Lifetime Burning

by Gillard, Linda

  ‘Yes, fine.’ She smiled coyly at Colin, as if the prospect of a certain amount of rough handling would not be entirely unwelcome. Flora felt a flare of irritation. ‘You think this man is mad. He’s just killed an elder statesman before your very eyes. He’s threatening to kill your husband and you think he might even kill you. Hamlet might get turned on by all this, but Gertrude definitely doesn’t. She’s a gibbering wreck. You must both of you blow a fuse.’

  ‘Right.’ Colin grinned and clapped his hands together. ‘Let’s have a bash, then.’

  They took their positions for the scene and as Flora walked back to her chair she called out over her shoulder, ‘Play the scene fast. Take a running jump at it. And Colin?’

  ‘Yeah?’

  Flora fixed him with a look. ‘Don’t be you.’

  ‘Right.’ He dragged a hand through his thick dark hair, pushing it back from his forehead - the same futile gesture his father had always made. The hair sprang back immediately and memory twisted Flora’s innards.

  She sat down and thumbed blindly through Colin’s copy of the play. ‘Think of your dad, Colin. Think of Rory in one of his flaming, unreasonable rages. Being obsessive. And nasty.’

  ‘Got you.’ He raised his thumb towards Flora and turned away to prepare for his entrance.

  ‘And, Stephanie—’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Try not to be so middle-class. You’re the Queen of Denmark. You don’t need to impress anybody.’

  Stephanie gazed at Flora, mystified.

  The huddle of figures fell silent. ‘Don’t know about anyone else,’ Colin said, his voice ragged now, ‘but I need a beer.’

  ‘Yes, we’d better stop. It’s getting late. Off you go, you two. You’ve certainly earned a drink.’

  ‘Come with us, Flo. We can carry on talking in the pub.’

  Flora caught a disappointed look from Stephanie. ‘No, you’ve done enough for one day. And I need to be getting home. I’ve… I’ve got a lot to do.’ She contemplated the desert of her evening, the highlight of which would be beans on toast and a concert on Radio Three.

  Colin put an arm round her shoulders. ‘One drink. Come on. We owe you. That was a really useful session. I feel as if we’ve finally cracked it!’

  ‘Do you? Oh, I am pleased! I think it’s going to be really good. You’ve both worked so hard.’

  ‘So have you. Come on. The pub. We’re celebrating. And the first round’s on me.’

  They occupied a small table in a pub not far from the school. Flora had bought a second round soon after Colin’s and no one seemed anxious to break up the evening, even for food. Flora wasn’t sure if the young people were enjoying her company or were simply too tired to move. They all helped themselves to crisps from a packet in the middle of the table.

  ‘I know it’s Hamlet’s scene,’ Stephanie said, ‘but I still don’t see why Gertrude has to be such a wimp. She’s a feminist ahead of her time, demanding sexual equality with men. I definitely see her as a strong woman.’

  ‘Do you?’ Flora sounded surprised. ‘But she’s not very bright, is she? She doesn’t see what’s going on between Hamlet and Ophelia. Expects them to get married even when they’re barely speaking. And she thinks Hamlet should be getting drunk at her wedding even though he’s still mourning Daddy. Then at the end she goes and drinks the poisoned wine, even though Claudius warns her not to! I don’t see her as strong, I see her as, well, stupid, actually.’ Seeing Stephanie’s crestfallen face Flora added quickly, ‘And that’s very difficult to portray. Acting stupid when you’re not is one of the hardest things to do convincingly.’

  Sulking now, Stephanie said, ‘I don’t see how you can make a stupid character interesting.’

  Flora hesitated and Colin chipped in. ‘Maybe she isn’t meant to be that interesting. She’s on stage a lot but she’s actually got very few lines. It’s more what happens to her. And around her.’

  ‘Exactly. Gertrude’s really just a pawn in a political game.’

  ‘Mmm…’ Colin agreed, his mouth full of crisps.

  ‘But in the closet scene,’ Stephanie persisted, ‘She shows what she’s made of. I mean, I don’t think I can just hand the whole scene over to Hamlet! She’s got to fight back.’

  Flora was feeling tired and her patience was wearing thin. ‘Well, you can, I suppose, but there’s not a lot of point, either for the character or for you the actress. You haven’t got a hope in hell. He throws you on the bed and verbally rapes you, then just when you think it might be your big moment, you get upstaged by the entry of the Ghost!’ Flora emptied her glass. ‘All you’re really required to do in that scene is portray witless terror and blank incomprehension. You can’t go playing it like Lady Macbeth.’

  Colin laughed. Stephanie glared at him, then stood abruptly. ‘I’m going home. I want to do some more work on my lines before tomorrow.’

  ‘Oh, Stephanie, I didn’t mean to hurt your feelings. I really don’t know why Colin laughed. I wasn’t trying to be funny.’

  ‘I think we see the character very differently, Flora, which is hardly surprising. As you said earlier, you’ve never actually played the part.’ Stephanie gathered up her coat and bag. ‘But I did find your comments on the sexual frustrations of middle-age very helpful. I’ll bear them in mind. Bye, Colin. See you tomorrow.’ She lifted her head and swept out of the pub, every inch the leading lady.

  Flora set down her empty glass. ‘The bitch.’

  ‘Er, I think maybe that was my fault.’

  ‘Yes, it was, but not in the way you think.’

  ‘How d’you mean?’

  ‘First of all I spoilt her big scene for her, then I ruined her evening. She wanted to spend it with you, then boring Auntie Flo muscled in. She fancies you rotten, my lad.’

  ‘Get away!’

  ‘ ’Course she does. God, why are men so blind? She’s very pretty. Don’t you fancy her?’

  ‘No, not particularly.’ Colin looked puzzled. ‘I’ve been trying to think of her as my mother.’

  ‘Well, take it from me, darling, she is not thinking about you as her son. Be an angel and get me another drink. Here, let me give you some money.’ Flora reached down for her handbag.

  ‘No, it’s my round.’

  ‘Don’t be daft. You can’t afford it.’

  ‘Yes, I can! I think…’ He sprang up and patted his back pocket in an exploratory way.

  Flora grabbed his hand, pressed a five-pound note into his palm and wrapped his fingers round it. ‘Don’t argue with your elders and betters. Mine’s a vodka and tonic. When you come back I’ll tell you all about overwhelming passion.’

  Colin raised a dark eyebrow. ‘Yours?’

  ‘No, cheeky. Gertrude’s. I’d need a few more vodkas before I told you about mine.’

  ‘Well, the night is young,’ he replied with a wink.

  ‘Colin Dunbar, are you flirting with your aged aunt?’

  ‘No.’ His expression was wide-eyed but far from innocent. ‘With an attractive, intelligent woman in her prime.’

  ‘I have a son your age.’

  ‘Older, in fact.’

  Flora winced. ‘That was uncalled for.’

  ‘Sorry.’

  ‘Are you ever going to get me that drink?’

  ‘Sorry.’

  ‘For God’s sake, Colin, stop apologising!’

  ‘Sor—’ He nodded. ‘I’ll be right back.’

  Through a vodka haze, Flora watched Colin as he shouldered his way through the crowded pub and leaned casually on the bar waiting to be served. Her thoughts came randomly, wantonly and she relished them in the privacy of her lonely, aching mind.

  Nice arse. Broad shoulders. Like Rory’s.

  Don’t go there…

  Bambi brown eyes. Crinkly. Kind… Not like Rory’s.

  Don’t…

  He’s so young… Nineteen.

  Old enough.

  His body must be taut and firm. Fit. Like Rory…

&nb
sp; He’s nothing like Rory.

  Like enough…

  Flora stood up unsteadily and headed for the Ladies. As she passed Colin at the bar he looked up anxiously and said, ‘You’re not running out on me, are you?’

  ‘No, darling. Just off to repair the ravages of time. I may be some time…’

  ‘Overwhelming passion, then.’ Colin nudged the vodka towards her.

  ‘I beg your pardon?’

  ‘You said you were going to tell me about overwhelming passion.’

  ‘Oh, yes! Gertrude’s… It disgusts Hamlet. He can’t handle the sexuality of a middle-aged woman.’

  ‘What’s his problem with it?’

  ‘It upsets the established order. It’s threatening. It’s unnatural. Women are just goods and chattels, for bearing children and offering comfort to men. They aren’t supposed to have libidos. In Hamlet’s book, passion makes women mad, bad or sad.’

  ‘Or all three?’

  ‘Quite possibly. Look at what Ophelia talks about when she goes mad: sex. Once insanity removes her inhibitions she reveals that her love for Hamlet - and probably her relationship with him - was sexual. And Hamlet thinks she’s conspiring against him with the others, so there you are. Mad, bad and sad.’

  ‘How did you play it?’

  ‘Ophelia? Oh, I just did as I was told. I was seventeen. What did I know about sex? As I recall, I played it festooned with daisy chains. Terribly picturesque. Like a Flower Fairy.’

  Colin laughed and said, ‘I wish I’d been there to see it.’

  ‘My dear, you weren’t even a twinkle in your father’s eye.’

  ‘Did my dad ever twinkle?’

  ‘Oh, yes!’ Flora swirled the contents of her glass. ‘When he was young, Rory… glittered.’

  ‘You amaze me. So what about Hamlet and passion, then? He’s a passionate guy, isn’t he?’

  ‘No, he’s a bloody intellectual! He’s never known overwhelming passion. I don’t think he really loves Ophelia. He’s vile to her! Oh, once she’s safely dead he says, “I loved Ophelia” and jumps into her grave - big romantic gesture! - but when she was alive, it was probably just a quick fumble behind the arras. Out of sight, out of mind.’

  ‘Yeah, I know what you mean. He doesn’t exactly treat her like the future Queen of Denmark, does he?’ Colin raised his glass and drank. ‘You know, I’ve always thought Hamlet seemed fonder of Horatio than Ophelia.’

  ‘Oh, God, Colin, you’re not going to play it gay, are you?’

  ‘No!’ He looked alarmed and Flora thought she detected a faint blush. ‘It was just a thought.’ He stared down into his pint.

  ‘So how are you going to play it?’

  ‘The scene?’

  ‘No, Hamlet.’

  ‘Fuck knows,’ he said gloomily.

  Delighted, Flora took his face in both her hands and kissed him on the cheek. Colin blinked in astonishment. ‘What’s that for?’

  She shrugged. ‘Fuck knows.’

  He continued to stare at her, then tilting his head to one side, he leaned forward and kissed her on the mouth.

  Flora said nothing. Colin leaned forward again, intent on repeating the exercise. ‘I think I’d better be going,’ Flora said hurriedly, grasping her handbag. ‘It’s getting late and I should probably eat something.’

  ‘May I join you?’ Colin asked in a small, polite voice.

  She looked at him. His dark eyes were sleepy with drink, exhaustion and something she thought was probably an advanced state of sexual arousal. ‘Something tells me you’re not talking about food.’

  ‘No, I wasn’t.’

  ‘Aren’t you hungry?’

  ‘Ye-es…’

  ‘You’re still not taking about food, are you?’

  He shook his head. Flora reached for her glass, then realised it was empty. She opened her purse and found only small change. Exasperated, she snapped it shut and turned to face him. ‘It would be wrong, Colin.’

  ‘Mad, bad or sad?’

  ‘All three. I’m your aunt, for God’s sake!’

  ‘So?’

  ‘It’s also unprofessional! I’m an employee at an institute where you are a student. It would be an abuse of trust.’

  ‘Bollocks.’

  ‘You know, for a Shakespearean actor, your vocabulary is surprisingly limited.’

  ‘OK, I get the message. But if you don’t take me home I’ve got a very long walk back to Paddington. I’ve got no money for the tube.’ He tapped her purse. ‘Nor have you. Let me walk you home. I’ll sleep on your sofa.’

  Disappointment made Flora angry. ‘Is that what all this is about? A bed for the night and saving the tube fare home? You’ve got a nerve!’

  His eyes flared for a moment, then he took her hand and, sliding it under the table, pressed it against his crotch. ‘That’s what all this is about. And that, Auntie dearest, can’t be faked.’

  We didn’t get much sleep. The recovery period for a nineteen year old appeared to be about fifteen minutes. Colin made love to me five times during the night and once on waking, which was almost more sex than I’d had in all the years of my marriage. He was enthusiastic, clumsy, talkative, hilarious, very sexy and very sweet. I had a wonderful time and in the morning I could hardly walk.

  Having disposed of the erection he woke up with, Colin bounced out of bed and brought me a pot of tea and biscuits on a tray, with milk in a jug and sugar in a bowl. Grace had trained him well. I was so touched, I cried. He devoured the meagre contents of my fridge, showered and set off for his nine o’clock fencing class ten minutes before me so we didn’t arrive together. He was thoughtful like that. Old beyond his years.

  As I sat, gingerly, at my typewriter that morning I took stock. Overnight I had acquired an almighty hangover and a teenage lover who just happened to be my brother’s son. Plus ça change… Or, as Colin had put it the night before when I’d made a last feeble attempt to occupy the moral high ground, ‘Vice is nice, but incest is best.’

  Chapter 22

  It couldn’t last, of course. My being happy. Colin and I got careless eventually and students talked. Toby Tavistock, now the school’s Principal, had to take a stand against my moral turpitude. Colin thought this was a bit thick since Toby had made several overtures of a horizontal variety towards him. We wondered whether spite had motivated him to deliver the ultimatum that deprived me of a job I’d really loved and done rather well.

  I was given a choice: I could resign and depart with a neutral reference or I could refuse and be sacked in disgrace. I was tempted to call Toby’s bluff. I knew I was popular with staff and pupils and Colin (bless him) wasn’t averse to the idea of a spot of retaliatory blackmail, but I went quietly in the end, mainly because I was sick of all the subterfuge, but also because my relationship with Colin, far from being a quick fling, looked likely to continue.

  I tramped round the agencies looking for work but it soon became apparent that I’d reached the end of my shelf-life. My skills were outdated, my references indifferent, my working career chequered and I was a lot older than the younger, prettier girls with whom I had to compete. When one of his housemates moved out Colin suggested I move in with him, as an economy measure as much as anything.

  I was terribly grateful. I was already living on an overdraft and the rent for the room was less than I was paying for my shabby bed-sit. I got to live in a house again, the first house I’d lived in since the vicarage. We moved all my stuff into the empty room but I shared a bedroom with Colin. It was furnished with a double bed - with which I was already familiar - and so we were soon established in our love-nest, a happy couple, despite my lack of job and a worrying tendency to kill the time that hung heavy on my hands by indulging in booze and memories.

  1986

  Flora sat in an armchair leafing blindly through a magazine. Colin was upstairs learning lines. She’d listened to his footsteps pacing back and forth all evening. It occurred to her she could go upstairs and ask if he wanted a drink. Or s
he could continue to sit and hope that he would come down soon. She wondered, if she denied herself the self-indulgence of a trip upstairs, would God reward her with Colin’s company downstairs? Would God even notice her self-sacrifice? Probably not.

  Closing her eyes, she leaned back in her chair. If she could sit and not think of him for ten whole minutes, he might come into the room…

  Step on the cracks and the bears will get you…

  Who’d said that? Rory? No, Theo. He’d said it to Lottie when they were young, walking to school. Ever after, Lottie had repeated it half in fun, half in fear. The trip to school had become even more slow and tortuous as she avoided stepping on cracked paving stones. Flora had pointed out that, as far as she knew, there were no bears in England and even if there were, they had better things to do with their time than chase little girls who accidentally trod on broken paving stones. But none of this made any impression on Lottie. ‘Theo said…’ and for some reason, Theo’s sayings - particularly those involving animals - were regarded by Lottie as little short of oracular.

  Flora smiled at the memory. She wondered where Lottie was now and what she was doing. She tried to remember how old she would be. Two years younger than Colin. Eighteen? Perhaps nineteen by now. Flora couldn’t remember birthdays. There were lots of things she couldn’t remember nowadays. Or wouldn’t remember. Then some things just jumped out at her - vivid, real, as if they’d happened yesterday.

  She tossed the magazine aside and sat, waiting, hoping that a young - very young - man would walk into the room, smile at her, perhaps put his arms around her. She felt a churning mixture of humiliation and excitement. Her fingertips tingled at the thought of touching Colin’s flesh.