Letters From the Past

by Erica James

  He let out a loud curse as he missed his footing on the kerb of the pavement and breathed in a lungful of foul sulphurous air. Where the hell was he, he suddenly thought? Damn this smog! He’d been so preoccupied he’d taken a wrong turning. As he often did, he blamed his father. Had Arthur not insisted they meet for dinner at his club in St James’s Square this evening, doubtless to check up on his employment status, he’d be enjoying a quiet night in.

  His eyes itching and his mouth and the back of his throat burning with the poisonous cold air, he stood still and peered through the opaqueness to locate himself.

  He arrived forty-five minutes late, as his father, already seated in the dining room with a half-empty bottle of wine, was only too quick to point out.

  ‘As ever, your punctuality is not what it could be,’ he said.

  Ralph rolled his eyes. Could the old man sound any more pompous? ‘I presume you have looked out of the window today from the comfort of your leather armchair and seen how awful the smog is?’

  ‘Don’t be smart with me, Ralph. Of course I know what it’s like out there.’ He moved the bottle of wine towards Ralph so he could fill his glass. ‘I’ve already ordered for us,’ he added.

  Annoyed that he was denied the right to choose his own meal, Ralph wilfully filled his glass to the top and drank deeply from it. ‘So what brings you to town?’ he then said. ‘The usual things, boredom and a desire to have your lungs poisoned with noxious smog? Or perhaps your visit was entirely for my benefit, an opportunity once again to tell me what a failure of a son I am to you?’

  His father stared at him across the white-clothed table. ‘I’ve been here for several weeks if you must know. But I would advise you not to engage in battle with me.’

  ‘Why? What will you do, lock me in my room like you did with Julia? You’re aware, aren’t you, that people in the village know that you punished her for drinking too much at Meadow Lodge?’

  ‘And whose fault was it that she drank too much?’

  ‘I couldn’t say,’ Ralph responded with a detached air.

  ‘I’m pleased to say that the severity of Julia’s hangover has insured she’ll never again drink or make a disgusting display of herself.’

  Ralph took a long sip of his wine. ‘You never have denied yourself the pleasure a good reprimand gives you, have you? You know, if you’d bestowed half as much love and affection on me as you did the belt or the cane, who knows, I might have turned out to be the perfect son. Imagine that.’

  His father looked back at him unmoved. ‘Frankly, I can’t. At last, here’s our soup.’

  The waiter now gone, a silence settled on the table as they each picked up their spoons. The soup was thick and too salty, not at all what Ralph would have ordered. While his father gave it his full concentration, tearing at a bread roll and slathering butter on to each piece, before dipping them into the soup. Ralph shuddered with revulsion. He may well have inherited a number of his father’s characteristics, but gluttony would never be one of them.

  It hadn’t always been this way between the two of them. Ralph could recall a time when his father had appeared to care about him. That all changed when Arthur discovered that not only had Ralph been receiving letters from his mother, but had kept some of them and written in return.

  It had been one of the masters at school who had informed Arthur. From that day their relationship was different. Arthur made it clear he considered Ralph had betrayed him. Where there had once been pride in Ralph’s achievements at school, and reward for doing well, there was now harsh criticism. Nothing he did was good enough, and the harder Ralph tried to win back his father’s approval, the more he failed to do so. In the end he simply gave up. Would the same fate befall his stepbrother?

  ‘How’s Charlie?’ Ralph asked, when he’d had enough of the disagreeable soup and sat back to drink his wine in preference. His father had all but licked his dish clean. The doddery old waiter immediately appeared at the table and shuffled off with the dishes.

  ‘I’ve told you before,’ Arthur intoned, ‘it’s Charles. And according to his letters, he’s well.’

  Poor devil, thought Ralph, remembering the Herculean task of trying to think of something to say in those tedious letters home when he’d been away at school.

  ‘I suppose he’ll be looking forward to Christmas, won’t he?’ Ralph said, remembering also how he came to dread the end of the school term. How he’d prayed that he could spend the holidays with one of his friends, or even remain at school in the care of matron.

  Arthur’s reply was halted by their waiter reappearing with a trolley laden with food. Removing a large silver dome, he commenced to carve slices of meat from a colossal joint of beef. When all was served, Arthur requesting extra potatoes and another Yorkshire pudding, plus a second bottle of Châteauneuf-du-Pape, he said, ‘By the way, it’s unlikely your aunt Hope will see Christmas, she’s been in a coma for the last two weeks. Or perhaps you’d heard via the family jungle drums?’

  ‘No,’ Ralph said, ‘no I haven’t seen or spoken with anyone for some weeks. What’s wrong with her?’

  ‘I just said. She’s in a coma.’

  ‘But how?’

  Arthur shovelled a forkful of beef and potato into his mouth. ‘I don’t know the full details,’ he said at length, ‘but somewhat carelessly she managed to get herself hit by a car. She always did have her mind elsewhere. Probably so lost in thought, she never heard the car coming.’

  Only his father could sound so cavalier about another person’s misfortune. ‘Is there nothing that can be done?’ asked Ralph.

  Arthur chomped on another forkful of beef. ‘Not my bailiwick, medical know-how,’ he said, not bothering to finish what was in his mouth before speaking.

  Ralph put down his knife and fork and reached for his wineglass. He was surprisingly shocked by the news that Hope might die, and by the callous manner in which his father spoke of his sister. Did nothing penetrate that thick blubbery skin of his?

  ‘Was this the reason you invited me to join you for dinner this evening?’ Ralph asked.

  ‘Do I need a reason to see my eldest son?’

  ‘You usually do.’

  ‘As opposed to your only reason for ever wanting to see me: money.’

  ‘That’s not true,’ Ralph lied. ‘I enjoy our wrangling get-togethers. I think you do, too.’

  Ignoring the comment, Arthur added more mustard to his plate. ‘Perhaps you could tell me how your search to become gainfully employed is progressing?’

  ‘I have a number of interesting avenues which I’m following,’ Ralph lied again. He still hadn’t given the matter much serious consideration; he’d been too busy enjoying himself.

  ‘I’m glad to hear it,’ Arthur said. ‘Anything remotely promising?’

  ‘Time will tell.’

  ‘Meanwhile, I suppose you’d like me to help you out some more until you’ve secured a position that befits your particular skills?’

  Surprised that his father seemed in such a generous frame of mind, he said, ‘Well, if you could see your way to—’

  ‘How much help would you require?’ Arthur interrupted him.

  Ralph resumed eating and weighed up his options. Ask for too much and his father would laugh at him. Ask for too little and he’d regret not asking for more. ‘A thousand would go a long way to easing my situation.’

  ‘And what situation would that be? Skid Row? Tight Spot Alley? Destitute Avenue? Beam End Road? Down on Your Uppers Street?’ The old man was smirking. ‘Or maybe Impoverished Cul de Sac?’

  ‘There’s no need to rub it in,’ Ralph said.

  ‘Why shouldn’t I? Since I’m the one expected to bail you out.’

  ‘Some of us haven’t been as lucky as you. After all, when you were not much older than I am your father died and left you a sizeable inheritance.’

>   ‘Yes, yes, yes, I can quite see how my demise would be of the utmost convenience to you. But I assure you, I have no intention of popping my clogs any time soon.’

  Ralph willed himself not to snatch up the plate in front of him and grind it into his father’s insufferable gloating face. The old man couldn’t help himself, could he? He couldn’t just write out a cheque and be done with it. Oh no, he had to make Ralph squirm and reduce him to begging. But beg he would if he had to.

  ‘Look, Dad, I know you have my best interests at heart—’

  ‘You know, I’d have more respect for you if you showed some strength of character and told me to bugger off,’ his father interrupted him. ‘But there you sit, like a pitiful dog desperate to obey its master. Have you really no self-respect?’

  At his father’s question, combined with the sneering contempt in his voice, something deep inside Ralph shifted. All at once he saw himself in his father’s face; it was as though he were looking in a mirror, and he didn’t like what he saw.

  You truly are your father’s son, aren’t you?

  That was what Isabella had said to him that night at Rules when things had become so heated between them. The thought that he could ever be as abhorrent as Arthur Devereux filled him with disgust. It’s not too late, he found himself thinking. Not too late to change, to be a better man. Because God forbid he would end up a carbon copy of the man sitting opposite him.

  Very slowly, Ralph put down his knife and fork, then just as slowly, he rose to his feet.

  ‘Sit down, Ralph,’ warned Arthur. ‘I haven’t finished with you yet.’

  It was all he could do not to grab hold of his father by the lapels of his jacket and shake him hard. But with the greatest of restraint, he said, ‘I’m about to prove to you that not only do I have some strength of character, but I still have a modicum of self-respect. I’ll bid you goodnight.’

  He collected his coat together with his scarf and gloves from the cloakroom and seconds later he was back on the street in the dark, groping his way through the choking smog.

  Yet however bad it was, it was better than staying a moment longer in his father’s poisonous presence.

  Chapter Forty-Nine

  Charing Cross Mansions, London

  December 1962

  Isabella

  Isabella was feeling immensely sorry for herself.

  She had never missed a performance or rehearsal before. Nor had she ever turned up late for filming. She counted herself as a pro. But there was no way she could work, not unless the role called for a lingering death scene. That she could manage with considerable ease, and a great deal of conviction.

  Never before had she felt so ill. She had started coughing a few days before the smog had descended, but once London was fully enveloped in the freezing cold fog that was a dirty grey-brown colour, she had succumbed to a debilitating chest infection. She shouldn’t have gone out in the smog, the doctor had scolded her when she’d queued for more than an hour at the surgery yesterday morning. The cramped waiting room had been full of people coughing, their chests heaving, just like hers, with the effort to breathe.

  The girl with whom she shared her flat had packed a case yesterday afternoon and fled to the country. Why hadn’t Isabella thought to do the same and escape to Suffolk? Especially as Romily had telephoned to suggest the very same thing. But no, she had made light of how ill she was and cast herself in the role of trooper – the show must go on!

  Her throat as parched as the Sahara, she ran her tongue over her dry lips and tried to swallow. Drink plenty of fluids, the doctor had told her, and seeing that the water jug by the side of her bed was empty, she tried to summon the energy to go and fill it. She had one foot on the floor when she was seized by a violent coughing fit. Reaching for a handkerchief, she covered her mouth in an attempt to contain the worst of the cough that racked through her body. When it eventually subsided, and she removed the hanky, she saw it was spotted with blood. Not good, she thought. Not good at all.

  Drained of all energy, her body bathed in a disgustingly feverish sweat, she sank back against the pillows and headboard. She closed her eyes and a soothing image of Island House washed over her; it was of the garden in late spring when the lilac trees were in full bloom and the cherry blossom was at its best. It was an image that inevitably led her to think of her father, Elijah, who, as Romily’s gardener, had worked so tirelessly to make the garden one of the finest in the area.

  Some of Isabella’s fondest memories were of the simple garden at the cottage where she lived with Elijah. He had given her an area in which she could grow whatever she wanted. She had been so proud of herself when she’d dug up her first potato. She had cradled it in her grubby hands as though it were the most precious of jewels. She had run to the back door to show her father. But in her excitement, she had tripped over a watering can and hurt her knees on the brick path.

  She hadn’t cried though. She had wanted to be strong for Elijah. He had suffered enough as it was, what with losing the woman he loved as well as what he’d experienced in the war. On seeing her bloody knees, Elijah had held her to him, then lifting her up, he’d carried her through to the small kitchen and sat her on the wooden draining board. With tender hands, he’d cleaned her grazed knees with TCP, found a plaster, and then wrapped her in his arms to give her another hug.

  ‘What a brave girl you are,’ he’d said. ‘Just like your mother.’

  It wasn’t often he spoke of Allegra, but when he did, it was with loving admiration. She was a woman of great spirit, he would say, wild at times, fickle too, as difficult to pin down as quicksilver. It was her courage that Elijah often referred to, particularly her courage as an unmarried young woman to keep the baby she was expecting.

  Isabella wished she had more of her mother’s spirit right now and that she didn’t feel so hopelessly feeble. Or so maudlin, fearing that she might die here all alone, her emaciated corpse undiscovered for days on end.

  With these thoughts of death spinning around inside her head, Isabella suddenly remembered poor Hope. The last she’d heard from Romily was that Hope still hadn’t regained consciousness. Her delirious mind as clouded as the smog outside, Isabella tried to remember when that last update was. It seemed an age away. Was it before London became shrouded in smog? No, it was after and when she’d received that unexpected letter of apology from Ralph. She couldn’t believe how contrite he’d sounded as he asked for her forgiveness. She wanted to believe it was genuine. But with Ralph you never could tell.

  Another painful coughing fit took hold of her, and when she’d recovered from the convulsion that tore at her chest, she closed her eyes and immediately fell into a deep sleep. But not for long. She was woken by the sound of knocking.

  Knocking at Death’s door, she thought woozily as the noise continued, growing in volume and persistence. She opened her eyes and realised that the knocking was at the door of her flat. Still half asleep, she dragged herself from her bed and went to see who it was, grabbing her dressing gown as she went. Perhaps it was a fellow member of the cast, or even the director, bringing her grapes and sympathy.

  She placed her eye against the peephole of the door and jumped away in shock.

  ‘Isabella, it’s me: Max. Are you all right?’

  ‘I’m really not fit company,’ she croaked, her voice strained and hoarse.

  ‘I’ve come bearing gifts to make you feel better,’ he said.

  ‘How did you know I was ill?’

  ‘How about we have this conversation on your side of the door?’

  She hesitated. If there was one person she didn’t want to see her, it was Max. Suave and handsome, and very different to the usual men she dated, Max was a dangerous temptation. So far she had resisted his allure, telling herself he was too old – he was twice her age for heaven’s sake! But on the several occasions he had taken her for dinner, e
ach time after watching the play she was in, he had stirred within her the strongest of desires. He dazzled her with his charm and wit. He spoke of art and books, and a world of travel to places she had never imagined visiting – South America, India, deserted islands of the Polynesian coast. Afterwards he would see her home and linger on the doorstep outside the mansion building where her flat was. It had taken a lot of willpower not to invite him up, settling instead for a kiss on the cheek.

  ‘Isabella?’

  ‘I can’t let you in,’ she croaked, ‘not when I look so dreadful.’

  ‘Put your vanity aside and let me in, you silly girl. I’ve come to mop your brow, not seduce you.’

  Accepting that it would be churlish to send him away, she tied the belt of her dressing gown around her waist, as though for protection, and unlocked the door.

  And there he stood, a vision of dreamy perfection in his charcoal-grey overcoat, a burgundy coloured woollen scarf around his neck, and smelling divinely of cologne. In one hand he held a bouquet of flowers and in the other, a basket of what appeared to be fruit. He stepped inside and pushed the door shut behind him.

  ‘They told me at the theatre you were unwell,’ he said, ‘that this bloody smog had knocked you for six. And I can see they weren’t exaggerating. You poor, poor thing.’

  His sympathy was too much. ‘Don’t,’ she said, ‘I’m not in any condition to be on the receiving end of kindness. I shall start blubbing like a baby.’

  ‘I have seen a person cry before, you know. Now then,’ he said all business-like, ‘point me in the direction of the kitchen and I shall put this lot in there, and then I shall settle you back in bed. After that, I shall make you something to eat. When was the last time you ate?’