‘He was in love with her!’ I said.
‘Of course he was. Why would you think that he wasn’t?’
‘Why didn’t she keep the letters?’
‘Why don’t you ask her?’
‘They didn’t have their babies in winter,’ I said.
They’d had their babies in summer, and they had too many at once, and the babies didn’t gaze back at their parents. They only gazed at each other.
‘What else have you asked Bob?’ I asked.
‘I’ll tell you after the wedding.’
‘What are you really looking for?’
‘Proof. An explanation.’
‘Do you think,’ I asked idly, ‘that Bob pushed him off so that he could have Mum? Perhaps they planned it together!’
‘No! Don’t even go there. That’s not fair!’
‘You started it! And, anyway, it would be a good story. I think I might work on it. It makes more sense than suicide.’
‘You need to read that book. I keep asking you to.’
‘Stop nagging. I left it here. I’ll read it after the wedding.’
‘You will be good tomorrow, won’t you? Don’t spoil things for Mum.’
‘I’ll be a perfect angel.’
‘It’s nothing to do with Bob – I swear.’
‘Mum and Bob were having an affair, and you say it was nothing to do with Bob! OK. Whatever! Good night!’
‘Good night.’ He called after me: ‘And remember. You promised.’
20.
Mum and Bob’s wedding was in a manor house turned boutique hotel, which was attempting to evoke Provence. There were lavender and oleander in stone troughs. The ceremony itself was to be in ‘the Orangerie’.
Matthew, Ed and I arrived early, so that Matthew shouldn’t be anxious about being late. The chairs were dressed in white cotton and tied about with silver ribbons. There were pale flowers arranged in silvery foliage. We weren’t meant to be there yet – the room wasn’t ready for us.
Eventually guests began to drift in. They assumed that I was there to receive them, and it was too late to correct the impression. They seemed to know me, but I couldn’t remember, or had never met, most of them. The guests moved from me to Ed with an expression of curiosity and delight, as though he was being introduced as my intended. He took to the role immediately. Matthew stayed seated, and people went over to greet him, and to lay their hands on his shoulder in a comforting gesture – subconsciously, probably, I thought. And comforting him for what? That he was dying? Or that his son’s unfaithful widow was marrying her lover, his son’s best friend and dispatcher to the depths of the sea?
Aunt Jane arrived, moved her cheek to within three millimetres of mine, wafted some perfume in my direction, expressed her approval of Ed, then took over as Receiver of Guests. I returned to my place beside Matthew. He took my hand and whispered, ‘You stay here, where it’s safe.’
In the rows behind us there was a heightening of excitement as Bob arrived. He came over to us, and I stood, kissed his cheek, introduced him to Ed. I wasn’t listening, but seeing him, somehow. He was still vain: he wanted you to notice that he was keeping himself in good shape. What, I thought, do you have to do with my father? I answered myself: Nothing – you have nothing in common. But still you are connected – by his death, and because you are marrying my mother. He was happy to be marrying my mother – I could see that. Pure joy, untarnished by the many years they had already spent together. It was, after all, love. And it outshone even his vanity.
I hadn’t been able to dissuade Mum from walking down the aisle on Corwin’s arm. I said, ‘She’ll be making a spectacle of herself.’
‘It’s important to her – let her have it.’
‘Our stamp of approval?’
‘My stamp of approval – if you insist on characterizing it like that,’ he said.
So walk down the aisle she did, to a Bach orchestral piece suggested by the Classic FM website, looking very elegant, but leaning in a little on Corwin, because she had underestimated the height of her heels. She smiled and smiled and smiled, and when she reached Bob they held hands and interlocked their fingers.
Bob’s brother stood up and read, with appropriate irony, the lyrics to ‘When I’m Sixty-Four’, and then I stood up and read, without any irony whatsoever, ‘A Red, Red Rose’. I read it very well, and as I sat down again I congratulated myself on my monumental impassiveness.
Afterwards there was champagne on the lawn. We drank within a circle of coral and cream roses. I drank a lot. Ed was too busy ingratiating himself, and Corwin too busy being charming for either of them to notice. I cornered Mark Luscombe. ‘Can we talk about Matthew?’ I asked.
‘I’m not sure that this is the time or place, Morwenna,’ said Mark, moving away from me.
Matthew seemed to be enjoying himself immensely, sitting at a table and surrounded by the parish widows. I went and hovered near them, but they didn’t want me there, so I wandered away again. Corwin banged on his glass and gave a speech about how well Bob had looked after Mum for the last however many years, and made some better-late-than-never jokes. The women especially laughed; he looked so very handsome in a suit. Then everyone launched themselves on the buffet.
I think I was sober by the time the guests had all gone. I had realized by lunch that I needed to stop drinking, and touched only water for the rest of the afternoon. Mum said goodbye to the last guest, then turned to us and said, ‘That all went rather well, didn’t it?’
It did, actually. Even I had been warmed by all that radiant goodwill. Corwin put his arms around her and gave her a hug. ‘It was a great day, Mum. Well done.’
‘You will come back with us, won’t you? You’ll need some supper.’
‘Of course,’ said Corwin.
Matthew had already been delivered home by one of his old ladies. Jane went back with Mum and Bob, and Corwin drove me and Ed. It was about six o’clock. The evening sea pushed back the cloud, the sky cleared. I wasn’t having any dark thoughts. I felt fine. I was glad it was over.
At the house, Bob opened a bottle of champagne that he had been saving. The cork soared up into the beautiful void within the timber frames and we laughed and we drank to Mum and Bob’s happiness. Then Mum took Ed by the elbow and steered him to sit next to her on one of the sofas that faced each other in front of the fireplace.
‘You know, Ed,’ she said, ‘Morwenna still hasn’t been able to explain to me what it is that you do.’
‘I teach maths,’ said Ed.
‘Oh, she made it sound a lot more romantic than that!’
‘Did she?’ Ed looked surprised and pleased.
‘Yes,’ said Mum. ‘She said you’re a sort of mathematical Don Quixote.’
Ed looked less pleased. ‘I’m not sure what that means,’ he said. ‘I teach maths. I work with other mathematicians, but maths is a young man’s game – making breakthroughs, that is. Perhaps that’s what she meant. I’m always hoping that the next mathematical genius will turn up in one of my seminars and unlock my mind.’
‘You see?’ I said, to Ed as much as to my mother. ‘He’s a poet!’
‘He’s an idealist!’ pronounced Mum. ‘Morwenna’s father was an idealist,’ she added. ‘So it follows.’
‘So how come you’re not rich?’ asked Bob. ‘I thought you maths brains all went and made millions from hedge funds.’
‘That doesn’t really interest me,’ said Ed, as tactfully as he could.
‘I told you,’ I said stubbornly. ‘Ed’s a poet.’ And then, unnecessarily, ‘He has integrity.’
Jane snorted. She didn’t trust people with integrity. She couldn’t see how they pulled it off.
I remember thinking: I don’t care. Let her snort. So I can’t even blame Jane for what I said next. I still have no idea why it came out right there and then. I had intended to ask, but not in the way that I did. I can only ascribe it to relief and exhaustion now that the wedding was over – I was falling on th
e descent.
‘So, Mum,’ I said, ‘just out of curiosity. Were you fucking Bob before Dad died?’
Too late, my skin gave me the alarm. Every cell began to swell with blood – I felt it rise to fill my ears and lift me while everyone else in the room disappeared and all I could see was Mum. She had taken off her shoes and there was a hole in the toe of her tights. She had still been talking to Ed, and her hand, with its new wedding ring, was on his sleeve (I found myself wondering what she had done with the old one), and she turned and she was smiling.
She said slowly – I saw her mouth form each syllable, ‘No, Morwenna, I was not, as you so charmingly put it, “fucking Bob” before your father died. What makes you ask?’
I could see quite clearly now that this smile of hers was toxic – that her toxic smile had been with my father at the edge of the cliff, and that Bob, even if he hadn’t pushed him, had been too present that night. His drunken laughter had been sufficient mockery to induce my father to jump.
‘We were just wondering,’ I said, ‘what it was that might have encouraged Dad to throw himself off a cliff.’
I sensed Corwin move. He was about to intervene. But Mum held up her hand to stop him. ‘You think your father committed suicide?’
‘Yes!’ I said. But already I could see what I had done. I saw their faces: Bob’s, Jane’s, Corwin’s. Most of all I saw the repulsion on Ed’s.
‘But why are you asking me this now?’
‘It has only just occurred to us.’
Mum laughed. ‘Really? Surely, darling, it must have occurred to you both at the time.’
‘No!’ I yelled. ‘It didn’t. It never occurred to me that he had any reason to commit suicide! Now I see that he did have!’
Strangely, Mum was putting her shoes on, quite calmly. She didn’t want to continue the altercation in bare feet. She wriggled her heels into her pumps, first one, then the other, and stood.
‘Darling,’ she said calmly. ‘You’re being hysterical. What can I say? It did occur to me that your father had committed suicide, and it had nothing to do with Bob. If your father did throw himself off, and if it was because anyone was fucking anyone, it’s much more likely to be because he thought that you were fucking your brother.’
Something dislodged from my belly and flopped between us – a hideous translucent jellied thing. She and I had made it together. Every gibe against Bob had been caught up and fed to it. Mum was smiling the indulgent smile of the new mother.
‘He saw you both, the week before he died,’ she said. ‘He was very upset. So upset, in fact, that he deigned to discuss it with me.’
‘Saw us both? What do you mean, he saw us both?’
But already a memory was forming.
‘He went up to wake you for work and saw you in bed together.’
‘But we often shared a bed. You know that. Dad knew that.’
‘What we knew was that your behaviour was disturbing. You were eighteen and in bed together and naked!’
Corwin was standing. He was saying, ‘It’s time to go.’
‘Yes,’ said Mum. ‘I think it is.’
Corwin was pulling me from the sofa and saying, ‘Ed. Get up. We’re leaving.’
Mum was still smiling. She said, ‘Look at you both – you’ve only ever needed each other. And you have the gall to begrudge me Bob!’
Outside, at the car door, Corwin slapped me hard. ‘You stupid bitch!’ he yelled, and pushed me into the back seat.
‘Ed,’ he said, ‘you can sit in the front.’
21.
At Thornton, Corwin got out of the car. Ed sat in the passenger seat, waiting for me to offer something in mitigation of my behaviour, but I couldn’t speak. Finally, he said, ‘Aren’t you even going to try to explain that?’
‘I can’t,’ I said. ‘I can’t explain.’
‘Well, that’s not going to work for me this time.’ He was gripping the door handle. As he opened the door, he said, ‘You know, when I first met you what I liked about you was that you made beautiful things. I don’t understand how that’s possible when your thoughts are so ugly.’
I sat in the car a little longer, then roused myself and went round to the boot room and changed out of my stupid uncomfortable shoes, then walked down to the cabin in the floaty dress I had worn to please my mother on her wedding day.
I felt calm – shock, I suppose. I knew that Mum and I could never forgive each other. We would never argue again; we would never again have that intimacy. I wasn’t angry with her, or even with myself, for that matter. I wasn’t thinking about Mum’s accusation or about my father’s suicide. I felt bad about Ed, but from a great distance. Mainly, I had the buoyant sensation of having set down a great burden and walked on. It was still light. There was a scattering of summer colour on the fields.
At the cabin I took a blanket and wrapped it around myself and sat on the steps and watched the stars appear and waited for the moon to rise and for Corwin to come. He would know what to do next. The moon was almost full – a gibbous moon. Matthew had given me ‘gibbous’. It was one of his uncountable gifts to me. I had always been able to receive them without rancour. I wondered why I had been unable to do the same for my parents.
The tide was gentle and quiet. Eventually I heard Corwin’s steps on the shingle. He sat down next to me. We watched the moon. I had matters back in proportion: the Atlantic, the blind cliffs, my self set against them.
‘I’m sorry,’ said Corwin. ‘That was my fault.’
I draped the blanket around us both. ‘Has Ed gone?’
‘Yes. Will you be able to explain it to him?’
‘Probably not.’
After a while I said, ‘Do you think she was right? Do you think Dad really thought that?’
The memory was clear. It had been so hot that summer. We had fallen asleep, talking, and some time in the night I had freed myself from the irritation of clothes, half asleep. I remembered the comfort of spooning into Corwin’s skin. His chest and legs had been smooth then. It had not been the first time although perhaps it had been the last.
‘She’s just punishing you.’ Corwin picked up a pebble and threw it towards the approaching water. ‘Actually,’ he said, still staring after the pebble, ‘Dad asked me about it.’
‘What? When?’
‘A couple of days before he fell.’
‘So it was to do with us! How did he ask? What did he say?’ I felt a spasm of remorse. My poor private father, asking out loud if his son was having sex with his daughter.
‘He brought me down here and we sat like this. And he said something about our “affinity” – yours and mine. How you and I had always been close, but he was worried that we’d become too close.’
‘Affinity,’ I echoed. At that moment I felt it very important to be accurate – honest. I had just broken with my mother and it seemed to me that in that there was something far more unnatural than any distortion of love there might or might not be between me and Corwin. I thought of my father, standing in the doorway, watching us sleep, not understanding us. I was ashamed. I acknowledged how lonely we had made him – him and Mum.
I said, ‘Look at me. Let me see your face.’ He turned to me and I looked at him properly for the first time in years. ‘Did he see anything, do you think? In us? Anything that we didn’t see at the time?’
‘I’ve thought about that a lot,’ said Corwin; he sounded very, very sad. I thought: He’s weary. He’s almost reached the end. But the end of what? ‘Dad said that we were “in danger of violating the laws of nature”. I was so angry – I just wanted to hit him, but I didn’t. I remember that quite clearly – the sensation of having stopped myself from hitting him. He wanted my assurance that my feelings towards you were “chaste”. I laughed at that. That word, chaste. He said it was a good thing we were going to be separated for a while. I said I couldn’t believe that he would think that of me – of us. That he offended us in asking.’
‘Did he believe you?’
‘I think so. Yes – I’m sure he did.’
‘He should have talked to me about it.’
‘He was going to – he told me he would talk to you too.’
‘Why didn’t you tell me?’
‘Well – events were superseded somewhat, don’t you think?’
That was when I remembered my father standing in the doorway with a cup of tea. So that was what he had wanted to talk about! It had been too difficult. He had not had the courage. What would I have said, if he’d asked me? I would have shouted. I would have thrown something. And I had not been wearing pyjamas – he had misjudged the setting. It was all wrong for an accusation of incest. Poor Dad! How unpleasant it must have been for him.
‘Dad wasn’t the only person who asked me,’ Corwin said suddenly, as if he’d just decided not to hold anything back.
‘Who else?’
‘Mickey.’
I was beginning now to feel laid out to view; pried open.
‘He said we were freaking everyone out. He asked me if I’d ever thought about it.’
‘And had you?’ I asked.
‘What?’
‘Had you ever thought about it?’
‘Christ! I don’t know. I don’t think so – but you really don’t want to know what goes on in the minds of adolescent boys. Dad did know. That’s why he talked to me first – me “in particular, being male and therefore less in control of my appetites”.’
‘Well, that was one of his longer sentences,’ I said. There was acid in my mouth.
‘Oliver did his wise-old-man thing and said, “All kinds of love are possible.”’
‘Oh, Oliver too! Oh, good!’
We said nothing for a while. Corwin threw pebbles, his arm protruding from the gap in the blanket. The tide was now close enough to receive them. Plop! Plop! Plop!
‘We humiliated him,’ I said. ‘You see? She was right. It was us!’
The House at the Edge of the World Page 15