Liam's Story

by Ann Victoria Roberts

  ‘Yes?’

  A woman’s voice answered. ‘Philip? Is that you?’

  ‘No. This is Zoe Clifford’s flat.’

  ‘Well, yes, I know it is.’ There was an anxious pause. ‘Is she there?’

  It seemed odd to Stephen to be conducting a conversation like this, so he explained Zoe’s momentary absence and invited the woman in. Wondering who Philip might be, he pressed what he hoped was the door-release button, left the door to the flat open, and returned to the books.

  He felt rather than heard Zoe’s visitor enter, and turned to see a young woman whose bold, fashionable appearance sat oddly with the look of uncertainty in her eyes.

  ‘Why don’t you sit down? She shouldn’t be long. I’m Stephen Elliott, by the way – Zoe’s cousin.’

  ‘Oh. Thank you.’ Her glance flickered over him and away before wandering nervously back again. ‘I’m Clare,’ she said, ‘an old friend of Zoe’s.’ There was another pause in which Stephen read suspicion, thought processes casting back for any mention of male cousins.

  Sensing the unspoken demand as to why he was there, he continued placing books on shelves.

  ‘I’ve been trying to get hold of her for days.’ It was almost an accusation.

  ‘She’s been in York.’

  ‘Oh. York... ?’

  ‘Chasing up some family history. I’ve been helping her.’

  ‘Oh, I see...’ And with a quick glance, Stephen saw that she did, that the topic suddenly answered many questions and opened a slot into which he might fit. Suspicion was replaced by hostility.

  Seconds later, he heard Zoe’s voice, light with laughter as she called her thanks to Polly. He wanted to warn her, although he could not have said why. Seeing her change of expression as she came in, he wished he had been able to.

  Greetings between the two women were cool, despite Clare’s explanations and the halting apology for some row they had evidently had over the telephone. Embarrassed, Stephen asked whether he should disappear for an hour.

  ‘No – no, Stephen, there’s no need for that.’ But Zoe was embarrassed too, torn between different loyalties.

  ‘In that case, perhaps I should make us all a cup of coffee?’ And with that he escaped to the kitchen, leaving the women to settle their differences alone. Although he closed the door firmly, it connected with the sitting room, and he could still hear what was being said. He ran the cold tap, clattered a few items of crockery, turned the gas up full, and lit a cigarette, but in his mind’s eye he could see Zoe’s face, closed and still, feel her restraint in the pauses. Whatever the other woman had done, it had managed to upset Zoe mightily, and she was not ready to forgive, that much was clear. It seemed to him that she was accepting the apologies in order to get rid of Clare.

  But Clare was bent upon confession, admitting to certain problems with someone called David and begging Zoe’s understanding. Zoe seemed ready to go along with that, even to the extent of suggesting another meeting so that she and Clare could talk things over. That was agreed, and the voices faded a little as they moved into the lobby; then he heard Clare say something about Philip. Clare felt sorry for him, she said, and still felt Zoe had behaved badly; she supposed it was because of this new man, and thought she might at least have been a little more honest, instead of blaming David for everything...

  Zoe’s voice faded to a murmur, as though they had stepped out onto the landing. It was frustrating: he would have liked to hear her reply to that. If the demise of this man Philip was as recent as it seemed, he wondered whether Zoe would feel able to admit that she and Stephen had only just met.

  Initially, he was not unduly concerned, although as the minutes ticked by he did begin to wonder why she had omitted to mention it. Had it been some months past, he could have understood, but something so recent?

  He shrugged, told himself that he preferred not to know. He had told her, briefly, about Ruth, and she had told him, with equal brevity, about the married man she had met at college, some mad artist with a passion for women and booze. A fiasco, apparently, but it had been important. And with a similar time-span between those relationships, they were relegated to their proper place. It struck him that just as he would never think of giving her a list of his previous affairs, so he would not want a list of hers. But still...

  Who the hell was this Philip, anyway?

  Zoe came running up the stairs, upset and apologetic. Waiting for her to calm down, he handed her a cup of cooling coffee and lit another cigarette.

  ‘I suppose you heard most of that?’

  ‘I did, yes. Hard not to.’

  ‘And I suppose,’ she went on heavily, ‘you must be wondering what on earth it was all about?’

  With a dry smile, he nodded. ‘But only if you want to tell me – don’t feel you have to.’

  That she did feel he merited an explanation was something of a mixed blessing. Stephen discovered far more about her relationship with Clare – and by association, her fiance, David – than he did about Philip. From what she did say, he thought the man sounded spineless, but he refused to comment. Or to probe. She was young yet, and women were often attracted to the oddest of men. Whether she had slept with Philip, whether there had been emotional involvement, was something he preferred not to know. She told him it had been over even before he spoke to her on the telephone. And he believed her. Nevertheless, it bothered him.

  In truth, Zoe was ashamed. She would have given almost anything for Stephen not to have witnessed the scene between herself and Clare. It was so hard to explain old ties, harder still when any sympathy she might have felt had disappeared in the face of Clare’s blatant tactlessness. In retrospect, of course, she did feel sorry for Clare, and was more convinced than ever that her engagement to David was a mistake. But it was impossible to say so. The most she could do was to stay in touch occasionally, and hope against hope that Clare saw the pitfalls for herself.

  But because of the connection with Philip, Zoe did not feel able to explain her suspicions to Stephen. To say, yes, I slept with Philip, but he was pretty hopeless in bed, and to be honest, I think the person he really fancies is David, except he’s not aware of it, was too crass. What would he think of her? She thought pretty badly of herself. Could not imagine how blind she had been, not to see what appeared so obvious now. But if her suspicions were correct – and there was no way of proving them – then he was more to be pitied than judged. What a situation! For long enough, Zoe had thought it was simply lack of confidence. She had tried to wean him away from the abominable David. But that, it would seem, was the last thing he wanted.

  She was appalled by her own arrogance. And her mother would never understand: Marian had liked Philip, knew his family in Sussex. But Stephen was a different matter altogether. Zoe felt that she had behaved both badly and stupidly, and somehow damaged her standing in Stephen’s eyes. Oh, if only Clare had stayed away, or telephoned, then they could have met privately, and saved all this fuss.

  Awake in the small hours, with Stephen asleep beside her, she castigated herself more severely than ever he would have thought to do. She prayed with anxious fervency that this incident would cast no further shadows. Her mood this evening had been abstracted enough to concern him, and while he asked no questions, she knew he was wondering.

  Zoe’s answer to anxiety had always been work. Needing a similar distraction now, she slipped out of bed and lit the lamps in the sitting room. With a hot drink and a bundle of Louisa Elliott’s letters, she settled down to read. As ever, more questions were raised than were answered, but she jotted them down in a notebook, occasionally breaking to look at photographs, particularly those of Liam. Having now seen pictures of Stephen as a young man, she was more than ever struck by the likeness between them; but her studiously casual comment the other day had caused no apparent surprise. Almost nonchalantly, he said his grandmother, Sarah, who had known Liam as a boy, had often remarked on it. But Zoe thought that light response as careful as her own. Stephen’
s interest in Liam’s diary was now as great as her obsession with the letters.

  Amongst Louisa’s photographs was a head and shoulders portrait of a young nurse, probably taken during the First World War. Although her hair was mostly covered by a winged white headdress, Zoe was convinced she was the young woman who also appeared in the group photograph, taken perhaps a year or so earlier. From the later correspondence, Zoe had deduced that she must be Georgina, Robert Duncannon’s daughter.

  And Robert Duncannon was now identified positively as the young officer photographed in Dublin before the turn of the century; almost certainly he was also the man at the centre of that much later family group. In a dark civilian suit he was older, greyer, heavier, but the strong lines of nose and brow and jaw were unmistakable. Relaxing on a garden seat, smiling at the camera, he dominated the picture as he had probably dominated the people in his life.

  To one side of him sat Louisa, her expression sweeter, softened by life and experience into kindliness; and on her other side was Edward, less relaxed, frowning against the light. He had been more difficult to identify, having abandoned the beard of earlier portraits. For all the passing years, he was still remarkably handsome, his features fine, the mouth gentle. In his younger days, Joan had said, Edward was something of a poet; an image which suited him better, Zoe felt, than that of a bookbinder with a business of his own.

  Before them on the grass was a girl in white, a girl with rounded cheeks and slanting, dark-fringed eyes. Zoe’s own photograph of Letitia showed a sophisticated young woman in her twenties, but there was no mistaking those eyes, nor the thick, unruly hair that Zoe herself had inherited.

  On Robert Duncannon’s right, sat the young woman now identified as his daughter, Georgina. She sat straight-backed, hands folded neatly into her lap, smooth blonde hair swept back from a delicately-boned face. The posture, the simple, dark dress, made Zoe think of a nun. A very beautiful nun. No wonder Liam gazed at her so attentively. She would turn heads, Zoe decided, wherever she went.

  Yes, they were all there, with the exception of Robin, and as Stephen said, he was probably the one taking the photograph. The Elliotts and their wealthy relatives from Dublin, the Duncannons. A happy family group, captured in the garden of a pretty cottage on a summer’s afternoon. But Zoe wished she could establish the exact relationship between them.

  It really was too bad that the Irish records were lost.

  Six

  Mellow pantiles, uneven in places, roofed an elderly cottage of rusty-pink brick. The projecting scullery was not quite central, and the windows, half-hidden beneath encroaching ivy, were set with even less regard for balance. Yet overall the effect was charming, the impression that of a place which was loved, despite its idiosyncrasies. To the north, a high wall flanked by Lombardy poplars gave shelter to fruit trees and an abundance of vegetables, while a screen of roses divided the kitchen garden from a broad strip of lawn.

  With his back to that mass of pale pink roses, Robin Elliott peered through the lens of his borrowed camera, and wished his brother would try to look as though he belonged to the group, instead of standing so tall and uncompromising behind them. Frowning, too. He was bored and eager to be off, but Robin was determined to have one more picture, and to make it a good one.

  Calling out to Liam to bend, kneel, or otherwise shrink into place, he waited while Georgina organized him. Liam leaned forward, resting his elbows on the seat back, his face turned towards her, smiling; she turned to the camera, folded her hands, and Robin pressed the shutter release.

  Immediately, they all began to move. ‘Oh, don’t rush away,’ Robin pleaded. ‘Let’s have just one more.’

  ‘But you’ve taken half a dozen already,’ his mother pointed out. ‘And we can’t sit here all afternoon, posing – I’ve got tea to make, if nothing else. Come on, Tisha,’ she added, taking her daughter’s arm before she could disappear, ‘we’ve got things to do.’

  There was an audible groan from the girl, and a reluctant droop to her shoulders as she headed for the kitchen. Turning to their hostess, Georgina Duncannon asked whether she needed more help.

  ‘No, dear – you sit and talk to your father. I know you don’t see him very often.’

  But Robert Duncannon was apparently more interested in examining the photographic equipment, demanding to know how it worked, and what the time exposures needed to be. Flattered, Robin was only too keen to share his knowledge, to talk about the career upon which he had so recently embarked. He was even more impressed by Colonel Duncannon’s interest in his other activities, particularly his part-time membership of the local volunteer force.

  ‘If you should ever change your mind, and decide to make the army your profession,’ Liam overheard him say, ‘do get in touch with me first. I have a little influence at the War Office, and might be able to do something for you.’

  Watching them with their heads together, just for a moment the two struck Liam as being very much alike. And the resemblance was more profound than that of shared height and colouring. Very briefly, he was disturbed by it; and then his brother moved, and the similarity was gone.

  It seemed, glancing round, that there was something dour in his father’s steady observation of the pair. Liam wondered why. Was it Robin’s obsession with photographing anything and everything in sight? Or could it be that their father was less than pleased to be entertaining this wealthy, distant relative with his fine clothes and expansive manner? Their mother, certainly, had been quite overcome by that unexpected note which arrived as they were sitting down to Saturday dinner, thrown as close to panic as he had ever seen her. And since the Colonel’s arrival with Georgina an hour ago, she had been smiling and chattering like a young girl. That, too, was unusual. Perhaps his father was jealous?

  The thought crossed his mind fleetingly, and was as quickly dismissed. After all, he reasoned, married couples with grown children had no cause to be racked by emotions like that.

  On the seat before him, Georgina was also alert to that conversation between her father and Robin. He could see tension in her spine and the set of her smooth blonde head, and thinking she was hurt by her father’s careless neglect, Liam was ready to condemn the man forever. As he moved, however, she glanced round at Liam, and the eyes which met his softened into a smile.

  ‘What a pity,’ she remarked lightly, ‘that photographs can’t show colour. Those roses are so beautiful.’

  Although he knew it was not the roses which had claimed her attention, Liam went along with the fiction, suggesting she should return to paint them one afternoon. At that she laughed, saying her expertise was too limited, she could never do them justice. He denied it, having seen some of her botanical drawings, and the painting she had done for his mother, which now had pride of place in the parlour. They argued, amicably, and as she stood up he straightened, ready to fall in with whatever she wanted to do, wherever she wanted to go. He liked her immensely. She was so easy to be with, quiet and self-effacing, so gently humorous that sometimes it was a while before her wit was appreciated. There was such an attractive lilt to her voice, with a little bubble of laughter in it, he could have listened to her for hours. She often teased him for his seriousness, but from her he did not mind. Unlike his sister’s barbed wit, Georgina Duncannon’s held no hint of mockery.

  For the last three months, since arriving in York to nurse at the Retreat, she had been visiting regularly, spending most of her days off at the cottage, helping his mother in the kitchen or garden, and joining the family for their evening meal. Georgina’s affection for his mother often surprised him; he tended to forget that they were distantly related, and Georgina had known them all for years. That she remembered him as a small child, far more clearly than he remembered her, was sometimes embarrassing. It also underlined the gulf between them, the great divide of age and class. She could, he knew, have spent her life in Dublin considering nothing more strenuous than her social obligations, but she had chosen, instead, to become a nurse.
With one course of training behind her, she had recently embarked upon another, at the Quaker hospital for the mentally ill.

  Georgina worked harder than he did, and his heart ached at the sight of her ungloved hands, often red and chapped from the zealous use of carbolic. In that respect at least, Liam could understand the Colonel’s anger at his daughter’s choice of vocation. She tended to laugh about it, but to defy her father’s authority must have required a matching strength of will. Looking at her now, it was hard to believe. Touching pretty shrubs, pausing to lean close to a full-blown rose, she seemed no less fragile than they.

  Newly-painted railings guarded the front garden like a row of bright-green spears, and recalling recent hours spent chipping at rust, Liam flushed with pleasure at her praise. He was particularly proud of having cured the gate’s long-lasting squeak, despite his father’s claim that it would not be cured for long. For now, however, the gate was opening easily, and at Georgina’s suggestion that they should walk a little way along the riverbank, Liam readily agreed.

  In one direction, the sandy, tree-shaded path led past allotment gardens and a boat-building yard, and ultimately into town. To the right, it meandered past woods and open meadows where he and his brother and sister had played as children. Liam always thought how well-placed they were, within a few minutes’ walk of the city, yet having miles of open countryside to hand. He had learned to swim in the river, learned to row, too; and now, when he needed to escape, he had his bicycle, handy for riding to work, but handier still for exploring outlying villages on his own. Unlike Robin, his interests were solitary ones, and except when Georgina was around, Liam much preferred his own company.

  As he closed the gate, the sound of cat-calls and whistles reached them from the far bank. Beneath the trees on New Walk, Liam caught sight of some girls in colourful finery, hurrying along before a group of soldiers from the nearby barracks. In some embarrassment, he remarked that the girls should know better: New Walk was notorious in that respect. But Georgina smiled impishly, saying she thought the girls were heading towards the fairground on St George’s Field, and were determined to have some handsome escorts.