Liam's Story

by Ann Victoria Roberts

  Unprepared for the depth and range of her own responses, Zoe was also astonished by his. She had wondered, last night, whether a man so absolutely in control of himself would make love as though painting by numbers. That he had not only relinquished that iron control, but made love with such unselfconscious abandon, was something that brought a smile to her lips. And when he felt that little curve of happiness and drew back to look at her, she saw the same delight in his eyes. Wonderment, too. He looked at her for some time before he spoke.

  ‘I do believe,’ he sighed, ‘that for the first time in my entire life, I’ve been granted a reward for good behaviour.’ Enveloping her in a warm bear-hug, he chuckled softly and kissed her. ‘And at the risk of sounding like a philanderer, I have to tell you that this is the point where I’m usually apologizing and promising to do better next time!

  ‘But on this occasion,’ he whispered against her mouth, ‘I really do have the feeling that there’s no need to apologize at all...’

  A little bubble of laughter escaped her, but as she gave herself up to his embrace, Zoe was thankful that he had not enquired as to her period of abstinence. But that had been a depressing encounter, and she would not think of it now...

  It was some time later that he felt for his shirt and the cigarettes which lived in his breast pocket. He smoked in silence, caressing her gently as he might have done a child. Zoe felt oddly separated then, as though his thoughts had abandoned her. Hesitantly, she ventured to ask what he was thinking, and was not entirely reassured by the wry smile her question prompted.

  ‘A great many things,’ Stephen said softly, ‘mostly concerned with you.’

  ‘What things?’

  ‘I should have thought it was obvious. In twenty-four hours, this little research project of yours has developed along lines neither of us could have envisaged.’ There was a long pause, and then he said: ‘But tomorrow, you’re going back to London.’

  The statement hung between them ominously, a cloud heralding responsibility and separation, which should perhaps have been taken into account; yet all had fled before that urgent physical need, and Zoe could not regret its satisfaction. Tracing the line of her cheek, he ran a finger beneath her chin, making her look at him. The conflict she felt was mirrored in his eyes.

  ‘I don’t want you to go.’

  ‘But I shall have to. Sooner or later, if not tomorrow. My work’s there.’ For the first time she half regretted it. The work she had loved and striven to do, which had been all in all until a moment ago, was suddenly something she wanted to lay aside, if only temporarily. There had to be a way of resolving the problem; but it would take time and thought and planning.

  ‘Don’t ask me to think about it now,’ she begged, laying her lips against his shoulder, his cheek, his mouth. ‘I’ll try to work something out, even if I have to go back to London to do it.’

  ‘But you’ll come back?’

  ‘Of course,’ she promised with a suddenly wicked grin. ‘I haven’t got through those letters yet!’ She gave a little yelp as Stephen pinched her, rolled over and saw the time in red digital numbers on his bedside alarm. It was nearly one o’clock. ‘What time did you say your aunt was coming over?’

  ‘After lunch.’

  ‘Then I think we’d better get dressed…’

  With a muttered exclamation, he agreed with her. ‘Joan’s a broad-minded lady, but I don’t think she’d appreciate finding us like this!’

  Fully clothed, with her hair brushed and fresh make-up enhancing eyes that were perhaps too revealing, Zoe returned to the bedroom to pick up her watch. On the bedside chest was the little book Stephen had been holding before they undressed. Bound in scuffed black leather, it had the initials W.E. embossed in gold on the front cover. Curious, Zoe picked it up. It was a diary, dated 1916, each page closely written in tiny, copperplate script. The owner, she saw at last, had been one William Elliott, serving with a machine-gun company of the Australian Imperial Force...

  William Elliott — Liam. Liam! His name ran through her like a shock, bringing startling flashes of memory: his face on a dozen photographs, that strange vision in the fog...

  Stephen’s voice called to her as she sank weakly onto the bed. A moment later he appeared in the doorway, smiling, saying they had better eat before Joan arrived, and what would she like for lunch?

  She looked up, seeing him as though for the very first time, knowing that smile, those eyes, recognizing the familiarity which had hovered on the edge of memory for the past twenty-four hours. In eyes, mouth, and shape of face, Stephen was so very like Liam Elliott. A modern man, older in years than the young soldier had been, but with two generations between them, the resemblance was still there. Was that what had attracted her to him? The possibility passed over her like an icy wave.

  Alarmed by her expression and that sudden, violent shiver, Stephen went to her immediately, touching her cold face, kissing it, chaffing her hands. She was like someone in a trance. Then, abruptly, she pulled away from him.

  He saw the diary and picked it up. As she rose and moved away, he said hesitantly: ‘I found this in the bottom of the small trunk…’ Stephen broke off, wondering how to describe that odd sensation. He supposed excitement must have caused that physical tingling, like a series of small shocks spreading up from his fingertips.

  And then he had turned and seen Zoe.

  Just remembering that moment, the look on her face, the feel of her as they embraced, was enough to make him want her again. Releasing a long, pent-up breath, he went to her and made her face him.

  ‘Did I do something wrong? Did I hurt you?’ She shook her head, but kept her eyes averted. Stephen held her close, nuzzling her hair, stroking the silky curls, touching his lips to her temple. ‘Then tell me what it is.’

  She stiffened for a moment, then relaxed, burying her face in his neck in a negative, bemused sort of way. ‘I don’t know – I think I’m going mad.’

  It was so ridiculous, he almost laughed. ‘Don’t be silly, why should you think that?’

  ‘The queerest things keep happening – I don’t know how to explain them, or even where to start. Just now, I suppose it was that diary, realizing whose it was – it gave me a shock. And then, seeing you....’ Her voice faltered, became even more muffled, so that he had to strain to hear the rest, something about the Minster and that evening in the fog...

  The doorbell rang shrilly. On a low expletive Stephen gripped her shoulders, asked whether he should make some excuse, put off Joan’s visit until later.

  ‘No — no, I’m all right,’ Zoe said, straightening her shoulders and pushing back her hair. ‘We’ll talk later.’

  ‘We must,’ he insisted.

  Joan’s visit prompted discussion of births and deaths, intricate family relationships and house moves, past and present. She was in better spirits, having come to terms with the job they were doing, and although none of their suspicions could yet be confirmed, her attitude was one of rueful acceptance. Having had time to mull over the anomaly of her father’s birth certificate, various other things had apparently sprung to mind, like odd bits of jigsaw which suddenly slipped into place with ease. Those revelations prompted more questions, until the afternoon slipped away, and Zoe’s moment of disturbance seemed very much a thing of the past.

  Fascinated by the older woman, at ease with her, Zoe was amused by the conspiratorial smile she gave Stephen as she was leaving.

  ‘I told you you’d like her, didn’t I?’ was uttered in a stage whisper, which left both Zoe and Stephen laughing and slightly embarrassed.

  Afterwards, when she had gone, Zoe said: ‘I feel as though I’ve been adopted – as though I really am family, instead of a total stranger...’

  ‘But you are family, and she likes you,’ Stephen said simply. ‘So do I.’

  But as though his aunt’s warmth reminded him by contrast of other, less generous family members, he went on to warn her about his sister. ‘If you ever meet Pam – and you m
ay, she has a habit of dropping in when she’s in town — you must expect a very thorough going-over. She’ll disapprove on principle, I’m afraid, whether she likes you or not. My ex-wife was – and is – her best friend. It doesn’t seem to matter that I was the injured party – according to Pamela, it was all my fault in the first place for not buckling under, staying at home and taking a shore job...’ He sighed. ‘For all she’s my sister, we have very little in common.’

  ‘Have you never considered working ashore? Seriously, I mean?’

  ‘I didn’t in those days. Now, I think of it more and more. But,’ he shrugged, ‘I’m faced with the eternal problem of what does Jolly Jack do, once he swallows the anchor? Short of marine surveying, which would bore me to tears, I can’t think of a thing.’

  ‘You could always write your memoirs,’ she said wickedly, ‘I’m sure they’d be fascinating!’ Warming to the idea as he laughed and shook his head, she added: ‘And what about Joseph Conrad? He wrote some wonderful novels, didn’t he?’

  ‘Be careful, my love – you’re treading on my heart!’ And with that he fetched her coat and told her they were going out.

  He took her to a small restaurant down one of York’s quainter back streets. Over drinks, Stephen’s avoidance of the subject begun before Joan Elliott’s arrival was, she felt, deliberate. As he regaled her with stories of his early life at sea, characters he had known, places he had visited, she forgot that unnerving moment in laughter; and the likeness which had seemed so uncanny, receded. He was himself, no other. Warm, vital, alive, and with eyes that told her she was beautiful and very much desired. Face to face, looking into those eyes, so blue against the gold of his skin, Zoe knew that it was Stephen she wanted, would have wanted, whatever his name, whatever his ancestry. The rest was just coincidence. In that context she felt she could deal with it and, when the time came, talk about it with some degree of detachment.

  It was dark when they left, but not very late, the city quiet and left to itself in mid-week solitude. York was a different place at night, Zoe sensed it immediately, as though unrestricted by the crush of visitors, the city was breathing in satisfied calm. Old streetlamps cast gentle light on older buildings, which in their age and lack of vanity were immensely reassuring. Like old eyes, the windows dozed, having seen everything before. This city, she felt, could be neither shocked nor surprised, and current interest in all things past was simply another phase in a long and ongoing history.

  Traversing a series of ancient alleys on their walk through town towards the riverside, Zoe was aware of feet which had trodden these paths before. She found herself wondering, at every turn, whether those other Elliotts had walked this way, seen that beautifully-turned corner, noticed a church’s perfect tower. And the river itself, reflecting lights, bridges, staiths: it was a view that could have changed little in the intervening years.

  Saying nothing, Stephen simply drew her closer. She knew he felt as she did; knew too, that even without their shared ancestry, he would have understood her growing affinity for this place. With some reluctance and on a promise to return, they moved away.

  Walking back up Stonegate, with the great central tower of the Minster illuminated above the chimney-stacks, Stephen pointed to a ship’s figurehead supporting a jutting upper storey; and a little further, paused to show her Coffee Yard, where Edward Elliott had once been in business as a bookbinder. Innocently said, it was a reminder of the return address in Liam’s diary; the quietness of separate thoughts descended in that short journey home to Stephen’s flat.

  Stephen poured a drink for them both and lit the fire; found the tape of an old and very English film-score by Richard Rodney Bennett and slipped that into the stereo. For a moment he stood watching Zoe, framed against the window. The haunting, plaintive melody echoed something inside him, a tenderness for her that was impossible to put into words. Almost hesitantly, he placed his hands on her shoulders, laid his cheek against her hair; beyond them both, standing dramatically against the night sky, was the floodlit Minster.

  With Liam still on his mind, Stephen wondered what she was thinking, and whether she really wanted to tell him what the connection was between the diary and that night in the mist. Her very quietness seemed a prelude, as though she was trying to marshal thoughts and words for something evanescent. Then, as though it was vital to explain all that had happened to her that evening, she began by describing her walk and the sky’s intense, remarkable blue. Her voice was low and clear, a lyrical counterpoint to the music. But as the melody strengthened, building up to a storm, her words became shorter, sharper, describing that battlefield in the mist with staccato clarity.

  He almost wished she had not told him. The strangeness of it chilled him. He remembered the shock of touching the cover, reading random pages of Liam’s meticulous script, written amidst the mud and horror of the Western Front. And he recalled with acute intensity that sense he had had, of holding someone else’s life in his hands.

  He drew Zoe closer, breathing in the scent of her hair and skin; and then, so strongly that he almost uttered the words, he wanted to tell her that he loved her. Overcome by the unexpected power of those words, he struggled for mastery, telling himself that love was the last thing he wanted to feel. Love meant involvement on a total scale, the pain of parting, the dread of betrayal; love meant anguish, jealousy, and the heart-chilling certainty that it was a word of variable meaning.

  It passed. The words left him. Shaken, he buried his face against her hair, looked out at the floodlit pinnacles above the silhouette of Goodramgate, and told himself not to be a fool. He wanted her companionship, yes; and the pleasure her body offered was enticing; but the rest he was willing to forgo.

  She turned, clinging for a moment before drawing back to search his eyes; he did not look away, but on a slow release of breath, said: ‘Come to bed now – I need you.’

  With that first, feverish disrobing in both their minds, they undressed each other slowly. Lingering over the fragrance of her skin, his hands tenderly explored every curve and hollow, lips teasing, reaching down to the fullness of her breasts and the soft, rounded curve of her abdomen. He wanted to appreciate her, to take his time, despite urgent need, to please them both to the full. And she knew his intent, he could see it in her eyes, in the parting of a smile; feel it in her touch. Desire and acquiescence, and a constant, flickering excitement which found its echo in himself.

  They embraced and held apart, touched lightly and gripped with passion; explored each other fully until it was impossible to hold back. With urgent satisfaction they came together; and thrusting deep into the soft moist heart of her, he rolled, bringing her over until she was astride him, and he could feast his eyes on the sight of her. Winter-pale skin, almost translucent in the lamp’s glow, and rosy-pink buds of breasts shadowed in a dark fall of curls as she shook her head. He touched her gently, reverently, entranced by the different textures of hair and skin, by his own bronzed hands against her breasts; and then she smiled and began to move against him, and all else was forgotten in that deep, seductive, obliterating rhythm.

  It was as astonishing as the first time. Better, he decided; and finding unexpected reserves in himself, Stephen took her again, this time pushing every response to the limit. Only afterwards, as she lay exhausted against him, did he wonder why. What was he trying to prove? That she was bloody good in bed, or that he was better than all the other men she must have slept with? Or was it simply that he was trying to eradicate, with sex, the powerful emotions she aroused?

  If any of that was true, he thought painfully, then it would appear to be something of a pointless exercise. Caressing the smoothness of her back, listening to the gentle sighs of her breathing, it seemed to Stephen that each encounter drew them closer together. She was exciting and beautiful and generous, and he wanted all that she could give. A moment later he found himself considering what the cost might be to her.

  It was probably as well, he reflected sadly, that she would
soon be on her way back to her life in London. Once she had gone, perhaps it might be better not to encourage too speedy a return.

  It was one thing to reach that decision in the dark hours of the night, quite another to implement it. Although Zoe stayed another day, when it came to the point, Stephen could hardly bear to see her go. At the very last moment, with laughter and kisses and the knowledge that they were both acting crazily, he stuffed a few things in an overnight bag while she grabbed bundles of letters and photographs, and they set off for London in the Jaguar.

  An atmosphere of truancy pervaded that journey; they laughed a lot and played rock music very loud, arriving at Zoe’s flat just as dusk was falling. The air, as she opened the door, was pungent with new paint, and, apologizing for it, she rushed across to raise the tall sash windows and disperse the smell. Books were stacked all over the floor, ornaments and photographs on a long white table, while a draughtsman’s drawing board rose at an angle beside it. Obsessed by the chaos, for a few minutes she dashed about, beginning one task and then another. Stephen caught hold of her, told her to pour them both a drink, and then he would help her to straighten things out.

  But with the drink only half consumed, she remembered Polly. ‘I must go and tell her I’m back – she’s been keeping an eye on things for me, and she must be wondering why I was away so long...’

  She dashed off, leaving Stephen bemused. Where she had begun to replace books on shelves, he thought he would continue, trusting that the stacks corresponded with certain places. If he was wrong, he reflected, then Zoe would have to re-organize them; but in the meantime, they would be off the floor. Intrigued by her taste in literature, and enjoying the task, he was startled by the asthmatic buzzing of the doorbell. For a moment he wondered what it was. Having established its source, he was then faced with operating the ancient intercom.