved the lilies. Even though she made a little joke about lilies being associated with death and funerals. But anyway, she did love them. And the perfume was magnificent. She forgave Henry at once. Arnold Smith was informed that the work could begin without delay, the moment planning permission was granted. The diggers moved in and Henry’s greenhouse was taken away in a skip, with the sweet-smelling herbs and rare flowers still inside it, wobbling frantically, in their pots. On the day that his uncle’s tree was wrenched out of the soil, Henry felt a pain in his heart and had to leave the house and go for a walk. On his return, he received three more rejection letters from various publishers in the post.
The building work took over their lives. There were burst pipes, power failures, and arguments with the neighbours about the noise and the dust. Aurora took time off work to keep an eye on things. Henry was spending more time than ever in his bookshop, and eating most of his meals in Muldoon’s. Aurora hardly noticed if he was there or not, as she sat in the half-built conservatory, considering applications to join The Brontë Bunch and fussing over her costume for the BBC documentary: a black dress with a hoop and petticoats, and a white lace bonnet.
David Cropper phoned again and invited Aurora and Henry out to dinner. He was very excited about the filming, which had been given the go-ahead from a Senior Director in the BBC. A late-night slot on BBC2 was cleared for the documentary, he told her. Aurora accepted at once but didn’t invite Henry. He wasn’t interested in the project, she told herself. He would only be suffering in silence at the table. Or worse, telling Mr Cropper exactly what he thought of The Brontë Bunch. And so, she told Henry that she was dining out with a group of film-makers from the BBC. All terribly boring, and no need for Henry to be there. Well, she didn’t want to make her husband jealous, when there was no reason for him to be.
But, when David Cropper rang the doorbell at Aurora’s house, and she met him for the first time, she changed her mind. He was absolutely gorgeous, and Aurora was sorry that she had worn her hair in a tight knot, and a matronly jacket with a high collar. She was as tongue-tied as a silly schoolgirl, making hopeless quips about the weather. However, he seemed delighted with her. They went down the steps together, arm-in-arm, and he opened the door of his car for her and closed it gently when she was safely settled in the passenger seat.
He took her to a lovely restaurant on Linenhall Street, and they had a delicious meal of lobster and dressed salad, and two bottles of white wine. Aurora was very impressed with the oil paintings on the walls, and the polite and discreet service of the waiting staff, and she was even more impressed with David’s sleepy brown eyes and his impeccable suit. His black hair was flecked with grey, but somehow he looked well-educated and upper-class, not old at all. As the perfectly chilled wine did its magic work, Aurora and David became quite flirtatious. He was able to finish off any quotation she began. It was very exciting.
Aurora was thrilled when some other television people came into the restaurant, and David stood up to introduce her to them, and there was lots of hand-shaking and air-kissing. The new arrivals eventually sat at another table, but they sent over a couple of drinks for David and his companion, and Aurora felt that she was now part of a select (and small) group of Belfast intellectuals. Halfway through the evening, she felt like she had known him, always.
She had been more than a little tipsy, she told herself later, when she remembered some of her dramatics at the restaurant table. Halfway through her chocolate pudding, she had told him how close she felt to Emily Brontë, and how she thought Emily had spoken to her in the parsonage at Haworth. It was a kind of vocation, her desire to spread a love of literature. She must carry on the great work that Emily had begun. David listened to the tale without blinking or looking away once. In fact, at one point, he laid his elegant hand on Aurora’s arm and gave it a little squeeze.
She apologised afterwards, of course, when the effect of the wine began to wear off. But he told her he was delighted with her. ‘Enchanted’ was the right word, really, he added. He could feel a certain chemistry between them, he said, as he ordered two Irish coffees. They were on the same wavelength. Together, he told Aurora, they would show the rest of the world that there was more to Belfast than people thought. More than bombs and protests and flags and hysteria.
Keep talking, you handsome devil, she thought. But she only smiled demurely at him, and picked a small box of matches off the counter, with the logo of the restaurant on it, when they were leaving. To keep as a memento.
During the drive home, with David appearing sober as a judge, he explained how the film would be made. He must be a man accustomed to business dinners, Aurora thought, as she struggled to stay awake. She had an overwhelming urge to lie down somewhere, but she wasn’t sure if it was the wine, or David Cropper’s brown eyes, that was the reason for it. Budgets and schedules were discussed. Aurora thought she saw a twinkle in his eye when she described the yards and yards of white cotton that would be required to make the petticoat for her costume, and she became shy, and changed the subject.
Too soon, they were back at the house. When Aurora stepped out of David’s rather shabby little car, she stood on the pavement, watching him until he drove round the corner and out of sight. He was very attractive, she thought, and for a moment she fancied that he might find her attractive, too. But then she laughed at herself. She was far too old for a love affair. It was just the excitement of the television programme that was making her feel light-headed.
She went inside the house, picking her way past Henry’s collection of flowerpots. Really, there were too many of them on the doorstep. It was hard to get past when the flowers were in full bloom. She would say something to him about it when the shock of losing his garden wore off.
Henry was lying on the sofa, sipping a glass of red wine and reading a seed catalogue. Aurora was irritated by the sight of him, in his crumpled slacks and an old jumper. He might have tidied up the house a little. He might have done the vacuuming, for heaven’s sake.
“There’s not much call for catalogues any more,” she said, suddenly, before she could stop herself.
“I suppose not. But I like looking at the pictures. Did you enjoy the meal?” There wasn’t a trace of jealousy or suspicion in his gentle voice. “You were gone hours. Where did they take you?”
“Christies Brasserie – it was fabulous,” she told him. “Lovely sauce on the lobster. I’ve no idea what it was. And they have the place decorated very nicely. I can’t think why we haven’t been there before, ourselves.” She was amazed at how easy it was to tell lies to Henry. Concentrate on minor details, that was the secret of being a good liar. “Did you manage to fix something for yourself?”
“I went to Muldoon’s for fish and chips,” he said. “I didn’t bother to cook just for myself. I had a banana split, as well.”
“You’d want to be careful, Henry. You’re going to get fat,” said Aurora, thinking of David Cropper’s very flat stomach and the silver buckle on his black leather belt. And then she hurried up the stairs to run a hot bubble bath for herself, anxious to get away from Henry – partly because she was feeling a bit dizzy with all the wine she had drunk, and partly because she was feeling very guilty for being so unkind to him.
She was secretly delighted when Miss Wilkinson announced her retirement a few days later, and Aurora was appointed as School Principal. The first person she called from the staffroom with the good news was David. He congratulated her warmly and arranged to take her out again, to celebrate.
Chapter 17
CLARE AND BRENDA HAVE DINNER
Clare Fitzgerald took a deep breath and picked up the receiver. She had stayed much longer than she’d intended to, on this
third trip to Belfast, visiting old friends and relatives, and just walking around the shops taking in the atmosphere. She couldn’t shake off the feeling that there was unfinished business to attend to – maybe she was hoping to bump into her long-lost love, Peter Prendergast.
The Waterfront Hall was very impressive, as were those city-slicker apartments across the river. Who’d have thought stubborn old Belfast would have something so modern? And there were some decent restaurants, too; like that very minimalist place, on the Malone Road. It was a pity she hadn’t the time to write a feature on it. But now, it was time to go home.
She sat on the bed in her hotel room and dialled the long number carefully. She began placing her tubes of vanilla-scented hand-cream and her pretty glass bottles of perfume in the suitcase, as she waited for the call to be answered.
“Hello, the editor’s desk, can I help you?”
“Hello, is that you, Mike? Hi. How are you?”
“Clare! I’m good. You?”
“Yes, everything’s fine here.”
“Are you missing us, at all?”
“Yes, I think I’m finally ready to come home. Did you get the films in the post?”
“Sure did.”
“The pictures, how did they come out? What did you think? Lovely old house, wasn’t it? Original fireplaces and everything.”
“Oh, yeah, real nice.”
“They had a really gorgeous rose garden, actually, and a crumbling old summerhouse with ivy all over it. I might even put a shot from that film on the cover.”
“You want me to go ahead with that?”
“Mmmm… yes, that one with the pink roses over the door of the summerhouse. And I thought, white lettering laid over the dark ivy on the left-hand side? Yes. Go ahead with the design, will you?”
“Okay. So, what’s the deal? How are you?”
“How am I? To tell you the truth, when you first suggested a feature on Belfast, I thought you were mad, but it was good. I’ve had a bit of a wander down memory lane.”
“That’s what I figured. Meet anyone interesting?”
“Me and a few school chums had a great night out at the weekend.”
“Clubbing?”
“At my age? In Belfast! No, we went to a quiet little restaurant.”
“Any cute guys there?”
“No, I didn’t meet anyone. Do you never give up? I’ve told you a million times, I like being single.”
“Yeah, right!”
“Yes, I do.”
“Whatever. You sound tired.”
“Yes, I’m a little tired. I’m glad I’ll be home tomorrow. Doing the tourist-thing does drain my energy.”
“What flight are you on? I’ll send a car to pick you up.”
“I’ll be in JFK about seven pm. Your time.”
“So, what are you doing, the last night in your home town?”
“Tonight? I’ll just have dinner sent to my room.”
“Come on!”
“No, really, it’s easier that way. Trust me. I’ve been doing that most nights. I’ll go to bed early this evening, and I’ll see you tomorrow.”
“Okay.”
“No problems there with you? Did you manage to get a fruit-picking ladder for the French linen shoot?”
“Yeah, I did. And it wasn’t easy.”
“Good. Goodbye, then.”
“Bye, Clare.”
She hung up. Mike was the best personal assistant in the business. He took good care of the office when she was away and he did things the way Clare wanted them to be done. Not like some assistants who could make themselves very comfortable, indeed, in the boss’s chair.
Clare knew she could send the photographer on assignments, on his own, to get the pictures. He was very good, but she just felt better when she was there, too. She was good at spotting the little details that gave the magazine its character. That old summerhouse in the garden of the mansion in Stranmillas, for example: would he have thought of taking some romantic pictures of it? With the evening light falling on the creeper, and the door just a little bit open so that you could see the wicker chairs inside, it would make the most romantic cover ever. There was a real feeling of longing in those empty chairs. What lovers had sat there, over the years?
Stop it, she told herself. Stop daydreaming. That was all such a long time ago. And it was probably nothing, anyway. It probably meant nothing to him. He was just being nice to me because I was an innocent teenager. He wouldn’t know me now if he met me on the street. Oh, I’m such a drama-queen…
But, it was no good. She was going to have to go there again, for a last look. One last look at her old flat and Muldoon’s, and that would be the end of it.
She put on her blue coat, and a navy felt hat that came right down to her eyes, and she left the hotel. She walked slowly along Shaftesbury Square, stopping to look in the window of a new art gallery, and then along the Lisburn Road, and turned eventually, into Mulberry Street.
The cafe was open. The owners hadn’t changed it one bit in all this time. Not even the sign. It was a strange little place, really. It was like a magical shop in a children’s book; ordinary-looking from the outside but magical within. Or was her imagination just running wild again?
The moon and stars were visible in the sky. It was getting dark. The overhead lamps in the tea house made a bright pool of light on the pavement, criss-crossed by the shadows of the people inside. There were quite a few customers sitting at the tables, at that moment. In fact, she couldn’t see one empty table, and she didn’t want to have to share with anyone. That would mean another long chat about America. She wanted to be alone with her memories. She would not go in yet.
She walked on a few steps and stood looking up at the window of the tiny flat where she had spent the night with Peter, all those years ago. Such a small little window. The very sight of it made her shiver. There were dandelions growing on the sill, she noticed.
A pale face appeared at the dark window, with a black fringe hanging over one eye. Clare froze with the shock of it. The short black hair and the prominent cheekbones were the same. She was shaking and her hands went up to her mouth. But of course it wasn’t Peter. He would be forty by now. She must be going mad. Then, the apparition looked right at her and she realised suddenly the pale face was that of a young woman. And she looked almost as shocked as Clare was, herself. Clare hurried away down the street but seconds later she heard the sound of a door opening, and Brenda Brown was calling after her.
“Are you all right? Is something wrong?”
“No. Not at all. I thought you were someone else. I’m sorry if I startled you.”
“That’s okay. I thought you were going to collapse or something. That’s all. But I’ve lived here for years. Are you sure you have the right address?”
“Oh, yes. But the person I knew never lived here. I did. You just look like – them, a little bit, that’s all.” Clare was reluctant to tell Brenda that she had spent the night with a man she had only known for a few hours, twenty years earlier. Or that she had mistaken Brenda for a boy. “I’m sorry,” she said again, and turned to leave.
“Please don’t go! Not yet. Have a cup of tea, at least. Would you like to come in and sit down for a minute? You look very shaken. I’m Brenda Brown, by the way. I’m an artist.”
“Clare Fitzgerald. Pleased to meet you.” They shook hands.
Clare knew she shouldn’t go in. It was asking for trouble. She wasn’t sure she could handle the emotional minefield of seeing her old home. But she went up the stairs like a robot and entered the first-floor flat without saying a word. Brenda hovered behind her as she went into the sitting-room.
“My God,” said Clare, “it’s just the same. The same carpet, the same table, the same sofa. The furniture hasn’t even been moved. There’s nothing different at all.”
“Yes, well, the landlord is a total Scrooge. I daresay it is the same.”
“You’re an artist, you say?” Clare was standing in the mid
dle of the room. She was looking at the paintings stacked around the walls. Her curiosity was aroused in spite of the upsetting circumstances.
“Yes.”
“What do you paint?”
“Oh. Things. Sad things.” Now that Brenda finally had an interested audience, she couldn’t think of one profound thing to say. “Just ordinary people. Disappointed people.”
“Do you sell them?”
“Yes and no. They’re for sale, but nobody ever buys them.”
“Can I look?”
“Feel free,” said Brenda, handing Clare a list of the titles.
Clare read the list aloud. “Waiting for Silence, The End Of The Day, A Belfast Mother, A Shankill Kitchen, Waiting For The Priest, Waiting For Dawn…”
“Mmmm,” said Brenda. “There’s a lot of waiting, isn’t there?”
Clare looked at the paintings for a little while. She thought they were good. A little over-the-top. But good. A lot of potential, if the subject matter was less intense.
“Can I see the bedroom?” asked Clare suddenly. For a moment, Brenda thought she was talking about a painting called The Bedroom. She was puzzled. Had she a painting somewhere, called that? Then she realised that this strange woman wanted to see her actual bedroom. Brenda was worried. This glamorous stranger might well be mentally ill, asking to see someone’s private rooms. But something in the older woman’s face was calm and reassuring.
“It’s in there,” she said, indicating an open door in the hall.
“I know where it is,” said Clare, and she went in as Brenda hovered in the doorway. It was the same bed: a cheap, wrought-iron Victorian bed with part of the flower-design missing. Faded floral wallpaper. A kitchen chair instead of a locker. Only the carpet was different. Plain grey. (That was Brenda’s doing. She had ruined the old one by dropping a tube of oil-paint on it. Months, it took her, to save up for that new carpet.)
“The carpet in this room used to be as awful as the wallpaper,” Clare said. A fat tear rolled down her cheek.
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