Lifetime Burning

by Gillard, Linda

  One Saturday morning when Flora was out Christmas shopping with Ettie, they came upon a brass band in the square. Flora could see they were soldiers because they were all wearing uniform. There were several lady-soldiers singing and shaking tins that rattled like Flora’s money-box. Ettie stopped and reached into her handbag for her purse. Flora wondered what she was going to buy. Her aunt handed over some money to one of the ladies who was wearing a bonnet tied with a big bow like Bo-Peep. The lady smiled at Flora, then moved away, shaking her tin without giving Ettie whatever it was she’d paid for. Ettie didn’t seem to mind, but stood watching the band play.

  Flora’s legs were starting to ache. One song finished and another started. It appeared to be about laundry.

  Are your garments spotless? Are they white as snow?

  Flora thought guiltily of the grass stains on her frock. She looked down at her feet and noticed that her long white socks were splashed with mud from the wet pavement.

  Lay aside the garments that are stained with sin…

  Flora wondered whether it was sin staining her socks. She wasn’t sure what sin was but she knew it wasn’t nice. People didn’t talk about it, like the thing the man in the car might have done, but didn’t.

  When the Bridegroom cometh, will your robes be white?

  Flora felt certain hers wouldn’t be. Just look at her socks - clean on this morning! She sidled behind Ettie and hoped the soldiers would be too busy singing to notice her stains.

  Will your soul be ready for the mansions bright

  And be washed in the blood of the Lamb?

  Flora wondered what ‘the mansions bright’ were. They sounded pretty. She knew that rich people lived in mansions. Perhaps ‘mansions bright’ were houses decorated with candles and paper chains, like Christmas all year round? Flora wished she could go and see them, but she doubted her soul would be ready. She knew for a fact that she hadn’t been washed in the blood of a lamb, but with smelly Wright’s Coal Tar soap. But she couldn’t see how being washed in lamb’s blood - any kind of blood - could possibly get you clean. Whenever Rory grazed his knees the first thing their mother did was wash them with soap and water, even if it made Rory cry. Then Flora remembered the time Rory had been running with a bottle of lemonade and had tripped and broken it. The shattered glass had gashed his hand and there was a lot of blood, but Ettie had said calmly, ‘Let it bleed for a while - the blood will wash out any tiny pieces of glass and dirt.’ She and the twins had sat on the back doorstep, watching blood well and then drip from Rory’s hand. After a minute or two Ettie had wiped the cut with disinfectant and bandaged Rory’s hand. She’d kissed him and said he was a good, brave boy.

  Flora thought this was really unfair. If Rory hadn’t been running with a bottle in the first place the accident would never have happened and Flora had been just as brave as Rory. She’d watched the horrible blood washing his hand, while Rory looked the other way.

  1949

  After Rory ran away from boarding school, Dora suggested to Archie that their son should go back to the Elementary School with Flora. She voiced her concerns about Rory’s welfare to an indifferent husband. The product of a public school where large quantities of cold water and small quantities of food were considered to be of educational benefit, Archie had little time for his son’s nervous sensibilities, being of the opinion that the boy could come to no real harm. Looking up briefly from his horticultural journal, he intoned cryptically, ‘Who is born to be hanged will never be drowned’, his harsh words softened by his Highland burr.

  Dora drew no comfort at all from this gnomic utterance. Irritated, she pointed out that if Rory were unhappy he might stop speaking again. The school would not tolerate it and her nerves could not bear it. Tears appeared to be imminent, so Archie yielded with good grace, relieved to be able to give his full attention to the fine single malt in his glass and the pests of greenhouse cucumbers.

  Dora broke the happy news to Rory but insisted he now sleep in a room of his own, not in the old nursery he used to share with his sister. She said he was too old to share a room with Flora and claimed the room was in any case far too small for two growing children. She ignored Rory’s indignant protestations - echoed by Flora - that neither of them minded. Dora wouldn’t explain but talked vaguely about them both growing up - Flora into a young lady and Rory into a young man - and assured them they would appreciate having more space and privacy as they grew older.

  Rory’s bed was removed and a desk put in its place. He was given a small room that had hitherto been used by Ettie as a study. Rory thought this a shocking waste of space and told Ettie she could use his room any time she wanted because he’d always be playing outdoors or in Flora’s room. He cleared a shelf for his aunt’s personal use, carrying his belongings back to the bookcase he’d shared with Flora until he went away to school.

  At night Rory lay awake in the dark, missing the heavy breathing, the coughs, the muffled weeping of a dormitory of small boys. He’d thought he’d never get used to all the noise, but this silence was even worse. Just when he thought he was never, ever going to get to sleep he woke crying, thrashing about in the bed. His heart thumped against his ribs and he lay still in the dark, terrified, trying to understand what had woken him. When he felt brave enough, he sat up and switched on his bedside light. He got out of bed, pulled the eiderdown on to the floor and opened his bedroom door quietly. He padded along to Flora’s room, turned the handle and crept in, closing the door carefully behind him.

  ‘That you, Ror?’

  He walked over to Flora’s bedside, dragging the eiderdown. ‘Yes. I’m back.’

  ‘Goody.’ She sat up in bed and switched on her bedside lamp. ‘Was it you crying?’

  ‘Just a bit. I had a bad dream. A nightmare.’

  ‘What about?’

  ‘I dreamed you were on fire.’

  ‘Me?’

  ‘Yes. You were burning up. Your hair was on fire. Like a halo.’

  ‘Did you put it out?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘The fire. Did you send for the Fire Brigade to rescue me?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘I woke up. That’s when I cried. I came in here to see if you were on fire.’

  ‘Well, I’m not.’

  ‘I can see that now.’

  ‘What made you dream such a horrible thing?’

  ‘Oh, I don’t know. History, I expect.’

  ‘History?’

  ‘We were doing the Tudors. At my old school. Mary Tudor burned witches.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Don’t know really… ’Cos they were bad, I suppose.’

  ‘What did they do, the witches?’

  ‘They kept cats. And they used plants called herbs to make medicines. People didn’t like that.’

  ‘Is that all?’

  Rory thought for a moment. ‘I think they turned milk sour as well.’

  Flora frowned. ‘Doesn’t seem fair that you got burned to death just for that.’

  ‘Well, they must have been bad people as well.’

  ‘Or somebody thought they were.’

  Rory nodded. ‘Mary Tudor. She wasn’t very nice. Elizabeth was better at being Queen,’ he explained. ‘And she beat the Spaniards.’

  ‘We’re doing the Romans. They were horrid too.’

  ‘Did they burn people?’

  ‘No, they crucified them.’

  ‘Like Jesus?’

  ‘Yes. He was a nice person… Did you say your prayers, Ror?’

  ‘Yes,’ Rory lied.

  ‘Night, night, then.’

  ‘Night, night.’

  Flora switched out the light. Rory shivered, wrapped himself in his eiderdown and lay down on the rug beside Flora’s bed, careful to keep his bare feet off the cold linoleum. He arranged his arm under his head, making a mental note to bring his pillow tomorrow night.

  ‘Ror?’

  ‘Mmm?’

  ‘They don�
�t burn witches now, do they?’

  ‘There aren’t any witches, silly!’

  ‘But do they still burn bad people?’

  ‘No.’ Rory yawned. ‘Not any more.’

  1950

  As a Christmas treat Dora and Ettie took the eight-year-old twins to Covent Garden to see the ballet Cinderella, with Margot Fonteyn in the title role. Rory was not enthusiastic. Ballet was something girls did and he couldn’t see why he had to go. Ettie assured him that not only did men and boys dance, but that if he came on the outing, he’d see that orchestras consisted almost entirely of men and that the conductor would also be a man.

  ‘Does he sell the tickets?’ Rory asked sceptically.

  ‘I beg your pardon?’

  ‘The conductor. Is he the one who sells the tickets for the show? Like on a bus?’

  ‘No, my dear! The conductor is the man who directs the orchestra. Everyone has to watch him, even the dancers. He’s terribly important. You’ll see.’

  Rory did see. Leaning over the red plush balcony throughout the performance, he stared down into the orchestra pit below, barely glancing up at the stage. He couldn’t believe his eyes and ears. The man with the stick waved it and the theatre was instantly full of music, music so loud, Rory almost wanted to put his hands over his ears, especially when the clock struck twelve and Cinderella had to rush home. He thought it sounded as if the theatre was splitting in two. When Cinderella ran down the stairs, shedding a glass slipper as she went, the noise was so exciting Rory thought he was going to cry or need the lavatory, but instead he laughed out loud and clapped his hands together. A lady sitting behind him leaned forward and said, ‘Sshhh!’

  On the train going home Rory was very quiet while Flora chattered with her mother and aunt. Dora said she thought the Ugly Sisters were very amusing and did Flora realise they were actually played by men? Ettie said her favourite character was the Fairy Godmother because she was so kind to Cinders. Flora wished she had a magic wand so she could go to parties in a silver coach and have a new dress whenever she wanted.

  Ettie turned to Rory and asked if he too would like a magic wand.

  ‘Yes. But not one like the fairy had. I want a real one.’

  Flora assumed a wise and patient expression, the one she used to try to convey that she was years older than her brother, rather than forty-five minutes. Rolling her eyes she said, ‘There’s no such thing as a real magic wand, Ror!’ She looked up at Dora and Ettie for corroboration. ‘It’s just pretend, isn’t it?’

  ‘Yes, darling,’ Dora said, smiling. ‘It’s all just pretend. Unfortunately, there aren’t any magic wands in real life.’

  Rory stared up at his mother. ‘Yes, there are. The conductor had one. I want one of those.’ He turned his face to the window and stared out at the Suffolk countryside as it sped past.

  We were born at home, at Orchard Farm near Saxmundham in Suffolk. The house was eighteenth-century in origin, whitewashed, with tiny windows outlined in black and an erratic, red-tiled roof. In front of the house lay lawns and flowerbeds; to one side and behind there were glasshouses and outbuildings; on the other side was an apple orchard with paths mown through the tall grass.

  Dunbars had lived at Orchard Farm for several generations. Our father had inherited it from an uncle whose grandfather had bought the property as a working but not prosperous farm. In those days they’d made cider from the small, inedible apples that grew in the orchard and were a source of constant disappointment to us as children. Archie sold off a lot of the land but kept enough to lay out a garden on a grand scale. There was even a decent croquet lawn till the moles got at it. It became too hopelessly uneven for croquet, but Rory knew all its slopes and dips like the back of his hand and would trounce anyone foolish enough to challenge him. For some reason croquet brought out Rory’s killer instinct, perhaps because it was one of the few sports he could engage in without having to worry about damaging his hands.

  The farmhouse itself was gloomy but large, comfortable and brim-full of treasures. Every shabby surface was littered with objects, all of them precious to their owners: snuff-boxes, Staffordshire figurines, china dogs, inlaid wooden boxes with secret compartments, ivory carvings and a patchwork quilt with one thousand and four pieces (which Rory counted), the accretion of many lives displayed not to impress, simply to comfort or commemorate. There were countless photographs in silver and leather frames depicting cherubic schoolboys with over-large ears who might have been Rory, Theo or even Colin, but were mostly our late uncles, Roderick and Henry. The family face gazed back at us down the years in all its themes and variations.

  I suppose the Dunbars were what nowadays you’d call asset-rich, cash-poor. There was a grand piano but the only holidays we ever had were spent with Dunbar relatives in a ramshackle house on the west coast of Scotland. When Rory wanted to incense Dora he claimed he’d auction his half of the inherited antiques and furniture and donate the proceeds to the Musicians’ Benevolent Fund. She liked to think he was joking but I was never sure. Rory had no time for sentiment or even possessions. It was me who wouldn’t part with our toys, who insisted they stay in the room we called the nursery, with its paper frieze of farm animals and chipped blue paint, the room where we played and slept for the first seven years of our lives.

  We were very lucky. We had so much and we grew up surrounded by lovely things. But Rory was beaten up at school and ridiculed for his love of classical music; I was teased and bullied because I wasn’t like other girls. I had no interest in boys - I loved Shakespeare and God, in that order. Rory and I didn’t have friends. We just had each other.

  1957

  Rory had finished his piano practice and it had not gone well, at least not well enough to meet his exacting standards. He slouched into the sitting room, hands in pockets, in search of Flora. He found her lying on the hearth rug in front of the fire, her head pillowed in her hands, listening to the wireless. Rory flung himself full-length, which was now almost that of a man, on to the sofa. It was clear to Flora that he wanted attention but before he could open his mouth she said, ‘Be quiet, Rory.’

  ‘I haven’t said a word!’

  ‘No, but you were about to.’

  ‘What are you listening to?’

  ‘Ssh!’

  Rory was obediently silent and listened. ‘It’s a play,’ he announced after a few moments.

  ‘Clever Rory!’

  He was silent again for a while. ‘Nothing much seems to be happening.’

  ‘That’s the whole point,’ Flora explained with a withering look. ‘It’s Chekhov.’

  Mystified, Rory listened again. Eventually he said, ‘If nothing’s happening, how can the play come to an end?’

  ‘Ssh! I’m trying to listen.’

  ‘Well, if nothing’s happening, you won’t miss much answering my question!’

  ‘Please go away, Rory.’

  He was silent again, his expression becoming more and more puzzled. ‘Will they just drivel on until the BBC decides it’s time for the news?’ Flora glowered, silencing him again, but not for long. ‘You know, you couldn’t have music where nothing happened.’

  ‘Don’t be ridiculous!’ she snapped. ‘Nothing ever happens in music! Not in music without words anyway.’

  ‘Things can be happening in music without there being any words.’

  ‘Such as?’ Flora sneered.

  ‘Arguments. Violence. Passion. And sexual intercourse,’ Rory added for good measure. ‘And you can’t do that in a play,’ he said, wagging a finger at her. ‘It’s against the law.’

  Flora experienced a familiar sensation of wading in out of her depth, but she persevered. ‘How can all those things be happening in music? Who says they are?’

  ‘Nobody. But they could. Anything could be happening in music. It’s up to you. It’s in your ear, in your head. But when it comes to expressing emotion, music’s more precise than words. There’s less scope for interpretation.’

  ‘That’s r
ubbish!’

  ‘You’re only saying that because you don’t understand. Look, it’s quite simple: words are the things we use to describe what music expresses. So words are at one remove from the experience itself.’

  ‘So is music,’ Flora said, regarding him suspiciously.

  ‘Well, yes, in a way. But there’s nothing between you and the composer. Take a piece of piano music by Schumann… He thinks or feels something, he expresses it as sound, and you, Flora, have to decide how you feel about it. The meaning doesn’t have to be filtered through words.’

  ‘No, but it’s filtered through your fingers.’

  ‘How do you mean?’

  ‘You have to decide how to play it. That’s like using words.’

  ‘No, it’s not.’

  ‘Yes, it is.’

  ‘No, it’s not,’ Rory said firmly. ‘Music is closer to the original because the words in a play have still got to go through the actor’s mouth before they get to your ear.’

  ‘I still can’t see that music is any closer!’

  ‘It is! Look.’ Rory sat up and spread his fingers, counting off the points as he spoke. ‘The composer has an idea. He expresses it in notes. I play it. You listen and decide how you feel about it. That’s four stages. Now the playwright, this what’s-his-name - Chekhov? He has an idea. One. He expresses it in words. Two. The actor speaks them. Three—’

  ‘And I decide how I feel about them. Four!’ Flora said triumphantly. ‘It’s the same! Four stages.’

  ‘No,’ said Rory, shaking his head. ‘Before you can do that you have to decide what Chekhov’s words mean. Not a lot, if you ask me. That’s four. Then you have to decide how you feel about them. Five.’ He held up a hand and wiggled his fingers in Flora’s face.