I took a perverse delight in snubbing baby Charlotte and lavishing attention on my nephew. I would lift him on to my lap and read him stories (something I rarely did for Theo - Hugh did it so much better and more willingly). I applied salve to wounds inflicted by his unwitting, besotted relations. Colin and I conspired together. We were the rejects, a clique of two. Colin was a piece of Rory I could love freely, in a whole-hearted, uncomplicated way - when he was a child at least. Theo on the other hand was a piece of Rory I found myself unable to love, simply because he never should have been a piece of Rory.
I tried very hard to pretend the lies I lived were true. Drinking helped me ignore the facts; it also helped me ignore my husband and eventually my son. It helped me cope with the certain knowledge that Rory and Grace were now bound together by blood, deaths and births and that he would probably never leave her. For all I knew, he maybe even loved her by now.
But I thought not. I hoped not.
If I was going to spend the rest of my lifetime burning for Rory it seemed only right that he should do the same for me.
Spite was a source of cold comfort.
1969
Grace looked up from feeding Charlotte, the bottle poised. ‘Something wrong?’
Rory was on his knees scooping up toys from under the baby grand piano and putting them into a cardboard box. ‘No. Why?’
‘Oh, nothing. You just seem a bit moody.’
He pushed the box into a corner of the room and sank down on to the piano stool which wheezed as his weight compressed the worn leather. ‘I’m just tired.’
‘Too tired to play to me?’
‘I’m never too tired to play. I’m often too tired to play well.’
‘Play us a lullaby. Something soothing,’ Grace crooned. Rory spun round on the stool and started to rifle through sheet music. She leaned back on the sofa. ‘So how were Ettie and the Outlaws?’
The ghost of a smile haunted Rory’s tense face. ‘You make your in-laws sound like a rock group… They were fine. But they’re all getting old. And that makes me feel old.’
‘Come off it! At twenty-seven?’
Rory started to play. ‘Fatherhood makes you feel old. Having so many responsibilities.’
Grace listened to him for a while. ‘What’s this? I don’t know it, do I?’
‘No. I’m learning it - can’t you tell? It’s a Prelude by Shostakovich. There’s twenty-four in all. They’re bloody difficult and staggeringly beautiful. Like my daughter.’
‘Who takes after her father.’ Grace closed her eyes and listened, then murmured, ‘It’s gorgeous.’
Rory continued to play then glanced sideways at the sofa. ‘Is she asleep yet?’
‘No, but I am.’
‘That wasn’t the idea.’
There was a sudden cry from another room and Rory paused, his hands suspended above the keyboard. ‘Young Master Dunbar is awake. I swear those two have an arrangement whereby they’ve agreed never to sleep simultaneously.’
‘Dora said that’s just how you two were. If you slept, Flora was awake. If Flora slept, you were awake. And sometimes you were both awake together. She says she didn’t get any sleep for a year.’ As Rory rose from the piano Grace said, ‘Take him a glass of water, that usually settles him. But he might ask for a story.’
‘He’ll be lucky.’
Rory left the room quietly and reappeared a few moments later. ‘Must have been a bad dream. He wasn’t really awake. Seems OK now.’ He sank on to the sofa beside Grace.
‘You sounded worried.’
‘About Colin?’
‘No, earlier. When you were talking about responsibilities. Have you been worrying about money again?’
‘No. Well, a bit.’ He looked round the overcrowded room and raised his arms in the air. ‘We need more space! How can I work like this?’
Grace surveyed the room. ‘I suppose we could get rid of the dining table and eat off the piano.’
He gave her a bleak look. ‘That isn’t funny.’
She returned the look. ‘You wanted kids too.’
‘I wasn’t complaining. It’s just not easy. Music and kids don’t mix.’
‘Not while they’re small, but that’s not for ever. I do try to keep them out of your hair.’
‘Yes, I know you do.’ He leaned across and administered a perfunctory kiss on her cheek. Looking down at his infant daughter, he inserted his little finger into her fist and watched her tiny fingers curl round it automatically. ‘She’s almost asleep.’
‘Thank God.’
‘She’s so like you.’
‘Are you referring to the rolls of fat?’
‘No. She’s so dark. You’re not fat anyway. You just haven’t lost the weight you put on.’
‘Or the weight I put on with Colin.’
‘Well, it doesn’t bother me.’
She glanced up at him quickly. ‘Doesn’t it?’
‘Of course not. Why d’you ask?’ Grace was silent and looked down again at Lottie, asleep in her arms. ‘Oh… It’s not you, Grace. I’ve got a lot on my mind. And I’ve been away a lot.’
‘All the more reason for you to be pleased to see me when you get home.’
‘I meant, it’s tiring. All the travelling. Not to mention the playing. My schedule’s been insane.’
‘I know. I wish I could come with you. We need a holiday.’
‘Fat chance.’
‘We could go away for a weekend. Somewhere nice. Do something romantic.’
‘We could,’ Rory said without enthusiasm. ‘A romantic idyll, complete with two children under three.’
‘I’m sure Flora and Hugh would have Colin for a weekend. It would be nice for Theo to have someone to play with.’ Lottie stirred and began to grizzle. Grace offered the bottle again. ‘Did you go and see them today?’
‘Yes. Well, I saw Flora. Hugh wasn’t in.’
‘How was Theo?’ Rory didn’t answer immediately and Grace continued, ‘He’s a dear little mite. Hugh just adores him. They should have another. And they should get a move on too - Hugh’s no spring chicken.’
‘I didn’t see Theo. He was asleep. Shall I try and put Lottie down in her cot?’
‘No, leave her, she’s all right. I’m too tired to move anyway. How was Flora?’
‘Oh… the usual. Tired. I think she finds Theo a handful.’
‘She never seems very happy.’
‘I don’t think she is particularly.’
‘What d’you think’s the matter?’
‘How should I know?’ Rory shrugged. ‘I don’t think her life has turned out the way she expected. When she was a kid she had plans. Dreams. We both did. Hers don’t seem to have amounted to much.’
‘Oh, I don’t know. She’s got a lovely husband and son. And that great big house. I wish we had that much space! And the work she does in the parish is… very worthwhile.’
‘Come off it, Grace. It’s boring as hell and you know it! Brownies and baking and polishing pews? That was never Flora! She might not be Brain of Britain, but she was a lively kid. She had lots of energy and ideas. She was game for anything.’
‘Yes, Dora told me. Wherever you led, Flora followed. And I expect you led her into all sorts of awful scrapes.’
‘No, she was quite capable of getting into those on her own.’
‘She told me about the time you cut off all her hair.’
‘She asked me to! That was her St Joan phase. When she wanted to be a nun.’ Rory chuckled softly. Grace thought how much she loved that sound, how rarely she heard it now.
‘Didn’t she have boyfriends?’
‘No.’
‘Never?’
‘I don’t think so. I don’t remember any. I expect she did at drama school. Must have.’
‘Strange. I mean, she’s so pretty. I imagine men would find her very attractive, wouldn’t you?’
‘No idea. She’s my sister. I can hardly be objective, can I?’
‘She ju
st strikes me as a certain type that men fall for - blonde, petite, very feminine… Like Marianne Faithfull. You know - fragile, but sexy. I always wanted to look like that. Elfin. When I first met Flora I felt like a shire horse in comparison. We couldn’t be more different, could we? As women.’
‘No, I suppose not.’
‘Did you have girlfriends before college?’
‘I played the piano. I did a lot of sport. There wasn’t really time for much else. And all the girls I knew seemed pretty thick anyway. Their main interest in life seemed to be their hair. They knew nothing about music. It must have been much the same for you. What were your chances of meeting boys who shared your passion for the cello?’
‘Practically nil. And the ones who did had spots. But it turned out all right in the end for me - for us - didn’t it?’ She laid her free hand on his thigh and smoothed the pile of the corduroy, registering the muscle beneath.
‘Yes.’ He laid a long, cool hand over hers. Grace wondered fleetingly if she would be able to stay awake long enough for Rory to make love to her tonight; if he would even want to.
‘It’s such a shame Flora can’t be happy. If only she’d try to make the best of things. There’s no point in being bitter about missed opportunities, you’ve just got to get on with your life. Move on.’
‘Maybe she can’t.’
‘Why not?’
‘I don’t know. I think she tries, but - it’s all too much for her. She isn’t… I don’t think she was ever strong. And she’s not used to coping on her own.’
‘How do you mean? She’s got Hugh and he’s ever so good with Theo. He helps around the house too. Not many men would do that.’
‘No, I didn’t mean that. Look, would you want Flora’s life?’
‘No, I wouldn’t,’ Grace said firmly.
‘Why not?’
She tilted her head and laid it on his shoulder, nuzzling his neck. ‘She hasn’t got you.’
I showed quite a talent for secret drinking. What began as a sort of hobby, a small consolation for receiving the booby prize that was my life, quickly became a consuming passion, an addiction that went some way towards filling the voids - physical, mental and emotional - that Rory and Hugh had left. Secret drinking and its associated subterfuge were no particular challenge to me. My entire life was a sham. I was in love with my brother, I had borne his child and I was installed in my mausoleum of a vicarage as Mrs Holier-than-Thou, with a handsome husband who never laid a finger on me.
Pretence wasn’t difficult. I had a natural flair for it, not to mention my training as an actress. No, my problem was bumping up against reality now and again, a hazard I mostly managed to avoid by numbing my brain with deadening domestic routine and equally deadening alcohol.
I was no longer drinking in order to remember - that was far too painful. I didn’t want to know who I’d been, what Rory had been to me, what we’d lost. Now I drank to slake an unquenchable thirst. I drank to extinguish what remained of the fires that still smouldered in my mind and body.
1969
Flora sat slumped in front of the television, not drinking. Not drinking was how she spent a lot of her time. It was a conscious, virtuous act of self-denial and when she’d indulged in it for as long as possible, she rewarded herself with a drink. This was a way of eking out supplies at the same time as quieting her conscience. She told herself she didn’t even need a drink this evening because she was going to watch Rory on television and that was treat enough. What she knew but didn’t tell herself was that she would need a drink - possibly more than one - afterwards. Flora still believed drinking was a treat rather than a biological and psychological necessity and she told herself the same lie about seeing her brother.
Hugh had been called out by a parishioner and Flora hoped he wouldn’t be home in time for the programme which she wanted to watch alone. She knew he would be very disappointed to miss it, but she didn’t care. She saw her brother so rarely, she thought she deserved to have him all to herself now and again, even if it was only on a television screen.
She looked at the mantelpiece clock again and pulled the armchair closer to the television set. It suddenly occurred to her that the telephone might ring during the programme - some wretched parishioner calling her with a query or even asking her if she knew her brother was on television. Flora got up and hurried down the hall to the phone. She lifted the receiver and replaced it askew so that it was off the hook, but not obviously so. Hugh wouldn’t approve, but if he noticed Flora would say Theo must have been playing with the phone. (This had actually happened once before, on a day Flora recalled as a sort of holiday: the phone had remained off the hook for many hours before Hugh had remarked how quiet things were, then gone to check whether it was working.)
Flora hurried back to the sitting room and switched on the television, even though the programme wasn’t due to begin for several minutes. She plumped up a faded cushion, kicked off her slippers and curled up in the armchair. The programme was to feature several young musicians in their twenties who’d already made an impact in the world of classical music. Each was to be interviewed, then shown playing. Rory had said his section came at the end but Flora was determined to watch the whole programme in case somebody at the BBC had changed the running order at the last minute.
She sat impatiently through a pretty Japanese violinist whose English was laboured, but whose playing was remarkable. She was followed by a clarinettist. Flora thought he was American, but he might have been Canadian - she wasn’t paying much attention. Then finally Rory’s face came on to the screen, in close-up but much smaller than in life. Flora’s fingers went to her mouth and she uttered a little cry of surprise and something like pain. Rory was in black and white.
Of course Rory was in black and white - how could she have been so silly as to think otherwise? What did it matter? It was Rory speaking, even smiling now and again, which Flora almost never saw these days. She tried to conquer her disappointment and concentrate on the programme. At least his grey eyes must be the right colour. Yet somehow they weren’t. There wasn’t that icy hint of green - or was it blue? It was so long since she’d seen him, she couldn’t really remember. Then suddenly the camera was showing him seated at the piano playing some Schubert - Flora recognised it at once, Rory would have been pleased with her - and she was at leisure to study her brother’s face without having to consider his words.
It wasn’t Rory. It was a pale, colourless imitation, but it was better than nothing. There was the fragility in the pale skin around his eyes but it wasn’t lightly veined with blue. You could see it was finely creased, like crushed tissue, but it wasn’t creamy-gold and dusted with freckles. There were the dark lines at the corner of his mouth, deep straight furrows that ran from nostril to jaw and then disappeared as his face resolved itself into sculptured planes of repose, but the full, curved and perfectly symmetrical lips were grey, as was Rory’s hair - grey and darker grey, instead of gold, ochre, honey, brown, copper… How many colours were there in Rory’s hair, Flora wondered? How many pigments would an artist need to paint it? A whole palette-full…
The picture was blurred and she got up to thump the top of the set. It made no difference. She screwed up her face in anger and to her surprise, tears trickled down her cheeks. She gasped and rubbed quickly at her eyes with the hem of her apron. The picture became clear again. She knelt on the floor, her face inches from the set and watched Rory’s monochrome hands moving across the keyboard, hands she would know anywhere. As they came to rest and the music died away, she raised her own hand to the screen and laid it on the grey image of his.
Flora stared at the credits as they rolled, then switched off the set and got to her feet. She stumbled over to the sideboard and withdrew a bottle.
Funding my habit was a problem. Hugh gave me money for housekeeping and never asked what it was spent on, but what he gave me barely covered what it actually cost to feed and clothe us. I made as many economies as possible and put by spare
pennies and shillings in an envelope in my dressing table drawer. I used these to buy cheap sherry with which I topped up the bottles in the sideboard so that Hugh never realised they had long ago been emptied.
I bought loose broken biscuits, bruised fruit and vegetables, bacon pieces. Theo and I lunched on spam or haslet. I developed a real nose for a bargain. As chief organiser of church jumble sales I got first pick of children’s clothing which I spirited away when no one was looking. My resourcefulness felt like some sort of achievement. Only occasionally did I feel downright deceitful. At Christmas Hugh gave me extra money to buy presents for Theo. So did Dora, who knew we were very hard up. I didn’t tell Hugh. I spent his money on presents for Theo - really nice ones, all of them brand new - and I spent Dora’s money on a bottle of brandy. I hid it at the back of the sideboard, where Hugh would never notice it. If he did, he would assume it was a Christmas present from a parishioner.
Eventually of course my consumption outstripped my income and my ingenuity.
In those days I never stole from shops, only from Orchard Farm and then only things my mother would never miss: tins of ham and corned beef, the odd packet of soup, jars of home-made preserves - little luxuries that Hugh and Theo would enjoy and which I could no longer afford to buy. Once, I caught sight of a ten-shilling note folded and placed under the clock on the kitchen mantelpiece. I palmed it when Dora’s back was turned. I doubt she ever missed it.
I did feel bad going through the pockets of Hugh’s clothes, looking for small change. He kept a small dish on his bedside table for keys, cuff links and coins. I never took all the money in case he noticed and I never took half crowns, but the small coins gradually accumulated and kept the sherry bottles topped up.
Lifetime Burning Page 15
