Love in a Mist

by Sarah Harrison

  Walking up and down the verge to settle my stomach also cleared my head. I had about eighty miles to go – just under two hours on the road if I was lucky, but that felt far too much. I recognized, now that it was too late, that for every imaginable reason I should have stayed. Seen it through. Allowed the worst of the shock to pass. Allowed for Nico’s pain as well as mine. Spared a thought for Zinny, sick and in hospital …

  I hadn’t even brought the note with me. The note from ‘Dadder’ – Billy, who had walked out on everyone and now had the nerve to try and insinuate himself back into my life. According to Nico, back then Billy wouldn’t even accept paternity. She’d give it out to ‘whichever randy sod was around’, that’s what he’d said.

  Dadder! How dare he?

  I think that’s when I realized how much I loved Nico, the man who had been there all through my life. And that was why he was so hard to forgive.

  I got back in the car and drove on, away from Nico and Zinny, away from disgusting ‘Dadder’. Back to the place which, even if it wasn’t home, provided me with some sense of who I was.

  The light was blinking on the telephone and the small screen registered three messages, but I hadn’t the heart or the energy to play them. I dragged off my clothes and crawled under the duvet like a stray dog, diving at once into a deep, black sleep.

  I woke up as I had in the car, with, for a couple of seconds, no idea of the time or place. Then I recognized the outlines of my room, and checked my watch to find it was only half past midnight: it had been before seven when I’d arrived home and passed out.

  I got up, put on dressing gown and slippers and made myself some tea. Being in my little kitchen calmed me – this was after all my place, under my control. Back in the living room I pressed the button on the answering machine and sat down to listen.

  The first call began with a long rustling silence, and I thought at first it was a wrong number, but then I heard Nico’s voice, broken and distracted, saying something barely audible. I played it again, with my head close to the speaker, and now I could make out two words ‘… the Prof …’ Zinny’s phrase for Edwin, and the very last words I expected to hear. There was something eerie about hearing them in my father’s – in Nico’s – mouth, and now, when I was still lurching in the wake of all the revelations about my past. I couldn’t catch the rest of what he said, and it wasn’t much, so I moved on to the next one.

  Edwin.

  ‘Hello, my love. I’m afraid I’m guilty of having called your parents’ number in the hope of finding out how you were, the journey and so on, but a bit concerned to hear from the chap on the other end – your papa? He didn’t say – that you’d already been and gone. He was pretty short with me. I do hope everything’s all right. I don’t like the thought of you haring all the way back on the same day, possibly after some sort of difficulty … Anyway, that’s not my business. Do ring me when you’re safe home. I miss you and worry about you. Can’t wait to see you. Bye … I love you, Flora my darling … Bye.’

  For the first time since the conversation with Nico, I cried. The straightforward heartfelt love in Edwin’s voice was overwhelming. That love was all I wanted and what I most needed – but at the moment I felt so depleted, so stained and ashamed, that I could not imagine deserving it. Who was I, after all, to be loved at all, by anyone, let alone a man like Edwin? I no longer knew. Nico had been right: he’d told me what happened, but that still left me well short of understanding.

  Still in tears, I pressed the machine again, and again it was Edwin.

  ‘Just wondered if you were back yet … Let me know when you are. Or actually, you know what, I’ll stop being a fusspot and assume no news is good news. Get in touch in your own good time. We have invitations— anyway, that’s not important. Speak soon my darling … Bye.’

  He had made an effort to be brisk and practical, and I loved him even more for it. I wanted to be the woman he loved, but I was no longer sure that woman existed. She’d been taken from me, and so from him.

  Jesus, was I sorry for myself!

  What with the self-hatred and the even worse self-pity, I sat up until nearly three and fell asleep on the sofa. The next time I woke up it was a light, bright, freezing morning and I was foul-tempered, always a sign of incipient recovery. When a couple of kids rushed past me on the stairs, bumping me on the way, I snapped at them quite nastily and they exchanged a look that was part fearful and part mocking – what a grumpy cow!

  I decided to walk to Edwin’s. This was partly to settle my head so I could talk to him sensibly, and partly the very opposite of deferred gratification, to put the moment off. I knew I couldn’t not tell him. At the very least I needed to account for my unexplained disappearance, and for worrying him. Also, more importantly, I recognized that telling him was at least a step on the way to my own rehabilitation – an acknowledgement of the past, and the violent re-ordering of the present.

  I paused just before I reached the cathedral precinct, and made a detour on a narrow footpath that would take me right round to the south side. A wall ran along on one side of the path which increased my sense of scurrying secrecy.

  How would he react? Edwin, with his ordered, cultured life, his successful portmanteau career, his charming friends. Might it all be just too distasteful, too plain nasty? I wouldn’t have blamed him if he’d backed off in horror and alarm, wondering what on earth was this succubus he’d taken into his life … That was how I myself felt, but then I had no alternative other than to wear it.

  When I was the far side of the close I was moved to turn right, cross the greensward and enter the cathedral through the small north door. To my confused and jaundiced eye its soaring bulk was like a mother ship exerting a pull over lost seafarers like me, which was I suppose the idea. A tall Christmas tree stood near the pulpit, ablaze with white lights, a nice conjunction of sacred and secular. There weren’t many people in here today, and only the softest susurration of voices floated up into the vast space, the visitors drifted, paused, peered, looked up. Here and there a person sat in one of the pews, studying a leaflet or simply gazing inward in whatever passed for prayer.

  For the first time in, oh, ten years, I thought of the couple I’d encountered that time in Paris – the louche, engaging rogue and his sweet-faced partner with the rose on her beret. They had made a profound impression on me then, and now that I called them to mind their images were as bright and poignant on my mental retina as if the meeting had been yesterday. I remembered thinking even then that there was something significant about it, that the crossing of our paths had not been simply random. I was pleased to have met them and to witness, in a small way, the complex balance of their autumnal love. He had seemed to hold all the power – his the careless, practised exercise of charm, the ease, the chat, the bold presumption of intimacy; hers the yielding tolerance, the patience, the soft stoicism … And yet I’d known instinctively that the real strength was also hers, even if, as I suspected, it had been hard won. When I’d spotted them later in Notre Dame they had not been on show, and these differences were quietly, plainly evident in his haggard restlessness and her serenity.

  Standing now in the cathedral, I didn’t analyse or re-examine any of this. The couple, with their accompanying cloud of impressions, simply came to mind. And, for some reason, comfortingly.

  ‘Flora?’

  Rachel was wearing her on-duty clothes – black trousers and a grey tunic, a soft, bleached blue cotton scarf draped anyhow over her shoulders in a way that would never have stayed in place if I had done it. Her hair was up and she was wearing her glasses.

  ‘How nice to see you. It’s my day on.’

  I said hello though I couldn’t pretend I was pleased to see her. But if there was anything in my manner she didn’t appear to notice.

  ‘Is all well? I dropped in on Edwin a little while ago and he was rather worried. What am I saying – he was very worried.’

  She was being kind, not critical. I said, ‘Everythin
g’s fine. I had a family crisis to attend to.’

  She held up her hands in apology. ‘Oh dear, I’m so very sorry.’

  ‘Unfortunately I didn’t have time to explain to Edwin.’

  ‘He’ll understand.’ She smiled, and I saw her attention veer off to the side. ‘I spy a question bearing down. I’m so glad you’re back, Flora, and that I spotted you.’

  I left by the north door, the one where an orchestra of angels lined the arch, and two broken-nosed gargoyles known locally as Bill and Ben leered down between obscenely drawn-up knees. Edwin’s house was exactly opposite. As I walked towards it I remembered vividly coming here, to the close, that first morning with no idea what to expect or who I was to meet. Forces at work, surely. And now in a way the roles were reversed: Edwin could never imagine what I was about to bring over his threshold.

  I had come out without a bag, and consequently without my key. Perhaps I wouldn’t have used it anyway – it felt right to knock, to wait, to take nothing for granted. When he didn’t come I remembered that in the middle of the morning he might well be working, out in the shed. Again, I could have walked down the side of the house but instead I pulled on the rod marked ‘Garden Bell’ – I wasn’t aware that anyone ever used this – and waited again. This ritual, this small, self-imposed torture was bracing: if I assumed nothing I was less likely to get hurt.

  In the event he surprised me by coming not through the house but up the path at the side and so that I heard his voice and felt his hands on my shoulders at almost the same time.

  ‘There you are!’

  He turned me round so I was in his arms, and then kissed me vigorously and unashamedly, in full view of the whole close.

  ‘God, how wonderful. Come in at once!’ He pushed at the door, but of course he didn’t have a key either, so he grabbed my hand and towed me purposefully back along the path into the garden.

  ‘Come,’ he said, ‘sit down here with me.’

  We sat on the bench where Rachel and I had had our first conversation. Edwin had my hand in both of his now, and was perched on the edge of the seat so he could look into my face. The bench wasn’t large, so we were very close. I had no option but to stare back into his face, that bony, idiosyncratic face with its long, lined cheeks and the mobile mouth with its downturned smile. His hair was disarrayed as ever, and behind his specs his eyes were slightly hooded at the outer corners. He was not a handsome man, as I knew my— as I recognized Nico to be, but I had never met anyone whose face so brimmed with quietly energetic thought and interest. A face in which the human and the humane were so vividly present and open to receive.

  Sensing something, he lifted my hand, gave it a brief kiss and returned it to me.

  ‘Is this OK?’ he asked.

  The simplest possible question, and yet I had the weight of it. He knew I had things to say, and he was making sure the circumstances were right. I was under no pressure; he was ready when I was.

  ‘Perhaps,’ I said, ‘we could go in?’

  ‘Let’s do that.’

  He got up and moved towards the house, but I had a sudden thought. ‘No.’ He looked at me. ‘Can we go into your study?’

  ‘The shed? Of course.’ He smiled ruefully. ‘So long as you remember it’s a while since it was subjected to your ministrations. What’s the expression? Cut me some slack.’

  I followed him down the path. The door of the shed was open, and the inside as he’d left it when he heard the garden bell – the chair pushed back from the desk, the screensaver of planets gently passing and re-passing in dark space, the biro on the spiral notebook, the coffee mug with the name and logo of a literary festival. But there was no pile of paper on the armchair.

  ‘Thanks to your ministrations, there is at least a seat I can offer you.’

  ‘Thank you.’ I sat, and he pulled round the chair from behind the desk. The door remained open and it was nice to be in this unfussy, secluded space, but still to be able to see the pale afternoon light, the tussocky lawn and the languorous sprawl of the clematis on the wall opposite.

  ‘You’re right,’ he said. ‘It’s lovely to have you here, where no-one else comes.’

  But now I’d stipulated my conditions, and had them fulfilled, I had to speak.

  ‘Don’t worry,’ he said. ‘How about the cup that cheers?’

  He didn’t wait but put water in the kettle from a large tartan thermos, and switched it on. He retrieved the lit-fest mug from the desk and set it alongside one of the William Morris ones that had been a present from Rachel. It occurred to me that I hadn’t yet given him a present – there had been no occasion to.

  ‘How was your journey, anyway?’ he asked over his shoulder. ‘Should I say journeys? You must be shattered.’

  ‘I’m OK.’ I wanted to say that if I was shattered it wasn’t because of that. Instead I added, ‘I don’t mind driving.’

  ‘That’s one of the differences of age. I used to love it, but not so much now. You’ll be able to take over.’ He glanced at me, a hot, narrow glance with a grin. ‘Didn’t Dr Johnson have some quip about a fast carriage driven by a smart woman? That’ll be us.’

  I did love him. The soft patter of his words was like manna. It was not so much that he knew what to say but that he knew what not to – and knew not to elicit anything from me. Now he handed me the mug and sat down with his. The desk chair was higher, and he had his back to the window, so his face was in shadow. He realized this and moved slightly to one side, his head turned to look out, away from me.

  ‘The garden’s a little shaggy.’

  ‘It looks nice. You don’t want it too manicured.’

  ‘Good grief no, I’d never be able to live up to it.’

  ‘Edwin.’ I took a deep breath, quite audibly, but to his eternal credit he didn’t turn round. ‘Edwin, I owe you an apology.’

  ‘I don’t think so.’ He looked down at his tea, lacing his long fingers carefully around the mug.

  ‘Well, I took off without explanation, and I didn’t return your calls.’

  ‘Don’t give it a thought. I knew you’d have your reasons.’

  ‘I did, and I want to tell you. Or at least, I don’t exactly want to, but—’

  ‘Flora, you don’t have to. I don’t believe in all that no-secrets business. Everyone’s entitled to his or her quota of secrets. And,’ he leaned a little towards me, teasing, ‘I have complete faith in you.’

  He may have been teasing, but I knew that was true. With Edwin’s love came his trust, his discretion and his respect however (as it seemed to me at that moment) undeserved. My heart contracted and pushed a lump into my throat, so that my voice, when I found it, wavered dangerously.

  ‘I’m not sure what you’re going to think …’

  ‘Nor me,’ he said. ‘Try me.’

  You hear people say they ‘don’t know where to begin’, but in my case that was literally true. Having screwed up my courage, I found myself tongue-tied and overwhelmed, but Edwin understood and came to my rescue.

  ‘Why not start with why you had to go home? Are your parents all right?’

  I said ‘Yes’ before I remembered that wasn’t true, and added, ‘Actually Zinny’s not well. She’s in hospital.’

  ‘Zinny’s your mother, yes? I’m so sorry to hear that. How is she?’

  ‘I don’t really know … That’s not why I went …’

  It was horribly shaming to admit it, and I wavered. Edwin passed me a handkerchief.

  ‘Don’t worry,’ he said, quietly and seriously. ‘Just keep going.’

  What a rare gift it is to be a good listener. Edwin, it turned out, had a genius for listening, and just as well. Heaven knows how he followed the story I had to tell him. It was already complicated and what with that, and the fact that I had barely digested it myself, and so was recounting it out of sequence and in emotional fits and starts with frequent digressions, and backtracking, it must have been far from easy. At no point did he express shock, or horror. Hi
s expression throughout remained intent, calm and concentrated. Occasionally he’d nod, but he didn’t speak, or touch me.

  He was right not to. I had to find my own way through. As I spoke, there were so many other things that bobbed up from my memory which made shocking sense. My childish hand touching that other, older hand on the window frame … my parents’ secrecy, the conversations that stopped as I appeared … the sense I developed of my having, uniquely, no past … the visit to Jessie and those half-heard words – The children – the hard-faced man glimpsed at her funeral, the Dadder of that creepy note.

  The netted tangle of hair in the fusty, haunted spare bedroom. Oh, yes., it was all coming together in my mind.

  I can’t say how long it took me, but by the time I slowed and ground to a halt the sun had moved over so that it fell across the garden, and the wall opposite cast a short shadow.

  For a moment Edwin said nothing, but let the blessed silence rise and lap and wash over us. He rubbed his hand over his face, and I mopped mine with his hankie and tucked it in my jacket pocket – it was in no fit state to hand back. Then he got up and stretched, the normal, everyday stretch of a tall man who’d been sitting down for too long.

  ‘Thank you … I could never have made that up. Come on.’ He stood in the doorway and held out an encouraging hand. ‘Let’s have a stiff drink.’ He caught my reflexive glance at my watch. ‘I don’t care what time it is.’

  I followed him, like a child, and he closed the door of the shed behind us. He stretched again, opening his shoulders and tilting his face to the sun.

  ‘Turned out nice again.’

  We walked side by side back to the house. Something in his manner made me feel less like a child. More myself. He had said nothing yet about what I’d told him, but now that it was out there, and the world had not imploded, some sort of perspective was slowly returning.

  In the kitchen he opened the bottle cupboard and took out whisky in one hand, brandy in the other, plonking them on the table and adding two tumblers.