Lifetime Burning

by Gillard, Linda

  Hugh lay snoring gently, his mountainous back turned towards me. I cast my eyes round the moonlit room searching for something to distract me, to quiet my mind. The room still teemed with things Rory and I had loved: a rocking horse, his trains and cars, my dolls, the wooden ark with its menagerie of painted animals. I remembered a hilarious wet afternoon when Rory had paired off all the animals, randomly. We nearly wet ourselves with delight at our subversion, convulsed with giggles at the thought of crocodiles mating with zebras, elephants with giraffes, and their subsequent monstrous progeny.

  I drew my knees up and rolled on to my side. I felt an ache in my belly - not so much a pain, more a gnawing, gaping emptiness. I wondered if the ache could be assuaged by Ovaltine. I doubted it. Brandy might do the trick. I got out of bed, opened the nursery door carefully and went downstairs to the sitting room. I switched on the light and poured myself a generous measure. The spirit hit my stomach like a kick, but these days any kind of warmth, any sensation was welcome. It told me I was alive.

  I heard a creak above me. Rory probably, on the prowl. I turned out the light and headed back upstairs with my glass, turning off towards the bathroom to drink in private. I thought I heard Dora moving about in her room and ducked quickly into the bathroom before she could surprise me in the corridor with a tumbler of brandy.

  But the bathroom was already occupied. Rory was standing naked in a cloud of steam, rubbing his hair with a hand towel. The bath was full of soapy water and his clothes lay discarded in a heap on a battered Lloyd Loom chair. He didn’t appear to have heard me come in and when his head emerged he started, then lowered the towel to cover his genitals. I tried to speak and couldn’t. I tried to move and couldn’t. I stood rooted to the spot, mesmerised like a frightened rabbit. He opened his mouth but no words came.

  I was the first to recover. ‘Hell’s bells, Rory! Why didn’t you lock the door?

  ‘Sorry… I thought everyone was in bed. Chuck me that towel behind you.’

  I threw a bath towel at him. ‘Just as well it was only me.’

  He caught the towel and slung it round his hips. ‘Ma’s seen it all before.’

  ‘I was thinking of Grace, actually.’

  He smiled slowly. ‘So has she.’

  ‘Oh… Yes. I was forgetting.’ I took a mouthful of brandy and said, too loudly, ‘Well, I haven’t seen your willy for years. Not since you got it out to show Susan Taylor.’

  He froze. ‘Who?’

  ‘Susan Taylor. You must remember her. That terribly common girl in Miss Brent’s class. She had holes in her knickers and was always doing handstands.’

  Rory watched me as I drank again. ‘No, I don’t remember.’ He smiled, a little uncertainly, as if he wasn’t sure yet what game we were playing. ‘I can’t have been very impressed by her gymnastics.’

  ‘Well, you showed her your willy.’

  He raised an eyebrow. ‘Was she impressed?’

  ‘I’ll say. Talked about it for weeks. Probably still does. A girl that ugly must have led a very quiet life.’

  Rory chuckled, a strange gurgling noise that came from the back of his throat. ‘You’re such a bitch, Flor.’ He leaned over the bath and pulled out the plug and I watched his body twist, the muscles moving beneath his skin. He straightened up and rubbed his wet hand against a towelled thigh. ‘Pass me my dressing gown. It’s hanging on the door.’

  As I turned and reached upwards I said, the brandy talking, ‘D’you know, it never occurred to me you might have red pubic hair.’

  ‘Flor!’

  ‘Funny - your beard isn’t red.’

  ‘Give me my dressing gown, Flor.’

  ‘Nor is your chest hair.’

  ‘For God’s sake, you’re making me feel like some zoological specimen!’ He held out his hand for the gown.

  ‘Oh - am I embarrassing you?’

  ‘Yes, if you must know, you are.’

  ‘Gosh, that’s a first! I didn’t think it was possible to embarrass you. Anyway, you’ve nothing to be ashamed of. You appear to have a very nice body. Why do you want to cover it up?’

  Rory looked down and dragged a hand through his tangled, wet hair. ‘Because you staring at me is giving me an erection, that’s why.’ He glared at me, red-faced. ‘Satisfied?’

  I shrugged. ‘Well, I haven’t seen one of those in a long while either.’

  He stared. I saw one emotion after another cross his face, like clouds scudding across the sky. ‘Aren’t you and Hugh - I mean, doesn’t Hugh…?’

  ‘I’m not sure if Hugh isn’t interested or whether he just doesn’t… function that way. Perhaps it’s something to do with having been a monk. He’s used to going without.’ I drained my glass. ‘And so am I.’

  Rory looked uncomfortable. ‘Maybe he’s still grieving for Miriam. Have you ever - I mean has he— ?’

  ‘Oh, yes. A few times. In the early days. Not lately.’ Rory said nothing. ‘You were right about it not working. Can’t see how I’m ever going to get pregnant, short of divine intervention.’

  ‘I’m sorry, Flor.’

  ‘Oh, it can’t be helped. He’s very sweet in lots of other ways. Very kind. I suppose lots of women would be glad not to be bothered by their husbands… God, I should have brought the brandy bottle upstairs… You know, I wouldn’t mind so much if he’d cuddle me in bed. Just hold me, stroke my hair or something. But there might as well be a bolster down the middle of the bed. We read our books, say “Night, night”, turn out the lights and that’s that.’ I struggled to keep my voice level. ‘I would just like to be held, Ror… Touched.’

  To my utter astonishment I saw that my brother had tears in his eyes. He took the dressing gown and empty glass from my hands and set them down on a chair. He turned back, put his arms round me and pulled me gently towards him, saying, ‘Poor Flor’. I laid my cheek against his neck, fitting my head under his chin. I felt the pressure of his mouth briefly on the top of my head.

  We stood like that for a while, then I said, ‘You’re so much taller than me now. We used to be the same height for years, d’you remember? I hated it when you got taller.’

  ‘I hated it when you grew breasts.’

  I giggled. ‘Why?’

  ‘Don’t know. It looked wrong somehow. Made us different. I always wanted everything to stay the same.’

  ‘So did I… But everything changed.’

  ‘Some things are the same.’

  ‘No, Rory, nothing is the same. Everything’s changed.’

  ‘I still love you, Flor. And I always will.’

  I started to cry. Hot tears trickled down my cheeks, over Rory’s neck and on to his chest.

  ‘Don’t cry. It’ll be all right!’

  ‘Hugh doesn’t love me!’

  ‘I’m sure he does,’ Rory said, sounding unconvinced. I lifted my head, looked up into his face and saw the lie. He put his hands on my shoulders and shook me gently. ‘You’ve got me, Flor. You’ve always got me.’

  ‘But I haven’t, have I? I haven’t got you - Grace has! I can’t have you!’

  There followed a silence in which my brother struggled to form words, his face contorted with anguish. He watched the tears run down my cheeks then cast his eyes downwards. I too looked down, saw his bare feet, his toes curling, burrowing into the thick pile of the rug as if he were struggling to stay upright. When he finally spoke his voice was low and hoarse, as if he were struggling with some constriction in his throat. ‘You can have me, Flor… If you want.’

  I stopped crying, stopped breathing and looked up. Two drops of water collided in the hollow at the base of his throat, united and rolled down over his chest. They swerved to one side following the bony outline of his ribcage, then slithered over the shadowy planes of his belly and disappeared into the towel. He started to tremble. ‘I don’t know how to help you, Flor… I don’t know what you want.’

  ‘What do you want, Rory?’

  He threw his head up suddenly and appeared to look
at the ceiling. He swallowed and I watched his Adam’s apple rise and fall, then with a gulping sob he whispered, as if in disbelief, ‘I want you.’

  I took his face in my hands and pulled his head down to make him look at me, but he shut his eyes tight. ‘Look at me, Rory.’ He shook his head slowly, silently. ‘Look at me! I want to see into your eyes.’

  His eyelids flickered and then opened. His eyes darted round the room, avoiding mine, then settled on my face. ‘What do you see, Flor?’ he whispered.

  ‘Me… I see me. I see a reflection of me. I look at you, Rory and I see me.’ I stood on tiptoe and fastened my mouth on his. He recoiled for less than a second then his mouth was open, his tongue touching mine, live, moving, frantic, like an animal.

  I whimpered, lay both hands on his chest and pushed him away. I shook my head, unable to speak.

  ‘Flor?’

  Still shaking my head, I stepped backwards, groping for the door-handle.

  ‘Flor, I’m sorry! Please don’t hate me - I thought it was what you wanted!’

  ‘It is, Rory. It’s what I’ve always wanted. I don’t hate you. I hate myself.’ I pulled the door open and fled.

  I stood by the bed, staring at the figure of my sleeping husband, then turned away and climbed into a wing chair, shaking. I sat hugging my knees, shivering, listening to Hugh’s heavy, regular breathing.

  Some hours later, chilled and stiff, I unfolded myself from the chair and stumbled across the room to the bed. I slid between the sheets, careful not to touch Hugh with my icy limbs. As I lay still in the bed, I could feel warmth emanating from his body, like the glow from a stove. I turned to face him and in the grey moonlight discerned his broad back, clad in striped pyjamas, turned towards me. I lifted a hand, intending to lay it on his arm, but instead my hand went to my mouth. My fingertips touched my lips, still bruised from Rory’s kiss. My mouth remembered his tongue, my hands remembered his damp bare skin. The fingers of my other hand crept between my legs, moving urgently, instinctively.

  My body shuddered and my womb convulsed. I buried my face in the pillow to stifle my moans. Overwhelmed by a sudden wave of nausea, I got out of bed and rushed to the lavatory where I was violently sick.

  1964

  Dora, awake in the early hours of the morning and reading, heard the distant sound of someone vomiting. A woman. She smiled, then admonished herself for her selfishness. Poor Flora.

  But lucky Flora. With a baby on the way…

  Chapter 8

  1965

  Some weeks later Dora was astonished to find her daughter hadn’t yet heard the glad tidings from her twin. ‘I thought Rory would have told you first!’ she said.

  ‘Yes, so would I,’ Flora answered, although she knew perfectly well why he hadn’t.

  That evening, when Hugh was out at a parish council meeting, Flora steeled herself and picked up the phone.

  ‘Ror? It’s me.’

  ‘Hi… How’s things?’

  ‘I’ve just been speaking to Ma.’

  ‘Oh.’ Rory took a deep breath. ‘She’ll have told you our news, then? I was going to give you a ring.’

  ‘Yes. I was very… surprised.’

  He gripped the receiver tightly and turned his back towards Grace, seated on the sofa reading a book. ‘Don’t know why you should be surprised. Grace and I have been together for four years now. Thought it was time I made an honest woman of her.’

  ‘Is it really that long? I suppose it must be.’ Flora’s voice was faint and she sounded confused. ‘Well, I just wanted to say congratulations. To you both.’

  ‘Thanks.’

  ‘When… when is the wedding to be?’

  ‘Soon as we can get it organised, really. We don’t want a big do. Register office will be fine for us. Not much point us getting married in church.’

  ‘No, I suppose not,’ Flora said. Then, after a pause, ‘Is Grace there?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Oh.’

  ‘She sends her love.’

  ‘Does she?’ Flora asked vaguely. ‘Thanks. Give her mine.’

  The conversation dangled. Without evincing much interest Rory asked, ‘How’s Hugh?’

  ‘Oh, he’s… fine. Busy. As ever. I don’t see much of him, to tell you the truth. He’s out most evenings. Meetings and so on. I’m busy too. I had no idea there was so much to do as a clergy wife. The phone never stops,’ she said wearily, ‘But it’s never people you actually want to talk to… How are you, Rory?’

  ‘I’m fine.’

  ‘How’s Grace?’

  ‘She’s fine too.’

  ‘Oh. Good.’

  ‘Flor, was there anything particular you wanted to talk about? Only Grace and I are going out to a concert later and time’s getting on—’

  ‘Oh, I’m sorry. Don’t let me hold you up.’

  ‘I’ll give you a ring later?’

  ‘No, I’ll have gone to bed. I get so tired these days. I was just ringing to say…’

  Her voice tailed off. Rory heard a ‘chink’ at the other end of the phone that he recognised as the sound of a bottle neck hitting a glass. ‘Flor, are you OK?’

  ‘Yes, I’m fine. I’m absolutely fine.’ Flora was silent for a few moments but he could hear her breathing heavily. ‘Rory, don’t do it. You’ll be making a mistake - like I did! Please don’t do it.’

  He raised his voice. ‘Look, I’ve really got to go or we’ll be late. Sorry. I’ll give you a ring.’

  ‘Ror, please, I need to talk to you—’

  ‘Bye, Flora.’ He replaced the receiver and sat back on the sofa, his eyes closed, the lines around his mouth etched deep.

  Grace watched him, puzzled. ‘Why did you tell her we were going out?’

  ‘I wanted to get off the phone.’

  ‘You sounded very odd.’

  ‘She sounded very odd,’ he said irritably. ‘In fact, she sounded drunk.’

  ‘Oh dear. Poor Flora. Whatever can be the matter, do you think?’

  ‘No idea.’ Rory sighed and closed his eyes again.

  It soon became clear why Rory and Grace had decided to get married. Her figure grew more voluptuous, her long hair more luxuriant, her rosy complexion bloomed and it was obvious that a Dunbar scion was expected. Exactly when was not clear. Grace was cagey on the subject, in deference no doubt to Dora’s and Ettie’s finer feelings, although for the life of me I couldn’t see how she was going to palm off what promised to be a strapping eight-pounder as premature.

  In the event she didn’t have to.

  Rory seemed to show little interest in the pregnancy and I believe I was the only one in whom Grace felt she could confide. I think she cherished hopes that I too would soon be pregnant so we could go shopping together for bibs and bootees. In that we were both disappointed.

  Grace told me a date in September when, by her calculations, the baby would arrive. I felt both touched and burdened by the information. She was quite oblivious of my jealousy, of my impatience when she or any other member of the family chattered about the impending happy event. (To give him his due, Hugh was noticeably quiet on the subject - as well he might be.) I felt oppressed by the knowledge of when the baby was conceived. It was clear from what Grace said that the contraceptive failure - for that was how she referred to it, with a coy smile and a becoming blush - had taken place at Orchard Farm, at New Year. I couldn’t prevent myself from wondering if, when I spurned my brother’s advances, he just went back to bed and made love to his semi-comatose girlfriend and, if he did, was he thinking of me?

  There were times when I felt sorry for Grace. I felt superior, older, deeply cynical. Sometimes I could even find it in my heart to pity her. But there were other times - usually after the second brandy - when I hated her with a passion, times when I could not stand being in the same room with her, could not bear to hear one more word on the subject of babies, as it seemed unlikely, given my husband’s lack of interest, that I would ever bear one. When Grace sat smugly nursing her
little bump, all smiles, I longed to tell her that her husband didn’t love her, he merely screwed her. He loved me, had always loved me, would always love me.

  But I never actually wished for her to lose the baby.

  I didn’t have the guts.

  In May 1965, Grace was five months pregnant. We were on our way out to a concert: Rory’s first performance as a professional musician in a major concert hall. He was to play a Shostakovich piano concerto of fearsome difficulty and had left an hour earlier to go to the hall and fret about the height of his piano stool. Grace and I were sitting in the hotel bar having too many drinks on an empty stomach and Hugh was ordering our taxi. Grace went to the Ladies’ and was gone a long time. I started to wonder if she was throwing up again. The pregnancy had been difficult from the start and she had been sick a lot. Eventually I went in to look for her. She was sitting on a chair, bent over, clutching her stomach.

  ‘Grace, what’s the matter? Are you all right?’

  ‘I’m bleeding, Flora.’

  ‘Oh, no!’ I took her hand and looked at her white face. ‘Very much?’

  ‘No. Well, like a period.’

  ‘Oh, God. You have to go to bed, Grace. You have to lie down. I’ll get Hugh to ring a doctor.’

  ‘Don’t tell Rory.’

  ‘We have to tell him, Grace! Don’t be silly. He has to know. Anyway, when you don’t turn up he’ll worry.’

  ‘If you tell him I’m bleeding he’ll walk out! He’ll walk out of his first major engagement and probably never get another. I forbid you to tell him, Flora! You and Hugh must go to the concert and tell him I’m ill. But don’t say I’m bleeding. Say I’m being sick. Say anything you like.’

  ‘You don’t think I’m leaving you like this, do you? Hugh can go to the hall and deal with Rory. I’m staying with you till - till you feel better,’ I said abruptly. We both knew I meant till it’s all over. Grace looked up at me with tears in her eyes and mouthed a silent ‘Thank you’.