Love in the Valley

by Susan Napier

  She had wanted to turn around and drive straight back, to confront him, but it wasn’t just pride that restrained her. Ann Farrow had been standing beside Hugh under the portico as he farewelled his family, probably well aware of the elegantly framed picture they made. The perfect couple. Julia’s own goodbye, perforce a formal, public one had rung sickeningly hollow in her ears.

  She had cried, on and off, all the way back to Auckland, stopping at laybys every now and then to wipe away the blinding tears with a sodden handkerchief. She wanted to hate him; oh, how she longed for a nice, cleansing hatred, but it wasn’t in her nature to be bitter and her compassionate heart felt such pain for Hugh that it almost equalled that she felt for herself. She had so much love to give, and such a longing to give it. If Hugh had opened his heart and mind to her she could have enriched both their lives.

  Why?

  She had looked forward in desperation to Phillip’s return, but the rash of dinner parties he initiated hadn’t been the magic formula for recovery. Her concentration was affected, though she was too much a professional to let it show in her superb meals. Her hands performed their duties mechanically while her mind roamed wild and free.

  All about her spring was breaking into bud, the new growth emphasising the wintry bleakness that remained within, the stunted limbs of what had promised to be such a glorious blossoming. Julia forced herself into a new awareness of her environment, the small, precious gifts of nature: the fragile, fragrant freesias that burst upon the air; the tiny, tentative, lime-green leaves unfurling on the stark oak trees at the bottom of the garden; the soft, warm caress of the spring breezes. The sadness that clung to her threw each individual moment of pleasure into sharp relief, intensifying her need to discover a reason for hope. Spring was that reason, the endless cycle of renewal. There was a season for everything, Julia knew, and this was her season for weeping.

  Gradually, as she sought a path through pain, and anger, and confusion, she became convinced of one thing. That her love for Hugh, though it would fade and change with the years, would always be a part of what she was, of the life she made for herself. And she wanted it to be so. She couldn’t discard a love because it wasn’t returned; the beauty of the freesia was no less beautiful for being fleeting, the miracle of the leaf no less a miracle because it would wither in order to save the tree.

  ‘So, what do you think, Julia?’

  ‘What?’ She stared blankly at Phillip. Had he been talking all this time?

  ‘You haven’t heard a word I’ve said!’ he accused, unused to such inattention. ‘I said I’m thinking of taking up permanent residence in the Caribbean.’

  ‘The Caribbean!’ echoed Julia stupidly. Was Philip taking up beachcombing?

  ‘For tax purposes.’ He explained it all again, with a sarcastic slowness that was an accusation in itself. ‘I wouldn’t have to live there the whole year round, just long enough to establish resident status.’

  ‘Is this a roundabout way of telling me I’m fired?’

  ‘Pay attention, Julia! I want you to come with me, that’s what this whole conversation is about!’

  Julia ignored his irritation. A couple of months ago she would have been over the moon, but now the first thought that popped into her head was how far the Caribbean was from Hugh Walton. By straining credulity she could imagine Hugh seeking her out in Auckland, but going with Phillip would really be burning her boats—patched and leaky as they were!

  ‘You don’t seem very enthusiastic’

  ‘Yes, well …’ she said, trying to summon some animation, ‘… could I think it over?’

  ‘Of course,’ he said stiffly. ‘There’s a considerable amount of red tape to go through yet, and the real estate firm haven’t found me a suitable location yet. I certainly won’t be moving until the new financial year.’

  ‘I’m sorry, Phillip,’ said Julia, conscious of having offended him once again. ‘The idea of the Caribbean is fantastic, but all my family’s here, and I’ve had my years of travelling.’ Now all she wanted to do was settle down with the right man!

  ‘Good Lord, Julia, you sound middle-aged! What’s come over you the last few weeks?’

  ‘It’s spring, maybe I’m feeling the nesting instinct.’ She ventured the truth under guise of lightness.

  ‘Richard Marlow, I suppose,’ Phillip pounced scornfully. ‘I wouldn’t bank on him too much if I was you. Actors are inclined to be a bit unstable. You can’t rush into these things without considering the practicalities, Julia.’

  Julia gritted her teeth at his condescending tone. Why shouldn’t she rush in? Love should be spontaneous, not planned out like a financial campaign. Anyway, Phillip was wrong, she had had plenty of time to work out all the practical details of living with Hugh.

  First, she would move into his apartment; then find a job with more reasonable hours—maybe catering for private lunches. She would insist on financial independence, respect the more entrenched of Hugh’s solitary habits, do his typing if he asked nicely. If there were children (perhaps a girl who could become a lawyer, and a boy to be a chef!) she would become an enthusiastic, housewifely mother, at least while they were young. God, what bliss it would be to have such beautiful certainties in her future!

  Observing her drift into a daydream Phillip let the subject drop, but he didn’t let her forget. He took to leaving brightly coloured travel brochures lying casually around the house. Julia didn’t even bother to read them. She knew the problem wouldn’t go away just because she ignored it, but she couldn’t bring herself to seriously think about it.

  She had promised Connie when they left Craemar that she would keep in touch, but somehow it didn’t happen. Julia felt that, though she hadn’t said anything, in some indefinable way she had let Connie down. The feeling seemed to be confirmed as the weeks passed and she didn’t hear from any of the Marlows. She read in the papers that rehearsals for Romeo and Juliet had begun, so she excused Richard on the grounds of work, though it had never stopped him before.

  She also learned from the newspapers that Hard Times had cancelled its concert tour of the Far East, and that Steve was immersed in the composition of a rock opera, to be performed by the group in conjunction with one of Auckland’s professional theatres.

  From the Arts section of one of Phillip’s glossy magazines she discovered that Olivia Marlow (‘promising young Auckland artist’) had received a grant to study for a year in Paris under the aegis of a famous French tutor. The grant, made through the Queen Elizabeth II Arts Council, was by an anonymous donor. Hugh? Julia’s throat thickened with tender yearning as the page blurred before her eyes. The timing was right, and who else would be so anxious to hide an impulse of generosity? Dear, darling Hugh. Where was he now? And with whom? She sniffed fiercely at the thought of the wretched Farrow woman. A man who preferred a woman like that deserved everything he got. It probably wouldn’t have worked anyway—a relationship with Hugh—Julia lectured herself sternly. A one-sided love was doomed from the start. And they were such fundamentally different people. They probably would have spent all their spare time arguing. All the time they spent out of bed, that is.

  Julia caught herself up on the slip. ‘Out, out, damned spot,’ she muttered as she answered the doorbell late one evening. She must concentrate on the negative things about Hugh, the things she didn’t like: the secretiveness, the intermittent coldness, the ease with which he ignored people … the … the … oh, what was the use! when all she really wanted to remember was the sweet warmth of his breath on her body, the silken sweep of those large, gentle hands, the heady excitement of feeling him pressing against her, the times when he made her laugh, when he made her think.

  It was a shock to throw open the door and find Richard standing sheepishly outside. As if her thoughts had conjured up a Marlow, even if it was the wrong one.

  Richard greeted her cheerily and was inside, chatting about the play, and the family, making himself at home before she had a chance to open her mouth.
Finally he paused.

  ‘And how are you? You look … blooming.’

  ‘So I should be,’ said Julia, thinking of all that damned exercise. She was sitting on the couch, hands clasped loosely on her stomach and she gasped as she followed his suspicious gaze. ‘No, I’m not! Fancy even thinking it!’

  ‘These things happen in the best of families.’

  ‘Not unless you’re God.’

  ‘What!’ Richard’s nimble mind alerted. ‘Julia! You’re not still a virgin are you?’

  ‘You look more shocked than you did when you thought I was pregnant,’ Julia complained, embarrassed at his astonishment.

  ‘But … I … we all naturally assumed … ‘

  ‘It never got that far. Not for want of trying on my part,’ admitted Julia with a painful honesty. How she had tried!

  ‘ “She burnes that never knew desire,

  She that was ice, she now is fire.” ‘

  Richard lapsed into quotation, but his voice held sympathy as well as knowledge and Julia was hard put not to burst into tears. How well that described the state she was in, the heated turmoil of her thoughts and feelings.

  ‘Well, here’s something that might cheer you up, the reason I came,’ said Richard, fumbling in his jacket pocket. Julia was too het-up to notice his unusual lack of curiosity. She didn’t want to talk about it anyway or she would be in tears. She hated the thought of being one of those clingy, weepy females.

  ‘Here. Two tickets to our opening Friday night.

  Connie gave them to me. Said she’d love to see you. You’ll be sitting next to the girls. There’s a party afterwards, too.’

  Julia stared at the proffered tickets as if they might bite.

  ‘Hugh won’t be there,’ he said, with what she thought was unnecessary callousness. ‘He’s going back down to Craemar again for the weekend, editing something or other.’

  Back down? So he had been here, in Auckland, and not contacted her. Another door slammed in her face. Still, she avidly lapped up the crumb of information.

  ‘Hey, what’s this?’ Richard found one of Phillip’s brochures. ‘Thinking of running off into the wild blue?’

  Julia told him about Phillip’s plans.

  ‘Will you go?’ with sudden sharpness.

  ‘Maybe,’ she shrugged, annoyed with herself that indecisiveness, which had never been part of her makeup before, was becoming a trait. She frequently dithered of late, even over a simple thing like the route for her next jog.

  She was sorry when Richard finally left. Loneliness was also new to her. Up until now her life had been very comfortable, she realised. No traumas, no tragedies or great upheavals to test the mettle of her character. Fate had obviously been saving up for the Big One. She felt alone and afraid, struggling along, trying to reconnect the flow of her life. She should look on Hugh as a drug she had to get out of her system. But like Steve she had to want and need to do it herself. At least she didn’t have his unbearable temptation of having her particular drug easily available. For her it was cold turkey all the way. The real, the deepest fear, was the unanswerable one. She avoided even thinking about it. What if she was one of those people fated only to love once in their life, once and forever? Would she ever find happiness with another man if all love was to be measured by this one?

  She went alone to the theatre, meeting Ros and Olivia and Steve in the foyer. It was lovely to join their friendly banter again and as they took their seats in the stalls, Julia congratulated Steve and Olivia on their respective coups. Steve was relaxed, happy and cautiously optimistic about his rock opera. Olivia was over the moon. Julia caught Ros’s eye and tried not to grin as Olivia told her, in an incredulous voice, that Logan had had the nerve to suggest going with her … splitting the grant and going halves on expenses.

  Poor Logan, thought Julia as the lights dimmed. We worried about the wrong person. Olivia had a fair chunk of the Marlow ambition in her makeup. Everything rated a poor second to Art right now … including spiritual gurus!

  The play was an immense success, earning the players a standing ovation and when Richard joined them at the after-show supper in the bar, Julia rewarded him with an exuberant hug.

  ‘Thank you, darling,’ he grinned, his face shiny with cold cream and congratulations. ‘You didn’t notice the set shiver as I went over the balcony did you? I thought the whole lot was going to come down on top of me. God, I’m hot and thirsty.’ He snatched a glass from a passing tray and toasted: ‘Those who are about to die …’

  Ros overrode the others’ protests. ‘Yes, there were a few rough edges; I noticed you fluff a line or three.’

  ‘Trust you to notice,’ Richard groaned. ‘And Juliet nearly got the giggles when the balcony wobbled. Have you seen Michael? He’s grinning like a Cheshire cat!’ According to Richard his father always smiled most just before he lowered the boom.

  ‘Probably because he’s so pleased,’ said Julia, causing the trio of Marlows to exchange tolerant looks. ‘Well, I thought it was perfect. Cheers!’ She raised her third, or was it her fourth, glass of sparkling wine? She was feeling much better, chasing melancholy away with make-believe.

  At midnight the management announced regretfully that their licence did not permit the serving of any more alcohol, and the glittering throng began their exodus. Soon there remained only hard-core supporters and cast.

  Julia, frayed by an excess of hilarity, took to sipping wine from a coffee cup in deference to the licensing laws. She was floating in a haze when she was pounced upon by Connie and borne away to the stuffy peace of a dressing room the size of a small wardrobe.

  ‘Mine, would you believe,’ Connie announced, subsiding on to a wooden chair. ‘And I share this shoebox with two others! Such are the rewards of fame. Sometimes I can understand people wanting to become secretaries or … or … mechanics!’

  Julia latched on to the familiar. ‘Charley?’

  ‘So you know about Charley? I mean Charles. Why am I always the last? Michael says he should be given his head, providing he gets good marks in School Certificate this year. And who am I to oppose Michael? But enough of my trials. Pull up that stool, darling, and let’s have a chat. I hear you’re off overseas again.’

  Julia was glad to sit down. Her head had lost its centre of gravity and the world was beginning to revolve around her in a most peculiar fashion.

  ‘Not necessarily. I haven’t made up my mind yet.’

  ‘Good. You don’t want to rush into anything. Where precisely is Phillip going?’

  ‘Probably the Virgin Islands,’ said Julia, with grim humour.

  ‘Mmmm …’ Connie eyed her thoughtfully, drumming her fingers on a silk-clad knee. ‘You’ve put on weight, Julia—it suits you. In fact you’re looking marvellous. Too good to be true. I thought you were supposed to be madly and unhappily love with my son?’

  ‘Richard?’ The world stood still, but now it was her head that spun.

  Connie gave an exaggerated sigh. ‘No, dear girl. Hugh.’

  ‘Oh. Hugh.’ She frowned into her drink.

  ‘Yes. Hugh. Do concentrate, Julia. It’s important.’

  ‘Not to him.’ A wave of alcoholic depression swept over Julia. ‘He says I’m in love with a figment of my own imagination. Is it so impossible to believe that I might love him, himself?’ she demanded belligerently.

  ‘Of course not, darling. I believe you,’ Connie soothed. ‘It’s just that Hugh won’t allow himself to admit it. Just as he wouldn’t allow himself to make love to you!’ Connie spread her hands in charming deprecation as Julia blushed scarlet.

  ‘Forgive us our trespasses, Julia, but Richard and I happen to care very much about you, and Hugh. I realise that mothers are not supposed to poke their noses into their sons’ sex lives, but this is a special case. He blossomed so beautifully there for a while, with you, now he’s all closed up again. And he never talks about himself … he’s such a secretive person …’ Connie sighed, and for a moment she looked all
her years and more, the life dying out of her eyes, her curving mouth pinched with an old pain.

  ‘Deepest wounds can least their feelings tell. That’s Hugh. His wounds run very, very deep, Julia, and it’s quite reasonable that he should fight against being hurt again. Poor Hugh …’

  Julia was desperately trying to clear her muzzy brain and focus her attention on Connie’s moving mouth. What was she saying? Poor Hugh? What about poor Julia? She struggled to discipline her thoughts. Connie said this was important.

  ‘You’ve probably made an educated guess about Hugh’s early background. I think you should know the real story. It’s not really mine to tell, but Hugh never talks about it … and it might help you make a few necessary decisions.’

  She straightened, and narrowed her green eyes, looking off into the distance. ‘Hugh never really had a chance. He was doomed to being hurt from the moment he was born.

  ‘His father was an alcoholic; mean-spirited, weak in every way except the purely physical. He was a big man, and when he was drunk he was a wrecker, a destroyer. His wife, Lydia, was a quiet, shy, kindly woman … I suppose you might call her one of life’s natural victims. A dangerous combination.’

  Connie told the story simply, plainly, but the very starkness emphasised the horror. The truth was infinitely crueller than the inventions of Julia’s fertile imagination. A battered child, that much she had guessed. But for the rest…

  Over the years George Walton had turned his home into a living hell for his wife and child, enforcing his drunken tyranny with brutal strength. When sober he would be bitterly remorseful, begging for forgiveness, crying, pleading, promising to change. He never did, but Lydia Walton stayed with him, too passive, too cowed, or too ashamed to seek help in breaking out of the vicious circle. The family moved around a lot as George took on odd labouring jobs, never in one place long enough to arouse the suspicions of neighbours or school teachers.