Liam's Story

by Ann Victoria Roberts

  He felt his breath catch. Seeing her like that, he was instantly transported back twenty years, to an afternoon when they had walked across broad meadows, she in a pretty cotton dress and flapping sunbonnet, he minus jacket and tie, to that wood outside Blankney. And there, under an oak wreathed about with mistletoe, they had made love for the very first time...

  The memory was so clear, it was almost painful. She was as graceful as ever. And just as desirable. Meeting his gaze she paused, pushing back a few stray tendrils of hair which had escaped the loose chignon beneath her bonnet. As a young woman, she had worn her hair cropped short like a boy’s, a mark of independence that in those days had suited her very well. Now she was older, he preferred the softer image.

  Seeing him, Louisa’s expression hovered between pleasure and dismay, and settled, ultimately, into a wry smile. Her step was resolute as she approached, as though she had decided to make the best of things. It was not an encouraging start; and as he kissed her cheek it seemed to Robert that her eyes weighed him rather too well.

  ‘You shouldn’t be here,’ she said, laying a hand against his heart. ‘Although, having said that, I have to admit I’m pleased to see you.’

  ‘You don’t sound it,’ he said with light reproof.

  ‘Perhaps pleased is the wrong word,’ she observed cryptically. ‘Thankful would be nearer the mark.’

  He made to follow her inside, but she stopped him. ‘Edward said – after your last visit – that he wouldn’t have you across his doorstep again. And you can’t blame him. So don’t make me tell a lie. Stay there,’ she added, ‘and I’ll fetch you something to drink.’

  She came out a few minutes later with a tray of glasses and a jug of lemonade, setting it down on a stool before the long garden seat. ‘I said I’d write to you and explain the situation,’ Louisa began, ‘but since then something else has been worrying me. Something you should know about, since it concerns Georgina.’

  Sighing heavily, she glanced at him, and he saw anxiety and apprehension lurking there. Then, quite unexpectedly, she slipped a brown, work-roughened hand into his. Robert was far from sure whether she was seeking comfort, or giving it.

  ‘I should have written,’ she murmured huskily, ‘but I’ve been putting it off, simply because it would have been so hard to express in a letter. So I’m glad to see you, even though Edward will be furious if he knows you’ve been here again.’ Her eyes met his and pleaded with him. ‘We have to talk – and very seriously – about our children.’

  At the age of fourteen, Edward had begun his working life in Fossgate, apprenticed to a firm of printers and bookbinders. He had stayed with the same firm for twenty-five years before opening his own business in the maze of courts and alleys which in those days constituted Piccadilly. Eight years later, in 1901, he had moved on. His old premises had recently disappeared under a new, broad thoroughfare; now, walking down the new Piccadilly, Edward could no longer distinguish the place where his old business had been. It seemed very strange.

  York was changing and growing, but although change was needed he found it hard to accept and even harder to like what he saw. It was, he suspected, a symptom of age. He was growing old and becoming entrenched, finding safety in familiar things, resenting the turmoil brought about by progress. Only in the unchanging heart of the city could he close his eyes to it.

  The area of Minster Gates, Stonegate and its adjacent alleyway, Coffee Yard, was the traditional home of York publishing, and although his premises were ancient and even less practical than the old ones in Piccadilly, it gave Edward a sense of satisfaction to know that writers, printers and bookbinders had occupied the place for centuries before him.

  Coffee Yard was, in reality, no more than a paved short-cut leading between tall medieval buildings. It ran past a walled courtyard and beneath the upper floors of two half-timbered houses, emerging eventually into Grape Lane. Narrow on the ground floor, Edward’s premises opened out to more spacious rooms above. The huge oak beams and steep staircases, odd angles and unsquare walls, had made the moving of equipment something of a nightmare; now, with offices below and workrooms on the middle and upper floors, they were well-settled. For light and size Edward’s favourite was in the middle, where two massive Georgian windows had been installed at the beginning of the previous century. It had drawbacks, however: freezing cold in winter, it needed a good fire in the hearth, while summer sun often made the heat unbearable.

  Sighing as he returned from lunch and a visit to the bank, Edward stood for a moment in the cool alleyway, relishing the breeze and the shade. As his bank manager had suggested, it was probably an afternoon for contemplating the accounts, a job that Liam had been badgering him about for weeks.

  In that respect the lad was methodical, but Edward wished he was a better bookbinder. As apprentices went, Liam was not a bad one; but if only, Edward thought, he would stop making such foolish mistakes! It was lack of application that afflicted him, not lack of ability, and his carelessness was increasing. Attributable, Edward was sure, to calf-love and the uneasy proximity of Georgina Duncannon. The sooner Louisa saw that and took steps to rectify it, the better.

  In an irritable humour, Edward went inside. Amongst the clutter on his desk, was the lunchtime post.

  In the rear ground-floor room, Liam was using the guillotine, cutting boards for a set of twelve books. Remembering an earlier mistake, when he had cut a complete set fractionally short, he checked every one against a template. As the outside door banged and Edward went into his office, Liam marked the time with some resentment. An hour and a half for lunch, he thought bitterly, knowing anything over his own half-hour would be an occasion for criticism. Wearing no more than a thick apron over his shirt and trousers, he was still sweating, his shirt damp with it, despite its open neck and rolled back sleeves. Wiping his forehead, Liam gathered the boards together and went back up the winding staircase to the next floor.

  Heat, and the pungent, sickly smell of horse-glue hit him as he entered the workroom. Angrily, he reached across a wide bench to force up the sash another two inches. With that sharp movement the cord snapped, bringing the lower window crashing down. He swore roundly, not caring whether his father heard him, and a moment later Edward’s foot was on the stair.

  Liam ground out an apology between gritted teeth. ‘It’s so bloody hot in here, I was only trying to get a bit more air into the place! It’s broken – I’m sorry.’

  But Edward’s attention was not confined to the window. In his hand was an opened parcel. In an overly dramatic gesture, he peeled off the paper and flung it aside.

  ‘What do you call this?’ he demanded, holding out a large tome, expensively bound in leather.

  Recognizing it as one of a set he had been allowed to help with, Liam took it resentfully, wondering what minor blemish had been found. While Edward looked on, he turned it over and over, examining spine and engraving, the smooth gold edges of the paper.

  ‘I can’t see anything wrong with it.’

  ‘Open it!’

  Liam did so, and his heart sank. He had bound the book upside down.

  The ensuing row was explosive, fuelled by the heat and a score of festering resentments. For Edward, the book was the last straw in a pack of other stupid mistakes; while Liam, who had rarely answered back before, countered the charges of incompetence with a few of his own. He brought up the subject of the neglected accounts, telling his father that if he did not pay more attention to outstanding bills, bankruptcy would be the next step. Grossly insulted, Edward grabbed a heavy bookbinding manual and flung it into the boy’s outstretched arms.

  ‘And if you paid less attention to young women beyond your age and station,’ he snapped, ‘and more to your work, you might have a job to look forward to in ten years’ time!’

  Liam’s heart seemed to halt in his breast.

  So I was right, he thought: they do know what I feel for Georgina. Hurt more by that one shot than anything else, Liam placed the manual ca
refully on the bench. Without a word he removed his glue-spotted apron and reached for his jacket and tie. Edward watched him, his expression sardonic.

  ‘And where do you think you’re going?’

  ‘Does it matter?’ Liam asked, fixing his collar.

  ‘The work matters.’

  ‘Not to me. Not anymore.’ With that he clattered down the stairs and into the yard for his bike.

  Short of a dignified answer, Edward could only bite his tongue and watch him go.

  Smarting from the argument, yet curiously elated by his bravery in walking out, Liam cycled through town in the early afternoon heat, convinced he had done the right thing. If nothing else, it would show his father that he was not prepared to tolerate such constant, belittling criticism. He hated that sharpness of manner which took no account of his efforts or abilities. The book was a stupid mistake, he could admit that, but it had been done at the end of a long, hot day, and the thing was rectifiable.

  No, it was more than his carelessness, more than the other silly things he had done and forgotten to do, the whole list of which had been itemized for his benefit. It was all a matter of his affection for Georgina, that friendship which for him, at least, had grown into love. She was so far beyond his reach, he knew it could never come to anything, despite all his dreams and fantasies. He simply loved to be with her: was that so very wrong? His parents’ disapproval was hurtful and incomprehensible. It seemed to Liam that since they liked and admired Georgina, any fault must lie with him. He knew he was not good enough for her, but it might have been expected that his parents would think otherwise.

  He decided to go home and have it out with his mother. She could usually be counted upon to see his point of view, and she was generally more forthright than his father. Whatever the outcome, Liam knew that the argument had brought something to a head. With regard to his immediate future, at least. Perhaps he should go abroad, as Georgina suggested; it would be hard to leave, but in the leaving she might realize she loved him too, and follow, eventually...

  Still in the realms of fantasy, Liam cycled along the riverbank, glad of the shade provided by the trees. He dismounted at the gate, pushing it open fully, careful not to chip the new paint. In his eagerness to solve a problem, he abandoned his bike by the side wall and walked round on the grass. Within a couple of paces the sound of voices halted him.

  At first he thought his mother must be talking to a neighbour, someone buying fruit or flowers from the garden; then he heard his name mentioned, and a responding male voice which set every hackle bristling.

  Not again! He pictured Georgina’s father flirting with his mother over tea on the lawn. The very idea made him want to rush round the corner and put a stop to it. But words penetrated, freezing anger and action simultaneously, making him listen almost without breathing.

  Entirely unaware of a listener only yards away, Robert and Louisa were speaking heatedly, possessed as much by old passions and grievances, as by the immediate problem.

  ‘I’ll say it again, Louisa – this situation should never have been allowed to arise. She’s their sister, for God’s sake, and they should all have been told years ago.’

  ‘Half-sister,’ Louisa repeated through gritted teeth, ‘and I’ll thank you not to tell me what I should have done. The responsibility of bringing them up was left to me, while you gallivanted round the world, playing soldiers!’

  ‘You left me, remember? To marry another man! I would never have abandoned you, Louisa, and you know it.’

  With a catch in her voice, Louisa said: ‘Why do you always go back to that? I married Edward because I loved him, because he needed me and we understood each other in ways you and I never did. It’s been a good marriage, and he’s been a good father to your children – far better than you ever were or will be!’

  ‘This is getting us nowhere,’ Robert declared bitterly. ‘His virtues don’t interest me. The point is it’s time you stopped sticking your head in the sand, Louisa. Tell Liam the truth, for God’s sake. Tell him straight – that he’s my son, and Georgina’s his sister. She’s always known – she doesn’t need warning off!’

  Stunned and disbelieving, shocked to the point where he thought he was going to be physically sick, for a moment Liam hunched himself against the wall. He was Robert Duncannon’s son? Georgina, his sister? No, it couldn’t be!

  With his head spinning, he stumbled away. Grabbing his bike for support, he crashed it through the gateway, mounted on leaden limbs and rode off down-river. Wobbling dangerously for the first few hundred yards, he fell off twice, eventually regained his balance, and pedalled furiously the three or four miles to Bishopthorpe, as though speed could outdistance the pain. Just before the village, too violently distressed to face other human beings, Liam flung the bike aside, stripped off his clothes and made a perfect dive into the river. He swam almost a mile up-stream before exhaustion overtook him, and floated back, staring up at the wide blue sky, at trees dark in their midsummer leaf, and the larks singing joyously above.

  The physical world seemed possessed of a burning clarity, illogical and unreasonable against the appalling destruction of his life. The sun warmed his face while his body, like his mind, was numb. For a while he imagined drowning, but knew he could not by act of will. It would have to be cramp, or weeds dragging him under, and either were possible with the river so low and the water so cold. He passed the spot where he had left his clothes, and on the next curve there was the Archbishop’s Palace, its graceful walls rising from the river, the mullioned windows glinting like eyes as he floated past.

  The current was strong there, and swimming back against it took tremendous effort. When he reached the place where he had dived in, it was all he could do to scramble out. Wet and shivering uncontrollably, he pulled on pants and trousers, lying back like a dead man in the hot afternoon sun.

  Grievously wounded but feeling no pain, Liam examined the shreds that were left. Strangely, in that moment, he doubted nothing of what he had heard. It all fitted too well. That extraordinary likeness between Robin and Robert Duncannon: even the names. His mother’s reluctance to mention Mrs Duncannon. Short tempers, jealousy, tension: he almost laughed when he thought of his own innocent, pathetic interpretation. He even felt a queer, detached pity for the man who had been his father. But Edward Elliott was his father no more; and it seemed his adored mother was no better than the women who flaunted themselves after dark on New Walk. No wonder she could flirt so brazenly with the Colonel, Liam thought bitterly: he was her lover, the father of her children. The man who sat at the head of her table was simply someone she had married to cover her sin.

  And Georgina Duncannon, the woman he had loved and dreamed of making his own, was as forbidden a fruit as ever came out of the Garden of Eden. She was his sister. Her father was his father, and Liam hated him.

  After a little while he fell asleep, waking hours later to find that some kindly passer-by had spread his shirt over his chest to protect him from the sun. Nevertheless, he was confused and shivering and his skin felt hot and tight. Dressing clumsily, his first thought was to get home for something to eat and drink, particularly to drink, since he had a raging thirst. Then he remembered and was violently sick.

  What he had been able to contemplate with such icy calm after his swim, was suddenly impossible to face without cursing and weeping. For several minutes he did just that, then fatigue claimed him again, and he dropped by the river’s edge. He felt alone, bereft, as though his entire family had been wiped out by some freak accident; and, like someone so tragically bereaved, could not believe it.

  Amidst the shock and pain, the thing to which he kept returning was Robert Duncannon’s claim that Georgina was his sister and had always known it. If that was truth, then it turned his love for her into something abhorrent; perverted the time and attention she had bestowed into sadistic amusement; made him demand with silent, bitter repetition, why she could not have told him. Her knowledge, her silence, had made of him an
ignorant, gullible fool. Had she pitied him, Liam wondered, or simply laughed at his obvious adoration? Either way it was insupportable, unforgivable, and he knew he would never be able to face her again.

  But it could not be true, Liam thought, could not be true. If it was, then his whole life was a lie, without the smallest foundation. His parents had always insisted on honesty: how could people like that have built their lives on deceit? Perhaps he should go home and ask them. Perhaps he would find that it had all been a terrible nightmare: Robert Duncannon had never been to the cottage, his mother had never said those things, and all would be as it was before. But a low, evil voice in his mind kept reminding him that he had heard that angry exchange, and because of it, nothing would ever be the same again.

  Time passed, dusk became darkness and still he sat there. Rinsing his face in the cool water, Liam’s mind grasped at straws: perhaps they knew he was there and wanted only to shock him, to stop him loving Georgina. Perhaps they were rehearsing lines from a play...

  But names were mentioned, the voice replied, his name, her name, his father’s name. No, not his father. His real father was Colonel Duncannon, the arrogant bastard, the charmer, ladies’ man, the cavalry officer who thought himself so much better than Edward Elliott...

  ‘The bastard,’ Liam whispered, repeating the word like an incantation as he dragged his bike out of the long grass. He used it all the way home. It was the only protection he had against the wall of pain which was crashing around him.

  Louisa glanced yet again at the clock. It was almost eleven and Liam had been gone since two. Where on earth could he be at this time? Robin had been to the drill hall, and on his way home had questioned most of his acquaintances, but nobody had seen him, and Louisa’s anxiety was turning to panic. At his desk, Edward was working, an excuse, she knew, for waiting up for Liam, even though he seemed convinced the boy was worrying them deliberately.