by Peter Turner
‘Yes,’ I said. ‘She looked fabulous.’
Eileen sighed, opened her bag and took out a photograph from between the pages of her address book. She glanced at it before she handed it to me.
Crumpled in Kodacolour, arms wrapped about each other, laughing faces pushed together, there was Gloria, there we were, standing on the corner of Central Park West.
‘Fabulous,’ I repeated. ‘Gloria looks just fabulous.’
‘Ah, it’s such a shame.’ Eileen put her hand out to take hold of mine. ‘Such a terrible shame, and she’s nice. I remember that day,’ she added and took away the snap. ‘I’d been so miserable on that bleeding ship. There’s nothing so boring as being a croupier on a cruise. Though we were only docking there for a day, I couldn’t wait to get to New York. It was just wonderful sailing up the Hudson River, saying hello to the Statue of Liberty, and going past all those big skyscrapers. I knew you’d be in one of them; even though I didn’t get an answer from me letter, I just knew that you’d be in one of them big buildings looking out the window, waiting for my ship. “Just peel the portholes with your eyelashes,” I said to the girls, “our Peter’ll be waiting for me at the bottom of the plank,” and there you were, you and Gloria. I couldn’t believe it. Fancy arriving in America and being welcomed by a movie star! I just couldn’t believe it. Neither could the girls – jealous snatches they were. But anyway –’ she smiled and her eyes lit up with excitement – ‘I had a fabulous time. We went shopping at Bloomingdales. And we went to Macy’s. I’ll never forget that Macy’s. Remember?’
I remembered.
‘We had champagne and we had oysters at Grand Central Station . . .’
It was hot. The city was beginning to bake. Even the nightmare sounds from sirens in cars were muffled by the heat; dwellers on steps, with their music, blasted the ghettos; cops chewing gum hung around the sidewalks bartering with crime; athletes on skates livened up the traffic; narcotics adorned the corner of 42nd Street. New York was on parade.
Since our first meeting in May, 1978, Gloria and I had been living under the same roof, on and off, for over two years. By this time, August 1980, the relationship had taken on a permanency which had been unexpected, but nice. We had made each other laugh; we’d become friends and then lovers. She’d made several visits to Liverpool, which she loved, and had met most of my brothers and sisters, whom she adored; especially Joe and Jessie with whom we’d been on holiday to a cottage in the mountains in Wales.
I’d been to her apartment in New York for a short time the year before, and I’d also visited her in California while she’d been working on a film. Her career had been going great and mine was picking up. I’d just finished working in the theatre, and a film of The Tempest, which I’d acted in, had recently been released. Gloria had been particularly busy and was continually back and forth across the Atlantic. We’d reached a point in our relationship where, if it were to continue, we had to sit down and give serious thought to the question of where we were going to live.
‘I’ve got it!’ Gloria had been ‘thinking’ hard for a long time one day. ‘I have a big old empty apartment in Manhattan. Why don’t we just go there?’
‘I’m not sure that I want to actually move to America,’ I hesitated.
‘Well, if you don’t like it you can always move back. Come on, Peter. Don’t be a spoil sport. Give it a try.’
A few days later we set up home together in the apartment on the twenty-fifth floor.
I loved it. There was a never ending list of things to do in New York. We fixed up the apartment, did a bit of decorating and bought a few more pieces of furniture, mostly from the second-hand stores up and down 9th Avenue. Scouring the junk shops for bargains was one of Gloria’s favourite hobbies; her prize purchase was a beautiful 1930s’ blue metal desk.
I delighted in exploring the ‘Isle of Manhattan’. Not once did I feel threatened or intimidated, I felt befriended by the city, as if I were a native. I walked everywhere; just looking at the people, getting accustomed to their expressions, what they wore for clothes, their movements and their sounds. I marvelled at the technology, and the buildings, not only for their beauty, but also for sheer expanse and size; each time I went up in a lift I wondered if I might need a safety belt.
At night time we went to the movies, to the theatre, then maybe a restaurant somewhere. Otherwise we stayed at home, content with each other and, of course, our spectacular view. We were having a wonderful time.
‘There’s something I don’t understand, Peter.’ Eileen paused and drained her glass of wine. ‘Gloria was looking good and riding high. You were both looking great together. I don’t understand what’s happened. Why didn’t you know she was ill? I don’t understand what’s led to this.’
‘I don’t really understand either. It’s just that one day everything turned strange.’
Gloria went out one morning saying that she had an appointment with her agent, which I found out afterwards wasn’t true. When she returned a few hours later, she closed herself in her room. At first I assumed that she was just ‘thinking’ and would at some time confront me with some fantastical idea, so I didn’t take much notice. Then after a while I started to wonder and thought that, perhaps, she was indulging in one of her childlike, petulant sulks. It was more than that; she was taken over by a heavy, morose moodiness.
We didn’t go out that night as we’d planned. We hardly spoke. Gloria just wanted to be left alone; and she smoked. I’d never known her smoke so much. I remember having to go to the store across the street because she’d finished all the cigarettes.
‘Do you want to go downstairs for a drink?’ I suggested.
‘Not tonight,’ she replied.
Later, I took her in some coffee. The air was thick with smoke. Gloria was lying in the dark; I couldn’t make out the look on her face; the light from around the mirror in the bathroom only just reached her black suede stilettoes, which had been kicked off at the side of the bed.
‘What’s up?’ I turned to her and said.
‘What’s up!’ she scowled. ‘What does it mean “What’s up”? You’ve only been in America for five minutes and you can’t stop saying “What’s up”.’
It took about twenty-four hours for her to become more communicative, but after that day our relationship was never the same again.
Over the next few weeks she became demanding and possessive, even secretive, taking to disappearing for hours at a time without giving any clue as to where she was going. There were times when we got on well, we had fun, the relationship was like it used to be, but these instances were getting few and far between. Without any apparent reason our life together had very quickly taken a downward turn.
Throughout this time Gloria looked beautiful, radiant, and actually started to take more interest in her appearance. She even stepped up her health regime, going regularly to the gym and becoming even more ‘faddy’ about her food, but she smoked a lot, which was unusual for her. She actually started to buy cigarettes.
I concluded that she was either having an affair or was just fed up with me. At any rate, it was obvious that things were not working out between us, and after all, it wasn’t a conventional liaison. For a start, there was the big age difference, although that had never really mattered to us before. However, Gloria was a well-known actress, she was a film star, socially sought after, other people competed for her attention.
In London, I suppose, it had been easier for us to be together. I was on home ground. She came to live in the same house as me; we became fascinated by each other; and we fell in love.
Now, in New York, things were different; our equilibrium was upset. I started to think about going home.
When my agent phoned from London one day to say that I’d been offered a part in a television series I was delighted and relieved, and I made up my mind to leave New York as soon as I could.
The fact that I was leaving to do a job would, I thought, lessen the need for Gloria and m
e to face the fact that our relationship had gone very wrong; it would make the parting amiable, at least easier. Gloria would be charming and say that she was sad but pleased for me, excited that I’d got a good part. However, the night I told her I was going she got upset, she started to cry. We went out for a drink. When we got home we had a row; we had an awful row and said some terrible things to each other; jealousy and misconceptions came to the surface. The next morning I handed in my key and closed the door of the apartment on the twenty-fifth floor.
It was a very hot autumn day; I felt glad to be getting away. After locking my bags up at the East Side terminal, I went for a last look around New York. Wandering about the city I slowly started to think, trying to work out what had happened. Lunch was lonely in Greenwich Village, and walking back up town, along by the Hudson River, I felt sad.
By the middle of the afternoon, exhausted and upset, I found myself back outside the apartment block on the corner of 9th and 43rd. I dialled Gloria’s number from the callbox across the street and when she picked up the receiver I said, ‘It’s me’, but she immediately put it back down; so I got on a bus which took me to the airport and I arrived back in London the following day.
My television work took me off on location to Hong Kong. While I was there I thought about Gloria a lot, missed her, sent her several letters; but she didn’t reply.
Then unexpectedly, a few months after my return, I got a letter, just a short note:
‘Both Sartre and Camus said when they died that in this world there is only love that is important.’
I telephoned her but she was never at home. Then I heard that she was away somewhere, performing in a play. I contacted Paulette in California to see if she knew what had happened to her mother, but she told me that Gloria had gone to stay with friends. I left messages for her everywhere but she didn’t get in touch. I assumed that she didn’t want to bother with our friendship any more. That’s what I thought, until I got the call from Lancaster.
The music was louder now, the club was filling up. The two girls were still shuffling around their handbags; the spotlights were changing colour to the rhythm of the music, going from red to yellow to green, just like a traffic light; the glitter ball was spinning fast; the sparkles crossed over my cousin’s face.
‘Why didn’t she tell me, Eileen? Why didn’t she tell me she was sick?’
‘Maybe she just didn’t want you to know.’ Eileen looked at me across the dancing yellow flame.
‘But I wouldn’t have left her in New York. I would never have left her the way I did, I should have made her tell me what was wrong.’
‘Now look, Pete, you can’t blame yourself for anything that’s happened, Gloria must have had her reasons for not telling you she was ill. What’s happened has happened. You can’t change that. Things don’t always go the way you would like them to. Something will always go wrong, things will always get fucked up. Life’s like that. Gloria just kept this secret, I don’t know why. Anyway, let’s not get depressed. Let’s not get upset. Let’s drink to Gloria. Let’s drink to life.’
FIVE
It was a bright morning but cold. Clouds were moving fast across the sky, and before the taxi had reached the end of Prince’s Avenue, five minutes away from home, specks of rain were hitting the windows of the cab.
Liverpool taxi drivers like to chat. This one was not so much talkative as poetic:
‘That’s right rain clouds, do your job. Bring the rain. Clean up God’s land.’
At first I wasn’t quite sure if he was talking to me or delivering an ode to the morning sky, so I kept quiet, deciding not to get involved. But after a few minutes’ silence, and then attempts to attract my attention, he started off again.
‘Don’t you think it’s awful? It certainly needs to be cleaned up. What do you think?’
Was he talking about Prince’s Avenue? Or the state of the world? The avenue looked clean enough to me and the state of the world was more than I could cope with the way I was feeling, anxious and sick, and hungover. I wasn’t in the mood for talking but the driver wasn’t easily put off.
‘On your way to work, are you?’
‘No. I’m on my way to see someone who is very seriously ill.’
I thought that might shut him up, but it was the worst thing I could have said, for he then handed me a copy of Watchtower, the Jehovah’s Witness newspaper. As he bombarded me with quotes from the Bible the safety of his driving seemed to suffer, so I got out of the cab at the end of the avenue, feeling it would be better to walk the rest of the way home.
The house looked tranquil from the outside. The milk had been taken in off the step and all the curtains were pulled back; that’s a good sign, I thought as I opened the gate quietly and started to walk up the path.
I was feeling nervous about going in, and guilty about staying out all night: I shouldn’t have drunk till four in the morning; I shouldn’t have stayed the night at Eileen’s; I should have been here with Gloria.
Expecting noise and activity, I was greeted by an absolute silence. No one seemed to be at home. The kitchen was empty and in darkness; the daylight was shadowed by the branches of the dangerous, threatening tree.
‘I heard you get back.’ My mother looked tired when she opened the door and walked the few steps down into the room. She moaned and held her back with her left hand as she went to the sink with the kettle.
‘Is your back bad?’ I said.
‘Is it bad? It’s like a knife. Just like a knife sticking right up through the ribs. There’s bacon in the fridge if you want, or else have cornflakes.’
‘Gloria,’ I said, but I struggled for the words. ‘Mum . . . is she all right?’
‘Well . . .’ She turned to me and sighed. ‘She’s been asking for you.’
Gloria was looking miserable. Her hair had been brushed back off her forehead and her face had been cleaned of lipstick and eye-shadow, leaving no trace of the hideous mask which she had painted on the previous evening. Order and sanity were restored to the room. The curtains were wide open, the window was closed and any unpleasant smell had been replaced by Dettol. The bedlinen had been changed and Gloria was wearing another of my mother’s flowery nightdresses. She would be far happier in a dark and scented bedroom, wearing complete make-up, and her hair parted at the side with a wavy fringe falling over one eye.
‘I want the make-up bag, Peter.’ She looked at me then slowly looked away.
This was probably the worst humiliation – to be without her make-up and denied her pride and dignity.
‘Why didn’t you come back, Peter?’
‘Because I went to see Eileen. We went to a club . . . and then it was too late.’
‘Okay.’ She didn’t have the energy to be angry, just nodded and repeated, ‘Okay. But can I have my make-up bag? It’s my nails. Please, Peter, I want to clean my nails.’
‘I didn’t have a wink of sleep last night and neither did Gloria.’ My mother was sitting alone at the kitchen table.
‘I’m sorry.’ Guiltily I sat down next to her. ‘I’m sorry I didn’t get back home.’
‘Look,’ there was a fixed, determined expression on her face, ‘I don’t want to know where you’ve been or what you’ve been doing, but there’s a few things I’ve got to be telling you. To begin with, I’ll be looking after Gloria from now on.’
‘Where’s Joe and Jessie? Why aren’t they here? I thought they were staying the night to help you out.’
‘They would have done if they’d have known that you wouldn’t be back. Anyway, they’ve got their own family to look after. They can’t be here all the time. I don’t know what you’re playing at, leaving me alone to cope. Even your father’s done the bunk. He left the house at half past eight to buy a new cap for Australia, now he’ll be gone all day.’
‘What was it you wanted to tell me?’ I said.
‘Right. The daughter’s been on the phone. She’s leaving America today. She’s coming with her brother. And they�
�ll arrive sometime tomorrow.’
‘Where are they going to sleep?’
‘We’ll have to get a room booked for them at a hotel, there’s not enough beds for them here.’
‘Are you certain they’re arriving tomorrow?’
‘I’m certain all right. I told her if she wants to see her mother alive ever again, she’d better get here quick.’
I could see that she was relieved that Paulette and Tim would be arriving because in a strange way, for my mother, their presence would make the fact that Gloria was dying upstairs in her house more legitimate.
She was now less agitated by the trauma and confusion and started to tell me about the previous evening: Gloria had wanted to keep on her make-up; it had become smudged and dirty so my mother cleaned it off. She’d brushed back her hair and helped her into a clean nightgown. Later, during the early morning hours, Gloria had started to ramble, talking about strange things and going in and out of a trance-like state.
‘What was she saying?’
‘She was rambling, whispering things, asking where you were. Then she said she wanted to put on a dress.’
‘Gloria doesn’t like dresses!’
‘Well, that’s what she said. I looked through her suitcase, but she’s got nothing nice with her in the way of clothes except a pair of silky pyjamas, and they need a wash. She hasn’t even got a dress. Did you leave most of her clothes in Lancaster?’
‘No, Mum. Gloria doesn’t have many clothes.’
‘The poor girl. It’s breaking my heart, it is. God love her, she won’t be needing them now.’
Her eyes reddened. The drama and hysteria had taken its toll; she was very upset.
My mother was fond of Gloria. I never knew how much she understood of our relationship, she never asked any questions, but the two women got on well with each other, even though they were worlds apart.
‘Peter.’
‘What, Mum?’
‘I think we should get the priest. She’s started to pick at herself.’
