by Rachel Hore
‘C’mon,’ he said, pulling her none too gently through the doorway.
‘But the food . . .’ she protested.
‘Can wait. I can’t.’ And he pushed her onto the sofa and moved on top of her, so his hardness dug painfully against her pelvis. His fingers were on her, then he was fumbling with his clothes and then suddenly alarm bells went off in her head and she panicked.
‘No,’ she said. ‘No.’ And went rigid.
He froze. ‘What?’ he said. ‘What’s wrong?’
She pushed at him until he rolled off her and fell onto the floor.
‘Christ,’ he said heavily, shifting around. ‘I’m sorry. I thought you wanted to. What on earth’s the matter?’
‘I don’t know,’ she whispered, her forearm over her eyes, not wishing even to look at him. ‘I just don’t know.’
Jake ate his portion of cold lasagne, but Mel hardly touched hers; the painful lump of emotion in her throat prevented her swallowing anything.
‘I suppose I’m not ready,’ she said in a quivering voice.
‘No, clearly not. I’m sorry,’ head hammered
Chapter 37
The weeks passed. October ended, November began. Mel spent the darkening evenings writing the final chapter of her Radiant Light, arranging the footnotes and appendices, then considered the illustrations she would recommend that her publisher include. She was reluctant to call the book finished, though, before she saw Ann Boase, whom she still needed to track down.
Bonfire Night and a cold, rain-sodden one. Five pairs of Wellingtons set off from Chrissie and Rob’s house down to the local park, one black industrial size, one cream, one green and two Thomas the Tank Engine ones, the owner of one of these pairs, two-year-old Freddy, riding high on his father’s shoulders.
This council firework display was to prove one of those ritual events for which the British stoically turn out to say they’ve marked the occasion, insisting that they are enjoying themselves. Rory squeaked throughout that he couldn’t see anything, and indeed, the fireworks at ground-level were invisible to anyone not at the front of the crowd. Freddy cried, terrified by the bangs. A safety poster on the gate had announced that sparklers were forbidden in the park, so Rob couldn’t light the ones he had brought to delight the boys, and the queues for hot dogs were so long none of the grown-ups in the party could be bothered to join them. Halfway through the show, the rain began to fall again, steadily, in thick heavy drops.
‘Let’s go home,’ grumbled Rob as soon as the last rocket had fallen to earth and the bonfire had finally been coaxed into life.
‘Get something to eat there.’
‘Want hot dog,’ Rory started up, a plea that instantly turned to a high wail, so Chrissie took Freddy and it was Rory’s turn to be carried by his weary dad. ‘Hot dog, hot dog, hot dog,’ he repeated tearfully in time with Rob’s footsteps.
Lost in thought, Aunty Mel plodded along behind carrying Freddy’s Wellingtons after they fell off one by one. Guy Fawkes felt like another marker of time passing. Last year it had been the first without their mother, this year it took her further away from Patrick.
The previous few weeks, since her last disastrous evening with Jake, had been relentlessly dreary, but without the despair she had feared that night, riding the minicab through the grid of narrow London side streets.
She should feel desolate, she told herself. After all, her emotional life had closed down on her yet again. But even when she reached home, she had merely felt dog tired, had stumbled straight into bed and slept dreamlessly until morning. When she had awoken there was no crushing black beast of depression. Instead, she had felt strangely free.
She was lucky that t_roisDJ5he following week was half-term – a full nine days in which she didn’t have to bump into Jake at the staff pigeonholes or, come to think of it, Rowena, who was still prowling around, making trouble. For the first few days she left her mobile switched off and waited every time the flat phone rang for the caller to leave a message, so she could check out who it was. But the days passed and Jake didn’t call. At first she felt relief, then as time drifted on, this darkened into resentment. That’s how little Jake valued her. He had obviously already moved on.
Wednesday night of half-term was supper at her friends Sally and Mike’s, with Aimee and Stuart and another couple she hadn’t met before. When Sally had issued the invitation a couple of weeks ago she had asked if Mel wanted to bring anyone. Mel had thought for precisely one second before saying no.
She hadn’t invited Jake, she realised, because she had known then, deep down, that he wasn’t going to be a part of her life again. And admitting that helped her accept the fact that he hadn’t been in touch again.
Sally, tactfully, hadn’t invited some spare man to make up the numbers, but, more inspiringly, a woman she had met recently who organised new exhibitions at a North London art gallery and reviewed for a website that tracked new work in the capital.
The woman, Judith, asked Mel about her work, and Mel told her about the book and then, somewhat hesitantly, about her discoveries about Pearl in Cornwall. She spoke of Merryn and, suddenly, sitting there in the crush of the small hot London sitting room, memories of Cornwall, the garden, Pearl and Patrick washed over her in one great engulfing tide.
‘Are you all right?’ asked Judith, and Mel realised she was staring into the distance.
‘Yes, yes – I was just thinking about it all,’ she said, ‘and telling myself that I only have a few more weeks to finish the book.’ The end of the year was the publisher’s deadline, but it would be hopeless to expect to do much in December, what with essay-marking and preparations for Christmas.
‘Have you much to do?’
‘Tidying, mostly. But there’s a missing part of the jigsaw – someone I’ve got to see.’ How could she have left it all so long? ‘Do you know – have you ever heard of an artist called Ann Boase? I’m not even sure what medium she works in, but she must be in her early sixties.’
To her surprise, Judith instantly nodded. ‘Yes, I’ve heard of her, seen her work, too. Big abstract canvases with paint and collage. A great feeling of light and air and the sea. I believe she’s particularly popular in America. All those big corporations with huge boardrooms to decorate, I imagine. Why?’
‘She’s Pearl’s grand-daughter, and I think she might have succeeded where Pearl couldn’t.’
The next day, she looked up the number Richard Boase had given her, and dialled. This time a crackling ansaphone message invited her to leave her name and number so she did.
Later that evening, she answered the phone and a woman’s gravelly voice said, ‘Melanie Pentreath? My brother said you might call, dear, but that was back in August.’
‘I know,’ Mel said, ‘I’m sorry. Things . . . got in the way. May I come and see you?’
‘I was so hoping you would,’ said Ann Boase, ‘but I’m off to the States again tomorrow for six days. How about meeting the second week in November?’
Now, as she traipsed back to# . is Chrissie’s from the fireworks, Mel remembered. Next Thursday morning – she wasn’t teaching until mid-afternoon – she was due to visit Ann’s home and studio near Waterloo. And then she would finish her book and send it in to Grosvenor Press – Mel caught little Freddy’s sock as it fell from his foot – and after that, well, who knew what she would do after that.
‘Has Patrick really never tried to call you again?’ asked Chrissie, after everybody had wolfed down thick vegetable soup and home-made hot-dogs. Rob had wearily offered to put Rory to bed – Freddy had pegged out on the sofa in front of Pingu – and Chrissie was brewing coffee. Mel had just told her what had happened with Jake and added grumpily, ‘Don’t say anything, Chrissie, I know what you think already.’
‘I wasn’t going to,’ said Chrissie, petulant. ‘I could have told you . . . But I’m surprised that Patrick has never been in touch. I thought he would have been.’
Chrissie had long ago told Mel about the
phone calls he had made during what they now jokingly referred to as Mel’s Dark Period, as though she were a painter whose emotional life was reflected in her art.
‘Well, he hasn’t,’ said Mel in a toneless voice, as she stirred a forbidden spoonful of sugar into her coffee.
They were silent for a moment, then Chrissie said, ‘Oh, I quite forgot. I was on the phone to Dad earlier in the week. He rang to ask what Rory wanted for his birthday. We were discussing whether he and Stella would come down and see us, and, do you know, in a moment of madness I asked them if they’d like to stay at Christmas, and he said they would.’
‘That’s a turn-up for the books,’ said Mel. ‘I don’t remember when we last saw them at Christmas. Actually on Christmas Day, I mean. Won’t it be a bit weird?’ Chrissie was watching her closely and Mel guessed she, too, was thinking about their last, grim Christmas Day, the first without their mother.
‘You will come to stay as usual, won’t you, Mel? Apart from anything else, Rob would be grateful to have you.’
‘Will you have enough space for us all?’
‘Of course, if you don’t mind having the Z-Bed up in the nursery. Then Freddy can go in with Rory.’
Mel smiled. ‘Only if I can have the Spiderman duvet cover,’ she said.
It was a shock to return to her flat the following day to find Cara had taken receipt of a small, tightly-packed Jiffy bag addressed to Mel in Patrick’s flowing handwriting.
Mel opened her front door, propped it back with her overnight bag and returned to pick up the packet from the shelf in the communal hall. In the kitchen she opened it carefully with a pair of scissors and drew out a small battered hardcover notebook. She turned the yellowing lined pages, studying the large, scrawled italic hand, rather like Patrick’s own. Still jammed in the bag was a white envelope addressed to her, from which she pulled a single folded sheet. It was a letter from Patrick. She stood for a moment staring, unfocused, mustering the courage to read.
Dearest Mel,
At last an excuse to write. I’ve been wanting to so much, but haven’t known whether it would be welcome and I wasn’t brave enough to find out. Forgive me.
The enclosed arrived a few days ago. Read the letter inside and everything will be explained. I’m sure it clears up some of the mystery about Pearl.
Otherwise, what to say? I miss you, Mel, I really do. Our time together was so short, but now I look back I know it was wonderful and I think about it constantly. I can’t believe how I messed up and I’m sorry. I have to tell you about Bella.
First, the most important thing is that Bella and I are not together and never will be. I realised that, very soon after you left. I began to see her differently. There was a time when she was precious to me, and I must have been grieving for the loss of her all the weeks that I spent with you. I felt so muddled, I’m sorry. I suppose the bottom line is that it was the wrong time for you and me. When you left, I was devastated, but took it as a sign that I had to find out the truth about me and Bella. Whether it would work. And we tried, but it became clear fairly soon to both of us that we were chasing after a phantom. I realised that what I felt for her was a pale shadow of what I felt for you. I’ve told her I can’t be in contact any more, that what she and I had is firmly in the past now and must be left there.
Mel, I don’t know whether you ever want to see me again. I couldn’t blame you if that is the case, I have so let you down. But I do hope that it is otherwise, that, given time, you might offer me another chance.
The garden is shutting down for winter now. You have missed the leaves turning russet, the sweet wild apples, the scent of smoke from the eternal bonfires – Jim makes some damn fine bonfires. It is dark and foggy here, sodden and lonely. I rather like it.
There’s little news. Carrie’s condition is stable, but they’re waiting for her blood pressure to come down before they operate. She’s also on a diet, which makes her irritable. Matt is running the hotel with Irina helping him, though fortunately, it’s low season. Greg is sometimes a guest. He has come several times to spend time with Lana. But this week, half-term, after much wringing of hands and asking everybody’s advice until we were sick of it, Irina took her up to London on the train and left her there with him. All week she’s been like a cat on hot bricks. He will bring Lana back this weekend, please God promptly, for the sanity of us all.
Write to me, please.
All my love,
Patrick
Mel read the letter again, stopping and mulling over I miss you, Mel, I really do. Our time together was so short, but now I look back I know it was wonderful and I think about it constantly. A feeling of such relief flooded through her that she leaned against the work surface for support. She read the words again and, for the first time for many months, knew the gift of joy, that soaring certainty that the world is a wonderful place in which we are special and infinitely precious. ‘Thank you, thank you,’ she whispered, though whom Maybe even . . .’ his voicshe wae failed for a moment then he muttered ‘. . . think abs thanking she couldn’t tell.
It occurred to her, and she was shocked, that seeing Jake again had never given her this joy, and now she knew for certain that with him again those few weeks she had been a sleepwalker"; font-weight: bold; the er of , going through the motions. But Patrick . . . suddenly all she wanted to do was speak to him, see him, be with him. She turned to pick up the phone and dial his number, but something stayed her.
She read the rest of the letter once more and caught its warning. Given time. Patrick sounded fragile, she thought, sad, and she knew he must have been treading a similar path to hers these last months. And as she reread what he said about Bella, the firework sparks of elation died and fell to earth. All that time he was with Mel, part of his mind had been with Bella. What did this mean? Could she ever trust him? Would he, if he knew she had tried again with Jake, trust her?
Given time. Time heals all wounds. She had never quite believed that one. There were some injuries, surely, that were too deep – the loss of a child, for instance, or a partner after many years of marriage. The skin might grow over, the pain might dull, but the scars remained, occasionally to be prodded into agonising pain. Both she and Patrick were battered, wounded. Perhaps they should wait for the scars to form and harden. Time gave other things. Perspective. ‘All in good time,’ her mother used to say when Mel whined for a toy she’d seen, fashion shoes she was too young for, permission to go to a late disco. What was ‘good time’? Perhaps she was about to find out. She wouldn’t ring him yet. She had to think.
Mel pulled out a chair from the kitchen table and sat down. For a moment she was deep frozen in thought, but then she put the letter to one side and drew the notebook towards her. She opened the front cover, picked up the folded piece of cream writing paper tucked into a worn-out piece of elastic inside and glanced at the handwritten inscription at the top of the first right-hand page of the book – Charles Carey. Charles Carey! This was extraordinary.
She pinched open the letter.
It was close-typed, without margins, on a manual typewriter with a jumpy ‘e’.
Dear Mr Winterton,
I encountered my second cousin Susan Granger, for the first time for many years, at a family funeral last week. Susan is the daughter of Elizabeth Goodyear, née Carey, who was raised at Merryn Hall where you live, and she told me you had written in quest of family papers. I am wondering whether the enclosed is of interest to you. My father Duncan and Elizabeth, rest their souls, were first cousins to one another and to Charles Carey, who wrote this journal, I believe, in 1934, when he was dying in a TB hospital in Surrey. I don’t remember Charles, being only six when he passed away, but my grandmother, Margaret, whose nephew he was, used to speak of him. He was a painter, not a terribly good one, I’m afraid, and my grandmother helped him when he fell on bad times after the First War. This book I found in my father’s papers when he died. It’s a queer story, but perhaps of interest to you in your inquiries. My ch
ildren appear to have little interest in the family history, so I’m happy if you want to place it with the Carey archive when you’ve finished with it.
Yours sincerely
Jane Merchant (Mrs)
Charles Carey. The photograph she had seen of him in the archive rose in her mind. A carelessly good-looking young man with a cap of soft blond hair and a moustache, slight but graceful, lounging against the car. And in"; font-weight: bold; – . is Pearl’s painting, the same elegant figure, holding a . . . and now she knew. He was holding an artist’s brush. The symbol of his trade, though if Jane Merchant’s opinion was anything to go by, he was not a success at it. Mel wondered idly whether any of his work had survived.
The elderly binding creaked as she opened the notebook at the first page. The ink, faded to sepia, was hard to decipher, the curls and flourishes of Charles’s pen frequently rendering ys and gs, ss and fs indistinguishable from one another. But she was used to puzzling out handwritten sources and slowly she began to pick out the sense.
A month I’ve been in this damn place, and now I understand fully why they call us patients, for to be sure, boredom will kill me before the disease gets me. Aunt Margaret visited today with a fine-looking fruitcake, the first decent food I’ve set eyes on for weeks, not that I have much appetite after all these potions they pump into me. She’s the only one who comes now. How hunched she’s grown. Not one word from Uncle Stephen’s family, all these years.
Charles had clearly felt this was the wrong approach, because a few lines’ space followed and he started again on a different tack.
I have made many mistakes in my life, but there is one wrong that I regret above any other. The chaplain who came again today with his chubby fingers and his air of tired resignation could not make me speak of it and so he advised me to write it down, to consider the matter prayerfully and to ask God’s forgiveness and peace. I have never had much to do with God, but peace – ah well, that is something we all seek and it has eluded me always.
