Liam's Story
Page 6
‘No, of course not,’ Stephen said, surprised. In truth he wanted none of them, but was afraid to say so. He supposed he would have to store the two trunks, but could not imagine wading through the contents.
‘So you will take them?’
With a wry smile, he agreed, hoisting the smaller trunk to take it downstairs. It was surprisingly heavy. The other, containing books, would have to be emptied first.
Back in the kitchen, his aunt ticked off the problem of the attic on a lengthy list. If she had been exhausted the day before – and with good reason, Stephen thought – as they sat down to eat he noticed she was brighter. Solving a few problems seemed to have put grief to one side and restored her energy.
‘Now then, about that letter you didn’t send on. You said you’d had one too?’
The tale she told over their meal was strangely inconclusive. Zoe Clifford’s missive had arrived in January, and Joan had written back saying yes, they were related through Letitia’s brother, Robin.
‘But as I said, Letitia left York such a long time ago, I didn’t think we could be much help. Then we had a phone call a few days later, and she sounded so grateful that I’d written back to her, I felt sorry we couldn’t tell her more.
‘I could explain the relationship, of course – I’d have been first cousin to Letitia’s daughter who was killed in 1942. But Zoe wanted to know something about Robin and Liam, when and where they were born, and where their parents had been married. I thought my Dad was born in York, but Zoe said she’d checked, and he wasn’t. When I asked Mother, later, she said he was born in Dublin.’
‘Dublin? I never knew that.’
‘Nor did I! He’d come to York as a baby, apparently. But he never spoke of it, and Mother didn’t know any more than that.’
‘A bit of a mystery, then?’
‘Certainly is. Anyway, on the phone Zoe said she had to be in York for another appointment in a few days’ time, and could she call to see us? Well, I fancied to meet her – she’d got me intrigued. And I thought Mother would like to meet a long-lost relative who wanted to talk about the past – it might buck her up a bit.’
Across the table, Joan smiled ruefully and set down her fork. ‘It never occurred to me there might be anything wrong, or that Mother wouldn’t want to see this young woman – but she was furious. To be honest,’ she sighed, ‘we had quite a row about it. Of course, by then, I couldn’t very well put Zoe off.’
Stephen frowned. ‘So what was wrong?’
‘Well, it was Tisha, you see – Letitia Mary, if you please, was my father’s sister. A no-good baggage if ever there was one, according to Mother. She’d known her as a girl – but I never met her, so I can’t comment.’
‘Bad memories?’ Stephen asked, finishing the last of a delicious meal.
‘Seems so. Apparently Zoe had a look of Tisha, that was the problem. When she arrived, Mother took one glance and simply clammed up. Wouldn’t tell her anything, bar the barest essentials. And I didn’t want to upset the applecart by mentioning the boxes in the attic — I’d never have heard the last of it.’
‘But you liked her?’ Stephen said, knowing his aunt to be a good judge of character.
‘Yes, I did,’ she replied emphatically. ‘She was a nice, cheerful, honest sort of girl. Very well spoken. I got the impression there was plenty of money somewhere in the background – she certainly wasn’t after sponging from us.
‘No,’ Joan added as she cleared their plates away, ‘all she wanted was what we could tell her. And in the end, it wasn’t much. Mother gave her a few names and places and birthdays she could remember – very grudgingly, might I add – and that was that. What she wouldn’t tell her – and she could have done, I’m sure of it – was why Tisha left York and never came back.’
Helping himself to a piece of cake, Stephen smiled. In the manner of the worldly-wise, he said: ‘The old, old story, I suppose. Got pregnant and ran away.’
His aunt shook her head. ‘No, I don’t think so. That’s too simple. And Mother would have said – to me, at least – if it’d been that. When I tackled her about it afterwards, she just kept on about what a dreadful little snob Tisha was, how cruel she’d been to her mother, and how it served her right that she died alone, and without friends.’
Shocked by that vindictiveness, Stephen said: ‘That doesn’t sound like Gran.’
‘No. But she obviously detested Tisha – and I’d love to know why.’
‘She asked the girl plenty of questions, I imagine?’
‘Oh, yes. Mother got Tisha’s life-story, practically. And she lapped it up, I’m sorry to say. Like an old cat with a bowl of cream.’
With an eye for the passing afternoon, Stephen asked whether she had been in touch with Zoe Clifford since, but his aunt said no, she had been too busy hospital visiting. There had been so much to attend to, letters were the last thing she could think about. But now Stephen was home, she hoped he might get in touch with her.
‘But what can I tell her?’ he demanded. ‘Anyway, we’ve never met.’
‘She’s very nice,’ his aunt insisted, ‘and very pretty, too. I think you’d like her,’ she added with a smile.
‘I’m too old for young girls,’ he told her, laughing. ‘She’ll think I’ve got one foot in the grave. And what’s the point, anyway? I can’t tell her any more than you can.’
‘But I’ve given you the boxes, haven’t I? Bound to be something in there.’
Four
Clinging to the top of a stepladder, Zoe arched her back and swept the paint-roller back and forth, struggling to reach the corner and leave no faint patches. The ceiling and two walls were done and looking good, and already she was feeling better, working the aggression from her system, making a clean sweep in more ways than one.
What a waste of time, she kept thinking: she had been a fool to think it could ever have worked between her and Philip. He just wasn’t her type at all. Well, it was over; she had told him so, and the sooner he accepted it, the better.
The telephone rang, a muffled, pathetic chirping that brought forth curses as she struggled to regain her balance. ‘If that’s him again,’ she muttered furiously, ‘I’ll kill him.’ For a moment she considered not answering; but it might just be a business call, and she could not afford to ignore those. Hurriedly, she climbed down, peeling back dust-sheets and cushions to reach the buried telephone.
Suspicion edged her voice. ‘Hello?’
A man’s voice bade Zoe good afternoon and asked for her by name. Not Philip, obviously: this voice was deeper, with northern undertones. Even as she wondered, he gave his name as Stephen Elliott, mentioning his aunt and York in explanation for the call. A little shaft of surprise cut through her; she had not expected to hear from the Elliotts again.
Sinking down onto the sofa, she listened while he briefly outlined the situation. At news of his grandmother’s death, she expressed the proper condolences, but could not keep the excitement out of her voice when he mentioned the contents of boxes which were now in his possession.
‘But that’s wonderful. Have you been through them?’
‘Only a cursory search,’ he said. ‘There hasn’t been time for more. There are a lot of photographs – some identified – which might be of interest to you, and what looks like hundreds of letters.’ With a chuckle he admitted that he hadn’t yet tackled those. ‘But what you will find interesting, I’m sure, are the birth and marriage certificates.’ He paused at that point, and she wondered why. Old Mrs Elliott, Robin’s widow, had reluctantly told her that the brothers were born in Ireland, which was a severe disappointment. Zoe had read enough books on genealogy to know that few if any state records had survived the Irish Civil War, and felt that her research had come to an abrupt and frustrating end.
But perhaps she was wrong.
‘You’ve found the original certificates?’
‘Yes.’
Taking a deep breath, she said, ‘I’d love to see them.’
Determined to grab the opportunity before he could change his mind, she plunged in firmly. ‘That’s very kind of you, Mr Elliott. I’d like to make it soon, if I may – how about next week?’ Ignoring the chaos around her, she added impulsively: ‘Would Monday suit?’
A little surprised, he said that it would, and the requisite arrangements were made. Zoe would catch the train which arrived closest to midday, while he and his aunt would meet her at the station.
Her excitement refused to be quenched, even by the task she had set herself. If she was planning to be in York on Monday, the decorating would have to be finished by then, even if it meant working every hour over the weekend. But it was a challenge and worth it. After weeks in which the Elliotts had had to take a back seat, she could hardly wait to see those letters and take up the chase again.
With a fresh surge of energy, she climbed the ladder and resumed her painting.
By the following evening — Friday – the walls were a deep shade of cream, so much warmer than the stark white she had employed as a reaction to dirt and grime when she first moved in. She was busily undercoating the bookshelves when she heard the buzz of the doorbell.
At the sound of Philip’s voice over the intercom, her heart sank. No matter that she was decorating and covered in paint, that the flat was a mess with nowhere to sit — he had to talk to her. Wearily, she pressed the door-release button and let him in. But she was determined not to be held up; leaving the lobby door open, Zoe returned, somewhat grimly, to her task.
She heard him come in but did not turn. For at least a minute he stood and watched her, his eyes boring into her back. When she could stand it no longer, she wiped her brush and stood it in a jar. Immaculate as ever, he looked so incongruous against the dust-sheets and rolled-up rugs, Zoe wanted to laugh. But the situation was far from funny. His misery communicated itself to her, promoting guilt, resentment, and ultimately, anger.
‘Philip, why are you doing this? We’ve said all there is to say – and I’m not going to change my mind.’
‘No, you had your say,’ he reminded her tersely, ‘but I was too angry the other night. I’ve telephoned, and you wouldn’t agree to meet me, so I thought I’d better call in person.’
That put Zoe in the wrong, and made her angrier still. ‘I can’t think why – I’ve nothing more to say.’
‘Well I have. Won’t you listen to me? Please?’
With bad grace, she dragged dust sheets aside and made a space for him on one sofa, brought a couple of cans of lager from the kitchen – no glasses, just to irritate him further – and sat herself down on the other. They were at odd angles to one another, and he had to twist himself awkwardly to look at her. He toyed with the can, but did not open it.
‘I’m sorry I lost my temper,’ he said with an effort at contrition. ‘I shouldn’t have said all those things. I didn’t mean them, Zoe, honestly.’
‘Oh, but you did, Philip, and that’s a fact. What you said was unpleasant and hurtful, but it only serves to underline what I was trying to say to you – that we really don’t have anything in common.’
‘I don’t agree. We like similar things – theatres, concerts, galleries – we’ve had some wonderful times together...’
‘You only like them because you think you should — because it sounds good to say you went to see a Chekhov play, or the latest exhibition at the Tate. You haven’t the first clue what they’re about – and neither has your wonderful friend David.’ Zoe took a long pull at the lager and watched him wince.
‘Oh, yes – that’s what it’s all about, isn’t it? David. You’re screwed up with jealousy!’
His childishness did not amuse her. As ever when she was really angry, Zoe’s voice dropped and took on a cutting edge. ‘That’s not true. I’m not jealous of David – I just don’t like him. I’m sure he must be brilliant in court, but I do wish he wouldn’t practise on his friends. He isn’t kind, Philip – can’t you see that? He belittles you, and you let him. He does the same to Clare, and it hurts me just as much.
‘That girl used to have a mind of her own – but not anymore. He says jump, and she asks how high? I don’t like it. Nor do I enjoy seeing him do the same to you. If you were a match for him, fair enough – but you’re not. You’re far too nice to be a friend of his.’
He flushed, with embarrassment or anger, she was not sure. Eventually, he said: ‘Look, if that’s what you really think, why end it between us? Can’t we try again? We’ve been honest with each other, we know the problems, why can’t we settle them?’
‘I’ve told you why.’
‘But Zoe — you mean so much to me. I can’t bear it – this week’s been hell...’
For a moment she felt sorry, remembering. Guilty, too. But sympathy would only make it worse. ‘You’ll get over it, Philip – people do. I’m sorry – I’m not unfeeling, just trying to be practical. Things just weren’t right between us.’ With an urge to be specific, she bit it back, and finished lamely, ‘You know that as well as I do.’
‘Forget David and Clare – we don’t have to see them – ’
‘No.’ His simplicity was infuriating. Once it had charmed her. Dear God! Did he not realize how impossible he was? ‘You’d never forgive me,’ she said grimly, ‘for coming between you and your oldest friend.’
After a while, he said: ‘I suppose you feel like that about Clare? You blame David for coming between you?’
It was not true: she blamed Clare for being such a fool. ‘Yes,’ she lied, ‘I suppose I do.’
Frustrated, guilty, wishing he would go, she stood up, only to have her pacing intercepted. After a small hesitation, he kissed her, clumsily. She did not protest, but wondered how his lips could ever have been exciting. For the sake of all that had been between them — and on her part it had never been enough – she kissed him gently on the cheek. ‘Philip, to be happy, you have to be able to be yourself – not what you think the world expects you to be...’
But he was not prepared to accept that, and stayed on, trying to talk her round to his point of view, becoming more depressed as he perceived the futility of it. In the end Zoe lost patience and even her pity evaporated. She told him he would have to go; she had work to do, work that must be finished before Monday, as she was going to York for a couple of days.
‘I see. York. I suppose that means you’re still chasing a lot of ghosts. Well, between them and your art, I hope you’re happy. Real life’s obviously a bit much for you.’ He paused in the lobby, his hand on the open door. ‘Goodbye, Zoe.’
Once he had gone, needing to let off steam she went upstairs to see her friend Polly, but Polly was out. Hardly surprising on a Friday evening, but Zoe was disappointed. Returning to her own flat, she poured herself a large brandy and grabbed brushes and paint with grim determination. At half past midnight, when her friend came back, she was still busy.
Polly had seen the lights from outside and called in with a friend, fortunately a tactful sort who soon saw that he was not required, and left. When he had gone, Zoe poured her heart out, and then had a good cry because she was angry and tired.
‘I wouldn’t care, but he didn’t even offer to help me!’ she protested, wiping her eyes. ‘Just sat there and moaned on – making it impossible for me to get on with the job!’
‘Obviously not the practical kind,’ Polly observed. She put away the paintbrushes and the brandy bottle, made some coffee, and with a few succinct comments on life, love, and the nature of men, ushered Zoe off to bed.
Clare rang at lunchtime. It was not a pleasant conversation. Clare, it seemed, was appalled by Zoe’s behaviour, accusing her of using Philip and – what was worse – trying to destroy his long-standing friendship with David.
Zoe was in no mood to take those accusations calmly. If it was a matter of using
people, she said, David had done his fair share.
‘You don’t like David,’ Clare said furiously, and Zoe agreed with her. Clare slammed down the phone and that was that.
Cursing roundly, unsure which of the three deserved most odium, she slipped a tape into the stereo. For the rest of the afternoon the flat vibrated to the sounds of a heavy metal band. By the time she was ready to fall into bed that night, most of the painting was done.
Next morning, viewing her handiwork, Zoe was pleased to see that the overall effect was that of a gentle, spacious, elegant room, reflecting none of the anger that had gone into its transformation. Finishing off, she began to appreciate it, her mood lightening in response to Polly’s enthusiasm and her offer to help clear up.
It was too soon to replace the books, but with rugs unrolled, sofas pushed back and Zoe’s worktable standing in its proper place before the windows, the room was acquiring an old familiarity. Pictures were re-hung, a couple of examples of her own work, some Beardsley prints, a copy of a portrait by Gwen John, and one small, original abstract, souvenir of her first love-affair. There were other small mementoes dotted about the flat, but Philip had given her nothing more lasting than a stiff bouquet of flowers.
Pouring out the final episode of the saga, Zoe admitted she was more distressed by the end of an old friendship than by the loss of a lover. But as Polly observed, men tended to come and go, while friends were usually more long-term.
‘It’s not surprising you feel sad about Clare.’
‘You’re right,’ Zoe admitted with a sigh. ‘We met at boarding school – both new girls, feeling scared and very raw. Of course we clung together for a while. I remember telling her about Letitia and how amazing she was – I even showed her these old photographs.’ Rescuing the framed likenesses of Letitia and her brothers, Zoe knew her sadness had just as much to do with them.