Voice of the Heart

by Barbara Taylor Bradford

  Nick said, ‘Please, Vic, go back to the meeting. I’ll be fine.’

  ‘Are you crazy? I’m staying with you until you step onto that plane. I wouldn’t let you be alone. Jerry said to tell you how sorry he is, Nick, as you probably gathered.’ Victor did not wait for a response, but hurried on. ‘He says he’s got a terrific contact at BOAC, and he’s calling him right now. We’ll get you out, don’t worry. Now, have you eaten anything at all today?’ he asked, his tone brisk.

  ‘No.’ Nick made a face. ‘I don’t think I can get anything down.’

  ‘You ought to try. This might be the last chance you have to eat for a number of hours. How about some soup at least. You should put something inside you.’

  ‘Okay.’ Nick could not be bothered to argue, and he also knew Victor was right. It would be an interminable flight and when he arrived in New York there would be his parents and Hunter to comfort and sustain. And the ritual of death, of mourning, would begin. He closed his eyes.

  Victor observed him in silence, and with concern, and then he picked up the ’phone. When room service finally responded he ordered hot consommé, two soft-boiled eggs, toast and coffee. He put down the receiver, poured another Scotch for Nick, and took it over to him.

  ‘Here, drink this, old buddy. It’ll do you good,’ Victor said in the softest of voices, handing him the glass. ‘Would you like me to fly to New York with you?’

  ‘God no, Vic! Thanks anyway, and it’s wonderful of you to offer, but I’ll cope.’ There was a faint darkening in Nick’s face, and then it became very still. He said slowly, ‘Does it ever get any easier to bear?’

  ‘Yes. Eventually. You bear it because there’s no alternative.’ Victor’s eyes rested briefly on Nick, were gentle in their wisdom and compassion. He looked towards the window, plunged for a moment in his thoughts, and then he went on, ‘Death is the absolute loss, Nick. And so you come to accept it, hard as that is to do. It’s not like a lost love or a broken friendship, which perhaps can be regained in the future. Death is final.’ He clenched his hands together in his lap, and the look he gave Nick was full of love and friendship and sympathy. ‘I went crazy with grief after Ellie died, as I’ve told you before. There wasn’t a day I didn’t think about her, for years, and I still think about her now, and very often. In a way she lives on in me, and in the boys. I’ve derived a degree of comfort from that, although perhaps you’re not able to understand what I mean at this moment. Your grief is too raw, and perhaps I shouldn’t even bring it up now… it’s cold comfort really… ‘His voice trailed off, and he sat back, wondering if he had said far too much, and far too soon.

  Nick did not speak, and sat back, staring abstractedly at the wall, brooding to himself, a vacant look in his eyes. He took a sip of the drink eventually, and pulling himself together, he said, ‘I’m grateful you told me to get some of my grief out, Vic, because I’m going to have to clamp down on it for a while. My parents, Hunter, they’re devastated. They’re going to need my courage. I’m going to have to be strong for them, to help them get through this.’

  ‘Yes,’ Victor said, ‘yes, I know.’

  Nick stood up. ‘I think I’d better attempt to pack.’ He went through into the bedroom and opened the wardrobe door, looking over his clothes, seeking a dark suit. For the funeral. Marcia’s funeral. His hand trembled as he reached for the hanger. He blinked back the sudden rush of tears and wished then that the memories of Marcia would go away. But they kept flooding back relentlessly—things he had not realized had been important to him until now. It was curious how the trivial could mean so much, could be so significant and also so crippling in the crushing pain it caused.

  ***

  They did not talk much on the way to London airport. Occasionally Victor stole a surreptitious look at Nick, but said nothing, not wishing to disturb him, preferring instead to leave him to his own ruminations.

  Nick’s expression was tight and sombre, and a deadly calm had settled over him. He was exercising an iron-clad control, preparing himself for the ordeal awaiting him in New York. He had been able to subdue his own grief temporarily and was drawing on all his inner resources for courage and in order to give consolation and support to his parents and Hunter.

  All of a sudden, just before they reached the airport, Nick said, in a dim, yet oddly contained tone, ‘Religion is ridiculous, isn’t it?’

  Startled from his own reverie, Victor looked across at him with interest. ‘What do you mean?’

  Nick said, ‘What I really meant was, religious prejudice is ridiculous. I was thinking of my father and how he objected to Hunter because he wasn’t Jewish. He didn’t think Marcia should marry him. In fact, he fought their relationship right up to the day of the wedding. But in the end, Hunter Davidson III, a goy and therefore not appropriate as a husband for my sister, turned out to be a better son to my father than I ever was—’

  ‘I wouldn’t say that,’ Victor interrupted swiftly.

  ‘Well, Hunt went into the bank, which is more than I did, and he abides by all the traditions my father holds dear, leads a very proper and conservative life, is totally dedicated to his work, is devoted to my parents. He not only turned out to be a marvellous husband, but he also gave my father a grandchild, which is another thing I haven’t done.’

  ‘But your father is very proud of you, Nick, and of your achievements.’

  ‘Yes, I suppose he is now, but he would have been much happier if I’d followed in his footsteps, if I’d conformed. After my brother Ralph was killed at Okinawa, I inherited his mantle. Dad set his heart on my becoming a banker, carrying on the family tradition and one day heading the family bank, leading a very upright life. He expected me to marry a nice Jewish girl, have a couple of beautiful kids, join all the right clubs—’ He stopped and shrugged. ‘I think I disappointed him in so many respects.’

  Victor said, ‘But you chose to go your own way, Nicky, and dwelling on all this now serves no good purpose. Parents do have enormous expectations of their children, but usually they are expectations which cannot be met under any circumstance. Not only that, parents can’t live their children’s lives for them. Even thinking that this is possible is unrealistic, leads to nothing but resentment, bitterness and eventual heartache. Maybe your father was disappointed initially, but he’s too wise not to understand that permitting you to do what you wanted to do has brought you happiness and fulfilment. And basically, all most parents ever want is for their children to be happy.’

  ‘I guess you’re right.’ Nick leaned forward and glanced out of the car window. ‘We’re almost at the airport,’ he said. ‘I don’t know when I’ll be back, Vic. We have to sit shivah for at least three days after the funeral, and I think I should stay on in New York for a few weeks. To be with my father and mother.’

  ‘Yes, you must, Nick. And please don’t worry about the film. Mark Pierce loved the script, and if there are any changes they’ll only be minor.’

  ‘You can always call me, should there be any problems, and I’ll dictate the revisions. I can—’ Nick inhaled quickly. ‘Oh God, Vic, I’ve just remembered our trip to Klosters. I’m sorry. You were really looking forward to it.’

  ‘Hey come on, Nick, that’s not important. We’ll do it another time. Don’t worry about me. You’ve enough to contend with right now. And remember, if you need anything, just pick up a ’phone. Are you sure I can’t arrange a limousine to meet you at Idlewild?’

  ‘Positive. Thanks for offering though. When I spoke to Hunt, to let him know my arrival time, he said he’d send my father’s car and driver.’

  ‘Okay.’

  As the Bentley slid noiselessly to a standstill at the terminal entrance, Nick turned to face Victor. ‘Don’t come in. You’ll be surrounded. You know what it’s like when you show that ugly mug of yours.’ He grabbed Victor’s hand. ‘Thanks, Vic, thanks for everything.’

  Victor grasped Nick by the shoulders and hugged him affectionately. ‘So long, Nicky.’

&n
bsp; On the drive back to London Victor Mason sat immersed in his thoughts, which mostly centred on Nick Latimer. He thought of the long and lonely journey he was about to embark on, of the tragic reason for his unexpected return to the States, of the sorrowful period of time ahead of his friend. Victor was still having trouble reconciling himself to Marcia’s death. It was inconceivable that she was gone. How unpredictable life was, how precarious, and there were no guarantees about anything. Except for that ultimate guarantee. Death. We’re all so vulnerable, so fragile. We’re here one moment, gone the next. He thought of the hours he wasted on inconsequential things, hours which once frittered away could never be regained nor relived, and he was filled with regret about the precious time he had so carelessly squandered in the past.

  It was then he made a solemn promise to himself: From now on every hour of his life would count, and he would live every day to the fullest, for who knew about tomorrow, and what it would bring. Indeed, who knew how many tomorrows there would be.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Francesca pushed open the kitchen door cautiously and was assailed by the waves of heat and steam that billowed out. She recoiled, stepping back for a split second, and then edged inside, peering through the vaporous haze. She said, ‘I wish you’d let me do something to help.’

  Victor, who was poised in concentration over the Aga stove, swung around at the sound of her voice. She saw at once that his face was flushed and that he was the picture of domesticity in the kitchen, where all manner of foodstuffs lay scattered on the table and the counter top near the sink. He had taken off his tie, his sleeves were rolled up, and he wore one of her dainty cotton aprons tied around his waist. She hid a smile, and ventured, ‘Can I at least stir one of the pots for you?’

  He shook his head slowly, giving her his lazy smile. ‘Negative. There’s a line about too many cooks spoiling the broth that happens to be the truth. Besides, you don’t think I’d let an English girl tamper with my specialities, do you?’ he teased. ‘I told you earlier only a paesano knows how to cook a real Italian dinner. So go away, and let me get back to my culinary creations.’ He grinned at her and put down the wooden spoon he was holding. ‘There is one thing you can do though.’ He strode to the refrigerator and opened the door, handing her a bottle of pink champagne. ‘Stick this in the ice bucket, over there on the table. And please go back to the drawing room. I’ll join you in a few minutes. It’s far too steamy in here, and I don’t want you catching another cold after I’ve just cured the last one.’

  Francesca shivered as she went through the adjoining dining room, acknowledging to herself that Victor had been right. Earlier in the evening, when he had first arrived, he had pronounced the dining room chilly and hardly the ideal spot for her after a bout of influenza and several days lying prostrate in bed. He had suggested they should have supper in the drawing room, and after she had produced a folding card table, he had covered it with a red gingham cloth, which he had found in the kitchen cupboard, and brought two chairs from the dining room.

  Francesca eyed the table now as she walked in with the champagne. He had placed it to one side of the fireplace and set it himself, refusing to let her help, had even added a silver candlestick with a red candle and a tulip in a bud vase, charming touches she had not anticipated from a man, least of all him. Once this task had been accomplished, Victor had disappeared into the kitchen to unpack the bags of groceries he had bought in Soho, and to start preparing the meal. She had trailed after him, volunteering to help, but he had resolutely shooed her away and literally closed the door in her face. Francesca had shrugged helplessly. She had come to understand that Victor Mason could be very assertive, and just a mite overpowering. At the beginning of the week she had felt debilitated and had been unable to maintain her wails of protest, had allowed him to take charge in his masterful way. Tonight she was feeling far too happy to fight him, enjoying the attention he was showering on her.

  She examined the cork in the bottle, decided to let Victor struggle with it, and moved in the direction of the fireplace. Seating herself in the wing chair, she smoothed down her skirt, adjusted the collar on her sweater and sat back, propping her feet on the fender, waiting for him to emerge from the kitchen. The heat from the blazing logs in the hearth had brought out the varied scents of the flowers and, to Francesca, the drawing room smelled and looked like a garden bower in mid-summer, the profusion of lovely blooms enhancing the inherent beauty of the charming room, so mellow and tranquil in the firelight. Several great Chinese porcelain vases spilled with masses of the scarlet-tipped white tulips, the pale and fragile narcissi flourished in a number of smaller china bowls, whilst the Limoges cachepot planted with hyacinths stood in the centre of the coffee table. The mimosa had also been beautiful, and delicately fragrant, but the blossoms had faded and dried out quickly, as they always did, and reluctantly she had thrown them away on Thursday.

  Francesca leaned forward and breathed deeply over the hyacinths, inhaling their exquisite scent. It struck her that there was something infinitely luxurious about the fresh flowers at this time of the year, particularly since it still seemed like winter to her, with the perpetual thunderstorms and gales and dark overcast skies that had not lifted all week. She touched the smooth waxy petals of the hyacinths, recalling her excitement when the delivery van had arrived from Moyses Stevens on Monday afternoon. She had held her breath as she tore open the envelope and pulled out the card, believing it to be from Victor, for only he would have been so lavish and sent a veritable truckload of flowers. Her face had dropped when she read the signatures, and severe disappointment had followed sharply on the heels of expectation, crushing her joy. She was quite certain Nick had been the initiator of the gesture, that they were actually his gift, and only his, and that he had simply included Victor’s name as a matter of course, or perhaps as a form of courtesy.

  Now Francesca’s expression changed, became pensive, her mind fastening on Nicholas Latimer. Her thoughts were sad as she envisioned his grief, knowing how anguished she would feel if her beloved Kim had been so tragically killed. When Victor had told her about Marcia’s accident, she had asked him for Nicky’s address in New York. She had immediately written a short but expressive letter, offering her sympathy and condolences, filled with genuine affection and concern for Nick, who had become such a dear friend. Victor had posted the letter for her the next day. It seemed to Francesca that Victor had been doing so many things for her this past week, and certainly she owed her rapid recovery to his devoted ministrations. She smiled. He had clucked over her and coddled her, and was continuing to do so, and she wished with all of her young heart that it would never end. But of course it would. That was an inevitability, since her health was practically restored to normal.

  Francesca sat back in the chair and closed her eyes, contemplating Victor Mason, whom she now recognized was a most remarkable man, her mind dwelling on his many kindnesses to her.

  Victor had made his presence more potently felt than ever several days ago, on Tuesday. That morning he had telephoned Francesca to ask how she was feeling. She had said she was a bit better, but it had not taken much insight on his part to realize that she was resorting to a white lie. Francesca had sounded dreadful with her raw, raspy throat and nagging cough. A string of pertinent questions, and a great deal of persistence from him, had left her no option but to confess she had not been visited by a doctor and that there was no one to take care of her. Under his fierce pressure, she had admitted that Mrs Moggs, who only came twice a week to clean the house, would not be returning until Friday. Imperiously brushing aside her warnings about germs and the possibility of his catching the ’flu, Victor had announced he was coming over to see her. A short while later he had arrived, armed with antibiotics and cough mixture from the doctor used by Monarch Pictures, lemons, oranges and two large glass jars of chicken soup from Les Ambassadeurs.

  Francesca had been self-conscious and embarrassed when first greeting him in the hall, awa
re that she was looking ghastly. Here she was, confronting the only man for whom she wanted to be beautiful, and he was seeing her at her very worst. Her face had been pale and drawn, her nose red, her eyes watering, her hair rumpled and unkempt. Victor had not seemed to notice her appearance, which, now that she thought about it, was quite normal behaviour for him. He had always been oblivious to the way she looked, had never once paid her a compliment.

  Taking a cursory glance at her as they stood in the hall, Victor had bundled her back to bed without delay, waiting until she was comfortably settled before hurrying downstairs. He had left her bedroom door ajar, and faintly, in the distance, she had heard him rattling around in the kitchen. Not long after, he had returned, marching into her room unceremoniously, carrying a large tray laden with a jug of freshly squeezed orange juice, a Thermos flask of hot tea spiced with lemon and honey, and the various medicines. With great firmness, he had ordered her to take the antibiotics three times a day, drink plenty of the orange juice and the hot tea, and, as he had left, he had told her the chicken soup was in a pot on the stove, ready to be reheated that evening.

  To Francesca’s surprise, Victor had visited her every day thereafter, and he had never once arrived empty handed, usually bringing something special which had been prepared in the kitchens of Les Ambassadeurs. She knew that John Mills, the owner of the private club, was a friend of Victor’s, and apparently he was most obliging when it came to supplying nourishing dishes for a sick girl. Although Victor was inclined to be somewhat domineering with her, he was also gentle at times, and very kind, concerned about her well being. He had also adopted a rather matter-of-fact manner whilst tending to her needs, and this had enabled Francesca to ignore her unattractive appearance, to forget it really. And anyway, she was feeling so awful those first few days, she no longer cared what he actually thought, since she knew he had no interest in her as a woman.