He couldn’t understand it: what on earth had got into me? I was hurting myself, and guilt-tripping him, and he wasn’t having it.
‘I'm not hurting myself,’ I wailed, ‘I’m just hurting, hurting, hurting -’
No. He remained firm and calm: I was hurting myself and guilt-tripping him. And I could choose not to. I could try trusting.
‘And you could try feeling,’ I sobbed. ‘You could try feeling sympathy. You felt sorry for your twin. Try feeling sympathy for someone who’s not like you.’
A controlled sigh. He would reiterate his main point. I could choose not to hurt myself. And, really, my illness was no excuse. He had cured himself of his illness.
That did it. That stopped my tears - just like that.
‘Well done,’ I yelled, ‘Oh, well done, Bill, aren’t you clever.’
And so another ending: rebellious Mars opposing ice cold Uranus across the horizon. And yes, not a kind word was said on either side.
Mercury
I resume this narrative with a confession: I began writing it before Bill’s daughter was born and he knew that I was writing it. I recall reading him various drafts of the opening chapters while he made a number of suggestions as to how I might improve the text. Nothing major, the odd word here and there; a grammatical error I needed to correct. Generally, I found his advice quite helpful though I was less than enthralled by the ending he came up with during one of these late night discussions.
The narrator, he suggested, should somehow discover the exact date and time she first found Dorothy’s grave so that she could cast the chart for this seminal moment which had so far eluded her grasp. Now, how might this happen?
She could undergo hypnosis. But, no, this might unearth more than she bargained for. Better for her to meet someone in the churchyard who had been present on the day in question - and who still remembered her, even after all this time – because her eccentric behaviour, while standing on the grave, had struck him as profoundly weird and disturbing. Now, who might this be? An ex-Army man, perhaps. Someone who spent a lot of time in the churchyard himself. An obsessive-compulsive type, like her mother. He would have watched as she stood on the grave, then returned forthwith to his Spartan bed-sit in order to record the event in the diary he always maintained, true to his training, with faultless precision. She would thereby receive the exact time and date for the moment of discovering the grave and could ponder the chart until it yielded a satisfactory answer.
‘I like it,’ I said, ‘that is, I like the idea of the chart turning up after all this time. That would round things off rather nicely. Trouble is, it’s not very likely to happen, is it?’
‘It’s a story; you make them up.’
‘It isn’t a story; it’s what’s happening. I’m writing it as I go along.’
‘It’s still a story - your version of events. In a story, you invent.’
‘But I can’t invent a horoscope.’
‘Of course you can. You astrologers do it all the time. What do you do when you cast a chart to choose an auspicious moment for, I don’t know - opening a new cat flap.’
I smiled, ‘Oh, I know, Bill, but this is different because it’s already happened. I can’t go back in time and invent a chart. I’m sorry, I just don’t fancy tinkering about with the cosmos in that way. No, much as I like your ending, I’m afraid I shall have to find the Real Peter.’
‘Oh, well,’ he replied, leaning back in his chair and lighting-up. ‘That’s easily done. You do know, I take it, that ‘Peter’ and ‘Taffy’ are colloquialisms for the male member.’
‘Oh, don’t be ridiculous. That’s the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever heard. They are not.’
‘Yes, they are. It’s common knowledge. They are both another word for cock.’
‘Well, I’ve never heard of it, and I hardly think a woman of Dorothy’s calibre would have a penis on her headstone once never mind twice. No, really, Bill, you’re winding me up.’
‘Am I? Very well, we’ll see. We’ll get a dictionary.’
But as he moved to get up, I waved at him not to bother, ‘I don’t care whether it is in the dictionary, I’m not having a penis on my headstone and that’s all there is to it. You’ll have to do better than that.’
‘All right then,’ he said, sighing deeply, ‘I’ll try again. Tut, some people are never satisfied.’ And he placed his hand across his brow. ‘Ah, yes, I have him now. There he goes: whoosh, Peter, tackling an S.S. Panzer Division single-handed armed only with his battered copy of the Penguin book of Romantic Verse. Oh, but hang on, something’s going wrong. Oh, no, he’s been captured by the Gestapo. Will he manage to extricate himself before they get the thumbscrews out? Not without Divine Intervention. Ah, but not to worry, it duly comes. He escapes from the Gestapo and wins the Military Cross - awarded for services to King, Country and innumerable W.A.A.Fs: - one of whom he marries after his sight is miraculously restored while she sits praying for him in a bombed out Belgian church.’
I nodded. ‘Very good, Bill. Yes, very droll. But where does Dorothy fit in? She wasn’t a W.A.A.F.’
‘Dorothy is the moralist who persuades him he is one of God’s Chosen when she hears of his miraculous escapades whereupon he resolves to abjure all pleasures of the flesh in favour of the priesthood. There, you’ve got it. Peter was her priest.’
‘I’ll try it on,’ I said, ‘I’ll try it on and see what people think.’
So, that’s what I did: after our ‘bust up,’ and to help take my mind off things, I put the Priest Idea before the Court of Public Opinion.
My friend, Karen from school (who’d brought a basket of fruit, and a little light reading from my Head of Department entitled, ‘Coursework Strays,’) thought it, ‘a pretty crap idea.’
‘No,’ she said, settling down into the armchair and pulling her knees up; ‘he doesn’t half talk a lot of bollocks, Bill. He was winding you up - because you wouldn’t marry him, I expect.’
‘Oh, I think he probably just got carried away with his wit.’
‘Hmm. Not a very nice thing to say ‘though, was it - about the war-blinded soldier in a bombed out church? I’d have had his balls in my frying pan.’
‘Yes, well, you have got a very strong Mars in your Horoscope.’
‘Have I?’
‘Yes, in Aries, opposite Pluto in the House of Nether Regions.’
‘Yep, that’d explain a lot.’ Reaching into the basket, she pulled a black grape and popped it into her mouth. ‘So, what’s going on with them then - is that Madeleine still in his house?’
‘As far as I know. But never mind them. What about Peter?’
‘Who?’
‘To you, the stars, narcissi, fields and music - Peter. Who do you think he was?’
‘I’ve got no idea.’
‘Oh come, on, K, tell me a story.’
‘I’m not a storyteller, I teach P.E.’
‘Everyone’s a storyteller. Come on.’
‘Oh, go on then since it’s you.’ Pulling another grape, she spat the pip into her hand. ‘Okay. He was her friend - not her lover - because there’s nothing possessive in the inscription. He really loved her, wishing her well, so they never had sex - that would be my guess.’
I laughed. ‘So, he could have been her priest.’
‘No, I reckon they were lifelong friends. They may have been childhood sweethearts. Yes, how about this? He went off to the trenches, came back at the end of the War, and found she’d married someone else, thinking he’d been killed. But he didn’t blame her, and they always stayed friends.’
‘Oh, that’s really sad,’ said Eleanor, peering over her magazine. ‘Can’t we have a happy ending? Can’t we have Peter coming back from the War and bumping Wilfrid off?’
‘What, a murderer, you mean? Well, that’s certainly a far cry from a priest.’
‘I don’t really think he was a murderer, Mum, but he definitely wasn’t a priest. It’s not the sort of language a priest would use.
Miss Taylor’s right. Bill was just winding you up.’
My sister-in-law wasn’t too keen on the Priest Idea either, and came up with an alternative when I visited towards the end of the week. Peter, she suggested, could be the stalker who had been visiting Dorothy’s grave, and, since I needed an ending, couldn’t Dorothy intervene to save our narrator from some suitably gruesome fate?
‘There ought to be a denouement,’ she said. ‘And we need to meet Dorothy in the flesh.’
‘Do we?’ I wasn’t sure whether I was up to that, but Alison was adamant.
‘Yes, we do, we’re intrigued by her. After all this time, we want to meet her, and it has to be in the flesh. So, here’s a possibility. Someone - as we know - has been visiting Dorothy’s grave and leaving strange little offerings for our narrator to find: roses in jam jars, bottles of pop and a musical box. Someone has been hiding in the undergrowth, and becoming increasingly obsessed. He knows there’s a man in her life because he overhears her confiding in Dorothy.
Now, one day, he overhears her say something which drives him over the edge. How could she prefer this philosopher to me, he thinks. He doesn’t care for her as I do. I’ve been leaving her all these offerings and watching her every move, but she doesn’t even notice. And, in the end, he can stand it no longer. He resolves to finish it once and for all; finish them both off. So, he goes down to the churchyard and lies in wait.
And this is where Dorothy comes in. And this is the twist in the tale. It turns out Peter wasn’t her lover but her stalker. He’d been stalking her during the Blackout. So she intervenes to save our narrator from suffering the same fate. She saves you from a fate worse than death.’
‘I should think so too, after all I’ve done for her.’ Laughing, I turned to my brother. ‘What do you think, Dan?’
‘What do I think?’ He looked up from his newspaper. ‘I think you’re both mad. But if you want my opinion, Peter doesn’t exist and it’s a typical female fantasy. She probably commissioned the headstone herself and got one of her wacky women friends to make sure it was done. Only the friend - being arty and impractical - got the date wrong, while poor old Wilfrid footed the bill and didn’t even get a mention. Either that or Wilfrid and Peter are one and the same; and it was her name for her husband.’
‘That’s what the Stonemason said.’
‘Yes? Well, he’s probably right – whoever he is. But I know you won’t be happy with that one. It’s not tragic enough for you. So if I were you I’d stick with the Priest Idea only get him to top himself having lost - not only Dorothy - but his God in the same fell moment.’
‘Oh,’ I said. ‘Oh. Ah.’
‘There, what did I say,’ he grinned from ear to ear. ‘I knew you’d like that one. Mum would like that one too so why not get on with it instead of talking about it nineteen to the dozen?’
So, I put it to my mother when I visited later that afternoon: ‘Dan thinks you wouldn’t mind if Peter turned out to be Dorothy’s priest who was so overcome with grief when she died that he killed himself.’
‘Oh, does he? Is that what he thinks? Well, I cannot agree with that. She wasn’t a Catholic, was she?’
‘Not as far as I know.’
‘Of course he wasn’t her priest. Really, I’m surprised at your brother.’
‘It wasn’t his idea,’ I said, ‘Oh, never mind. Would you like me to make you another cup of tea? I brought you some custard creams.’
‘Not for now, thank you. I want to get to the bottom of it. Whatever gave you the idea that Peter was her priest?’
‘Nothing. He wasn’t. I’m just trying to get people to tell me what they think.’
‘No, you mustn’t do that. I want to know who he was. Never mind making things up, that’s always been your problem.’
‘Yes, all right, Mum, I’m not really planning to make him up. But for now, let’s have some fun. If you had a choice and he could be anyone, anyone in the world, who would he be?’
And then it hit me - as she turned her head away.
‘Oh, God, I’m sorry, Mum. That was really tactless.’
There than came a long pause.
‘Actually, would you like me – I’ve got a bit more time now - would you like me to look him up? See if I can find out whether he’s still alive?’
She didn’t reply straightaway but looked out of the window across the sea.
‘No, it’s too late now,’ she said after a while. ‘But thank you.’
‘You’ll be reunited,’ I said, ‘I’m sure you will. In fact, I know it.’
‘You don’t know that, Gwendolen. Not if you’re honest. But it was a nice thought.’ She then resumed her normal manner: ‘Now don’t start on at me about God and Spiritualism or you’ll have to go home. All right, we’ll have that cup of tea and get organised, I want to make an inventory.’
‘But we made one last time I was here, and the time before, and the time before that!’
‘Yes, and I want to make another one because there have been thefts. Eleanor will do it for me, won’t you dear? I expect she’s remembered to bring a notebook and pen.’
‘Yes, Nana,’ she replied patiently, reaching into her bag.
So off we went yet again. We had to unpack all her drawers, write everything down and pack them up again in exactly the same order. We had to bring all her clothes out of the wardrobe, read her the labels out loud, and hang them up again in exactly the same place.
‘Happy now?’
‘Yes, thank you.’ She tilted her head for me to kiss her cheek. I then left her alone with Eleanor so they could say goodbye properly. She could never take affection from me but she could from Eleanor.
‘So what did happen to Jimmy?’ Eleanor asked as we descended in the lift. ‘He wasn’t killed in the War, was he?’
‘No.’
‘So why did you tell me she lost him in the War?’
‘Because she did - sort of. She broke it off.’
‘But why? She really loved him. There’s that photo of her on the beach with him looking carefree and so pretty. She’s still got his letters. She’s got one in her bag. She’s been reading it. Do you know what it says?’
I nodded. ‘Not Goodbye, Please.’
‘Oh, Mum, Why? Why did she do it? Why did she end it when she loved him, and he loved her so much?’
‘Because he was married - and had a child.’
‘A married man? I suppose he may have been, but why are you asking me?’ Richard sounded very tired as he often did on the telephone these days. Every so often his voice would crack through sheer exhaustion - or it could have been exasperation. ‘You always ask me what I think, Gwen, but it’s for you to find out. You have a Mercury Karma. Mercury conjunct the Node. Now, isn’t Mercury about to turn direct in your Progressed Horoscope?’
‘I’m not sure. It’s probably going retrograde, knowing my luck. But can we forget about Karma for the moment, Richard, and you tell me a story?’
‘Oh, I don’t know about that; that’s your department. But all right then, if you insist. Remind me of the inscription again.’
‘To you the stars, narcissi fields and music. Peter.’
‘All right: he was an astrologer - the stars. With Leo Ascendant – narcissi fields. And Venus in Taurus - love of music. Ah, does that sound like anyone you know?’
I laughed, ‘I should think he was probably her friend.’
‘It seems quite likely. But you’ll find out.’
Still smiling, I rang Joanna, catching her just as she was about to put her feet up after cooking the evening meal and emptying the dishwasher.
‘I don’t know, Gwen, it’s tempting to think he was her lover; but it still bothers me that he got the date wrong. Then again, we know how forgetful men are when it comes to anniversaries. Do they attach the same importance to these things as we do? Or is it because we women have always done it, so they have never had to learn? Of course Eleanor wouldn’t make a mistake on your headstone. But Dorothy didn’t
have a daughter, did she?’
‘No, she didn’t have children.’
‘I suppose he could have been another family member then. Something similar happened to me once, actually, when my grandfather died. The family put one of my poems on his headstone – and my name - which felt a bit peculiar, seeing my name on a headstone when I’m not dead.’
‘I should think it did,’ I replied, ‘Yes, that must have felt very odd. So, you think Peter was a family member, do you?’
‘He could be. But, of course, it’s really a mystery.’
We then drifted away from Dorothy and Peter and into the saga of my love life – which meant that by the time I finally put the ‘phone down, it was definitely too late to ring anyone else - with the possible exception of the Samaritans.
Ah, now that was an idea. Could Peter have been a Good Samaritan? I did actually have a friend named Peter who lived in the North of England, volunteered with the Samaritans and had visited Dorothy’s grave on one of his rare trips to Oxford. His only response, however, to the question I had sent him by letter, was that he hadn’t the faintest idea who Peter was but would I please let him know when I found out. Meanwhile, could I pass on his regards to Dorothy? This I duly did, calling in for a chat on my way to the post box, and bumping into Lily, opening a can of Felix for the churchyard cats.
‘She’s had three visitors this week,’ she said. ‘And how are you getting along?’
I shrugged, ‘Oh, all right. Not too bad.’
‘Well, you go and tell Dorothy all about it. She’ll understand, I’m sure. Well, I believe it, don’t you? You go and talk to them and they do listen, and they do reply, though not always in ways you’d expect.’
‘Yes, well, I enjoy our little chats, as you know. It always helps to get things off your chest. But these three visitors, Lily, did you notice whether one of them was a man: an army type, good-looking but a bit under the weather? Or tall, dark and lean, more of a swarthy type?’
To You The Stars Page 10