by Janet Tanner
The memory of him hurt her even more than the wave of homesickness for the island had done and impatiently Lilli pushed it away. She wouldn’t think of him. She dared not. He had lied to her, deceived her, broken her heart. Worse, he had sullied every aspect of everything she had loved. No – that was not quite true. The imperfections had been there all the time – Jorge had merely opened her eyes to them. He had been the catalyst. She couldn’t forgive him – she couldn’t forgive any of them – and yet she loved them still. That was her cross, weighing heavily upon her slim shoulders. That was what made it so hard to bear.
Lilli took off her coat, a thick warm duffel in ochre wool, and hung it carefully in the closet. Her reflection in the mirrored door met her head-on, throwing back the image of a tall slender girl with thick dark hair tumbling over the polo-neck of a black cashmere sweater and eyes of so dark a brown they were almost black. Lilli had inherited her looks from her Venezuelan mother; there was about her nothing of the fairness of her Aryan father. She had long legs and a slim, almost boyish figure that would have looked totally at home on the thoroughbred horses her mother’s family had bred on their sweeping estate in the Andes. She had all their grace coupled with their toughness and their air of compelling mystique. Even in cosmopolitan New York her exotic beauty was remarkable and she was shrewd enough to realise that it was an asset in her job as a PR girl for a small publishing house. Those who met her did not forget her easily and her charm and good looks opened doors which might otherwise have remained closed.
In the tiny kitchen of her apartment Lilli turned up the central heating and poured herself a glass of wine. It would have been sensible, perhaps, to make a pot of scalding coffee, but Lilli enjoyed the ritual of a glass of Chablis at the end of a working day. She sipped it appreciatively, topped up the glass and carried it over to the peninsula counter, sliding herself up easily into a tall high-backed stool.
The letter with the Caribbean postage stamp lay on the counter where she had put it down. The writing on the envelope, round and childish, was instantly recognisable.
Josie, her lifelong – if, in her father’s eyes at least, totally unsuitable – friend Josie, whose mother had been one of the maids at her father’s villa, had become to Lilli the sister she never had. No matter that at times her father had put his foot down and forbidden them to play together, they had found ways. No matter that Lilli was spoiled and petted and wanted for nothing whilst Josie’s family was unashamedly poor. The bond had been forged between them and had never been broken. Lilli had been sent away to be educated in Venezuela whilst Josie had attended the little island school which was run for the benefit of the local children, but whenever Lilli returned home they had picked up their friendship exactly where it had been left off.
Josie was married now, to one of the gardeners on Lilli’s father’s estate, and she had a baby son – born not on Madrepora but on St Vincent, since Josie, like all the locals, had been sent away from the island for her confinement. Lilli’s father did not want the complication of native-born Madreporans staking claims of birthright to his island if such a thing could be avoided. But though Lilli was no longer living on Madrepora Josie had written to ask her to be godmother, and though she knew her father would be furious Lilli had been delighted to agree, making her vows by proxy.
The two girls corresponded regularly if a little infrequently and Josie’s letters were always full of news of her family, of little Winston’s progress, and, in her last letter a few months ago, the announcement that she was pregnant again. But she rarely mentioned Lilli’s father or Ingrid, whom she knew Lilli disliked, and she never mentioned Jorge.
Lilli tore open the envelope and extracted the two sheets of paper covered in Josie’s meticulous childlike hand. She sipped her wine as she perused details of Winston’s latest mischief, Josie’s advancing pregnancy and the fact that Abel, her husband, had been promoted to chief groundsman in charge of the island’s one and only hotel as well as general estate duties. As she read, Lilli’s feeling of homesickness deepened and she saw again in her mind’s eye the manicured lawns, the flowering shrubs, neatly pruned yet riotous with colour, and the tennis courts rolled to the smooth emerald velvet of a bowling green.
A small wistful smile lifted the corners of her mouth as she remembered the afternoons when she and Josie had gone to the hotel and hidden in the shrubs which surrounded the large open-air swimming pool, spying on the guests as they exposed their pale flabby bodies to the sun on the loungers beside the pool or executed flat belly-flop dives into the azure water, and giggling together at the men’s ineptitude. The guests had always been a source of amusement to the girls. They were the very epitome of middle-aged sobriety, talking to one another in German, a language Lilli did not understand although it was her father’s native tongue, and almost paranoid about their privacy. Lilli had known that her father would be furious if he knew she and Josie were spying on them, though the hotel itself was not forbidden to her as certain parts of the island were. It was simply that he would have disapproved of her having fun at their expense and encouraging Josie to do the same – Josie, the local, who should have known her place.
Now Abel, Josie’s husband, was tending those very shrubs, supervising the cleaning of that very pool, while the same guests, or some very like them, allowed their fair-skinned bodies to turn salmon pink under the hot Madrepora sun like pigs roasting on a spit. The irony of it made Lilli smile again and she read on, hungry for the words that evoked so vividly her memories of the island.
A few paragraphs on, however, and the tone of the letter changed. Even before she read what Josie had to say Lilli sensed it, as if her friend had become awkward suddenly, wondering how to proceed, and her anxiety had transferred itself to the page in a way that was more mystic, more nebulous, than mere stilted words.
‘There is something Lilli, which I think you ought to know. Your father has not been at all well. He has become very thin, very drawn, most unlike himself, and the maids at the villa say he needs to rest a lot. I did not mention it before because I did not want to worry you, but a week or so ago he flew to the mainland and Abel heard he was going to a hospital for tests. When he returned he looked worse than ever. I tried to find out what is wrong – not easy, your father is a very private man. But Abel’s brother, Noah, who has been working at the villa, thinks the doctor your father went to see is a cancer specialist. He may have been in touch with you himself, of course, but knowing the situation I somehow doubt it. Besides, your father hates to be ill, doesn’t he? Anyway, I thought you should know.’
Her serious news imparted, Josie returned with obvious relief to other lighter topics, but Lilli scarcely bothered to read them.
The cold of the early evening seemed to have got right inside her suddenly, chill fingers touching her spine and sending shivers of dread through her veins to dispel the initial reaction of utter disbelief.
Her father ill – perhaps very ill – he couldn’t be! It was unimaginable. In all her life Lilli did not think she could ever remember him having so much as a headache. He had, to her, epitomised power and strength. As a child she had been a little afraid of him, respectful of his sudden changes of mood and the flashes of temper that erupted if she misbehaved or displeased him, always in awe of his indisputable air of authority. Even later, when she had discovered that he had not been as much in control of everything in his life as she had believed, he had still remained a towering personality, flawed a little, perhaps, but still a force to be reckoned with. She had seen him grow older, watched his fair hair turn white, seen the lines each themselves more deeply on his face and the veins become more prominent in his hands, but it simply never occurred to her that the years would take their toll on his body as on everyone else’s. Time, it had seemed to her, had passed her father by. He was still tall and straight, his voice still firm and unwavering, his will as indomitable as ever. Sickness and death were misfortunes that befell other mere mortals, weaknesses with which he would hav
e no dealing. He defied them, and it had seemed to her that he would go on defying them to time immemorial.
Now, with a sense of utter shock, it came home to her that he was not, after all, immune.
She reread Josie’s letter, her sense of foreboding growing. However close their friendship, Josie knew better than to interfere in family matters. She would never have taken the step of breaking news such as this unless she thought it absolutely necessary, especially when what she actually knew was little more than supposition and hearsay, and the very unsensational matter-of-factness of her words made them all the more chillingly convincing.
He should have let me know! Lilli thought, a terrible sense of isolation overwhelming her. And if he wouldn’t do it, for all the reasons Josie mentioned, then Ingrid should have. They should have told me! I am his daughter, for God’s sake! I have a right to know!
She sat for a few moments longer, turning the glass between her hands, steeling herself to do what she knew she had to do – speak to them herself and find out the truth. Then she got up, crossed to the telephone and called the operator.
‘I want an international call, please, to Madrepora in the Windward Islands.’ Her throat felt tight as she gave the number, once so familiar, but now rusty on her tongue, lost beneath the layers of other, more recently used numbers – her New York friends, her business acquaintances.
‘All lines are busy at the moment. I’ll call you back.’
The unconcerned implacability of the operator increased her feeling of helplessness. How long would it be before she was able to get through? But there was nothing she could do about it. She replaced the receiver, went to get herself another glass of wine, then changed her mind. She could do with something stronger. It was much too early, of course, but still – tough! She unstoppered the gin bottle, poured a good measure into a fresh glass and topped it up with tonic water. Then she gulped at it like a lost traveller at a St Bernard’s life-saving brandy flask.
The telephone, when it began to ring, made her start. Perhaps it wasn’t the call to Madrepora, she told herself. Perhaps it was one of her friends suggesting a movie or a drink.
But it was the call to Madrepora.
‘Connecting you now,’ the operator told her, and she heard the whistles and the hollow echoings, which reminded her oddly of the surf on the beach, and then, as if from a long way off, the ringing of the bell.
After a few moments it was answered by one of the maids – Lilli knew it must be one of the maids because she recognised the slightly singsong patois.
‘I’d like to speak to Herr Brandt,’ she said.
‘Who is calling, please?’
‘It’s his daughter.’
‘Lilli! Miss Lilli – is that really you?’
‘Patsy?’
‘Yes, Miss Lilli, it’s me. Oh, it’s good to hear your voice!’
‘And yours, Patsy.’
Memories, rushing in; a smiling black face, a broad bosom in which Lilli used to bury her face – Patsy, her nurse, closer to her in many ways than her own mother had ever been. When Magdalene had died it had been Patsy who had picked Lilli up and cleaned her grazed knees when she fell down, Patsy who had braided her hair, Patsy who had tucked her up in bed at night, crooning to her in a low tuneless voice. Even before Magdalene had died Patsy had been the one Lilli could run to, dishevelled and crying, knowing that unlike her mother there would be no protests about her crumpling her dress or planting sticky kisses on her cheek. Dear, dear Patsy. But Lilli knew she could not spend time in idle chatter however much she wanted to. The lines to Madrepora were not very reliable. This one could break up at any minute and it was important she speak to her father.
‘Is Daddy there?’
‘He’s here, Miss Lilli, but I’m not sure … He’s been ill, you know. I think he may be resting.’
‘Frau Brandt then?’ Lilli suggested.
‘Oh yes, speak to Frau Brandt, Miss Lilli.’ The relief in Patsy’s voice was obvious. ‘I’ll fetch her. Oh, I’m so glad …’
Lilli took another gulp of gin as she waited. She felt a little calmer now – hearing Patsy’s voice had done that.
She heard voices, too indistinct to be able to make out what they were saying, then what sounded like footsteps on the tiled floor of the villa. And then, unusually clearly, as if she were in the next room instead of half the length of a continent away, Ingrid’s voice.
‘Lilli.’
Just the sound of it conjured up a picture of her. In imagination Lilli saw her standing there, holding the receiver in her smooth beringed hand, stroking it lightly with nails varnished to a pale pearly pink. Ingrid was fifty-six years old but she looked ten years younger, her pampered plumpness denying the wrinkles the chance to deepen and giving her a statuesque poise. Ingrid never allowed her fair skin to be exposed to the hot Caribbean sun but she glowed with an aura of health and sophistication, dressing with a flamboyance that was striking but never tarty. She was charming and well bred and Lilli did not think she could ever remember having heard her voice raised in anger. But she had long believed that Ingrid was a schemer and that the surface charm, projected with such apparent sincerity, hid a single-minded and selfish nature. Lilli had endured Ingrid because she believed Ingrid was good for Otto – he had had too many lonely years since Magdalene’s death and too much pain – but she did not like her.
‘Ingrid,’ she said. ‘I had a letter from Josie.’
There was a small pause – a lag on the line, or Ingrid gathering herself together? Then Ingrid said: ‘I see.’
She wasn’t going to make this easy, Lilli realised.
‘She tells me Daddy is ill. Is it true?’
Another pause. Then: ‘Yes, it’s true,’ Ingrid said.
‘How ill?’
‘Very. He may have only months to live.’
Lilli’s blood turned to ice. From the moment she hadread Josie’s letter she had feared the worst, but having it confirmed so baldly was still a shock.
‘Why didn’t you let me know?’ she demanded. ‘If he’s so ill … if he’s going to die … You should have told me!’
‘He didn’t want you to know,’ Ingrid said. ‘You know your father – he despises weakness in himself as in others. He prefers to believe he is going to get well.’
‘But he’s not?’
‘Miracles can happen, I suppose. But to be honest, I don’t think so.’
‘So what is it?’ Lilli asked willing herself not to break down in tears. ‘What’s wrong with him? Josie mentioned a cancer specialist.’
‘You can’t keep anything private here, can you?’ Ingrid said with a touch of bitterness. ‘ Yes, it is cancer, I’m afraid.’
‘But isn’t there something that can be done? Drugs … an operation?’
‘The specialist was willing to attempt it, yes. But he thought things had gone too far. And in any case your father won’t contemplate an operation.’
‘But surely – if there’s a chance …’
‘You know how he is about hospitals. He hates them. He insists on fighting this his own way.’
‘What good will that do?’ Lilli burst out. ‘Oh, I know Daddy thinks he can do anything, but still …’
‘I’ve tried to talk to him, Lilli, but he won’t listen, any more than he would listen when I told him I thought we should get in touch with you. No, I am afraid we must resign ourselves to the fact that your father may have no more than six months at the outside to live.’
‘Dear God,’ Lilli said. She could hear the line beginning to break up and made up her mind Jorge, infidelity, betrayal, the secrets of the past and the awkwardnesses of the present all paled into insignificance in the face of this one devastating fact. Her father was dying. Nothing else mattered.
‘Ingrid.’ she said, her voice steady now with resolve. ‘ Ingrid … I’m coming home.’
Ingrid Brandt replaced the receiver and stood for a moment with her hand still resting on it. Her clear blue eyes had narrowe
d slightly – the closest she ever came to frowning – and a pulse fluttered faintly at the base of her throat, the physical reflex of the tightness in her stomach that had gripped her the moment Patsy had come to tell her that Lilli was on the telephone.
Lilli always affected her this way. Useless to tell herself that Lilli was just a young girl – or had been when she left Madrepora – and that she was Otto’s daughter and had every right to be at the centre of his life. Lilli was not only Otto’s daughter, she was also Magdalene’s. She was the living image of her mother and she reminded Ingrid too sharply of all the things she preferred to forget. In Lilli’s presence all the old hurts resurfaced, robbing Ingrid of her carefully nurtured self-possession and making her as vulnerable as the heartsick young woman she had once been. Seven years of marriage to Otto, seven years of living a life of luxury with him when he had given her everything she could wish for, had done nothing to change that, and now that she was on the point of losing him again she knew nothing ever would.
Ingrid released her grip on the telephone and raised a hand to smooth her thick fair hair back into the sleek chignon at the nape of her neck. Not a strand had escaped, except the tendrils she intended to be there, softening the outline of her face, but it was an instinctive gesture of self-protection to reassure herself that on the surface, at least, she was as poised and perfectly turned-out as ever. Then she walked through the villa, through the soft patches of light and shade thrown by the half-drawn shutters, and into the salon.
Otto was on the veranda, sitting propped up in a recliner with a long cool drink and the day’s newspapers on a rattan table within easy reach beside him. Ill as he was he had refused to take to his bed. Each day Basil, the local who had served him faithfully for twenty years, bathed and dressed him and settled him here where he could look out over the gardens, shaded from the heat of the sun by the hibiscus-entwined trellis; each night he put his master to bed and wondered sadly, but with the implacable resignation that is part of the Caribbean islanders’ character, whether he would ever leave it again.
