by Unknown
Seventeen
2009
Following his triumphant, and somewhat unexpected, success with Margot, Uther turned his attention to his eldest daughter. He had no illusions, Elaine would be a hard nut to crack. She had personality in abundance but was certainly no beauty. He had heard that such attachments as she formed were passionate but brief, usually with actors or stage hands with highly developed pectorals. As to her views on marriage, she had made them crystal clear: who needed to settle down with some mindless moron whose aspirations were money in the bank, a fat bonus at the end of the year, a trophy wife with big tits, liposuctioned thighs, collagen-enhanced lips, two kids, a house in town, a Range Rover and holidays in the boring Caribbean or the even more boring French Riviera? Who needed to settle down at all?
Uther disapproved of actors; as far as he was concerned they were all faggots and layabouts with dubious values and worse morals. Acting was not an appropriate profession for any decent girl, most certainly not for a Pendragon. Margot had married well, and Elaine would damn well do the same, or he would know the reason why.
Elaine rarely spent the night at home in Brackett Hall. On one of the rare occasions that she did, Uther waylaid her at breakfast.
‘And where were you last night?’
‘I’m really not sure, dad,’ said Elaine, who adored baiting her step-father. ‘But wherever it was, I had an ecstatic time.’ She slurped her coffee. ‘You know what I mean,’ she added with a huge wink, just in case Uther had missed something.
Uther sniffed disapprovingly. ‘Time you stopped messing around and found yourself a suitable husband.’
‘What exactly do you mean by suitable, father?’ Elaine enquired.
‘Anyone but an actor,’ said her father pointedly.
‘I see,’ said Elaine. ‘A murderer, a rapist or a child abuser perhaps, but not an actor.’
Uther sighed wearily. ‘Very comical, Elaine. As you well know, I mean someone with a good background and a steady job, a man who will support you and be a decent father to your children.’
Elaine wrinkled her nose. ‘I’m sorry, I don’t have time for all that bourgeois crap. Besides, I don’t believe in steady relationships. I prefer to play the field.’
Uther’s patience, never his strong point, was soon exhausted, and he hinted that if she did not find (or allow her parents to find) a suitable man to marry, he would cut off her allowance. She had six months, he said.
Elaine called his bluff. Within a week she had moved out of Brackett Hall and into a short-term bedsit in Camden Town. Igraine was wretched. To lose one daughter was bad enough, to lose two, and in so short a time, was nothing short of catastrophic. She berated her husband. ‘You drove her out of the house – you and your obsession with marrying off the girls.’
Uther would not accept any blame. ‘Nonsense, duchess. It was her decision entirely. The birds are flying the nest, that’s all, one of those things that happen in families.’
The truth was that he was quite pleased to see the back of Elaine, married or not; now he only had Morgan to worry about. He had a soft spot for his youngest step-daughter, she had guts, she was refreshingly different. She was also vulnerable and needed looking after; just as long as he wasn’t the one who had to do it. From time to time Uther would look at Morgan dispassionately, prepared to be generous, hoping to discover some physical attribute that might appeal to a potential suitor, but he never did, there was just too much of her. Everything about her was big – her shoulders, her hips, her legs, her tummy. Then, of course, there was her face. What could you say about her face? Downright ugly? Unkind. Charmingly ugly, then? Intriguingly ugly? Engagingly ugly? Her eyes bulged, her mouth was enormous, her upper lip bristled. The village kids, cruel as only kids can be, would follow her along the street chanting, ‘Mog, Mog, face like a frog!’ And Morgan would threaten good-naturedly to turn them into toads and rats, melt their eyeballs and rip out their tongues, threats, needless to say, immediately reported back to their parents who, like their children, were convinced that Morgan was a witch.
Uther knew what it meant to struggle against the odds. No doubt poor Morgan would have to do the same. He would dearly have liked to find her a good man but was almost resigned to the fact that she would never leave home. So that when long- stemmed red roses began to arrive at the house addressed to Miss Morgan Pendragon, it was, to say the least, a shock.
‘What’s this all about, duchess?’ he asked his wife, waving at her the latest offering of roses.
‘I have no idea.’
The roses, Uther discovered, came from Arran Gore. The family was well known in Yorkshire; not too much money but gentry and very respectable. Wasn’t he a solicitor or an accountant or some such? Where had he met this young man? The Conservative Dinner? The Red Cross Ball? One of those do’s. Nice enough chap as he recalled; why would he be interested in Morgan?
Which was exactly what Morgan was asking herself. Gloomily she consulted a mirror, and found nothing to reassure her. It was, she concluded cynically, probably a hoax. As it turned out, it was not. Arran Gore phoned Morgan to ask her out to dinner and Morgan decided to play along, if only to see when and where the humiliating game would end. From that moment Brackett Hall was in turmoil, and as the day approached, the atmosphere in the house grew more and more strained. The only one who seemed entirely relaxed was Morgan herself.
On the appointed evening, Arran Gore duly presented himself at the front door of Brackett Hall and was shown into the sitting room. He was a shortish man, thirty-five or so, well-spoken, pleasant, quite good-looking and altogether very presentable. Igraine thought him rather too conventional for Morgan, though behind his quiet manner she sensed the inner strength of a man who knew what he wanted; Uther thought there might be too big an age difference, Morgan, after all, being only nineteen. There again, an older man might be just what Morgan needed. What young man could handle her? Chatting to his hosts whilst waiting for Morgan to come down, he made it clear that he thought her the most stunning and original lady he had ever seen. At first Uther thought he must be joking but then, seeing how serious Gore was, he wondered if the man might not be deranged. There were crazies everywhere you looked these days, and who knew what hole this one had crept out of? A crazy might well find Morgan attractive; she was more than a little crazy herself.
Igraine had no such misgivings, Arran Gore would do just fine. For days now she had fussed around her truculent and uncooperative youngest child, offering advice on make-up, perfumes and hair-do’s. That morning she had finally found her the right dress, an elegant, well cut little black number that flattered Morgan’s large frame and bosom. A discreet application of make-up disguised the prominent eyes, the froggy mouth and the shadow on her upper lip. With her long black hair coaxed to frame her face, reducing it to more normal proportions, Morgan was a work of art. With the light behind her, she looked almost attractive. Igraine complimented herself on a job well done.
But alas when Morgan joined them in the sitting room, she was wearing not the neat little dress that Igraine had so carefully chosen for her, but what appeared to be a witch’s costume. It was long, black and shapeless, frayed at the hem, and tied savagely at the waist with a length of rope, emphasising her wide hips. On her head was jammed a conical witch’s hat, her cheeks were white as a clown’s, her eyes rimmed with black, and the hair her mother had so carefully blow-dried and shaped, now hung in greasy clumps about her neck. Uther turned away in embarrassment whilst Igraine advanced on Morgan, intending to smack her face; but Morgan swept past her, greeting her date with an incongruously gracious smile. In stunned disbelief, Uther and Igraine watched the surreal mini- drama unfold. Arran Gore bowed, and with a courtly gesture kissed Morgan’s hand. Not by so much as a twitch or quiver of his face did he indicate that he found her appearance in any way unusual. ‘You look wonderful,’ he said.
For a moment Uther and Igraine were struck dumb by this spectacular lie. Uther opened his mouth to speak
, but before he could say anything, Morgan had grabbed Arran Gore’s hand and dragged him out of the house.
To everyone’s amazement, the man came back for more. He escorted (his word) Morgan to the theatre, to concerts and to restaurants, and when it became obvious that he was not to be put off, Morgan gave up trying to traumatise him. Within a few weeks she had adopted a more reasonable style of dressing, and was even beginning to take some care with her hair and make-up. He was, after all, the only man who had ever paid any attention to her, and for that she was ready to reward him. Nevertheless, she remained deeply sceptical, finding it hard to understand what any man could possibly see in her. In vain she reminded herself of the advice she had always given her sisters: “If you believe in yourself, you can do anything.” Even if, by some miracle, he truly loved her, she was determined not to love him in return, for fear she would be heartbroken when he tired of her; for tire of her he most assuredly would.
But he did not. On the contrary, Arran Gore remained a constant and most persistent suitor. His attentions made her happy, but they also troubled her, as Morgan was convinced that no one, not even her parents and her sisters, had ever or could ever, love her. She was so undemanding that she was quite content to love them and expect nothing in return. What did love mean anyway? It was just a word. People always said they loved each other, didn’t they? But did they really mean it?
Over dinner one evening Arran proposed. How many times had she fantasised about that moment? How many times had she pictured herself gazing at him adoringly, taking in his every word? But when, miracle of miracles, it actually happened, she could not even look him in the eye. Instead she looked down at the table and played with a bread roll.
‘You know how I feel about you, Morgan. From the first moment I saw you flash past on your motorbike, I couldn’t stop thinking about you. Then, when I came to pick you up on our first date, I was certain you were the one. Guts and humour and a proud spirit, that’s what you have. I never met a girl like you. You might think I’m a bit old for you, and I may not have set the world on fire but, well, I’m not such a bad fellow when you get to know me. I’ll make you a good husband, I promise you that.’
How could she help but be touched? Could it really be that for the first time in her life someone truly loved her? If so, she was the most fortunate woman in the world. Margot and Elaine were beautiful and gifted but what did she have? Nothing compared to them, neither looks nor talent; and yet she was more than fortunate, for here she was being offered marriage by a truly nice man – not perhaps the most exciting man in the world, a touch old fashioned, a bit short, a little too old, but what did all that matter? He wanted her, and for that she was grateful. Taking a deep breath, she looked him in the eye and heard herself say. ‘I’m sorry, Arran. I can’t marry you.’ She was shaking. Her heart pounded remorselessly against her ribcage, as if punishing her for her stupidity. Never had she felt so wretched and confused.
‘Can you tell me why?’
She shook her head in bewilderment. ‘I don’t know. I just can’t.’
‘I shan’t take “no” for an answer,’ said Arran. And he didn’t.
‘Why does he keep asking me?’ Morgan lamented to her mother.
‘He’s in love with you.’
‘He can’t be. I’m ugly. And now all this worry is making me fat.’ She looked at herself head on, then sideways, in one of the sitting room mirrors. ‘God, look at my tits. I really must go on a diet. Maybe I could have them shrunk. I was reading about a new laser flesh-liquidiser the other day. I could have my hips and bum done at the same time.’
‘Arran likes you the way you are, darling,’ Igraine insisted. ‘Besides, looks aren’t everything, as I keep telling you. Arran loves you because you are different.’
Morgan knew exactly what that meant. Different meant protruding teeth; different meant a big bum and facial hair. ‘Anyway, I shall never get married. All that . . . business.’ Morgan pulled a face. ‘The whole idea scares me. Women should not have to submit to things like that. If that’s love, you can keep it. I shall never do it, not with anyone.’
Igraine smiled. ‘My dear, there’s a great deal more to marriage than sex.’
‘Such as?’
‘Practical things. Having a roof over your head for one.’ Morgan scratched her upper lip noisily. ‘I already have.
Father has seen to that.’
‘There’s companionship,’ suggested Igraine.
‘I’ve got you and dad. I’ve got Elaine and Margot.’
This was not going to be easy. ‘There’s children.’ Morgan mimed vomiting. ‘I prefer dogs.’
Every week, sometimes twice a week, Arran would pick Morgan up and take her to a restaurant or to his club. Every week, over coffee, he proposed. And every week she would turn him down, chiding him affectionately. ‘This is getting to be a habit, Bore. How many times is that?’ With great good humour, he had accepted the nickname. As long as she married him, Morgan could call him anything she liked.
‘I’ve lost count,’ he admitted. ‘Isn’t it time to give up?’
‘I’m a stubborn sort of chap,’ said he quietly. He was also an endearing sort of chap, though she would rather die than tell him so. A bit stiff, a little over formal perhaps, but then, as he had often explained, his forebears had been army people. A Gore had fought with Wellington at Waterloo, he once told her proudly. No doubt he too had been a stubborn sort of chap.
The more she thought about him, the more she admired him and the less she understood why he wanted to marry her. ‘What’s your game, Bore?’
A puzzled frown. ‘Game?’
‘You should marry the girl next door.’
‘You are the girl next door,’ he said. He tried to take her hand but she pulled it away.
‘Oh pooh,’ said Morgan.
Perversely she had reverted to her former maverick style of dressing. Tonight, for example, her large hips and backside had somehow squeezed their bulk into a narrow strip of black leather two sizes too small for them, and had spent the evening struggling to escape. Every time she moved or spoke or took a mouthful of food, her black leather suit protested, its creaks and groans warning of intolerable stress. Her spiked hair was pink, her face a white mask, her lips purple, and her eyes, like those of some nocturnal creature caught in a spotlight, peered anxiously at the world through dark circles of black mascara.
The girl next door? Perhaps not. Arran had to admit she had a point.
‘You just want me because you can’t have me.’
‘I shall go on wanting you until I can. Then I shall want you even more.’
Clearly she ought to do the decent thing and send him packing, but somehow she could not bring herself to do anything quite so extreme. Dear old Bore would be most horribly upset. Might he not do something dreadful if he thought he had lost her forever? And though of course she couldn’t possibly marry him, she did rather enjoy his company in an odd sort of way.
One evening over dinner, Arran was talking about some legal case or other he was working on, and she was looking at him, not hearing a word he said, almost as if she were watching a silent movie. Observing him as he spoke, she noticed for the first time how the corners of his mouth moved when he smiled, and that funny habit he had of putting his head on one side when he was thinking. This is a good man, she thought, a kind man, kind and gentle and sincere, the sort of man you can trust; and he wanted her. She felt faint. An unaccustomed distillation of tenderness blurred her vision, disturbing her equilibrium.
‘Yes,’ she said.
‘I beg your pardon?’ ‘Yes, I will marry you.’
And that was that. No one could possibly have been more surprised than Arran, unless of course it was Morgan. As Elaine put it after the wedding, Morgan had finally demonstrated that she really could fly. Or if she had not exactly taken flight, she had done something just as amazing; she had taken a walk up the aisle.
Eighteen
2009
&n
bsp; Merlin loved the wild and sea-tossed coast of northern Cornwall. Recently he had talked about it so enthusiastically that Hector suggested the family spend a couple of days there during the school holidays. ‘There’s the old castle at Tintagel, and lots of walks and incredible views and marvellous beaches. We’ll take the car and leave the caravan behind – do it in style. Merlin recommended a bed and breakfast place. Full English breakfast and comfortable beds.’ ‘I don’t remember him mentioning Cornwall before,’ said Elizabeth curiously, knowing from experience that Merlin never said anything without a reason. Why was he so keen for them to visit Cornwall?
‘You know how he is,’ said Hector, who for once needed no explanation, ‘he gets these passions. Tintagel is his latest passion, that’s all. How about it?’
‘Fine with me. Let’s try it.’
The following week, Elizabeth, Hector and the two boys set off early in the morning. By nine a.m. they were turning into the driveway of an old Cornish house, its stone façade flaking and mellowed with age. Breakfast was everything Merlin had promised it would be. ‘Exercise is what we need now.’ Hector drained the last drop of coffee, stretched and yawned. ‘How about a walk to the castle and back?’
The wooden stairway that linked the mainland with the causeway was not for the faint-hearted. It descended so steeply that looking down from the top it seemed like a step-ladder. Although it was July and the sun was warm, the fitful Atlantic breezes gusted sharply first from one direction then another. The two boys were unconcerned but Elizabeth and Hector clutched the guide ropes as they made their way cautiously down. At the bottom of the stairs, a narrow causeway led to the promontory on which the castle stood. Another set of steep and narrow steps as fearsome a challenge as the first, climbed to the sky, curving first right, then left towards the entrance of the ruined castle.
