Lifetime Burning

by Gillard, Linda

  ‘I see your difficulty.’

  ‘Only Archie - and God, I suppose - know that she wasn’t. And now you. But I don’t feel I can put a lie on a gravestone, a lie for all time. It would seem like lying to God. But equally I don’t want to betray Ettie, to betray her memory. We never discussed it but I believe she was deeply ashamed of her origins. I’m sure that’s why she never married. I suppose I could just have a very simple inscription - her name and her dates - but that seems so formal, so cold. I’d like to convey that I loved Ettie as a sister, that as far as I was concerned we were sisters. Do you see my dilemma?’

  ‘I do indeed. It’s not at all clear what would be the best thing to do. But it’s important to get it right, isn’t it? For Ettie’s sake as much as anybody else’s.’

  Not for the first time Hugh felt he was required to choose between what would be the right thing to do and what would be the best. He often asked himself why people thought a priest would have any more idea about these things than a layman. He knew it wasn’t his job to tell people what they wanted to hear, but surely it was his job to tell them what they needed to hear?

  He plunged in. ‘You know, the older I get, the more I realise that truth is not an absolute but a variable commodity. Our understanding of it - and use of it - may be limited by custom or language. But I don’t think God’s truth is limited in that way, do you? It transcends time. It transcends language.’

  Dora wasn’t sure she understood what Hugh was saying, but she had every confidence that he’d come up with a solution given time. She said nothing but watched his face expectantly.

  ‘I think what we have here is actually a problem of semantics. In a religious context there is always some ambiguity in the use of the words “brother” and “sister”. We are all brothers and sisters in Christ. That being the case, I see no real reason why the stone for Ettie shouldn’t read “beloved sister”. She was, in the widest and truest sense, your sister in Christ. I think her genetic relationship to you was… just a detail, don’t you?’

  Unable to speak or look at him, Dora reached out, placed her hand on Hugh’s and squeezed it tightly.

  Chapter 14

  1974

  Among the female members of the PTA it was generally agreed that Grace Dunbar was a stuck-up bitch. The lone male on the committee thought she was a handsome and intelligent woman, clearly wasted as a stay-at-home mother, but the other women (mostly stay-at-home mothers) thought she was a snob who traded on the celebrity of her musical husband, whom they conceded was a handsome and intelligent man.

  Grace made few concessions to motherhood. She loved her children but loathed the rest of the package. Most of the conversations she had were with young children or the mothers of young children and she felt as if her brain were gradually turning to the consistency of the sago pudding she’d so hated at school. Grace and the other mothers discussed mixed feeding, toilet training and the shocking price of anoraks. They stood shivering in the rain at the school gates - why did it always start to rain at a quarter to three? - relating the minor catastrophes of their lives: a broken washing machine, an outbreak of measles, a surprise visitation from the in-laws. The women huddled together and, when they weren’t discussing diets, talked about food: the price of food, the preparation of food, the consumption of food and the subsequent clearing up of food. They compared one product with another, making personal recommendations which were duly noted. Once three mothers with prams carried out an impromptu survey of fish fingers. Price, quality and nutritional value were compared until eventually they all agreed that one particular brand stood head and shoulders above the rest. Grace, who’d been listening in silence with mounting disbelief, was asked for her opinion but was saved by the bell - literally - as pupils suddenly poured through the doors into the playground.

  After the fish finger debate, Grace abandoned her attempts to conform, standing apart from the other women and, when it wasn’t raining, reading a book until Colin and Charlotte emerged. But she could still hear the women’s chatter and felt mentally contaminated. She gathered that the price of anoraks just went up and up.

  Rory was the only person with whom Grace had regular, adult, intelligent conversation and that was interrupted constantly by the demands of their children, but after years of practice Grace had developed the knack of conducting two conversations at once. She could lambast Tory policy on education, explaining in parentheses to Colin why toy guns were anti-social and unethical. Grace could sit and read George Eliot during Playschool and at the end of the programme she would still know how to make an elephant mask out of a cornflakes box and several toilet rolls. Living two lives simultaneously, Grace’s mind would run along an adult track while dealing with the mental pap of day-to-day intercourse with her children. She squeezed every last ounce of time out of her day, carving out space for herself, claiming a piece of adult territory on which the children were not allowed to trespass. As soon as was practicable she started to give cello and piano lessons at home, although this meant yet more social intercourse with mothers and children, most of whom were not even particularly interested in music. But it was work, it was money (her own) and it stopped her feeling mentally, socially and economically obliterated by motherhood.

  Colin and Charlotte had to fit in, as Grace had to fit in with the demands of Rory’s musical life. Rory was the sun round which they all orbited and all of them knew their place in the galaxy - many light years away from Rory who lived his life, intensely and not very happily, in splendid isolation from the rest of his family.

  Grace made allowances. She considered her husband a genius and didn’t expect him to behave like other husbands and fathers. She knew she’d paid a price for her happiness, such as it was. Believing that the secret of life was low expectations, Grace tried hard to cultivate them, but despite her efforts she was finding it increasingly difficult to ignore the suspicion - never voiced and only rarely confronted - that Rory might be having an affair.

  Rory had several reasons to remember 23rd August, 1974.

  He was scheduled to play a programme of Bach in a concert at Snape Maltings and the day began with a phone-call from Ettie suggesting they meet up for tea in Aldeburgh before the concert.

  As Rory replaced the phone it rang again. Picking up the receiver, he suddenly had a bad feeling, about the call, about the day. He knew before she spoke that it would be Flora.

  ‘You knew, didn’t you?’

  ‘Flora?’

  ‘You knew and you didn’t tell me.’

  ‘What are you talking about? Knew what?’ Rory already knew what Flora was talking about. Playing for time, he closed the study door, shutting out the sound of Grace giving a cello lesson.

  ‘You knew about Hugh. And you knew how he felt about you.’

  Rory took a deep breath and said in a low voice, ‘I didn’t know. Not till after you were pregnant and asked for my help. I suspected. But I didn’t know.’

  ‘You’re lying, Ror. Why would you suspect? And if you did suspect, why didn’t you tell me?’

  ‘How could I? Your marriage was in enough trouble without me telling you I thought your husband might be queer.’

  ‘Don’t use that word.’

  ‘Well, that’s what he is!’

  ‘And you knew! In the bathroom at New Year… In the hotel… You knew.’

  ‘I didn’t know! How could I? He never touched me, never said anything. There was nothing I could confront him with. For all I knew he was bisexual! Hugh fancying me didn’t necessarily mean your marriage was on the rocks. It wasn’t till you told me he wasn’t screwing you that I realised you were wasting your time. And then how could I tell you?’ He lowered his voice. ‘You’d turned me down as an alternative, so was it likely you’d believe me if I told you why your bloody husband wasn’t interested?’

  Flora was silent. Rory tempered his anger, trying to stem a rising tide of panic. ‘After Grace’s miscarriage… after that night in the hotel… you avoided me. Stopped sp
eaking to me more or less. The next time you spoke to me for real, you needed a father for your child—’

  ‘Our child!’

  ‘Is that when I should have told you, Flor? Don’t you think you had enough on your plate by then?’

  Flora said nothing, then started to cry. Rory threaded his fingers through the coiled telephone wire and clenched his fist. ‘I admit I haven’t been totally honest with you. But that’s because - because I love you. Everything I did was because I loved you and wanted to prevent you from being hurt.’

  ‘Does that include getting me pregnant?’

  Exhaling, Rory glanced at his watch, then sat down at his desk, turning his back towards the study door. ‘Look, it never occurred to me that if you got pregnant, you’d know it was mine. I didn’t realise just how bad things were between you and Hugh! I wasn’t thinking straight. I was pissed… Shattered… We both were! The baby had died and, as far as I was concerned, my marriage was over. I just - I just wanted you, Flor! More than I’ve ever wanted anything. I wanted to be inside you. And I thought - no, I knew - that’s what you wanted too. I thought I was giving you what you wanted. It was meant to make you happy!’

  As she hung up, Rory heard the sound of Flora sobbing. He placed the receiver back on its cradle and swore.

  Later that morning Rory received yet another phone-call, this time from a callbox. Hugh announced that he was in London for the day and asked if he could see Rory briefly, at a time and place to suit. He said the matter was urgent and of a sensitive nature.

  Rory closed his eyes and cursed silently. ‘I haven’t got time today, Hugh. Sorry. I’ve got a concert this evening and I’ve got several appointments before then. Can it wait?’

  ‘No, I don’t think it can. I think you’d better cancel something, Rory. It’s time we talked.’

  When Rory arrived at Charing Cross Station he didn’t recognise Hugh at first. He was standing under the clock as arranged, holding a Foyles carrier bag bulging with books, dressed as Rory had rarely seen him before, in civvies: an open-necked checked shirt and corduroy trousers. Hugh’s only concession to the August heat was a pair of leather sandals.

  As Hugh watched Rory approach, he didn’t smile. Even had his purpose been less grim, he was momentarily unmanned by the sight of Rory striding towards him, cool and tanned in a white linen suit, his hair streaked by summer sun.

  The two men regarded each other. Rory was the first to speak. ‘I didn’t recognise you without the fancy dress.’

  ‘Thank you for agreeing to meet me.’

  ‘I got the impression I didn’t have a lot of choice.’

  ‘No. What I have to say is not the sort of thing one can say over the telephone and I didn’t wish to put it in writing.’

  ‘Well, can we get on with it? I’m meeting Ettie for tea in Aldeburgh and then I’ve got a concert tonight at Snape. I haven’t got much time.’

  ‘I won’t keep you long. Shall we go and sit down somewhere?’

  ‘I thought you’d never ask. Talking to you standing up always gives me a crick in the neck.’

  Once again Hugh was disconcerted. He’d prepared himself for aggression, insolence, even ridicule. He hadn’t bargained with self-deprecating humour. He wondered briefly how much Rory had changed since the last time they’d spoken frankly to each other, nine years ago, in the vegetable garden.

  ‘Let’s go to the buffet then. I could use a cup of tea. I came up to town early.’

  Rory looked down at Hugh’s carrier bag. ‘More theological tomes?’

  ‘No, actually. Income Tax for the Self-Employed and Propagating Plants for Pleasure and Profit.’

  They sat at a corner table away from other customers. Hugh clasped his hands on the table and Rory wondered if he was about to say grace. He stirred his tea, suppressing an urge to laugh.

  Hugh turned to face Rory and said, ‘I’ll come to the point straight away. Flora has told me about Theo’s parentage. And I have told Flora that I am - have always been - homosexual.’

  Rory dropped his spoon and it clattered into the cup, splashing his white suit. ‘Jesus Christ.’

  ‘Yes, I wonder what He makes of it all?… There’s more. I’ve told Flora that our marriage has never worked, not only because I am queer, as the popular parlance has it, but because I have always been in love with you.’

  Rory stared. ‘You bastard.’

  ‘That’s exactly what Flora said. But once she’d told me you were the father of my son I thought she needed to know just how complicated things actually were. I can’t claim I gave it a great deal of thought. I was in shock, I suppose. I’ve been living a lie - a variety of lies - for many years now and I had a sudden longing, a thirst for truth. And I thought Flora might find it easier to forgive me - or at least understand me - if she knew you were the only man I’ve ever loved. That there had been no… infidelity.’

  Rory retrieved his spoon and laid it carefully in the saucer. ‘She wasn’t unfaithful either. Not really. She turned me down.’ He passed a hand over his face, damp with sweat. ‘It was only the once. We were both very drunk. In shock, probably.’

  ‘Yes. She explained that Theo’s conception was… a one-off.’

  ‘It never should have happened.’

  ‘But it did. You loved each other. You love each other still.’

  Rory bit his lip and nodded. Blinking, he stared down into his cooling cup of tea. ‘Flora is eaten up with love for me… I mean, just look at her! I think she might actually be losing her mind. It’s not so hard for me. I anaesthetise my brain with work. And sex.’ He looked up, his eyes moist. ‘Not much of it with my wife.’

  Hugh hadn’t expected tears, nor so much honesty. He cleared his throat. ‘There was something else I told Flora. In fact, that was what started it all. I broke my news to her and - well, the walls of Jericho came tumbling down.’

  Rory looked up listlessly. ‘What news?’

  ‘I told her I’d decided to give up the ministry.’

  ‘You’re joking!’

  Hugh smiled. ‘That’s what she said. You really are astonishing, you two. You don’t just look alike, you think alike - even speak alike!’

  ‘Why are you quitting?’

  ‘It’s no concern of yours and I don’t feel up to coping with your mockery - not today. I just wanted you to know that I believe Flora will leave me sooner or later and she will no doubt take Theo with her.’ Hugh paused and took a mouthful of his tea. As he replaced the cup his trembling hand spilled tea into the saucer. ‘I’ve said to her what I’ll now say to you. If she tries to prevent my having access to Theo, if she does anything to undermine my standing as his nominal father, I will go to Dora and tell her who Theo’s real father is. Then I will go to the newspapers.’

  Rory leaned across the table. ‘You can’t prove anything.’

  ‘Oh, I imagine I can prove fairly easily I’m not Theo’s father. In any case, I don’t think newspapers are all that concerned with truth. Rumours, accusations, scandal - that seems to be what sells papers these days. A few hints to an unscrupulous journalist would, I imagine, be enough to put the brakes on your meteoric career. But because Flora loves you more than me - more than Theo for that matter - she’ll never risk it.’

  ‘You’re prepared to make Theo the centre of a scandal?’

  ‘That’s something you’ll never know unless Flora tries to prevent me from seeing him. Are you a gambling man, Rory?’

  ‘She’ll have to divorce you now she knows you’re queer. And she’d get custody.’

  ‘Oh, yes, undoubtedly. Although as I’m about to become unemployed, suing me for divorce does beg the question of how Flora will support Theo and earn her own living. And if Flora is to hold down a job, any job, she’ll need to stop drinking first.’

  Rory winced. ‘You know about that too?’

  ‘Oh, yes. I’ve known for some time, but I always wondered why. Now everything’s fallen into place… Flora can have her freedom, she can have you, I just w
ant to be allowed to love my son, to visit him freely - preferably have him living with me. If I still believed in the efficacy of prayer I’d pray for Flora to leave me and Theo. She just might, you know. I don’t think she feels much for the boy - something else I’ve never understood, but do now. So you see, it’s in your interests to make sure your sister allows me to remain Theo’s father.’

  A slow, lopsided smile spread across Rory’s face.

  Hugh leaned back in his chair and folded his arms. ‘You find all this amusing?’

  ‘Not at all. But I do appreciate the splendid irony of being blackmailed by a priest.’

  ‘Well, I shan’t be one for much longer, so make the most of it.’

  Rory looked at Hugh, his eyes calculating. ‘If I exposed you as a homosexual you wouldn’t get custody of Theo.’

  ‘No, probably not,’ Hugh said affably. ‘Though if the mother is a drunk and sleeping with her brother, I think I might just have the advantage, don’t you? But you can’t expose me Rory, because I’m innocent. I’ve never laid a finger on anyone. Not even you.’

  ‘I could say you had.’

  Hugh pursed his lips. ‘You could, but wouldn’t that be shooting yourself in the foot? Bang goes your musical career. Homosexuals may no longer be criminals but, you know, we’re not exactly establishment yet.’

  Rory threw back his head and laughed. ‘I’ve got to hand it to you, Hugh. I didn’t have you down as such a fighter. I didn’t think you were so damn clever either.’

  ‘I’m not clever, Rory, I’m desperate and a man with nothing to lose is dangerous. I have nothing now, nothing at all, apart from Theo who, it turns out, isn’t even mine. But that boy is my son and I am his father, regardless of blood. I want us all to be clear - for Theo’s sake as much as anything - just how hard I’m prepared to fight to keep him and to prevent him from knowing who his real father is.’

  Rory stared at Hugh. He thought he’d never really seen his face before, not even when he’d kissed him in the garden at Orchard Farm. It was a strong face, dark and gaunt now, the brown eyes dull with strain, the thick black hair brindled with grey. Rory felt a familiar pang of jealousy, though he didn’t know to what he could ascribe it. He used to think he was jealous of Hugh because he possessed Flora, but he’d known for years that Hugh possessed Flora no more than he, Rory, did. Less in fact. Rory certainly wasn’t jealous of Hugh’s relationship with Theo - something he couldn’t even comprehend. His eyes shifted to Hugh’s large and capable hands, resting patiently on the table, his fingers longer even than Rory’s own. He had a memory then, a fleeting memory of a tiny hand - it must have been his own - enveloped in his father’s; his own small, cold fingers encircled by sudden warmth and strength, a sensuous mixture of softness and hardness, flesh and bone.