Her eyes widened. “Henry?”
Henry. “Yes.”
“Well, you’re lucky to have had that . . . and you’re lucky to have her,” she added, smiling at Lila as she ran toward us.
I watched Amy as she took Lila’s hand and led her over to the ice-cream seller. I had been lucky; I was lucky—far luckier than Amy knew. And yet, it struck me that each time fate handed me something, it also took something away: It had granted me life but taken away my mother; given me Lila but taken Ralph; and now, now I was to have money but no one to share my good fortune with.
The three of us sat in silence as we ate our ice creams, and after I’d wiped Lila’s face and she’d climbed down from the bench, Amy said, “As regards your friend—and by the way, does she have a name?”
I stared ahead, saw a sign: EELBROOK.
“Ellie,” I said, “Ellie Brook.”
“Well, your Ellie will just have to use her own judgment. No point in rattling the old blighter’s cage if all she wants is a bit of hanky-panky and the illusion of love. But to be honest, she sounds pretty spineless to me . . . Not that I blame her, I suppose. Hundreds and thousands of women in this country would give their eyeteeth to have a man, even if it has to be an illicit affair.”
That term made me shudder.
“She’ll feel wretched when it ends, but at least she’ll have had an affair, unlike the rest of us. And what has she got to lose?”
I thought for a moment. “Well, she does have children.”
“You didn’t say . . . Whose children?”
I shook my head. “I forgot to say. She was married—before the war. Yes, her husband died, you see.”
“How many children?”
“Three.”
“And the first affair—the other one you mentioned—was that when she was still married?”
“Oh no, that was afterward. After her husband died.”
“Sounds like she’s been busy.”
I shook my head: “No, not really.”
“Well, credit where credit’s due, I suppose. At least she waited . . . But still, the fact that she has children, well, it paints a very different scenario,” said Amy, her voice almost chastising.
“I don’t know why I forgot to say . . .”
“Yes, a very different scenario . . .”
“I think the children are fine. I’ve not met them, but—”
“Has he?” Amy interrupted. “Has this new fella of hers met them?”
“You know, I think he has . . . Well, one of them, anyway.”
Amy fired up a cigarette and shook her head. “Her first responsibility has to be to her children. Those poor babies who lost their father, and have already—and probably unknowingly—witnessed their mother’s infidelity to his memory. But quite frankly, Pearl, it sounds a mess.”
I cringed. I wanted to ask, What if it is only one child? Does that make any difference?
Amy leaned nearer and went on in a whisper. “Forgive me for saying so, but this Ellie of yours sounds a bit sex-mad, and to be honest, I shouldn’t think your advice would do any good. From what you’ve told me, she sounds very selfish.”
“Oh, but she’s not—not at all. She adores her daughter—and her sons,” I quickly added. “She really has done her best for them—all three of them.”
“Hmm. Well, I’ve said it already and I’ll say it again: She sounds like a sex addict to me. I’ve read about them, you know—women like her. And there’s a lot of it about nowadays,” she added, with an air of being above that sort of thing. “It all started with the war, khaki fever . . . But anyway, regardless, if she has anything about her, she’ll confront this chap, tell him what’s what and remind him that she has responsibilities, namely her three children.”
We sat in silence for a moment, and then Amy asked, “So, what’s she like, then—this Ellie Brook? I mean, is she very attractive? I imagine she must be.”
“Oh, she’s really quite average. Yes, I’d say she’s an average woman.”
“She doesn’t sound very average to me.”
“No? . . . Well, I suppose in some ways she’s not.”
I glanced away, wishing I’d never mentioned my fictitious friend. I had painted a picture of some sexually voracious, predatory female; a widow with three children who had had at least two affairs with married men. I said, “You know, I think I’ve done poor Ellie a great disservice, because she’s not at all what she seems, what I have told you . . . and what I’ve told you is only a tiny part, the worst part.”
“So tell me the best part,” said Amy, eager now. And for a moment I thought she knew. Then she said, “You see, I’m amazed you and she are even friends, because she sounds absolutely nothing like you.”
I smiled. “No, I suppose we’re quite different,” I said, and feigned a little laugh.
“Describe her to me,” said Amy.
“Well, she’s quite tall, darkish haired, and she carries herself very well.”
“I bet she has a good figure.”
I nodded. “Yes, she does.”
“Even after three children?”
I nodded again.
“And breasts? I bet she has breasts. They all love them, you know. Oh yes, while we’re busy binding our chests, the men—what few there are—are all after bosoms.”
“She does have fine breasts,” I said.
I wasn’t entirely comfortable with the conversation, but picturing Ottoline removed any dilemma or hesitation in my description.
“And her eyes,” Amy said. “What color are they?”
But I could see only one pair of eyes. And at first I floundered. Then I said, “Indescribable.”
“Hmm, I might’ve guessed.”
Chapter Twenty-four
Whenever I thought of Arabella Godley, my mind summoned a pale-skinned, delicate creature with fair hair, a whispering voice and flesh as soft as a newborn baby’s. My Arabella was serious, contemplative, principled and earnest. She had no time for fools, was intolerant of prejudice and injustice. My Arabella was a voracious reader and had spent time in Italy where she had learned all there was to know about art and architecture. She played the piano most afternoons and then walked out, writing poetry in her head beneath the dwindling twilight.
Had circumstances been different, we might have been sisters.
It was early October when I caught a tramcar to the city to meet with Mr. Theodore Godley. One of those early autumn days with a sky bleached of blue and a low sun. I sat on the top deck, right at the front, looking out at copper-hued trees, glistening buildings, and traffic and life. And I wasn’t nervous; I was curious—and queerly excited.
I was pleased to see Mr. Jacobson, who greeted me in the lobby and then led me into the oak-paneled room to introduce me.
Theodore Godley’s hand was soft and warm, his eyes kind and dark, the edge of each brown iris turning to gray, like his hair, which remained thick and was swept back from his forehead. His skin was tanned as though he had recently returned from a foreign country, and the measured and mellow tone of his voice reminded me of Lord Hector. And there was something about him so familiar that I half wondered if our paths had somehow crossed before.
Mr. Jacobson remained with us as Theodore Godley read out various clauses and subclauses, things he said he was legally bound to tell me. And I was mesmerized by him, this Godley—so handsome and fine, so uncommonly kind.
I signed my name at the foot of some pages, and then Theodore Godley signed his name as well. A secretary brought in coffee, and Theodore Godley smiled at her and said thank you, and as we drank our coffee, he asked me what I intended to do with the place in Scotland. I told him that I wasn’t sure, but as Delnasay belonged to my daughter—and not to me—it would be up to her to decide, one day.
“Well, you’ll be able to go up there and en
joy the place very soon . . . Though perhaps better to wait until next spring. It’s certainly a beautiful spot,” he added.
“You know it?”
He widened his eyes. “Indeed. I was lucky enough to spend some very happy times at Delnasay . . . Though I haven’t been for a long time. Not since the war.”
Had he been there when I was? I wondered. Had he been one of the houseguests, a face I’d seen and perhaps smiled at—said good morning to?
“Not since 1914?” I asked.
“Yes. That was the last time I was there—when war was declared. Not the happiest of visits, of course, and unfortunately cut short.”
“I was there, too.”
“Were you really? How very rude of me not to remember you, Mrs. Gibson—and to think we may have sat next to each other at luncheon or dinner,” he said, and laughed. “No, don’t tell me we did?” he added, glancing over at his colleague in mock horror.
I shook my head. “No, I don’t think we did.”
Clearly, he had no idea, no idea that I was Ottoline’s former maid.
“Feels like a lifetime ago, eh? And I imagine it’ll be very strange for you to go back there.”
“Yes, it will. But I’m in no hurry.”
And then I took the plunge, for my mother and for me: “How is Arabella?”
His eyes widened. “You know my daughter?”
And as the room closed in, as I realized and knew at last, I heard my voice—steady, calm: “We were born the same month, only a few days apart . . . in August 1890.”
A smile flickered. He said, “It’s a wretched thing, having one’s only child living on the other side of the world. Arabella’s been in Malaya for almost ten years. She has three boys now, you know . . . Grand little chaps, all very . . . But tell me, how did you meet?”
I shook my head. “We never met. I simply know of her.”
“Ah, I see. Mutual acquaintances?”
“No, not really . . . Not until now.”
Confusion clouded his eyes. He glanced to Mr. Jacobson, then back at me. And then he smiled and said, “Well, all I can tell you is that my daughter is . . . happy. She has a husband who loves her, and she adores being a mother.”
“Being a mother is indeed a privilege. Unfortunately, it was a privilege my own mother was unable to enjoy.”
Mr. Jacobson spoke. “We have that loss in common, Mrs. Gibson. And it is surely the worst.”
“Yes, the worst, and all the more grievous when one knows that it has been caused by a broken heart,” I said.
And as Theodore Godley stared back at me, silence fell over the oak-paneled room, and a bolt of sunlight illuminated the dust-filled air between us. And for a moment, just a moment, I thought I sensed my mother’s presence.
But our business was done, and I had said my piece. I put on my gloves and stood up. The gentlemen both rose to their feet. Theodore Godley came round the desk, and altering tempo, regaining control, he laughed and said, “So, does little Ottoline know anything of her inheritance?”
“She’s known as Lila—and no, she doesn’t.”
“Lila? That’s an unusual abbreviation of the name if you don’t mind me saying.”
“Yes, not like Charlotte and Lottie . . . Not like that,” I said, staring once more into those kind brown eyes.
And I saw it happen, saw the circles close one within another, the pieces come together: the name Charlotte Gibson, the remembrance of the young maid at his house on Cheyne Walk in Chelsea, the unwanted pregnancy, the suicide, the half-forgotten potential scandal that had once threatened to topple his marriage, reputation and career. Buried for three decades, it all surfaced now, on a sun-filled and seemingly ordinary October morning.
Mr. Jacobson broke the spell. “Mr. Godley?”
Theodore Godley took my hand. He held it firmly in both of his. Then, in a quiet voice, one weighted by convention and respectability, he said, “I hope you’ll keep in touch, Mrs. Gibson. And any questions you might have—any questions at all—please do not hesitate. I am here for you—at your service. Always.”
I walked out with my head high. I had finally met my father. Met him, looked him in the eye and reminded him. And that was enough. After all, I was thirty years old and had, I thought—as I walked down the pavement—done quite all right without him. And yet, he had not been at all how I’d imagined. For my mother’s doomed and illicit love—and the timing of her death—had not only made him a villainous caricature but also frozen him in time. I had envisaged someone younger, and arrogant; a ladies’ man, a charmer, an identifiable philanderer. But he was none of these things, and if circumstances had been different, I might have called him a gentleman.
As I stood at the bus stop, the synchronicity of it all struck me again. For Theodore Godley had been at Delnasay; our paths had been destined and had already crossed; and though he would be looking after his granddaughter’s interests, and mine, though I might at some stage in the future have to meet with him again, I would never need to say anything more. Any future dealings with the man would be of a business nature, I decided.
And then I thought of my mother, and I saw things differently. It was not a momentary lapse; it had been a planned and premeditated ending. She had waited to give birth to me before killing herself. Knowing she could never be with the man she loved, the father of her child, thinking the circumstances of her life were to be fixed in ignominy, Charlotte—my mother, sweet Lottie to some—had elected not to continue with this life. And on that August evening so golden, as she walked into the water, before she lowered herself into the high tide, she must have looked across the river, toward the lamp-lit windows of Cheyne Walk where another woman had recently given birth to a legitimate child, one whose name would be Godley.
But I, too, had Godley blood running through my veins, and perhaps I was more like him than her—for I could never abandon my child. And yet I had to forgive her, my mother; I had to let her go, release myself from the burden of her rejection. And so I decided there and then that my mother was from that day a complete and finished part of the past. And as I stood at the bus stop, as the traffic passed by, churning up dust, I closed my eyes to a woman I’d never known. I closed my eyes to a woman I had for a lifetime longed for and missed.
As for my half sister, Arabella, she had only ever been a vision, a fantasy: the whispered notion of a more perfect version of me. The legitimate, educated, accomplished and loved version. I would in all likelihood never know whether my Arabella was the real Arabella. But I was pleased to know that she was happy and, stranger still, that she had known Theodore Godley as a father. And yet the scales of the Universe had decreed some rebalancing—of proximity, at least, for I was the one in his orbit, and I knew something of my future lay in his hands.
Initially, the only thing I’d told Leo was that Ottoline had left me some money; a small amount, I’d said. But he had gone on and on: “Fifty? . . . A hundred? . . . Come on, tell me, how much?”
Eventually, and just to shut him up, I said, “Thirty-five. Thirty-five pounds.”
“Thirty-five pounds . . . She could easily have afforded to leave you a bit more than that.”
So, later that day, after my meeting with Theodore Godley, when I met Leo at the usual place—the pub round the corner from work—and he asked, “How did it go?” I said, “Fine, all tickety-boo.”
“Did you get your money?”
“Oh yes,” I said, sipping my gin and orange. “It goes into an account tomorrow.”
“Hark you. An account, eh? And all for thirty-five quid,” he added, laughing.
I smiled. “How is your mother?”
“A little better . . . but it’s up and down, as you know.”
“Very up and down,” I said. “The doctors must be alarmed by just how up and down she is . . .”
“Old people do linger.”
“A bit like wives.”
He stared back at me. “I wouldn’t know about that,” he said, smooth as velvet.
I smiled. “I think you do.”
My colleague Mary had confirmed what Amy thought, and what deep down I had known for some time.
“I really don’t want to be the one to have to tell you,” Mary had begun, “but I think you ought to know—especially after what you went through with Henry. The thing is, well, it’s Mr. Holland. He’s married, you see . . . Has a wife up in Manchester . . . and well, what with him taking you out and not coming clean, a few of us . . . Well, we decided you should know.”
Pride kicked in once again. And I pretended to Mary—dear sweet Mary, with her soft heart and good intentions. I said, “Oh, but we are not an item, you know. No, not at all . . . His poor wife is an invalid, and we simply drown our sorrows together, Mary, nothing more. Good gracious, we are not courting . . .”
Her relief went some way to assuage the guilt of my duplicity. And when she rolled her eyes, shook her head and said, “Well, what are we like, eh? We got that one wrong,” I laughed.
“And what do you mean by that?” asked Leo now, pulling at his collar, his chest puffed up—all ready for a great debate, a fight to clear his name.
“Please, let’s not lie anymore,” I said—and once again I was taken aback by the steadiness of my voice. “We’ve both lied . . . both of us. You have a wife you didn’t tell me about, but one who is alive and exists. And I have a husband I have told you about, but a husband who never was.”
“You’re making no sense . . . I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Yes, you do. You’re married, Leo. You have a wife. That’s why you go back to Manchester . . . not because of any frail mother.”
He looked around, took a moment; then he turned back to me and said, “And you—you were never married?”
I shook my head. “Never.”
“No man who fell at Gallipoli?”
“None.”
“But Henry—you described him so well.”
The Echo of Twilight Page 25