by Deryn Lake
“You won’t mind me being down there?” she asked as Finnan came back armed with cutlery and mats.
“Not a bit. You won’t mind me above? Though I promise not to look when you’re sunbathing. Well, not much that is.”
She laughed. “I’ll try to be discreet.”
The preparation of the meal progressed while Sidonie sat on the balcony sipping a drink and Finnan made forays in and out of the kitchen. He was a very peaceful person, she decided, and wished that she could be more so herself, instead of suffering great bouts of tension before she played, then pouring her feelings into the music until she was left exhausted.
The sun began to set over the park, drenching the south face of Holland House with rose-coloured light. From this distance and height Sidonie could only get glimpses of the building so it was not easy to tell that it was merely a shadow, not much more than the restoration of a shell.
“I wish I could have seen it in its heyday,” she said, to herself as much as to her host.
“Holland House?” asked Finnan, gazing in the same direction.
“Yes.” She turned to look at him. “Have you ever been to a performance in the theatre there by any chance?”
“Several times. They’re very good.”
“Where do the actors change?”
The Irishman looked amused. “What an odd question. In the house I imagine. Why?”
“I wandered in today by accident and came across one of them.”
“Were you accused of trespassing?”
“No, I got out while the going was good.”
“That was very wise of you,” Finnan answered, and laughed.
“Why do you say that?”
“Because they’re doing Jack the Ripper there this week. You might have found yourself in danger.”
“Oh!” Sidonie answered, and wondered what it was about that remark that somehow struck her as wrong.
But afterwards, when the meal was over and she had said goodbye to her new acquaintance and returned to the Garden Flat, it suddenly occurred to her what it was. Jack the Ripper was the story of gruesome murder in the East End of Victorian London; the girl she had seen was wearing the costume of an earlier time altogether.
“Well, even doctors can make mistakes,” she said, smiling in the dark, remembering Finnan’s eyes and voice, happy that she had moved into the company of such an extremely interesting neighbour, intrigued that not far from her own garden lay the remains of one of the greatest houses of the eighteenth century.
Chapter Four
The long and luscious summer was over at last, for though September was hot, the sky held a purplish tinge as Holland Park basked in the last golden hazy days. Then came October and the evocative smell of bonfires, leaves crunching beneath the feet and park keepers sweeping the paths with long-handled brooms.
Sitting on his balcony reading the Sunday newspapers, Finnan O’Neill put on a sweater for the first time and looking down into the garden below wondered when Sidonie would be returning from her European tour, hoping that it wouldn’t be long, that the brightness of her hair and spirit would soon be around the place again. Then the doctor laughed with genuine surprise when, as if in answer to his wishes, he heard the French doors open beneath him and a second later saw her, dressed in a smart blue suit, somehow contriving to look professional and vulnerable simultaneously, the cat struggling in her arms.
“You’re back,” he called, and waved.
“Hello,” she shouted, “how are you?”
“I’m well. And yourself?”
“Exhausted but elated.”
“It went well?”
“Very.”
“Come up and have a drink before you crash out.”
“How did you know?”
“I come from the land of the leprechauns —”
“And are the seventh son of a seventh son! All right. I’ll just change, then I’ll be up.”
The autumn sunshine was clearer suddenly, the day bright as blueberries. Whistling to himself, Finnan went to put Callas on the CD player and polish his best wine glasses. For the first time after three long years he felt he was finally starting to come back to life.
Sidonie was dramatically pale, the golden eyes shadowed and heavy, but the foxfire hair blazed as ebulliently as ever and the amused mouth was curving upwards.
“Top of the morning to you,” said Finnan. “Do you know, I’ve never actually heard anyone say that in Ireland now I come to think of it.”
“Begorrah, neither have I,” she answered.
Then they laughed, Sidonie with pure exhaustion, Finnan with the certain feeling that a slow thaw was taking place somewhere near his heart.
“I can’t stay long,” said Sidonie. “I really am dropping.”
“Ten seconds will be enough,” answered Finnan extravagantly. “You’ve cheered me up already.”
Sidonie looked surprised. “Do you need cheering?”
“From time to time.”
They went onto the balcony and sat companionably together neither saying a great deal, listening to Callas, until Sidonie eventually broke the silence by asking, “How’s everything been? Did the man come to repair the door in the wall?”
“Yes, I gave him the key and he dropped it in afterwards.”
“Is it working all right?”
“I don’t know. I didn’t presume to try. But he said he’d renewed the bolts on the garden side and put in new Yale and mortice locks on the Holland Walk side.”
“Excellent. You’ve earned your bottle of duty-free, Doctor.”
And Sidonie produced a litre of Irish whiskey from the depths of a handbag that looked more like a haversack.
“I take that very kindly, Ma’am.”
“Not to be consumed all at once.”
“I’ll make a note.”
It was superficial banter, conversation that needed no concentration, though beneath ran something as yet not identified, not even born, which might indeed never see the light of day. But though Finnan was aware of this Sidonie was not and so was able to part from him with ease some half-hour later. He watched her go down the stairs to her flat, then turned back into his own, happy to spend the rest of the day alone, to wait until he should see her again in the natural course of events, as yet too overshadowed by the past to look for involvement.
And she, as she undressed and snuggled beneath the duvet, pretending that autumn had deepened and outside it was cold, wondered about him, considered how a man so vital and attractive could spend so much time by himself. Determined one day to find the answer to this intriguing question, Sidonie went quickly and easily to sleep.
When she woke it was dusk and the garden was full of shadows. Deciding to spend the evening up so that she could sleep again that night, Sidonie got out of bed and went into the twilight for some air. The garden had grown dishevelled in her absence but was still pleasant to walk round, and there in the brick wall was the newly repaired door simply calling out to be opened. Going back into the flat, Sidonie fetched the keys from the kitchen where the workman had left them.
The bolts on the garden side now slid back easily and, grasping the latch, she clicked the lever of the Yale lock and pulled it down. Just for a second Sidonie stood gasping, overcome by a moment’s weakness, caused no doubt by so many recent hours of travel. And then the feeling was gone and she went through.
She knew immediately that she was dreaming again, that none of this was happening and she was really lying in bed asleep. For not only was Holland Walk no longer there but the entire landscape had changed. Even the sky was lighter, the colour of a winter’s afternoon, the autumn evening having completely vanished.
Because she knew this couldn’t possibly be real, Sidonie looked about her with interest. She was standing in the midst of a grass pathway which lay, lengthy and straight, alongside a stretch of fields. About a quarter of a mile distant, the east wing facing towards her, was Holland House, fully restored and in all its splendour, a fo
rmal garden descending to a lawn behind it; beyond, planted rows of trees. Leading from the house and running parallel with the walkway in which Sidonie stood, the breadth of a field away from her, was a magnificent elm drive which stretched into the distance and looked at least two miles long to her inexperienced eye.
Despite the fact that it was a cold afternoon the colours of the landscape were pleasant, interspersed here and there with dark green plantations. A farm with outbuildings lay to the south and enclosed within the confines of the brick wall which surrounded the area of the mansion house she could see barns and stables, an orchard, various yards and courtyards, and formal gardens which bore some resemblance to those still in existence in Holland Park.
Sidonie felt like Dorothy in the Wizard of Oz, lost in a wonderland which had no reality or substance and yet was incredibly beautiful to look upon. And then she drew her breath in wonderment as round from the stable block which lay beyond the west wing of Holland House came a coach drawn by six stamping, neighing, glistening black horses, plumed in gold, harnesses gleaming in the weak winter sunshine, hooves crunching the gravel, mettlesome and ready to go.
In the midst of a bevy of liveried footmen four people appeared on the marble steps of the entrance and walked in a dignified way across the courtyard to the second set of steps leading down to the carriage sweep which the coach had now entered by way of the wicket gate. The man of the party stood back to allow the three ladies in first and Sidonie caught sight of wide swinging hoops, of flounce upon flounce of lace, of feathered headdresses and high square-heeled shoes. Then, when all were settled, he climbed up himself, an elegant portly figure with, even at this considerable distance, a decidedly stylish air. Sidonie watched delightedly as the postillion called to the coachman who then cracked his whip before the entire equipage moved off through the other wicket which stood open to let them through.
Having left the half-moon of the sweep the coach turned into the elm drive and began the journey down drawing ever closer to Sidonie as it did so. She stared in amazement as the head of the Joshua Reynolds girl, the girl she had thought to be an actress, suddenly appeared at one of the windows, obviously looking across in her direction. Over the distance, Sidonie saw the sheen of lustrous dark hair woven with flowers, the heavy elegance of the girl’s costume, the oval of her face turning to gaze over her shoulder as the coach passed and began to move away. And then, very faintly, a bell began to ring somewhere.
She must have staggered to the telephone straight from her bed, Sidonie thought afterwards, for the next thing of which she was consciously aware was picking up the receiver and saying, “Hello.”
“Is that the surgery?” asked a distant voice.
“What?” she gasped stupidly.
“Is that Dr Smith’s surgery?”
“No, you must have got the wrong number.”
“Oh, sorry. Are you —”
But Sidonie had already hung up, suddenly feeling nauseous and faint, clinging to a chair as if it were a lifeline.
“What a dream, oh what a dream,” she repeated out loud and then, without any control at all, burst into tears and flung herself down on the bed where, eventually, she slept once more.
*
A week after Sidonie’s return from Europe, Jannie gave a get-together which, in many ways, turned out to be a thoroughly extraordinary evening. Hours before the appointed time a great deal of Mozart combined with frantic vacuum-cleaning noises and the sight of Jannie rushing about with armfuls of shopping gave the guest of honour feelings of guilt that so much trouble should have been taken on her behalf. And, climbing the stairs, Sidonie made a vow that however terrible the people present were she would be charming.
But though she had feared the worst, having several times in the past met earnest groups keenly interested in the arts, nothing had quite prepared her for the reality of Jannie’s friends. As she went through the front door and into the living room it was almost like stepping back into the sixties. Sidonie had a sense of déjà-vu as she cast eyes on a collection of “beautiful people”, alas grown middle-aged, gathered together as if for some reunion.
They were all there: the lady with the ample bosom and pink hair who sculpted, the man with an enormous beard who looked like one of those Victorian pictures in which the head could be turned upside down yet still made a face, the elderly woman in a sombrero, the angular confident man who was writing a book and immediately launched into a conversation about it.
“It’s a thriller with a really unusual plot. Though I say it myself the film potential is enormous. That, or a television serial. Made on location of course. It’s an absolute winner.”
“Who is your publisher?” asked the woman with the pink hair.
He promptly became furtive and walked away.
“Gracious!” Sidonie murmured faintly, looking round for help. A movement in the doorway caught her eye. “Oh, there’s a friend of mine,” she said thankfully. “I really must go and have a word with him if you’ll excuse me.” And she headed for Finnan as a sailor would a raft in a shipwreck.
“Ah, Herr Doctor,” boomed the man with the beard, appearing from nowhere. “Good to see you again. I would like if I may to continue the conversation we had when last we met.”
“Which was?”
“The social and sexual aspects of being a widower to which category we both belong, do we not?”
Everything was suddenly crystal clear, the reasons why Finnan lived alone, why his flat seemed to have the woman’s touch. The fact that he could talk so easily to her, Sidonie.
“I didn’t know,” she said simply. “Finnan, I’m very sorry. How long ago did your wife die?”
“Three years. In a car crash. She must have fainted at the wheel then fallen because the driver of the car she hit said ours seemed to be empty. Fortunately there was no one else with her.”
“How terrible. What a tragedy.”
“I’m getting over it but it’s taken a long time.”
Black beard cleared his throat noisily. “Of course one is in a state of shock. My wife died in hospital after lingering some while so I had more time to prepare myself. None the less it is a trauma —” he pronounced it trowma “— of quite monumental proportions. If it had not been for my ex —” he waved vaguely in the direction of Jannie “— I simply don’t know what I would have done.”
Sidonie stared. “Were you married to Jannie?”
He smirked slightly. “She is the mother of my children. Yes.”
“Heavens,” said Sidonie. “I had no idea.”
Surprise was following surprise and she felt at a loss for words, especially now that Finnan was appearing in a completely new light. Fortunately Jannie came to her rescue at that moment by shouting, “Food’s ready in the kitchen, folks. Hope you all like curry.”
“Oh, God!” said Sidonie involuntarily.
Finnan smiled. “Never fear. Just pick, then concentrate on the cheese.”
“But cheese is fattening.”
“I wouldn’t have thought you have any need to worry on that score.”
And for the first time in their relationship he gave Sidonie a look that had something else hidden in its depths. Without knowing why, her heart quickened its beat.
“You’ll turn my head, Doctor.”
“And about time too. I’ve got a feeling you don’t realise quite how stunning you are.”
Without wanting to think about Nigel, a picture of him flashed into her mind. “Perhaps not. My divorce hit me a bit hard. I’ve kept a low profile since then.”
“You, my dear Sidonie,” said Finnan, laughing, “don’t know the meaning of the words. Now, what’s all this I hear about you playing at the Wigmore Hall next month?”
“How did you know?”
“I saw a poster. Why didn’t you tell me?”
“I was going to. In fact I was going to ask you — and Jannie of course — if you’d like complimentary tickets.”
“Only if you let me take you
out to dinner afterwards, minus Jannie I might add.”
“How cruel you are. Yes, I’d like that.”
They laughed joyfully, both aware that they had crossed some vital bridge in their understanding of one another; that their friendship was about to progress.
“Let’s go,” said Finnan suddenly. “As soon as we’ve eaten and it’s polite, let’s leave.”
“What about poor old Jamie? She’s worked so hard.”
“She’ll be all right, she’s with all her mates. They’ll be talking about the books they’re going to write and the paintings they’re going to paint until the small hours.”
“Yes, Doctor,” said Sidonie meekly, as they went into the kitchen.
*
After they had left they went through the door in the wall and out into Holland Walk, Finnan taking Sidonie’s hand and putting it in his coat pocket to keep it warm. Over to the left the lights were just going out in the Holland Park Theatre as it closed down for the night.
“I had the strangest dream about this place recently,” said Sidonie, suddenly longing to confide.
“What was it?”
“I saw the park as it must once have been, all rural and spacious. Holland House was there, standing in its entirety, and I watched a coach go down an elm drive that’s no longer in existence.”
“Perhaps you stepped back in time,” Finnan answered lightly.
“Perhaps I did. It certainly felt like that.” She looked at him cautiously. “You’re not laughing, are you?”
“No, I’m not laughing. I’m an Irishman and believe there are lands beyond the mist.”
“Lands beyond the mist? How poetic that is.”
Finnan smiled. “I was that once, and perhaps will be again.”
“Do you still miss her?”
“Rosie? My Rosie, my little wild rose? No, not any more. She has slipped gently into the past and taken her place in my memory. Yet I still bear the scar.”
Sidonie shivered in the cold wind that suddenly blew down the Walk. “But I dreamt of the past, of memories.”
“We’re getting introspective,” said Finnan, deliberately breaking the mood. “Let’s go back and have a brandy.”
