by Dawn French
Mighty and dreadful, for thou art not so;
For those whom thou think’st thou dost overthrow
Die not, poor Death, nor yet canst thou kill me …’
Thomas is a good public speaker, that’s why he’s been asked, but today his voice is thinner than usual, he fears he might falter. Why? Because frankly, he’s not sure he believes this poem. It sounds great, he’s heard it at a thousand funerals, it works, but what really is Thomas saying? The poem seems to be insisting that death has no right to be proud, because apparently human beings don’t die, they live eternally. Yeah. Right.
‘From rest and sleep, which but thy pictures be,
Much pleasure; then from thee much more must flow,
And soonest our best men with thee do go.
Rest of their bones and soul’s delivery.’
‘And soonest our best men with thee do go’? Sharpe was one of those ‘best men’, and Sharpe was younger than Thomas. ‘Bones and souls’? He doesn’t want to be bones and souls, he wants to be flesh and heart and laugh and kiss and sing …
‘Thou art slave to fate, chance, kings and desperate men.
And dost with poison, warm and sickness dwell;
And poppy or charms can make us sleep as well
And better than thy stroke, why swell’st thou then?’
So … What? … death is a cowardly slave who just depends on luck, accidents, decrees, murder, disease and war to kill men? OK, death may hide inside all of these, but it’s still DEATH. Death is in charge, and it took Sharpe. In a long slow agonizingly cruel cancerous way. And it might come for Thomas next. It’s horrific, and there’s nothing he can do …
‘One short sleep past, we wake eternally.
And death shall be no more: Death, thou shalt die.’
No! It’s not a short sleep if you don’t believe all that afterlife crap. That’s it. FINITO.
Death doesn’t die, John Donne, we do. All of us die, Thomas thinks: the clever, the lucky, the poor, the pretty, the ugly, the wealthy. Just the same as the ignorant, the greedy, the evil. We leave it all, good and bad, behind us. Thomas refuses to buy the notion that death is some kind of High Calling, will glorify us for all eternity. It’s not, it’s THE END.
Why the hell did he choose this poem? He apologizes to Sharpe in his deepest heart, and as he steps down from the pulpit, Thomas knows what he must do. He must escape from the carcass, and he must live whatever time he has left with significance. He wants to love, and as he strides straight back down the aisle and out of the huge bronze doors onto Fifth Avenue, he gulps in the dirty air of his wonderful messy city and he resolves to live properly, to the full, while he can.
Fuck off, death.
Meantime, at a corner table in the lounge of The Colony Club, on 62nd Street and Park Avenue, Glenn sits alone, purposely. She sips Lady Grey tea and feigns reading the paper so that none other should approach. She prefers it when there are no men in the vicinity; this is a women-only private social club, after all, but occasionally, men are admitted as guests. Of course, she could join various other tables if she so chose, Annie Catlin is sitting with her daughter, and the Morgans seem to have a clattery round of mah-jong on the go. Glenn knows she would be welcome at either table, but she chooses to sit alone and appear occupied. She likes people to think she is taking a breather from her otherwise massively demanding life. Thomas made sure she knew she was welcome to come to the memorial, but Glenn rejects more than she accepts in every part of her life, and it’s this simple choice that defines so much of her. She is comfortable with plenty of NO. She pours more tea through the strainer, and for a brief moment, she considers how delicious it might be to allow herself even one mouthful of the mini lemon meringue tart which arrived alongside her tea as a little treat. But … NO … she decides against. Glenn’s bouche remains strictly unamused.
Very much later that night, after the loud shooty film, after the fairly long walk home, after the late night peanut-butter-cup munchies, after warm face flannels and calming bedtime stories and after hot chocolate with Teddy, Rosie’s day is finally over. Glenn and Thomas are home by the time the movie posse arrived back, and Rosie assumes they have already gone to bed. The twins have insisted on buying a swirl of red liquorice for Granpops when they were out, they know he LOVES that. Just as Rosie is turning out the lights in the kitchen, she sees it on the side and decides to pop it onto Thomas’s desk as a surprise for the morning.
Although she feels sure he isn’t in his office at – what is it? One fifteen a.m. – Rosie still knocks gently at the door. She’s aware that actually, she probably shouldn’t enter at all, but her desire to deposit this little gift overrides the rules. Of course there is no answer, so she opens the door quietly and pads bare-footed into the dark room. She then goes on tip-toe which is kind of ludicrous, since no-one is here. She knows the layout of the room well enough to find her way to his desk. As she moves carefully her eyes adjust to the darkness, and her senses are heightened. She is aware of the smell of Thomas in the room. Yes, there would be that, it’s where he always is. The aroma is of oak and leather and whatever that citrus aftershave is that he uses. As she gets closer to his desk, she can see the outline of his big chair against the window, and out of the shadows, suddenly his deep, quiet voice, ‘Come in, whydoncha.’
Rosie’s blood stops still in her heart with shock, she gulps a roomful of air in, and freezes. ‘God! Sorry. I’ll come back later …’ she backs away, clumsy and stunned, and bumps into a bookcase behind her, ‘Ow.’
Thomas switches the desk light on, ‘No it’s OK, what did you want?’
Rosie sees his face in the light and notices that his eyes are red, he’s been crying. He is making a half-hearted attempt to wipe his face like proud men do, almost slapping themselves in an effort to cover up their emotions. In the moment, Rosie forgets that there is an invisible line of professionalism between them, and she reaches out, human to human.
‘Is there anything I can do?’
Thomas shakes his head. He can’t quite speak for a moment, and while he is trying to compose himself, tears well in his eyes again. He laughs a little embarrassed laugh as one of them rolls down his cheek.
‘Only if you can make me immortal?’
‘You don’t want that,’ she says, as she takes a step nearer to him, ‘think of the fortune you would spend at the barbers …’
He smiles. ‘I went to the memorial service of a very close friend today. He was six months younger than me …’ Rosie takes another step closer, while he continues, ‘So naturally, I’m sitting in the dark, feeling sorry for myself. It’s completely selfish.’ He stands up and goes to the window, where he is framed by the lights of the city outside. ‘I’ve given up red meat, red wine, smoking. I go to the gym most days. Well, I don’t, but I have the guilt, and that’s punishment enough. I even go and sit silently at the shrink’s regularly. And the Grim Reaper’s still out to get me.’
There is a pause. Rosie walks over to the window and stands next to him. She gently touches his arm,
‘Sod it then. If you’re on your way, why not have the occasional glass of red wine and a ciggie?’
Thomas carefully pulls away, ‘Being nice to me is making it worse, I fear.’
For an interesting moment or two, they stand there, sharing the promise of the city beyond. Two very different people, two very different ages, with no problem standing still, being connected.
Outside in the hall there is the sound of a drunken Kemble stumbling into the apartment and dropping his keys. For some reason, Thomas and Rosie both feel a fleeting moment of guilt.
Kemble is in a heap on the floor of the hall, just inside the front door. He has banged into the table and sent a porcelain lamp flying, so he is sitting amongst the debris when Thomas and Rosie arrive to try and pick him up.
‘Hey, pops!’ he slurs at his father, ‘Why you still up? You should be in bed … with … Cruella …’
It’s at this most inopportu
ne of moments that Glenn rounds the corner in her neat dressing gown. With her blows a bitter wind, ‘Thank you, Miss Kitto, that’s quite enough, you may go to your rooms now.’
Thomas nods to indicate that may well be the best course of action. Rosie says goodnight and scootches off to bed, leaving Glenn and Thomas to pick up their broken son.
She doesn’t dare look back, but she can hear Glenn admonishing him,
‘Get up Kemble, get up you idiot!’
Breakfast Again
It’s another Saturday morning, a few weeks later, but this time the twins are making the breakfast with Rosie and Iva, while Glenn and Thomas sit and wait to see what the junior chefs whip up. Pancakes are on the menu, which means that flour, baking powder, salt, sugar, milk, eggs and butter are on the floor. Some of the ingredients have survived and seem to have been sifted, whisked and fried, and with Iva’s expert guidance, there is an unruly stack of blueberry pancakes in the centre of the breakfast table, along with a jug of hot maple syrup, some whipped cream and some chopped up fruit in a separate bowl. Red cut up the fruit, so it’s his favourites of course, bananas and kiwi fruit only.
The boys and Rosie tumble into their seats around the table, covered in flour and egg, but mighty proud of their culinary prowess. ‘TA-DA!’ announces Rosie, ‘Ladles and Jellyspoons, we give you …’ and the twins complete it, ‘The Tower of Power! Pancakes to rock your world!’
This is, of course, Glenn’s absolute nightmare because now, she HAS to eat. They cooked it, and they are watching, so she must.
Thomas is first to lunge at the Tower, ‘GUYS, Rosie, thanks for this, it looks darn delicious, here I go!’ and he helps himself to a few. Glenn does some of her best fake happy smiling, pretends to lick her lips, and also sets about helping herself to a considerably smaller amount.
‘Hey! The cocktail!’ shouts Three, as he rushes out to bring in a huge jug of maroon goo he has made in the liquidizer. No-one is quite sure just what his smoothie consists of, but Rosie saw some berries and beetroot and blue m and ms go in there. Rosie takes extra pleasure from watching Glenn attempt a mouthful of this challenging mixture, without visibly retching. More calories are entering Glenn in five minutes than have whizzed around her skeletal physique in the last five years.
‘Where’s Dad?’ asks Three.
Glenn answers, ‘He’s not feeling too good today, so we’re going to leave him be. OK?’
‘OK.’ The twins agree, resigned to yet another day of no contact with him. Glenn and Thomas and Rosie all know the same thing, which they don’t discuss, certainly not here and now. The fact is that Kemble hasn’t been home for several days this week, and no-one, including his work colleagues, know where he’s been. They are all worried in the Wilder-Bingham household, but as per usual, no-one mentions it.
‘Granma, Granpops, can we ask you something?’ says Red.
Thomas stiffens. Please don’t let him have to lie to this little guy about his father. ‘Sure.’
‘D’you wanna have a look at the garden? We’ve started it.’
Rosie intervenes quickly. ‘Guys, hang on. Wouldn’t it be better if we wait til we’ve got it into better shape before we invite guests up there?!’
‘Yes,’ agrees Glenn, who clearly doesn’t want another commitment beyond this very challenging smoothie/pancake combo today, ‘wait til it’s ready. I want to see it when it’s all done.’
‘OK,’ says a disappointed Red.
‘I’ll come and check it out, fellas, just as soon as I’ve had another twenty of these big ol’ boys …’ says Thomas as he helps himself to more. He knows he’ll feel sick, but so long as the little men are happy, so is he.
‘Teddy would, like, so love these, can we make them again when he’s back Rosie?’ asks Three.
‘Of course,’ she replies.
Half an hour later, puffing, full and nauseous, Thomas climbs through the door at the top of the service steps, out onto the roof where, in one corner there is a three foot by three foot boxed-off planting container about eighteen inches high, full of new earth. There are bags of soil and spades and trowels everywhere and various small new plants in pots waiting to be dug in on the side. It’s a holy mess, but the twins have all the plans bubbling away in their heads, and they excitedly chirrup it all to their grandfather, ‘… a fountain here … some tomatoes here … plants growing up a stick … chairs here … basil … roses for Granma …’ on and on they go, running about.
Thomas whispers to Rosie, ‘This is great, kid. Look at ’em, they’re really into it.’
Rosie is delighted, ‘There’s nothing like a bit of planting to remind you of what matters, and, y’know … take your mind off stuff.’
‘That’s right, he says, ‘and, er, I just wanted to give you this. He quietly hands her a small envelope. ‘I hope I’ve … got it right … come on you guys, back downstairs …’ and he wrangles the boys back through the door, glancing at her over his shoulder before he dips out of sight.
Thomas is suddenly gone, and Rosie is left holding the envelope, which she slowly starts to open. What is it? Is he giving her some money towards the garden? Why is he behaving so surreptitiously? Why did that last glance so interest her? What is this?
She slides her finger under the fold and rips it back carefully.
Not money, but a letter …
Rosie reads.
Goosebumps …
ACT II
* * *
St Paddy’s Day
Rosie doesn’t come down to this lower part of Manhattan very much, she’s only just becoming familiar with the few blocks on the Upper East Side where the Wilder-Binghams live. She has visited Broadway and Soho a little bit, on days off, and she has come to know parts of Central Park, but Chinatown and, below that, the Financial District are unknown territory. This boutique hotel in Tribeca is unlike anywhere she has stayed. For a start, it’s very dark. When she walks off the busy St Patrick’s Day-crazy street, into the lobby, Rosie genuinely thinks they must surely be having a problem with their generator, she can hardly see a thing. Or perhaps she was having a brain haemorrhage? Then she notices that attractive people were sitting about in big purple velvet armchairs on flat animal skin rugs, in front of a roaring fire drinking green cocktails, regarding the very low light as perfectly alright. So it must be.
She makes her way to the dark lifts and exits at the sixth floor, which is also very ‘atmospheric’. Rosie feels she might be on the set of Mad Men – the whole vibe of the hotel is retro sixties with the odd modern twist, especially the art. Intriguing art, which you would never choose, and which intimidates you, and insists that you admire it, otherwise you’re stupid, right?
And now here she is, at the door of room 610, her heart beating fast and her hands clammy. She is carrying a very heavy bag, full of gardening books, with all her senses on high alert and certain in the knowledge that a moment like this simultaneously carries you forward and offers you no way back, she … eventually … knocks.
A pause.
Oh God, a pause.
Is it OK?
The door opens … it’s Thomas, with eighty-three years of hopefulness glowing on his concerned face. They smile nervously at each other, and he stands back to let her in. She steps past him while he closes the door, and she stands still with her back at the wall. He stands opposite her in the narrow entrance hall to the suite, with his back at the other wall. They hold one another’s gaze, unflinchingly, each hoping against hope that they haven’t horribly misread the other.
They haven’t.
The attraction is palpable, and just as her back leaves the safety of the wall to move towards him, so too does his. He has to stoop to kiss her, but her willing puts her on her tiptoes to meet him at the lips. In one rush, so much happens, so much is suddenly known. She learns that the skin on his face is soft, but his lips are firm, she learns that he is nervous and eager, she learns that he smells like limes up close, she learns that he murmurs whilst he kisses, and
she learns that her arms barely meet when they are wrapped around his great ursine torso. His kisses are light and many to begin with, and as he gradually believes her consent, he risks the real deep kissing he has missed so much, and Rosie submits happily.
Later, after, it’s dusk and the room is slowly turning orange. Thomas and Rosie lie naked and easy together, their legs still entwined, but their bodies separate, seeking out the cool of the sheets. The sweat is drying on their skin, and they can hear each other’s short gasps returning to normal breathing again. They’ve done it, they’ve had sex, they’ve crossed the line. Here they lie, masculine and feminine, now known to each other in the most intimate way, in the way they can never unknow. They lie quietly like this for some time, letting the actuality of it sink in, letting it be wonderful, and right now, letting it be … this.
Rosie is thinking, ‘So that’s what it’s like to do it with a much older man. Well, with this man. He takes his time, he knows where everything is, and he puts in lots of effort, and best of all, thank you God or Venus or whoever, he knows himself so well that he isn’t embarrassed or shy. He lets me know what he wants and he isn’t afraid to ask for it. He talks to me, looking me right in the eyes, and tells me what he likes. Oh my god, he told me that my body was “made for love” and that the touch of my flesh sent his senses “spinning” and that the hollows at the back of my knees are “the most erotic thing” he’s ever seen. Bloody hell! Something about how comfortable he is in his own skin makes him utterly gorgeous. I love how hefty he is, and how tender, and how … just how he is.’
Thomas is thinking, ‘What a woman, so irresistibly plump and inviting … and so completely unashamed. She actually wants to make love, she wants pleasure, she wants me. She’s a cascade of a person, full of light, and … look, she lit me up. At last. Nothing was difficult or awkward, it was so … natural. I can say anything. I did. I said everything that was in my mind, and it was OK. More than OK. It was great. And I love the smell of her hair … all her hair. She has real English pubic hair, soft and curly and unshaved. And I love the fullness and the taste of her lips … all her lips. She’s – fresh and salty. Christ, she’s something else, and for this little chink of time, she’s mine.’