Love, Revenge & Buttered Scones

by Bobbie Darbyshire

  ‘I know.’ Urquhart lifted his agonised face. ‘D’ye not think I know? I lost the woman I loved. I betrayed ma friends. I gave the war to Franco! And then I found I’d lost the power to write! I tried to throw away ma life in France to bring the poetry back, but God refused ma life and still the poetry wouldnae come.’

  He gave a great, gasping sob. She stared at him. He gave the war to Franco? God refused to take his life? Did his vanity have no limit?

  ‘Honour, honour, honour lost. Lost and never found. Searched for in the bowels of hell. Glimpsed – I have it still – and lost again.’ Peter was reciting. Was this Edgar Allen Poe?

  ‘Ah, Peter, lad.’

  Hands were lifting the old man from the floor, were patting and comforting him. Tears were running through the wrinkles in his cheeks and into his beard. Elena watched them, feeling nothing.

  Henry was stroking her hair. ‘It’s all right, all done, Elena. You will feel better.’

  But she felt nothing. This was how it was.

  Henry

  He was touching her ear! He was touching her hair! His shirt was splashed with her tears!

  Hannah settled herself more heavily on his feet. Elena sighed and closed her eyes.

  The Spanish civil war. Revenge and counter-revenge. The room was boiling with it, but what did any of it matter? He was floating in a bubble of bliss with a real woman and an equable dog.

  ‘This is brilliant stuff and I hate to say it, but I have to get back to the kitchen,’ said James. The metal in his face glinted as he winked at Henry. He swept the floor in a low bow and exited.

  Elena’s hair had a lemony smell. Henry gazed happily around the room.

  Big Owen and efficient Janet were guiding the old man to another sofa. Janet was dabbing at his face with a handkerchief, while Owen spoke in calming tones.

  William and Gavin were in a huddle near the fireplace, glowering first at Urquhart, then at Elena, then at Peter, uncertain on whom to vent their bad temper.

  Peter seemed dumbstruck. Thin and shabby in his black poet’s uniform, he crouched in an armchair, hugging his knees with his nibbled fingers. He gazed at his curate’s egg of a father.

  In the centre of the room, Fiona stood motionless, hands by her sides. Her cheeks were wet too, Henry noticed; he should help her somehow. But no, Gavin’s girlfriend, Kim, was doing the job. The two women embraced in a long, wordless hug.

  Peter’s family, he was seeing. His own family too in a sort of a way. His brother’s father’s family. His mother’s lover’s family. He tried to comprehend the net of relationships into which he had stumbled.

  Elena’s man. That was what he wanted to be. Her hair tickled his nose; she opened her eyes and looked at him. ‘I think I must go to my room, Henry. I must be alone.’

  ‘Yes, of course.’ He couldn’t bear to part with her. He heaved the dog off his feet and helped her to stand. ‘Of course you must.’

  He would escort her, see her safely there. He might encounter Michael McCoy on the way, but it didn’t matter, not in the slightest; he would risk embarrassment for Elena. He would risk more than embarrassment for Elena. Only Elena mattered now.

  Peter

  Honour lost.

  He hugged his knees.

  The power of writing lost.

  He stared at Calum.

  Calum, his father. His father. Found.

  His father weeping. Lost.

  Revenge nae use at all. Nothing salvaged but ‘romance’.

  Pitiless Venus, reborn from the foam of time. Her lover, Mars, slain by a word. Romance.

  All wrecked and swept away. His poems, his father’s poems, worthless romance. No point in poetry.

  Crazy flotsam of characters. Venus with Charon and Cerberus, floating by on the ebbtide. Hercules harbouring Mars on sofa. Castor and Pollox dampened, muttering by dead fire.

  Love, lust, murder, rage, revenge, the deeds of war, the fires of Calum’s soul. All doused by dishonour, drowning in romance.

  No, not so!

  Far far colder, that is how it was.

  Poetry mattered!

  The famous poet is here with me today.

  Leap from chair.

  Ma last and greatest.

  Yes! The poem! Beautiful in its despair and honesty. No, more than honesty, in its transcendent, fucking truth!

  Where was it? He must read it at once, from start to finish, knowing all. Spain and France and Clapham. Teresa, French petticoats and Ma. Yes, no time to lose. Whole world at stake.

  Fuck! Where was his rucksack? Quick! Rewind!

  Here? No. Up mountain? No. In the aquarium out front? Yes! Shit! Scramble for door, elbow past Venus and Clark Kent. Oh fuck, fuck, fuck, it had to still be there!

  Chapter Thirty-two

  Peter

  Honour, honour, honour lost. Calum’s words drumming in his head. Brain blank with fear of loss, feet a-skid along passage into –

  Wham, déjà vu! In Surround-sound, Technicolor Smell-o-Vision. Four-year-old alter ego with backdrop of iron-studded door, in creaking, woodworm-scented hall. Georgie in jimjams with puzzled blue eyes. ‘Are you my uncle?’

  No time for this. But no, it mattered! Knock history from its groove! ‘Yes. Too right. I am.’ Sweep child off doormat, clasp him to chest. Heavy little legs agrip round waist. Twenty-five years ago, if Calum had done this, the world would have shifted.

  Lost and never found. No! On and under stone arch, child clinging like monkey. Tripping on rugs, brain vaulting ahead. Deserted aquarium, glass wall black sheet of night. Race round sofa end, willing rucksack to be there. ‘Oh no! Oh please!’

  Searched for in the bowels of hell. Spin, lurch, bend. It must be here. Black canvas bag. A simple enough request of the fucking universe. It existed, here on this sofa. Elena’s bags, his rucksack. Did she take it? No! It was here, he left it here! Child’s head bumping against chin. ‘Oh fuck, fuck, fucking hell, I’ve lost it, Georgie!’

  ‘May I be of assistance, sir?’ Obese waiter with slimy smile.

  Pleading, out of breath. ‘My bag. Black. A rucksack. It was just – ’

  ‘Yes, sir.’ Voice of high disdain. ‘I believe I have the item. Be so kind as to wait here. I will bring it to you.’

  Collapse on sofa, chest tight with joy, arms tight with child. ‘Oh thank you, thank you, God!’

  Open eyes. Meet child close-up. Child whispering. ‘I like rude words.’

  Sudden thought. ‘Do you like poems?’

  ‘Yes. Is your name Peter?’

  ‘Yes. Truly, you like poems?’

  ‘Yes. And you’re my Uncle Peter?’

  ‘Yes. Which poems are best?’

  ‘Winnie the Pooh. My uncles give me presents. Will you give me presents?’

  Winnie the fucking Pooh? ‘Yes, I suppose, if you remind me.’

  Unctuous waiter back, nose wrinkled, bearing miracle of scuffed black canvas.

  ‘Ta, mate.’ Wrench cord loose, and reach in – yes! wham! yes! – find miracle of Jiffybag stuffed with worn A4.

  I have it still. He had it still! Calum! Calum’s genius.

  ‘Will you be requiring anything from the bar, sir?’

  Bounce child, nod vigorously. A toast to genius past and future, and to A A Milne.

  ‘What’ve you got?’

  ‘The local malt is considered fine.’

  ‘Right, mate. Wheel it in.’ Shift child to cushion. Pull out poem. Smooth pages. Count them. Fiona still had the last.

  ‘Georgie! What are you doing out of bed?’

  Speak of the devil, angelic Fi – his sister, hold that thought – luminous in stone arch. Her eyes – his own eyes – pink from weeping.

  ‘It’s okay, Fi. He’s fine. We’re getting acquainted.’

  ‘He’s my Uncle Peter.’

  ‘Yes.’ Advancing her petite self from archway across baronial rugs. ‘That’s who he is.’

  Waiter in swift, sly overtake, silver tray afloat on fingertips, oily malt swaying in
cut glass tumbler, smart aleck eyes aflicker over denims. ‘That will be three pounds fifty, sir. Or do you prefer I charge it to your room?’

  Open mouth to trash the bastard, but Fiona was there first. ‘Gordon, I’m so sorry. Has no one explained? This is Peter Jennings, my half-brother from London, one of three family guests we have today.’

  ‘Hi, Gord.’ Seize squeamish hand.

  ‘I beg your pardon, sir.’ Fleeing the scene.

  Respect, a poet father, everything: the whole lot, FU’s doing. Peter, I promise, be patient, the reward will surprise you.

  ‘Fiona?’

  ‘Peter?’

  Leaning close, over Georgie’s head. ‘The poem. It’s great.’

  ‘I know.’ Her eyes shining wet. ‘Whatever my father is, whatever he’s done – ’

  ‘Yes!’ Make her believe it. ‘Truly great. I must read it again. There’s no doubt, Fi, the story’s there. But more than any story, the human soul laid bare.’

  His own eyes filling with tears. Blink them away.

  ‘So now, the last page, Fiona. May I?’

  ‘Of course. I’ll fetch it.’ Showering blessings on his head. His fairy godmother.

  ‘Thank you. I’ll take good care of it, I promise.’

  Smiling through her tears. ‘It’s not the only copy. I’m sorry I made you think so. But all the same, he wrote it, so it’s – ’

  ‘Precious, you said.’

  ‘Yes. He copied it for me.’

  Deep breath, expecting to be angry. He should be angry. Twice he’d thought he’d lost the only one.

  Not angry. Absence of anger. Another gift from Fi.

  ‘I’ll bring it straightaway. Come on, Georgie. Time for bed.’ Such lovely, sad, grey eyes.

  ‘O-o-oh.’ Georgie whingeing like a good un. ‘Please let me stay. This is my Uncle Peter.’

  Lean forward, touch her hand. ‘Hey, little Fi.’

  ‘Hey what, impossible P?’

  ‘Hey, thanks for everything, big sis.’

  Henry

  ‘This is my room.’

  The door was open, the space beyond was floral pink. Henry made himself let go of Elena’s arm, but she seemed stuck, unable to cross the threshold. The dog stalled too, wagging her tail nonsensically. On or back, it was the same to Hannah.

  Henry remembered last night outside the guesthouse under the frozen stars, how Elena had shivered as she began to take off his Barbour, how she’d relented and invited him in. To be more warm before you go.

  He took courage from the memory and spoke. ‘Are you quite sure you want to be alone?’

  Her face was calm. A tear swelled and spilled as though it belonged to someone else, as though it had no meaning.

  He understood. He knew what it was to weep like this. After Ingrid left, after his mother died, he had wept like this.

  ‘Because you aren’t alone,’ he told Elena lamely. ‘Things will, you know, seem better.’

  She nodded, and then shook her head. ‘I am alone completely. I am always alone.’

  What better moment would there be than this, what clearer cue? He banished nervousness and second thoughts. ‘Not if you don’t want to be.’

  Her eyes lifted to meet his, startled yet shining. She understood. ‘Henry.’

  She might say yes. He couldn’t bear to hear her say no. Nonsense began blurting from his mouth.

  ‘I know I lied to you, but I’m not, you know . . .’

  ‘Yes, Henry. I know.’

  ‘Elena, it’s . . . won’t you . . .’ He could find no sensible words. Reckless words offered themselves, words he couldn’t possibly speak. Her eyes shone as dark and deep as last night, trusting, grateful, full of – dare he believe it? Dare he even think it? ‘Elena, you must . . .’ No. That was wrong. ‘I don’t mean . . . I realise . . .’

  She took his hand. ‘Henry. Please. Come.’ She put a finger on his lips. She led him and the dog inside and closed the door. ‘Cognac,’ she said. ‘We both need cognac.’

  The room throbbed with pink. Hannah reconnoitred the furniture. Elena headed for the minibar, opened it and peered inside, then hung her head. ‘No cognac. Only whisky. And cold. It should not be cold.’

  Her voice was flat, she wasn’t meeting his eyes. He tried to cling to hope, but it was useless. She meant to pour him strong drink and to tell him in the gentlest way – if he were the last poor bugger on earth, she wouldn’t in a million years.

  ‘You want me to go. You want to be alone.’ Please say it wasn’t so.

  ‘It is not so, Henry,’ she whispered.

  She knelt by the mini-bar, staring dismally at the roses on the carpet, tracing their petals with a finger. The dog slumped flat by the bed and heaved a mighty canine sigh.

  How selfish he was being. Her grandmother had been murdered. Her grandfather was a murderer. Urquhart had outmanoeuvred her at every turn, producing Peter like a moth-eaten rabbit from a hat, then capping her, outrage for outrage, until she had nothing left to throw at him. And now, to cap it all, poor Elena, she had to deal with an unwanted suitor. God, this reality business was hard to do.

  Though it made speech easier. ‘Look Elena, I’m sorry. Please forget it. Gone as if I never spoke. Don’t know what came over me. Brandy’s an excellent plan. There’s a nice warm bottle of it in my room. I’ll be straight back.’

  Hannah struggled to her feet and lumbered after him.

  Elena

  The door closed. She stared at the carpet. The roses mocked her.

  It was done. She had shamed Urquhart. With one word she had killed the arrogance in his eyes.

  Romance.

  The word was a bee’s sting; it had killed her also. Its poison had spread from her mouth to her brain. There was no antidote. Her shame and rage, her exile from her native land, all romance. Her life was melodrama, her revenge was spite.

  She had gained nothing. She had lost Mikhail. Her throat tightened with grief.

  And now, Henry – this gentle Englishman in a soft checked shirt that smelled of anxiety – he offered her romance.

  This room, with all its roses, screamed romance.

  Henry’s eyes had been wide with hope, watching her mouth, wanting so little from it, only the small word ‘yes’.

  A sheepskin coat was on the bed. New boots stood beside it. Almost happy she had been this morning, choosing these things with Henry from a shop bright with sunshine, while children played music for dancing.

  Henry was alone. She was alone. Shall we go on together, that was his question.

  She had no place in the world. I am your place in the world, that was his answer.

  She rose from her knees and went to the window. She could see nothing, only Land-Rovers and Fiona’s French car in the light from the salon below. The lake, the mountain path, the road to Inverness, all were swallowed by the night.

  Things will, you know, seem better.

  She could see nothing. She felt nothing. This was how it was.

  Chapter Thirty-three

  Henry

  The only route he knew to his room and to the abandoned bottle of brandy was down, along and up again through the back parlour. There was no one about as he and Hannah negotiated the creaking spiral staircase to the hall. Presumably Michael McCoy and the Americans were busy admiring their reflections and tucking into their steaks in that appalling tartan Underground station. Because actually, speaking frankly, Mr William bully-boy Urquhart, builder, decorator, and ‘entrepreneur’, no, he did not like the house one bit.

  Most of all he detested this hall, the gloomy, evil-smelling hub of the web. With Hannah close at his heels, he sped across it into the oppressive passage beyond. So far, so unobserved. He’d had a bellyful of other people. He’d be up the fireplace stairs, have the bottle safe and be winging it back to Elena in no time.

  Elena. Elena. She hadn’t wanted him to go away. She hadn’t told him to get lost. He was crazy, fantasising again. But no, how did any normal chap go about landing a woman? Yo
u had to imagine what could be and chance your luck, didn’t you? You had to say, ‘Will you?’ You had to risk the answer no.

  He pushed open the parlour door. With its old-fashioned panelling, assorted sofas and dead fireplace, the room had the deserted air of a stage without actors. But then, damn it all, James’s disembodied head twisted to grin at him above a chair-back, and Hannah bounded forward, delivering her usual sneezes.

  ‘Hello there. Were you wanting to join us?’ The spikes in James’s lips gleamed.

  ‘Hello. No, thanks.’

  Henry managed a smile. There were worse encounters to be feared. This fellow was completely off his hostess trolley, yet the craziness seemed honest, not put on. But there was no space in Henry’s brain for merry chitchat. He gathered momentum towards the fireplace.

  ‘Just passing through. Fetching brandy. Elena feels the need.’

  ‘I’ll bet she does, poor kid. Hannah! Sit!’

  Henry had the door in the wall open and his foot on the stair. He swung to smile again.

  ‘Oh. Good heavens. I’m sorry. I . . .’

  Kneeling at James’s feet was Michael McCoy, offering Marjorie Macpherson’s smile. ‘It’s good to see you, Henry. I hope things are working out for you.’

  Henry’s feet were backing him up the stairs. He could no longer see the two beaming faces, only knees, trousers, Hannah’s thrashing tail, and the twitching head of the Loch Craggan monster.

  He turned and scurried to his room, where he poured and downed a triple slug. He was shaking with he didn’t quite know what emotion: shock, relief, a piquant, foolish stab of loss. Only one thing was for sure, he would have to find another way back.

  Elena

  She was ready when his knock came. She knew what she would say. But he seemed changed also when she opened the door. More strong perhaps, more tall and confident, less fearful of her answer, yes or no. He smelled of cognac, but that was not the reason, or not all of it.