Lifetime Burning

by Gillard, Linda

  The next time Hugh tried to make love to me, a fortnight later, he was impotent which didn’t seem to surprise him very much. He was, however, quite upset, too upset to notice that I wasn’t. I was relieved.

  If we could have talked then, if we could have confided or even laughed, things might have improved, but silence congealed between us, a silence born of my ignorance and his guilt. We both refrained from discussing or even really acknowledging our problems because we loved each other too much to speak honestly.

  As the weeks went by I felt more at home with Hugh physically, if not sexually and when we attempted to make love again I tried, in my very innocent way, to be loving and encouraging. This time when Hugh was impotent I wasn’t relieved, I was disappointed. Without my knowing how or why, my body had tipped the scales for me. Something had changed. Now I wanted Hugh more than I feared him. It felt like a light dawning, a door opening. I began to have an inkling of what Grace might have meant when she spoke to me on my wedding day. I thought perhaps Hugh and I might have the power to make each other happy. But if the door had been unlocked by my curiosity and awakening desire, I couldn’t pass through it without Hugh’s help. Yet clearly he needed mine.

  1963

  Flora liked cleaning the church. It was boring work, cleaning things that weren’t even dirty, but not difficult. Since she had to carry out the work in church she couldn’t answer the vicarage telephone for the duration, which meant she didn’t have to be polite to anyone, or helpful, or sympathetic. She could simply dust and polish, at liberty to think her own thoughts.

  More often than not, Flora discovered that she had no thoughts; that when she stopped performing her rôle as clergy wife, it was as if she’d ceased to be. A blankness descended upon her. When people were no longer petitioning her as ‘Mrs Wentworth’, Flora began to wonder who she really was. She couldn’t understand why Hugh had said, all those years ago when they’d first discussed her future in this very church, that whatever she decided to do with her life she’d always be Flora Dunbar. It simply wasn’t true. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d felt remotely like Flora Dunbar.

  She thought hard and polished hard. The polishing seemed to help the thinking. (Or was it the thinking that helped the polishing? Flora wasn’t sure. Flora wasn’t sure of anything any more.) The last time she’d felt like herself - like Flora Dunbar - had been when she’d seen Rory. That was weeks ago. Months probably… The family had gone to a concert to hear Rory play and Flora had been able to wear something pretty for a change. In his off-hand way, Rory had seemed pleased to see her. They had laughed together until Flora’s stomach muscles hurt. She couldn’t remember now what was so hilarious. In fact, it can’t have been all that funny because when she explained the joke to Hugh, he didn’t laugh, he only smiled politely.

  As she bent to tidy hassocks in the choir-stalls, Flora’s back ached and a dragging sensation in her abdomen announced that her period would shortly begin. She hadn’t really thought she could be pregnant, even though she was two days late. It wasn’t very likely, but it was possible. Some progress had been made.

  Flora decided she was relieved. The thought of cleaning the vicarage, shopping, cooking, washing and ironing Hugh’s surplices, weeding the garden, mowing the lawn, delivering the parish magazine, baking for fêtes, running the Brownies and answering the telephone, all while pregnant, seemed to her an absolute impossibility. She didn’t see how she would manage, so it really was a blessing she hadn’t yet conceived.

  But when Flora thought of a baby, that was different. Flora pictured herself as a Madonna cradling a black-haired, brown-eyed child, a son, a miniature Hugh. She saw herself sitting up in bed with the baby, surrounded by flowers, receiving visitors, opening presents, eating chocolates and not having to answer the telephone because she was too busy, busy looking after a baby, which seemed to Flora the most important job in the world.

  She laid a hand where she thought her womb might be and wondered if, when she did conceive, she would bear twins? This thought had never occurred to her before. Did twins produce twins? Would there be two little Hughs? Flora tried to visualise a brace of dark babies but failed. The only picture that came to mind was a photograph of her and Rory, pale and flaxen-haired, sitting in their double pram, their chubby, inscrutable faces enveloped by white fur hoods, as cosy and identical as broad beans nestling inside their downy pod.

  Flora couldn’t help it. It was stupid to cry, she knew that. She wasn’t even sure why she was crying because she knew she didn’t want to be pregnant, but since there was no one in church to hear her cry she found she didn’t care. Let God see how unhappy she was. What was the point of pretending since He knew everything anyway?

  ‘Mrs Wentworth? Are you all right?’

  Flora wheeled round and peered down the aisle. In the gloomy light she saw Miss Thompson standing in the doorway, removing her coat and headscarf. It was her day on the flower rota. She stood bright-eyed and vigilant, her head cocked on one side like a bird. ‘Are you feeling unwell, Mrs Wentworth?’

  Flora took out a hankie and wiped her nose. ‘No, I’m fine thank you, Miss Thompson. Just a bit under the weather.’

  ‘Would you like some help? We could do the silver together. I always think that’s such a chore.’

  ‘Oh, thank you, you’re very kind. But I’ve almost finished now.’

  ‘Well, if you’re sure there’s nothing I can do to help?’

  ‘I’m sure. Thank you. I’m fine. Really.’ Flora felt her womb protest again, mourning its emptiness. She thought again of the twin babies in their pram. Could she actually remember being in that pram with Rory? Or did she just remember the photograph? ‘I’m just missing my brother, that’s all.’

  ‘Oh, I see,’ Miss Thompson replied, uncomprehending. She’d heard about the Dunbar boy. Talented apparently, but harum-scarum. Hadn’t seen the inside of the church since he was held over the font.

  ‘He’s my twin. I don’t see him very often nowadays. He’s a music student and he lives in London,’ Flora explained. ‘He’s performing in a concert tonight and I was thinking about him. Wishing I could be there to see him. Although I don’t know why - his playing always used to make me cry!’ Flora dabbed at her eyes with her hankie. ‘I love to listen to him play but I can never really cope with seeing him do it. Sometimes it just leaves me feeling… wrecked.’

  ‘How strange! Why should that be, I wonder?’

  ‘I don’t know. There’s an odd quality about his playing. It’s not just moving, sometimes it’s… shattering. When I see Rory play - especially when he plays in public - it’s as if I’m watching a man wrestle with his soul.’

  ‘My dear!’ Miss Thompson said, suppressing a shudder. ‘How very unpleasant for you!’

  Not long after I was married, Rory performed at the Jubilee Hall in Aldeburgh with Grace and one of their friends, Michael, a violinist. Since Aldeburgh was fairly local for us, a family outing was organised. The expedition was considered to be too much for Archie but Dora and Ettie were delighted to accompany Hugh and me.

  As we took our seats for the concert the hall was welcoming, humming with anticipation. I scanned the programme, eyes blind with nervousness. I knew Rory and Grace were playing a Ravel piano trio with their college friend in the first half of the programme. I also knew I would take in nothing of the second half - a Haydn string quartet - having just watched Rory play.

  Dora grumbled about the hard seats and hoped that the music wouldn’t be ‘too modern’. Hugh, who had obviously done his homework, reassured her that the piece was composed in 1914 and so we would probably be ‘all right’. I turned my scattered attention to the audience which consisted largely - and I use the word advisedly - of elderly ladies in hideous frocks. There were only a few young people, some casually dressed, possibly music students.

  Eventually the lights went down, the trio made their way to the front of the platform and my stomach turned over. I realised I hadn’t seen Rory for weeks
. After these gaps I always expected to see the brother I remembered - a boy. Rory the man, being taller and broader than I remembered, always came as something of a shock. Both he and Michael - the latter gangling and bespectacled - looked uncomfortable in their DJs, but Rory’s at least fitted him well. It looked to me as if he’d forgotten to brush his hair and I wondered how Grace hadn’t noticed. She looked stunning in a strapless burgundy velvet gown that made the most of her opulent figure. Her long dark hair was loose but drawn back on one side with a jewelled clip. She looked radiant as she acknowledged the audience’s welcoming applause; both men looked bad-tempered with nerves - or in Rory’s case concentration, since, as far as we knew, he didn’t do nerves. His fingers flexed suddenly, hinting at energy waiting to be unleashed.

  They took their places. Rory watched Grace arrange the copious folds of her dress around the cello and then he turned back to the piano. Neither Grace nor Michael lifted their bows to play and I wondered if something was wrong, then Rory started to play and I realised the trio began with solo piano - a simple, shimmering phrase of hopeless yearning.

  I’m not sure I breathed during the first movement. When the music stopped there was a fusillade of coughing from the matrons, then the trio continued. Afterwards Hugh referred to it as ‘a communion of souls’ and he was right. Their eyes never met, but I watched them weave their hearts and minds together into one miraculous strand of music. At one point towards the end Grace tossed back her hair and closed her eyes, ecstatic. I felt a sudden, sharp pang of something that I suppose was envy.

  During the interval Dora said she thought Rory’s playing had been too ferocious in the final movement. ‘I felt sorry for the poor piano. Why does that boy have to be so angry about everything?’ Hugh disagreed and said he’d found Rory’s passion very moving. Ettie asked me if I thought Rory was a chamber musician or whether he was really a soloist. I was still trying to compose myself and, without giving it much thought, I said the latter.

  She sipped her lemonade and nodded. ‘I’m inclined to agree. He’s such a powerful personality on the platform, isn’t he? He draws the eye - even away from Grace! She looked lovely, didn’t she? And so happy.’

  After the concert we trooped round to the artists’ entrance and were shown to the dressing room. As I knocked on the door we heard shouts and a loud pop, followed by laughter. We found Rory pouring from a foaming bottle of champagne, filling glasses held by Grace. She shrieked as one overflowed and handed it quickly to Michael who passed her another. Rory appeared to be haranguing Michael about a tempo, an argument that resolved itself in sudden raucous laughter. Grace moved closer to Rory, slid a plump, bare arm round his waist, resting it on his hip. ‘Rory, you might at least acknowledge your fan club.’

  He raised his glass to us, his eyes shining and said, ‘Cheers! Thanks for coming, folks.’ Michael handed us glasses of champagne and we all drank to the trio. Grace arranged chairs for Dora and Ettie who thanked her and complimented her on her dress. She blushed and looked pleased. ‘It’s impossible to look elegant sitting there with your legs apart - you have to go for either dramatic or unobtrusive.’

  ‘Remind me - which were you?’ Rory said caustically.

  ‘Dramatic, of course. I like to give you a run for your money.’ She grinned at me and said, ‘Flora, didn’t you just adore that spooky bit in the Passacaglia, when Rory shuts up and let’s Mike and me get on with it? It’s the highlight of the trio, isn’t it, Mike?’

  ‘Oh - was Rory playing?’ Michael asked vaguely, blinking behind his thick lenses. ‘Can’t say I really noticed.’

  Rory lobbed a cork at him and muttered, ‘Pearls before swine.’ He grabbed another bottle of champagne and thrust it at Hugh without looking at him. ‘Open that, Hugh, will you?’ Rory grabbed my arm and pulled me towards him. ‘Well - what did you think? I see I made you cry as usual.’

  ‘Could you see?’

  ‘No, of course not. But I can see you now.’ He raised a hand and smeared his thumb under my eye. ‘Your make-up’s run.’ He turned from me abruptly and sat down at an upright piano in a corner of the room and started to play Scott Joplin’s Maple Leaf Rag impossibly fast, which made me laugh, as it always did. ‘So - tell me what you thought of the Ravel.’

  ‘It was brilliant. You were brilliant.’

  ‘Is that all? Just “brilliant”?’

  I walked over to the piano and flung my arms round his neck, bent my head to his ear and said in a husky, theatrical drawl, ‘Dahling, you were marvellous!’

  Rory continued to play with me draped round his neck. ‘Oh, come on. You can do better than that.’

  ‘You were magical! Stupendous! Coruscating!’ Laughing, I released him, then covered his eyes with my hands and felt his lashes flutter for a moment like butterflies against my fingers. He carried on playing blind, not missing a beat or fluffing a note.

  ‘So you liked it then?’

  Still laughing, my hands still covering Rory’s eyes, I glanced up at Hugh. He was watching the pair of us with an odd expression on his face, one I didn’t think I’d ever seen before. There was admiration there, but also something else, something that looked to me suspiciously like jealousy.

  1963

  As they drove back to the vicarage after the concert Flora couldn’t rid herself of an uneasy sense of guilt, as if she’d somehow excluded Hugh or hurt him in some way. He’d been unusually quiet during the journey but it was very late and he’d had a long and difficult day, hospital-visiting and administering last rites to a parishioner who’d died at home. Hugh was good at comforting the sick and bereaved and much loved for it, but Flora knew such things took their toll. She felt she’d somehow added to his burden, without knowing why. They sat silently side by side, staring through the windscreen into the darkness, each marooned by their own thoughts.

  As they were getting ready for bed Hugh asked Flora if she thought Rory was pleased with how the concert went.

  Stifling a yawn, Flora said, ‘Yes, I think so. In so far as Rory is ever pleased with his own playing. He thinks he’s good, but never good enough.’

  Hugh smiled. ‘Like someone else I know.’

  ‘You mean me? Do you think we’re alike?’

  ‘Oh, yes, very much so. Only you’re much prettier, darling.’

  ‘I meant, do you think we’re alike as people? I’ve always thought we were chalk and cheese.’

  Hugh didn’t answer immediately, folding his trousers carefully and smoothing them on the hanger. ‘Yes, you are different as people, but… Well, there’s something about twins, isn’t there? Boundaries are a little blurred.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Well, you and Rory are different. But I’m not sure you’re separate.’

  ‘I don’t understand. You’ve lost me.’

  ‘Oh, don’t mind me, I’m just philosophising.’ He smiled wearily. ‘A secret vice of mine. I was thinking of a quotation from Aristotle. It came to me this evening when I saw you and Rory together in the dressing room. “A single soul dwelling in two bodies.” Of course, Aristotle was actually defining friendship.’

  ‘A single soul? Oh, that’s lovely! Hugh, you are clever! I must remember to tell Rory about that.’

  It didn’t occur to Flora until much later, when she tried to recall the quotation, that if she shared a soul with her brother it meant they each possessed only half, which somehow didn’t seem quite so lovely. Her thoughts then took a morbid turn and Flora wondered whether having half a soul reduced one’s chances of eternal salvation. Was Heaven out of the question if you were an incomplete soul? Was Purgatory a more likely final resting-place, the eternal waiting-room where the spiritually incomplete were doomed to loiter, waiting impatiently for their other halves to join them? Feeling rather depressed, Flora decided not to mention the Aristotle quotation to Rory after all.

  He would only have laughed at her anyway.

  Chapter 7

  If you wanted to point the finger of blame you
might have said it was Rory who ruined my life, or Hugh with his well-meant lies, or even my poor son Theo (who, as he pointed out, never asked to be born and eventually wished he never had been). But actually blame must be laid at the door of the Bishop. It wasn’t Rory or Hugh or Theo or Colin or any of the other men whose names and faces I’ve long since forgotten who ruined my life, but the demon drink. And it was the Bishop (God bless him) who drove me into that particular demon’s wide and welcoming arms.

  1964

  Flora had never entertained a bishop before. She hadn’t even spoken to one since she’d been confirmed. Hugh said she wasn’t to worry, Peter was a jolly nice chap and that she shouldn’t feel as if she were ‘on show’. It hadn’t occurred to Flora to think this until Hugh mentioned it as a possibility. Thereafter she felt sick with apprehension at the thought of the eminent man’s visit and set about purging the vicarage with Dettol and Ajax. She also began to study cookery books, going so far as to ring Dora to ask for advice on recipes.

  ‘Well, bishop or no bishop, darling, men always love puddings.’

  ‘Steak and kidney?’

  ‘No, Flora, I meant desserts. Apple pie. Trifle. That sort of thing.’

  ‘Oh. Hugh and I usually eat fruit. He says it’s good for you. Sometimes we have bananas and custard.’

  Dora sounded doubtful. ‘I don’t think you could serve that to a bishop, darling.’

  ‘No, I suppose not.’

  ‘You can’t go far wrong with a sherry trifle. Everyone loves trifle - especially if you’re generous with the sherry! It needs to be a sweet sherry, though.’

  ‘Do you have a recipe?’ Flora asked, her pencil poised above her notebook.

  Dora laughed. ‘Don’t be silly, you don’t need a recipe! You just soak some boudoir biscuits in sherry - you could use a Swiss roll, but personally I don’t like the jam - then you pile on the fruit. Fresh is always nicer, but you could use tinned at a pinch. But not fruit cocktail! That doesn’t taste of anything at all. Then you cover it all with thick custard and when that’s set, you decorate it with whipped cream. Nothing could be simpler.’