Lifetime Burning

by Gillard, Linda

We were twenty-two.

  Our lives were over.

  Or had just begun.

  PART TWO

  Chapter 9

  1967

  Breakfast was not a happy affair.

  Theo woke at six o’ clock to a wet mattress and cried pitifully. As Flora hauled herself out of bed to see to her son, Hugh’s sleeping form did not stir, even when the bedroom door creaked loudly. Stumbling across the hall in worn carpet slippers, folding her dressing gown round her tightly, Flora shivered and cursed all the males in her family.

  Theo stood up in his cot, his face puce and tear-stained, his chubby fingers clutching a rabbit that had seen better days and several careful owners. His condition was abject: cold, wet and, Flora could tell from halfway across the room, malodorous. Brushing springy blond curls back from his forehead, she wiped Theo’s nose, changed his nappy and put him into clean pyjamas. Hugging the child for warmth and comfort, she went downstairs to the kitchen.

  At twenty-five Flora had a husband, a son and a large house and garden, all of which were admired by visitors. As they departed they would cast an eye over vast expanses of dingy vicarage wallpaper, balding carpet and crumbling plaster mouldings and pronounce, ‘It must be lovely to have so much space!’ This was not the thought uppermost in Flora’s mind when she swept and dusted, nor when she calculated just how much it would cost to replace the faded curtains in the enormous bay windows.

  Flora placed Theo in his high chair with some cereal and switched on the kettle and transistor radio. Farmers were discussing the devastating effects of a fungal disease on sugar beet production. Theo smeared Weetabix around his face. Occasionally some found its way into his mouth and, surprised, he swallowed it. Flora preferred not to watch and sat by a window, staring into the garden, nursing a cup of tea. She was already bored and it was only half past six. By nine o’clock it would feel like lunchtime and by lunchtime she would be ready for bed, exhausted by boredom and the never-ending struggle to keep her temper with her child, her husband and his parishioners.

  The farmers had finished their sugar beet post-mortem and turned their attention to the vexed question of agricultural subsidy. With a look of fierce concentration distorting his cherubic features, Theo filled his nappy again. Flora wondered if she dare leave it for Hugh to change when he got up. Chastising herself for this un-maternal thought, she lifted the child out of his highchair, kissed his encrusted face as an act of penitence and carried him back upstairs to the bathroom.

  Amidst a flurry of cotton wool and baby lotion, trying to ignore the stench, Flora considered the heady cocktail of motherhood - the pee, the sick, the blood and the shit - and wondered why these ingredients were omitted from baby manuals and conversations about bringing up children. Sometimes at the end of the day she felt as if she wanted to fall into a hot bath and scrub her body with a Brillo pad.

  When Theo was clean again Flora deposited him on the bathroom floor with a half-empty box of lavatory paper, calculating that the five minutes peace she would obtain by letting the child extract sheets one by one were well worth the two minutes it would take to clear up the mess afterwards. Life drove a hard bargain.

  Feeling a headache coming on, Flora braced herself for the day and opened the medicine cabinet in search of aspirin. As her fingers closed around the glass bottle she noticed that her hand was trembling. She thought, quite involuntarily, of the brandy bottle in the sideboard downstairs, a thought which hovered at the back of her mind until nearly lunchtime when she allowed herself a small sherry.

  If I drank enough and if I avoided actually looking at Theo, I could persuade myself that the child was Hugh’s. It was what everyone believed, including Hugh. It should have been true, would have been true if Hugh had been a halfway decent husband to me. Nothing would ever change the way I felt about Rory, but if Hugh had allowed me the luxury of uncertainty, if there’d been the possibility of Theo being his child, I could perhaps have forgiven him, loved him more, loved poor Theo more. I could perhaps have forgiven myself for what Rory and I had done, were it not that I was confronted with the evidence of my shame and sin every single day. And every single day I paid for that sin with the mortification of my flesh.

  1969

  Flora was locked in mortal combat with her child.

  To an observer the scene presented a ludicrous if common spectacle - a mother struggling to dress an unwilling toddler in outdoor clothes - but Flora knew and Theo knew that it was a battle of wills no less fundamental because it was fought once or twice a day. At the moment Flora had the advantage. She had managed to push both wellingtons on to Theo’s feet and was now wrestling with the reins, but Theo, with a superhuman effort, twisted out of his mother’s arms, kicked off both boots and ran for the door. Flora lunged, caught him by the legs and brought him down on to the carpet. The child cried and began to kick his legs in the air. As Flora wrestled with the reins, one of Theo’s heels caught her full on the nose and she reeled back, momentarily stunned. The boy stopped crying, rolled over, ran to the kitchen and hid under the table. Blood dripped from Flora’s nose onto the threadbare hall carpet; she blotted it quickly with her handkerchief then held it to her nose.

  She went into the kitchen, grabbed hold of Theo’s feet and pulled him out from under the table, then dragged him through the hall, avoiding the litter of bricks and farmyard animals he’d scattered over the floor. Theo’s cries were now hysterical and bubbles of green snot ballooned from his nose. Flora picked him up, wiped his nose with her bloody handkerchief and rammed him into the pushchair, feeling as she did so a muscle snap in the small of her back. Ignoring the pain she placed her knee squarely on Theo’s chest and fastened the clips on the harness. She removed her knee and straightened up. With one last desperate jack-knife movement Theo managed to eject himself from the pushchair seat so that he dangled off the edge, suspended by his harness. Flora tried to lift him back in but the child arched his back, rigid and immovable.

  Tears of pain and frustration mixed with a few drops of blood dripped down on to Theo’s woollen coat as Flora undid the clips again, her fingers clumsy now with exhaustion. She lifted the child again and dropped him back into the seat, putting an arm across his chest and a knee between his legs to keep him in position. She quickly fastened the harness and then adjusted it so that Theo was held fast, pinned like a demented butterfly.

  Flora stood up and looked at the screaming monster before her, his swollen face smeared with green slime and spotted with blood. She opened the front door of the vicarage, propelled the pushchair out into the garden and went back indoors, slamming the door behind her. She leaned against it and sank down on to the floor. Out of the corner of her eye she saw the discarded Wellingtons and thought of her small son sitting outside in his socks on a raw, wet November day.

  ‘I hope an inspector from the NSPCC passes by,’ prayed Flora, weeping, ‘and I hope he takes him away…’

  Grace was convinced we’d become good friends. Certainly I never disabused her of the idea. She seemed to think the bond had been forged the night we beheld her tiny dead baby together. Despite her dreadful loss she was grateful to me for the little I’d done. I too was in a kind of shock afterwards and couldn’t stop crying for days. The family put it down to all the blood, my first encounter with death, the loss of a baby when I’d never even been pregnant myself. (By then of course I was, but not even I knew.)

  When I finally told my family that Hugh and I were to become parents Grace stole my thunder by announcing that she too was pregnant again. It was then I realised that Rory was not going to leave her, that even if he did, it would be of no benefit to me. He was beyond my reach and always would be. Instead I tried to hate him for what he’d done, tried to feel repelled. I failed utterly.

  Excitement about my impending happy event was eclipsed by family concern for Grace and Rory and whether they would be lucky this time. As my bump grew larger the family showed little interest (and Rory none at all), but Hugh was ridiculously please
d and proud. He was on his knees at every opportunity thanking God for His blessing on our marriage. There were times when I felt so ill and irritated by his piety that I was tempted to wipe the smile off his face and tell him exactly whom he should be thanking.

  After the night Grace miscarried I couldn’t bear for Hugh to come near me in bed, apart from one memorable and very necessary occasion. We never discussed our resumed celibacy. I suppose he thought it was something to do with the pregnancy. I managed to convey that I felt too ill to indulge in marital relations, which was in fact often the case. After Theo was born it would have been easy to plead healing stitches, sore nipples, general exhaustion as reasons to maintain our distance, but it was never actually necessary to discuss the matter.

  Hugh eventually moved into the spare room to get a decent night’s sleep. When Theo started sleeping through the night I knew Hugh expected me to invite him back and so I did, but new boundaries had been drawn up. Since Hugh continued to be affectionate and attentive - especially towards Theo - I assumed he was reasonably content.

  My body was free of Hugh, free of Theo. Empty again, like my life. I filled my body and my life with booze and memories of Rory who’d been my seducer, but also my saviour.

  1965

  Six weeks after Grace’s miscarriage the Dunbars assembled at Orchard Farm for a subdued Sunday lunch. In the middle of a July heat-wave, they gathered reluctantly round a huge joint of roast beef, cooked to perfection by Dora. Her head pounding with the heat, Flora felt her gorge rise as slices of the pinkish meat were put before her. She rose up out of her chair and the last thing she remembered before she fainted was the sound of Rory’s voice shouting, ‘Hugh! Catch her!’

  Rory knocked softly and put his head round the bedroom door. Flora was lying dozing on the bed. The windows were thrown wide open but the curtains did not stir. ‘You feeling any better now?’

  ‘A bit. I just feel so tired…’

  ‘I’ll leave you to have a nap then.’

  Flora propped herself up on an elbow. ‘No. Rory, I need to talk to you. Come in. And close the door.’ He froze in the doorway and Flora watched his face change. Brotherly concern vanished, to be replaced by something darker, something more opportunistic. Flora felt nauseous again.

  Rory shut the door quietly and sat down on the edge of the bed. She hesitated before speaking. ‘Where is everybody?’

  ‘In the garden. Hugh’s doing chores for Dora. Grace and Ettie are washing up.’

  ‘Oh.’ She hesitated again. ‘Rory… I’m unwell.’

  ‘The heat probably.’

  ‘No. I’m unwell because… because I’m pregnant.’

  He looked at a loss, then smiled and said, ‘Congratulations!’

  ‘No.’

  His smile died. ‘You think it’s mine?’

  ‘I know it’s yours.’

  ‘How can you know?’

  ‘Because Hugh and I hadn’t made love for weeks before - before Grace miscarried and we haven’t made love since. It’s yours. And I can’t even pass it off as Hugh’s.’

  Rory threaded his fingers together and studied the pattern they made. Without looking up he said, ‘Well, you can get rid of it. There are special clinics, aren’t there? If it’s a question of money, I’ll get it somehow. You needn’t say anything to Hugh.’

  ‘Look, I don’t really expect you to understand this, but I don’t want to get rid of it. I know that’s what I should do - especially in view of who the father is - but… I can’t bring myself to do it.’

  ‘You have to! What else can you do?’

  She lay down again and put a hand over her eyes. ‘You didn’t see Grace’s baby. Your baby. I did! I saw it and it was… horrible. Seeing something dead, a dead baby. I couldn’t do that. Not to my child.’ She opened her eyes and looked at him steadily. ‘And it is mine, Rory. It’s not just yours. It’s my baby.’ Her voice caught. ‘It might be the only baby I ever have.’

  ‘So, are you going to tell Hugh?’ he asked sharply. ‘Will you tell him it’s mine? Flora, you can’t! Supposing he tells Ma? It would kill her! You’ll have to invent a lover.’

  ‘Someone I manage to fit in between the Mothers’ Union and the Brownies, you mean? Shall I tell Hugh it’s one of his parishioners? For God’s sake, be realistic! He’ll want details. How do you think he’d feel about raising a child of unknown parentage?’

  ‘Not quite as bad as raising a child of incest.’ Rory’s eyes were cold, his voice determined. ‘You have to get rid of it, Flor.’

  ‘I can’t.’

  He was silent a moment, deep in thought, then said, ‘Perhaps you’ll miscarry. Like Grace.’

  Flora glared at him. ‘Thanks. What a comfort you are.’

  ‘Is it really too late to pass it off as Hugh’s? I mean, if you and he…’

  ‘No, I suppose it’s not too late.’ She groaned. ‘Oh, it’s so humiliating. If he would just make love to me - soon! - I could just about pass it off as his. I could lie about the dates, say it was premature. But how can I get him to do it? You’re a man - tell me how I can make him want me!’

  Rory laughed softly and shook his head. ‘You’re talking to the wrong man, Flor. How can he not want you?’ He lay down next to her on the bed, placed his hand on the curve of her hip and slid it up over her waist. Flora felt the heat of his palm through her thin cotton dress. She didn’t restrain him until he cupped her breast.

  ‘Rory, no…’

  ‘I’m not going to say I’m sorry, Flor, because I’m not. I’m not sorry about what we did. I’d do the same again tomorrow.’ He lifted her hair and stroked her neck. ‘I’d do it now.’ Flora closed her eyes. ‘I’m just sorry you’re pregnant.’ He kissed her mouth gently. In a travesty of protest she laid a hand on his chest at the opening of his shirt, sliding her fingers under the fabric to touch his skin. She sensed the tension in his body, taut, like a string about to break.

  ‘I’m not sorry either,’ she mumbled. ‘I want the baby. I want a baby… I don’t know how I’ll survive the rest of my life without something to love. Someone to love me. I just wish it was Hugh’s baby. Or that I could pretend it was.’

  ‘Keep trying. You never know - maybe he’ll respond. He’s been working in the garden. Sun and exercise make some men feel randy.’

  ‘Do they?’

  He nodded slowly, considering. ‘Wear something pretty for supper tonight. And perfume.’ He lifted her hair again and held it close to her head. ‘Put your hair up, make yourself look different. Surprise him!’

  Flora looked at him and smiled uncertainly. ‘I’ll do my best.’

  ‘That’s my girl.’ He stroked her cheek and traced the outline of her mouth with a finger. ‘I expect you wear a nightdress in bed, don’t you?’

  ‘Yes, of course.’

  ‘Don’t. Let him see you naked. Let him feel your skin…’ Rory swallowed and said faintly, ‘You’re so lovely…’ He took Flora in his arms and folded her, unresisting, against his body. ‘I wish it was me. I’d fuck you to kingdom come.’

  She could feel him hard against her and pushed him away. ‘Rory, no, please - you must go. Hugh might come in. Please go.’

  He kissed her again and got off the bed, then stood looking down at her, his eyes dazed with lust. ‘Forget you’re a vicar’s wife,’ he whispered, then grinned. ‘Seduce him. And if that doesn’t work… Well, don’t worry - I’ll think of something.’

  Rory went to his former bedroom and opened the bottom drawer of a chest where Dora kept some of his old clothes. He rifled through them until he found what he wanted. He pulled out a pair of faded jeans he hadn’t worn for several years and a white T-shirt. He undressed and put on his old clothes, breathing in to button the shrunken Levis.

  Rory stood in front of the wardrobe mirror and regarded his resurrected teenage self critically, then laughed out loud. He looked out of the bedroom window and surveyed the garden. Dora was dozing in a deckchair in the shade of a horse chestnut, a trug full of
weeds at her side. Archie was in the greenhouse dealing death to invertebrates with a chemical spray. Rory could hear the sound of the lawnmower coming from the orchard, the rhythmic, back-breaking whirr of blades as Hugh toiled back and forth over the grass, then silence as he took the box of grass-cuttings down to the compost heap at the bottom of the vegetable garden.

  Rory decided it was time to lift the potatoes. He turned his immaculate hands over and examined the soft skin of his palms. Blisters were inevitable of course, but he told himself it was all in a good cause. It was the least he could do for Flora, under the circumstances.

  I would like to think that Rory didn’t actually enjoy what he did for me, that he did it because he had to, because he had no choice. But knowing Rory as I do, I think he probably did enjoy it. Knowing Rory, he probably laughed about it afterwards.

  Chapter 10

  1966 was a productive year for Rory. In February I gave birth to his first son and three months later Grace gave birth to his second.

  The babies could not have looked more different, which was a relief to two out of the three parents. Mine was named Theodore, which was Hugh’s idea. It means ‘Gift of God’ apparently (which was perhaps more appropriate than it sounds since Theo’s father behaved as if he was God’s gift, both to music and to women). Theo was born with very little hair but his elfin features were said to be a carbon copy of mine - a resemblance Rory was the first to point out - and the white blond hair when it grew made him look even more like me. Colin arrived with a thick head of black curls, a pugilist’s face and eyes that crossed slightly. (He improved considerably with age.)

  In 1967 Grace suffered another miscarriage but in 1968 presented Rory with a daughter, Charlotte, another sturdy, dark baby and Colin was suddenly demoted to playing second fiddle to a more appealing sibling. Perhaps that was the beginning of my unholy alliance with Colin. At the age of twenty-six I was able to empathise with this poor toddler whom people largely ignored. I could see and understand the resentment, the desolation in his eyes as he gazed up at an assembly of hitherto devoted grown-ups, peering into a pram at a largely inanimate object, source of all manner of disgusting smells and noises.