The Darkening Hour

by Penny Hancock

  At that moment Terence sweeps in, in his dark suit; he’s clearly come straight from the City. He asks if anyone would like a drink and I ask for a martini.

  ‘How do you have it again?’

  He’s known me all these years, but still hasn’t got it. Then I remember that Max is coming tomorrow, and my spirits rise. He would never forget how I have my drink.

  ‘Terence. It’s a double Tanqueray with 10 mils of Cointreau, shaken with ice and a twist of orange zest.’

  ‘We were just discussing whether a home is the best place for Daddy, if he gets worse,’ Anita says, when Terence returns. ‘The problem is, obviously, if he needs twenty-four-hour care, Mona won’t be able to look after him. He’ll need nurses. Which means a care home.’

  ‘Well,’ says Terence, ‘if it comes to it, a care home is going to be problematic. I’ve been going through his accounts, and it’s all a bit disappointing. Unfortunately, Dad couldn’t have foreseen that the recession would decrease the value of most of his savings. I’m not certain we could afford the kind of home we were thinking of. It might be a question of looking into local authority care, though I suspect we wouldn’t be eligible for that either. It’s a bugger – financially, we seem to fall between two stalls.’

  ‘What about the house?’ asks Simon. ‘What’s happening to the money from the sale of the house?’

  There’s a tense pause. We’ve often, in recent years, agreed with one another that at least we have the security of the family home – if everything else goes pear-shaped. I remember Anita hinting – and I cherish the notion – that since I was the one to have given up my time and part of my home to care for Daddy, I might even be treated favourably when it came to dividing up the proceeds of his estate. It only seems fair. Whatever, we’d all agreed that when Daddy died we’d sell it for a killing – large detached houses in Blackheath are worth millions these days – and share out the profit. None of us had bargained for the fact that we might have to use the proceeds to pay for his dementia care – but if it comes to that, we are all realising glumly, it will have to be done.

  But then Terence drops the real bombshell.

  ‘It seems Dad has left a portion of the money from the sale of the house to someone called Nancy Partridge.’

  ‘What the fuck . . .?’ says Simon, looking round at me and then Anita and back to Terence. ‘You’re joking. Tell me you’re joking, Terry.’

  Terence wipes a drop of beer from his upper lip, looks down at the paper in his hands and says, ‘Apparently, Dad was seeing someone else while we were growing up.’

  ‘You’re saying he left the house to someone we haven’t even heard of and has left nothing for us?’ says Simon.

  ‘Who’s Nancy Partridge?’ I ask. The name is familiar, but I can’t put a face to it.

  ‘Oh – my – God,’ Anita says. ‘I don’t believe he’s done this.’

  She looks from one to the other of us, an infuriating gleam in her eyes, the gleam of someone who has access to the gossip before anyone else and is in the powerful position of choosing to impart it when it best suits her, when it will make the most impact. She’s chosen her moment, all right.

  ‘Nancy Partridge!’ she exclaims. ‘The cook at the restaurant.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ My mouth’s dry. I feel as if something that’s been lying submerged, that I have only half-sensed, is about to rise up and wreak its damage at last. A face floats into my mind, the cook, a shadowy figure always in the background in an overall, her dark eyes, her glossy hair: is this the person Mona reminded me of when she arrived?

  ‘They had an affair – one of Daddy’s many,’ Anita tells us. ‘She worked in the restaurant, was a cook. But when Mum found out, he sacked her. Nice work, Daddy! But it was typical of him – he’s always picked up and dropped people when it suited him; he’s always been a selfish old bugger.’

  ‘You knew?’ asks Simon.

  ‘Mum told me,’ says Anita coolly. ‘Mum thought you’d be upset. You in particular, Dora.’

  ‘When? When did Mum tell you?’ Had she been in Mummy’s confidence in a way I never had?

  ‘Recently. It was after Daddy started getting symptoms. He started to talk about this Nancy person and I asked Mummy who she was.’

  ‘Bloody hell,’ says Terence, for once showing some reaction, some emotion. ‘Have you met her?’

  ‘Not recently. But I remembered her, once Mum mentioned her,’ says Anita. ‘I’d never have thought he’d do this though. Mum said Nancy accused him of treating her badly, not paying her properly or something. Unfairly dismissing her. She wouldn’t let it drop for quite a while after he sacked her. Mum said it was horrid – they both felt they were being stalked.’

  ‘How on earth did he fit having an affair in with the restaurant?’ I manage at last.

  I wonder how reliable Anita’s information is. I knew Daddy better than anyone in those years, the years he used to run the restaurant and we’d make our early-morning forays to London’s markets and hidden stalls and wholesalers.

  ‘You know those mornings he used to take you to the markets with him?’ Anita said. ‘You were a decoy, to distract Mother from suspecting anything.’

  ‘That’s rubbish,’ I said. ‘Why would she suspect anything? He had to get his produce for the restaurant, that’s all. There was no reason on earth for Mother to be suspicious.’

  ‘Ah, but she was. Because she had caught him once, at the restaurant. And she remembered that Nancy had often gone with him on those trips. Mother forbade him to see her again. But when he continued to go off early in the mornings, she accused him of carrying on. He said, “If you don’t believe me, I’ll take Theodora along.” He knew you’d never complain about being left in the cafés, or in the car. Do you remember, Dora? You used to tell me how he left you for hours sometimes. But Daddy knew you’d never blab to Mum. Because you were always so desperate to prove how good you were. He made you feel you were his favourite – when it suited him, of course. He did it to each of us.’

  I was his favourite. He took me because I was the one he liked to spend time with. The special one. I was always helpful. Never any trouble. His gift from God. The one who’s been prepared to take him in, in his old age.

  ‘Anyway,’ says Terence briskly. ‘I’m afraid this is something we all have to confront. There is no spare cash for any of us at the moment. What there is, we have to put aside in case Dad does ever need full-time care.’

  ‘If there’s anything left,’ says Simon. ‘At this rate we’ll be bankrupt before he kicks the bucket.’

  ‘Look, this is getting rather nasty,’ I say. ‘That was in bad taste, Simon.’

  ‘I think we need to talk to this woman. Here we are, paying for Dad’s care, and there she is, about to inherit the family wealth, doing fuck all. Or perhaps someone ought to have a word with Daddy, persuade him he’s made a mistake. It’s typical of the mean old sod to cheat us all out of what was our due.’

  ‘So it’s bad news, I’m afraid,’ Terence goes on, ignoring him. ‘If Dad does need care, it might mean one or the other of us remortgaging . . .’

  ‘Then the best thing is, we keep him out of it for as long as possible,’ says Anita. ‘Anyway, he would hate to be in a home with a lot of old people all going gaga.’

  I can’t speak. I’m not thinking about the money. The money is the last thing on my mind. I’m thinking about the fact that if I’d ever been Daddy’s ‘gift from God’, I was a gift only because I provided cover for the fact he was with his lover.

  ‘So I think we’re all agreed,’ Terence is saying. ‘For the time being, if you’re OK with it, Dora, I think we’ll leave things as they are. All seems to be going well with your . . .’

  ‘Mona,’ Simon fills in.

  ‘Yes, her, and we’ll review the situation in say . . . six months? Is that OK with you, Dora? We’ll all continue to contribute financially.’

  ‘At least we’ve all got decent homes and jobs,’ Anita says. She
doesn’t seem to have been affected at all by this startling news.

  ‘I’m sorry it wasn’t a more cheerful meeting,’ says Terence.

  When the boys have gone, Anita and I walk together along the river.

  The tide has come up in the time we have been inside, and is now gobbling up the steps that lead down to the beach. The water is dark and a murky green and bits are floating in it that I don’t want to look at too closely. I walk with Anita towards Waterloo tube station with the sense that nothing is as it seems, that the past and the way we see it shifts and alters and flickers like the river. I think of how, when Daddy moved in, I realised he was different from the person I remembered, and now I wonder whether I ever really knew him at all.

  PART THREE

  The Silence of Statues

  CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN

  ‘So, Mona,’ I say, as she comes into the kitchen. Max is due tonight, he’s coming to my home. He wants to see the real me, to sleep in my bed. The thought of his being here heals somewhat the hurt I felt after learning about Daddy, his past, the way he’s used each of us to his own ends. Me more than anyone. Max, at least, wants me.

  Mona has brown shadows around her eyes today, and is looking, I notice with a certain satisfaction, worn and unattractive in one of the dowdy blue overalls.

  ‘Just a reminder. The house is to gleam! What I thought was, it would be nice if you could make more of your traditional bread.’

  She stares at me, wide-eyed. Is she still resentful that I took her passport?

  ‘If you can do this for me, we can talk about your having a few days off in January to pop home.’

  She moves her head imperceptibly. She’s acquiescing.

  ‘I’ll be arriving home at about six and I’d like you to make the bread then. Also, I thought it would be rather nice if you could cook one of your warming soups, the one with chickpeas . . .’

  ‘Harira.’

  ‘Yes. And then I’ve arranged for a taxi to take you and Daddy to Anita’s.’

  Her face is still hard, expressionless.

  ‘Mona,’ I say softly. ‘We can help one another. Let’s work together like we did when you first arrived.’

  ‘I have to go to Charles now,’ she says. ‘He needs his medication.’

  I’ve arranged with Charlotte to leave work a little early today. The show’s not going out again now till after Christmas and everything’s winding down. Half the staff have disappeared for Christmas drinks at 3 p.m. so I pull on my coat, my heart pounding, in anticipation of the evening ahead.

  My mobile goes as I hurry towards the South Bank again. It’s Anita.

  ‘So sorry, Dora. We’re going to have to cancel the Christmas thing. Jack’s come down with chicken pox. Jemima’s whingeing too, so I think she’s probably sickening.’

  It takes a few moments for it to sink in. Max is coming! Mona and Daddy will have to stay in the house after all. But there’s nothing I can do. I’ll just have to keep Mona out of our way. Hell, she can sleep downstairs in Daddy’s flat with him. It won’t do her any harm, and it means she’ll be there if he wakes.

  Max is walking around the London Pride sculpture outside the National Theatre on the South Bank, admiring the women’s rather oversized legs, their bronze breasts. The two nudes are almost identical, stylised, larger than life, sitting on the plinth.

  ‘Like you and your housemaid,’ jokes Max.

  It’s begun to rain, a fine steady downpour, and we find seats under Waterloo Bridge outside the BFI. It’s cold, but we’re both wrapped up in thick coats, my faux fur one, Max’s camel, and scarves. There’s something delicious about sheltering from the rain here; the way its pattering mutes the other sounds of the city, the smell of the wet pavements, the way people’s umbrellas go up. Rays from the sinking sun light up the rain from the west, forming a golden veil over the dark river, and over the black bridges, and over the slate-grey buildings on the opposite bank. The book stalls are closed today; the Embankment is quiet, the winter and the rain have thinned out the tourists. I sit huddled into my coat, under the bridge watching the little blue lights glow in the dark branches of the trees along the Embankment.

  Buses and taxis, rumbling invisibly overhead, cast shadows that slide across the plane trees and vanish.

  A rainbow appears, arching over and touching the buildings at Aldwych. A woman with a bright umbrella, matching the orange stripe of the rainbow, leans on the railings, a vibrant image against the muted greys and greens of the river. I think how much I love London, how to me it is my heart, that this is something that maybe Max will never really quite understand, however much of it I show him.

  When we’ve finished our drinks we make our way to the pier to wait for the Clipper.

  ‘Have you made any decisions about downsizing?’ I ask him.

  ‘My New Year resolution,’ he says, ‘is going to be to have cut down my hours by June. I’m going to spend more time away from work.’ He looks at me, a gentle smile on his face as if he’s waiting for me to say something. For the first time I wonder whether the allure of his status as a professor will fade for me when he resigns. It’s something I’ve always found sexy, the thought of the sway he holds over his juniors, his expertise and the kudos this carries.

  ‘It’s the beginning of a new era. Mattie will have left for college by then.’

  ‘You’ll be a new man.’

  ‘I hope so.’

  We arrive at Festival Pier.

  ‘So we take the boat from here?’ he asks, his arm around me, the twinkle back in his eyes.

  ‘Yes, if you’re not sea-sick. It’s the nicest way to the pub I want to show you.’

  He takes hold of my hand, pulls off the glove. Weaves his fingers through mine. ‘Love it. Theodora Gentleman goes home by boat,’ he says. ‘Why did you never invite me before?’

  I know the answer: I didn’t have Mona before. The house was a mess. Daddy was constantly crying out for me. Leo was a drain on my space and time. It’s thanks to Mona I’m bringing my lover home! I say nothing, but shudder, whether with the cold or the anticipation I can’t be sure.

  Then the boat arrives. The tide’s up tonight, the river swelling and heaving as we climb on board. The boat rises and falls, throwing Max and me together, and I cling to him, a strange terror taking hold of me. The river tosses us about carelessly as if we were playthings riding on its back, and I have a vision of us as we must look from above. Two pathetic human beings at the mercy of this great waterway. I glance at Max to see if he, too, is struck by this, but he’s gazing out at the lights on the far banks, his arm about me and his fingers gently stroking the collar of my faux fur coat, as if he’s in the most comfortable place in the world.

  The boat draws up at Hilton Docklands Pier, with a clanking of chains, and it rolls and groans as we clamber off onto solid ground.

  ‘What a quaint old place,’ he says, as I lead him into the pub. ‘Almost Dickensian,’ sitting back on one of the benches by the fire that the proprietors are always careful to light. There are mince pies on the bar, and the tree in the corner is tastefully decked in white lights.

  Later, warmed by the two drinks I’ve had on our way east, I take him out onto the platform where Leo sat during my mother’s funeral wake, and we stand and gaze at the view over the river, so different here from the view from the National Theatre. Instead of the grand façade of Somerset House with its green domes on the north side, here are dark crevices and pilings. I spot the steps down which I imagined descending, the day of the funeral. Remember how I’d thought that to walk into the river’s depths might be a relief from the strain I felt swamping me at the time. And I remind myself how I have pulled things around since then, taken Daddy in, got my house looking presentable and am at last bringing Max right into the heart of my life.

  I feel a wave of love for Max. A keen need for him that unsettles me.

  Unsettles me, because underneath I realise that everything I’ve achieved has been thanks to Mona, and I wo
nder, will Max love me when he knows that I’ve lost my job? Will he see that I cannot properly supervise Mona, that I’ve failed with Leo? What if he judges me for having Daddy live in the basement? Should I have agreed with Mona about moving Daddy upstairs?

  ‘Come on,’ he says as if on cue. ‘Show me your home.’

  A bus ride through the increasingly squalid streets of south-east London. I wonder what Max thinks as the streets turn rougher, the warehouses give way to KFCs and betting shops, cheap barbers and pound shops nestled beneath cheaply constructed 1970s apartment blocks.

  ‘Look, Max, I want to show you the hidden treasure inside this church. Follow me.’

  I take him into St Nicholas, past its gaping skulls on the gateposts, and show him the lists of ships’ names on the wall, where I’d got the name Endymion for my cat. Then I show him the Grinling Gibbons carving, an illustration of the psalm ‘O Ye Dry Bones’.

  As we stand and look at it, however, I suddenly wish I hadn’t. Why am I showing him a depiction of skeletons and skulls, of heaps of weeping bodies? Max likes sensual statues, depictions of life; he doesn’t want to see this harrowing carving of bodies writhing and rotting underground.

  I hurry him out again. ‘Let’s go home,’ I say.

  We walk down the High Street, and I’m acutely aware of all the nail bars and the Thai massage parlours, of the guys hanging around with cans of Special Brew outside the cab office. I don’t want Max to look, I want him only to see the things I’m proud of.

  Max is silent, and the anxiety surfaces again that he might change his mind about me when he sees my home.

  We turn into my narrow street of terraced houses.

  ‘This is better than I imagined,’ he says into my ear. ‘An old London street with cute houses. I thought you might live in some converted warehouse. I hoped it might be something like this.’

  ‘This is the one street round here that escaped demolition in the ’70s,’ I say. ‘It’s a gentrified oasis in a working-class wilderness.’

  He laughs. ‘Hey, look at these little statues by the doors! They are something else.’