‘Will you do my bath?’ She was round-eyed, severely enquiring. This could go either way.
‘Would you like me to?’
‘Yes.’ Imperiously.
He may have taken the initiative, but there was no doubt who was calling the shots. Cissy micro-managed the entire exercise – showing him everything from how to turn the taps on and which bubble bath to use, to how her pyjamas should be laid out and which two stories she would like (also to be laid on the bed in readiness). Bruno did as he was told. He hoped this was the right thing and not out of order, but Cissy was so independent that his role was limited to helping her get dry and putting toothpaste on her toothbrush.
‘I can do it,’ she explained, ‘but it sometimes comes out in a sploosh.’
He was just finishing the second story, about a dog who lived in a library, when he heard the clunk of a cab door, and voices outside. Cissy leapt out of bed and was along the passage and down the stairs like greased lightning. He followed somewhat sheepishly, book in hand.
The family were fanning out from the hall, removing coats, seeking refreshment, discussing the show. Robin stood in the hall holding Cissy in his arms.
‘Golly, so what’s this? Did Bruno get you ready for bed?’
‘Yes.’
‘Was he any good at it?’
‘I told him what to do.’
Bruno stopped at the foot of the stairs. ‘I hope that was OK – she was pretty bushed.’
‘It’s more than OK, it’s above and beyond the call of duty. I see you’ve got The Book Hound there, want me to take over?’
‘Sure, that’s probably a good idea …’ Bruno held out the book, but Cissy squirmed violently.
‘No, I want Bruno to read it, Bruno!’
Robin, least touchy of men, laughed and put her down. ‘Looks like you’re the victim of your own success. When you’ve finished we’ll come up and say goodnight.’
As they went back up the stairs, Cissy slipped her hand into Bruno’s. The small gesture, confident and confiding, made him feel ridiculously privileged.
Hugh and Marguerite were in the drawing room with the boys. Robin joined Felicity in the kitchen, where she was unwrapping a defrosted fish pie for the oven.
‘That was a good show, but it was rather a marathon,’ she remarked. ‘I think we could all use a drink.’
‘I’m your man. I’ll go and take orders.’
‘Oh – what about Cissy?’
‘All ready for bed, and my reading was rejected in favour of Bruno’s.’
‘Really?’ She pulled a smiling, incredulous face. ‘I’m amazed.’
‘He’s a popular chap,’ said Robin. ‘Let’s see … I think I’ll offer fizz.’
Twenty-Two
Charity was due to return that afternoon. At her request, Mac was giving her a tour of the school before she left. They had reached the gym, a large prefab which doubled as an assembly hall.
Mac walked into the middle and stood there with his arms folded, slowly turning on the spot.
‘Doesn’t look much, does it?’
‘As long as it does the job.’ She dragged a hand along the wall bars. ‘God, these things … Proustian in their horrible way. I hated gym.’
‘We don’t make anyone suffer, I promise. But we do favour physical exertion, it keeps them out of trouble.’
‘You mean they’re too knackered.’
‘Not how I’d have put it, but yes.’
There was a pommel horse in the corner, and she leaned back, her arms stretched on either side. ‘You obviously didn’t knacker Bruno enough.’
‘There’s often one who’s sufficiently determined to get up to no good.’
Now she looked at him. ‘What did you think of my brother? I mean, really?’
‘Charity, I’d rather not say.’
‘You can be frank.’
‘It wouldn’t be appropriate.’
Charity had to laugh, the prim word sounded so odd in his mouth. She went and wrapped her arms around his big, rugby-player’s chest, her head tilted up to look at him.
‘It’s a bit late to worry about being appropriate.’
She felt his small jolt of suppressed amusement. ‘Be that as it may.’
Actually she was glad he wouldn’t give his opinion of Bruno. That iron discretion, and the security that went with it, was such an integral part of him, and what she loved about him.
‘Is there anything else you want to show me?’ she asked.
‘The kitchen,’ he said. ‘I’ve saved the best till last.’
She thought that was a joke, but in fact the kitchen was new, the product of fund-raising, a council grant, and a handful of individual donations including one from his own pocket.
‘My oh my, this is swish.’
‘And unexpected, something tells me.’
‘Honestly? I pictured something a bit grim and institutional.’
He smoothed the work surface, his hand big and gnarly against the gleaming white Formica. ‘The modern parent has firm views about catering. And I was advised, correctly as it turned out, that you can’t attract a decent cook without a halfway decent kitchen.’
As he opened cupboards, turned lights on and off and demonstrated the hob and dishwasher with evident pride, she reminded herself that this place was not only his mission, but his business. At an age when most men would have been moving into a more leisured phase in which to engage in hobbies, long-deferred personal projects, agreeable travel and undemanding good works, Mac was running this highly individual, if not downright quixotic, enterprise which probably sailed quite close to the wind. And she suspected the only thing that would take him away from it would be his coffin.
This was food for thought as they returned to the warmth of Mac’s house. She went to ‘her’ room, in which she had only spent the first night, ostensibly to pack her things. Instead she closed the door quietly and sat down on the edge of the bed. She put her hands over her face, blotting out her surroundings so she could think clearly.
For now, among all the delights and enchantment of a new love affair, it wasn’t hard to be in the moment, and not to look too far ahead. The age gap between them had never been an issue, and now that they were close it meant even less. This – this warmth, pleasure, intimacy, excitement, everything! – was all that mattered.
Still, the phrase ‘there’s no future in it’ had taken on a brutal new relevance. Accidents apart, Mac’s future was likely to be shorter than hers. She forced herself to contemplate not just the ending that would come too soon, but what might come before – illness, mental decline, incapacity, the awful indignities of extreme old age. On any normal calculation Mac was lucky not to be already suffering any of these. She could not imagine him giving up any of what he currently did here – the sports, the property maintenance, the endless patrolling and surveying, the labour on the smallholding. These activities didn’t only keep him fit and healthy, they kept him going. But not for ever.
He knocked on the door, and put his head round. ‘All well?’
‘Absolutely.’
‘I’m going to heat soup. Do you like mulligatawny?’
‘Fine.’
‘Oh, Charity …’ He walked across and dropped a kiss on her head. ‘Come down when you’re ready.’
She touched his hand, which was on her shoulder. ‘I will.’
Because he had found the door closed, he closed it again behind him. He had a natural respect for her, and for people generally. That was what made him good at his job. But oh—! She closed her eyes and lifted her hands to her face again, this time to cover her mouth.
They already had a secret. What of when the secret was out? What were people going to say? She dreaded not the thoughtless, facetious comments about their relative ages but the inevitable advice. Oh god, the advice – from people who cared about her and had her best interests at heart. The content and delivery agonized over, the excruciating tact employed to broach this most delicate of subjects. Whe
n the years ahead were gently mentioned, with every allowance for her feelings, what was she going to say? She had to be ready, to have herself subjected the prospect to clear-eyed scrutiny, to know where she stood so she could stand firm.
And then, the secrecy would have to be maintained, for some time. Even today when they’d encountered Les, the school caretaker, she had felt the slight shift in body language and atmosphere, the need to present a formal facade. And this was a place that for three-quarters of the year teemed with hormonal teenagers who would like nothing better than a juicy lump of gossip about the headmaster … And they would tell their parents, all those muesli-nazis who whatever their liberal credentials might take a dim view of their kids’ septuagenarian headmaster carrying on with a woman forty years younger … Try as she might Charity could not envisage a ‘Mr Chips’ scenario (she had once watched the film with her parents) with her in the Petula Clarke role and Mac … No. Secrecy it must be.
She carried her rucksack downstairs and into the kitchen. Her lover was stirring a saucepan.
‘There you are. Sit yourself down.’
She dumped the rucksack just inside the door and sat at the table, shocked to discover that she was on the verge of tears.
‘What’s the matter?’ He turned off the gas and pulled another chair close to hers. ‘Darling girl. What’s up?’
The gentle words did it, of course, unlocked the floodgate and now she was crying properly. He put his arm round her. ‘Everything, eh?’
‘I suppose … No – I don’t know.’ She nodded, then shook her head. Pulled away from him and fetched herself a square of kitchen towel.
When she’d blown her nose and was seated again, he said, ‘I failed the test, didn’t I?’
She stared damply at him. ‘What test?’
‘In the films I like the hero always has a large, pristine hankie he can give to the lady to wipe away her tears.’
‘That’s true,’ she said, laughing feebly in spite of herself. ‘You’re rubbish.’
‘Out of practice. Come on.’ He stood up. ‘Let me take you away from all this.’
‘What?’
‘I mean let’s go and sit in the other room for a while.’
She followed him, and they sat down on the sofa. Or at least he sat – the old-fashioned sofa was constructed along heroic lines, suitable for a man of Mac’s size. She had to curl up, bolstered by a cushion.
‘I don’t want to go,’ she said.
‘And I don’t want you to. As a matter of fact I dread it. But as from tomorrow this place will start creaking back into life, and a week from now the pupils will be back. So we shall have to seek our opportunities elsewhere.’
‘I know,’ she said. ‘I’ve been thinking about that.’
He folded his arms. ‘Generally speaking I’m a big fan of thinking. Thinking calms things down and postpones hasty action. But in this situation I suspect it’s the enemy.’ He paused, watching her, and then when she didn’t speak went on. ‘I’ve been doing a bit myself, but I’m no further forward. Here we are, and speaking for myself, this is the happiest I’ve been in years. I can scarcely believe this is happening to a crusty old codger like me.’ His eyes were fierce, piercing – a look that was in his head’s armoury. ‘I absolutely adore you, Charity. I fell for you, I pursued you after my fashion, I invited you to share my bachelor Christmas – and when I believed you’d changed your mind I was distraught, mainly because I had been such a thickhead to imagine you were going to come. I’d forgotten what an honourable person you are. That whatever your feelings about me one way or the other I should never have doubted your word.’
Her face grew hot. ‘I’m not particularly—’
‘You don’t have to say anything, and I don’t want to know.’
‘I’m not particularly honorable.’
‘Well, I believe you are. We both are – which is why we suit each other.’ He continued quickly before she could demur. ‘Let’s enjoy this for as long as it lasts, on the understanding that the moment it’s not enjoyable, for any reason at all, either of us is entitled without rancour or hard feelings to leave.’
At this moment both the leaving and the feelings that would accompany it were unimaginable. The sturdy resolve she’d summoned up in the bedroom had deserted her entirely. Something told her that in spite of his earlier remarks Mac had done just as much thinking and realized, like her, that there was no easy solution.
He carried her rucksack out to the car and put it on the passenger seat as instructed, giving it a rueful pat.
‘I wish that were me.’
‘Me too.’
‘It’s a good thing we both have work we like doing.’
The car was parked in the angle of the outbuildings. Apart from the chickens creeping and clucking, they had privacy. Standing close to the wall, they kissed. When she got into the driver’s seat she felt thin and small, stripped of something. Mac walked ahead of her to the gate that led into that long lane – the lane she’d tramped down late on Christmas Eve, into a different life. He opened the gate, and positioned himself on the far side of the lane, one hand held up, palm outwards, to keep her there as he looked both ways. There was scarcely ever any traffic here, but she loved his care of her. When he beckoned her forward she rolled down the window, but he seemed not to notice as he tapped the roof of the car. Her last sight was of him closing the gate and moving off with long, heavy, purposeful strides towards the house.
Back on the main road she picked up speed. Once on the motorway she drove fast. She began to think about what lay ahead – her other life, her study, her pleasant colleagues. What had he said? It’s a good thing we both have work that we like. Being apart, for them, was not going to be a problem. There would be no dragging co-dependence. Absence would make their hearts fonder.
Charity put her foot down and zoomed into the overtaking lane, past a container lorry. In front was an Audi, cruising at eighty, and she went past him too. The driver flashed his lights, in annoyance or admiration. Maybe just to say he could take her and her well-worn Micra any time.
She felt like one of those birds of prey, released from the hand that fed it, soaring, free as air. But like the bird, she’d be back. She could do no other.
Twenty-Three
Fliss had promised her mother she would take Bruno back to his flat personally. Hugh expressed mild reservations.
‘Why is that necessary?’
‘She’s doing it for me,’ said Marguerite. ‘For reassurance.’
‘Darling Daisy,’ said Hugh, ‘have you considered that she may not be reassured?’
‘Don’t worry,’ said Felicity, ‘I’ll lie if I have to.’
The whole family – except Bruno, who’d slept late and said goodbye in his T-shirt and boxers – was seeing them off at Paddington. Felicity had wanted to, and was also aware that the Blyths and the TSs made a charming group on the platform – the dashing couple with their delightful children, the mop-headed boys rugged in Gap, Cissy in her little double-breasted coat, the handsome grandparents bidding fond farewells. Along with the scene on the beach this was the sort of occasion she had pictured as a girl all those years ago.
As Robin helped Hugh stow the bag in the first-class carriage, mother and daughter embraced. For the second time Felicity said, ‘Don’t worry, Ma.’ But this time she meant it, and added, ‘We’re fond of Bruno too, you know.’
‘You’ve been very good to him, Fliss.’
‘Well, he’s been pretty good to us as it happens. For a boy who used to be such an atrocious little scut he’s improved out of all recognition.’
‘And you will – you know – see how he’s living?’
‘Yes,’ said Felicity, ‘I promise.’
In the event she was unable to keep her promise, because when they got back to Hampstead, Bruno had left. On the kitchen table was a small pot of primroses with a note.
Thanks for the great Christmas. Sorry for shooting off, but didn’t fancy all the goo
dbyes. See you again soon, I hope. Bx
Felicity was touched, especially by the primroses. ‘The greengrocer has these, I’ve seen them. He must have gone all the way down and back to get them.’
‘Heroic,’ agreed Robin dryly. ‘But it’s nice of him, yes.’
The boys had wandered off, but Cissy asked, ‘Where’s Bruno?’
‘He’s gone home,’ said Felicity.
‘But he lives here.’
Robin picked her up. ‘Some of the time. He’ll come back and see us, you bet. Why don’t we draw him a picture?’
That turned out to be a good idea, and Felicity left them to it and went upstairs. Bruno’s room was tidy, the bed stripped and the window, she noticed with amusement, wide open. She made a cursory check of the wardrobe and chest of drawers, but they were all clear. It was only as she turned back from closing the window that she noticed the wriggle of black wire under the bed – his precious headphones. As she wound the flex neatly round the headband she reflected that this was a sign. She would return them in person.
Robin had given her directions. ‘You’re in the right road when you start to see the three-legged cats chewing on ancient spliffs.’
Though fastidious, Felicity was less shockable than her husband imagined. She found somewhere to park, but was a little worried about leaving the Audi where its gleaming paintwork might attract vandalism. She drove round the block and found a space outside a respectable-looking Asian shop. She went into the shop and bought a packet of mints, asking casually, ‘I hope it’s alright if I leave my car there – you’re not expecting a delivery or anything?’
The proprietor understood her. ‘That’s a very nice car if I may say so – we shall keep an eye on it for you never you mind.’
‘That’s really kind. I shan’t be long.’
She walked back the way she’d come and found the house. The tiled area in front was lopsided as if about to disappear beneath the winter weeds. The overflowing metal dustbin had taken on the air of just another static feature in this dismal environment, surrounded as it was by bags of garbage including an enormous number of bottles.
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