by Ruth Rendell
A net was closing in. He felt a real shiver of fear. Not for himself but for Rosemary and what she might do, something he couldn’t envisage. He was realising that it is impossible to imagine how someone, however well you know her and for how long, when confronted by a situation quite alien to her, quite outside her way of life and that of everyone she knows, will react. It could be with tears, with screaming, with loud-voiced threats, with—please God, not that—the declared intention of suicide.
“A penny for them,” said Rosemary merrily. A woman had just approached her, been introduced by Fenella, and remarked on Rosemary’s “beautiful suit.”
Alan said nothing. What could you ever say? Certainly not the truth. Another introduction followed, Fenella presenting the woman’s husband. “Grandma, Granddad, I don’t think you know Sir William Johnson. He’s my godfather.”
Had Alan and Rosemary been at Fenella’s christening, thirty-five years before? He had no memory of it, nor of anyone before that or later mentioning this tall, distinguished-looking man in a morning coat with a gardenia in the buttonhole. He had a fine head of curly hair, close-trimmed and white as snow. Something about him, something distant and remote, rang, as Rosemary would say, a bell. Alan tried to put his finger on that bell, make it ring again, but the faint recognition was gone. All he could think was that Sir William (now addressed by Fenella as Uncle Bill) was about the same age as himself.
They were filing into the hotel for the ceremony, to be performed by a registrar. Alan hadn’t been to anyone’s wedding for years; perhaps Fenella’s had been the last, but that had been in a church, an unfamiliar service certainly and probably from the Alternative Service Book, but this was, while of no great interest to him, a “travesty” according to Rosemary’s whispering. He was relieved when the limited vows had been made and the last poem written specially by a relative or friend had been read.
Lunch soon followed, not a help-yourself affair, but a series of courses of the stuffed-courgette-flowers, black-pasta-with-prawns, roast-grouse variety, served at tables each for four. Alan felt a heavy depression begin to settle on him, a condition he was occasionally subject to but had never experienced since his reunion with Daphne. Coupled with it was a sensation of horror that he might never see her again, that his own relations at this wedding, his son, his daughter, his granddaughters, and their husbands would close round him and, uniting with Rosemary in consolidated love, crush his and Daphne’s joy or dismiss it as an unsuitable “fling” already over.
Sir William and Lady Johnson were the other guests at their table, this placement arranged probably by Freya because all four were much the same age. Again Alan felt he knew William Johnson, though the deep, rather slow voice was unfamiliar. Lady Johnson, younger than her husband and addressed by him as Amanda, was thin, blond, and beautifully dressed in a gown of much the same colour as Rosemary’s suit but bearing, to Alan’s untutored eye, the unmistakable stamp of Paris. Her small, head-clinging hat he thought a wise choice at a gathering where obstruction of the view of the principal players was unfortunate. It was upsetting to realise that he had begun comparing Rosemary to other women, most of whom he was now seeing as more attractive and better dressed than she. This unpleasant reverie was interrupted by Sir William’s saying, “I believe I know you from somewhere, but it’s a long time ago.”
His voice was cut off by the master of ceremonies’ announcing a speech to be made by a friend of the bridegroom’s, a man who would once have been called the best man. Alan glanced at Sir William and nodded, but no more talking was possible. The speech was short and without facetiousness or obscene jokes. It is hard to make arch sexual references when the couple you are toasting have been living together for five years. Everyone wanted to start eating but weren’t averse to champagne first. Apparently, apart from a rejoinder from the bridegroom and a rather surprising raising of glasses to the Queen, there were to be no more speeches. A bottle of white and a bottle of red wine arrived at their table, and Alan said, “I know you from somewhere too. I knew you as Bill. Your voice deceived me but I realise it must have broken a couple of years after we were all in the”—Alan hesitated—“the qanats.”
Bill Johnson began to laugh, the kind of laughter that arises not from amusement but from appreciation of a question answered.
“The qanats, yes. A long time since I heard that word. We were only there a couple of months, but I often think of the qanats. I even dream of them.” His deep voice sounded deeper but, strangely, more like the tones of the boy of long ago. “My family lived on the Hill at the top and you in Shelley Grove, I think. I remember you now and one or two others. There was a rather glamorous girl called Daphne something, and a boy with difficult parents and all the Batchelor family.”
“I was there too,” said Rosemary.
Alan detected a note of resentment in her voice, but more than that, something of anger at the mention of Daphne’s name. Bill Johnson’s wife heard it too. She looked concerned, glanced at her husband, and Bill responded with the tact Alan associated with the diplomat he later learned his old friend had once been. “Of course you were. Rosemary, the only girl who was a regular attender. Did you two meet there?”
“That’s right,” she said none too pleasantly. “We’ve known each other all our lives. We were inseparable, weren’t we, Alan?”
Although it had little to do with the ceremony they had just witnessed, a line from the old marriage service came into Alan’s mind: Whom God hath joined together, let no man put asunder. It wasn’t comforting. They ate their lunch, an unsuitable time to raise the matter of the hands discovery. But Bill Johnson mentioned it afterwards. He also said that he had been at Cambridge with Daphne. Alan felt a surge of jealousy, quietened a little when Bill said they had had almost no contact while at the university but hers was a face you would never forget. Amanda Johnson, who had taken little part in the conversation but listened pleasantly and occasionally exchanged a word with Rosemary, said that they must all meet again. Dinner perhaps. She would phone. Alan had no faith in that kind of promise of invitations and reunions. They were always forgotten. Rosemary would veto it, anyway.
They parted for more walking round the gardens and watching Freya and David depart for their honeymoon flight to Morocco. The usual lowering of spirits which always comes at weddings when the couple have left settled on the company. People began to leave. Alan found himself and Rosemary close to Judith, and Alan asked her about Bill Johnson.
“When Maurice and I were in Sudan, Bill was our ambassador in Khartoum. We were very much thrown together, there weren’t many English people there then, probably thousands now. Maurice asked him to be godfather to Fenella. He’s been a very good godparent, always remembered her birthday and whatever.”
“A godparent,” said Rosemary repressively, “is supposed to bring the godchild before the bishop at a suitable age for confirmation.”
“Oh, Mum. No one cares about that sort of thing anymore.”
“We all knew each other slightly as children.” Alan knew he had spoken of “all” and “slightly” to mollify Rosemary and despised himself for it. “You never mentioned him before.”
“I did, Dad, but you weren’t listening. I never knew about you all being mates as kids, did I?”
It hadn’t been a successful day, not for some of the guests. To his shame, Alan thought that the one thing he had got out of it was the chance, perhaps, to use Bill Johnson as a future alibi. He felt his phone in his pocket, the smooth, rectangular shape of it, and thought, Let me have a moment alone and I will phone Daphne, but there was to be no moment of solitude. Fenella ran up to them just as they were leaving.
“Oh, Grandma, I’ve got an appointment in Epping next Wednesday afternoon and I thought I might pop in and see you on the way back.”
Rosemary said that would be lovely, darling.
“And you too, Granddad?”
No one eve
r had appointments in Epping, Alan thought, not unless they lived there and went to the dentist or to have their hair done. And why ask if he’d be there? Because she wanted him to be or didn’t want him to be?
He nearly said he didn’t know. But, no, he wouldn’t be there, he’d go and see Daphne. “No.” His voice was chilly. “I won’t be there. I won’t be back till late.”
11
WHEN HE THOUGHT about it, which wasn’t often, Michael told himself he got on well with his children. If he had to think of a word to describe Jane and Richard’s attitude towards him, he would have come up with dutiful, and his to them with undemanding. They always seemed to be in different parts of the world, and since they communicated by email, it was difficult to tell where they were. He never asked them to come home, but part of their dutifulness was that occasionally they did, usually bringing him a present, once an iPod (Jane) because he liked listening to music in private, and on another occasion half a dozen handmade silk shirts from Seoul (Richard). Both were in their forties. Jane, divorced, had two children, both grown-up now. Richard, who had never married, Michael supposed was gay, but the subject had never been discussed. Many subjects were not discussed in the family, such as life and death and family relationships. When the two came back to this country for four or five days at a time, they invariably stayed in hotels, dutifully visiting Michael every day of their stay. This time, for Jane, it was different. She said so in an email.
She would like to stay with him. It seemed ridiculous, he having this big house and she staying miles away in a “soulless” hotel. She didn’t mention the expense, she wouldn’t. Neither of his children ever spoke of money in his presence. When he had read the email, he went upstairs and had a look at the bedroom on the second floor next to the one he slept in. It was quite all right, rather small with a single bed and a tiny, freestanding cupboard for clothes. The occupant would have to share his bathroom. He went on up the stairs and into Vivien’s room. Naturally, Jane would expect to sleep here.
Removing his shoes and carefully folding back the white silk quilt, he lay down on the bed on the side that had always been his and, with his eyes closed, put his arm round her ghostly body, imagining he felt her warmth. He seldom spoke to her but he did now.
“Shall I let your daughter sleep here, my darling?”
Of course she would. There was no question. Jane would take it for granted, perhaps not even noticing the shrine aspects of the room, the peculiar care that had been lavished on it. His children were not observant, they were not sensitive. He blamed himself, reflecting that he hadn’t been sensitive with them. Kind enough, yes, indulgent and generous, but not understanding. He had kept all that as well as love for their mother. Yet he could easily be hurt. He foresaw how he would feel when Jane marched into this room and exclaimed that it was “just like it was when it was Mummy’s. Why don’t you sleep here?”
Jane’s reaction was in fact very like that. She stepped over the threshold and, having inhaled the scent of the white roses he had put in a vase to greet her, flung her arms round him and cried, “Oh, Daddy, am I intruding? You’ve made this your private place for communing with Mummy.”
Later, when she had settled down in what she called “the sacred room,” he took her out to dinner, not willing to cook for her and sure she wouldn’t welcome it. They talked about her children, whom he barely knew, and about her new job. She was a doctor, a high-powered paediatrician. He told her about Zoe, and Jane made him wince by saying she was surprised “the old dear” was still alive.
“Then you’ll be even more so when I tell you my father is.”
“Too right I will. He must be a hundred years old.”
“When people say that they think they’re exaggerating, but in fact he is. Well, ninety-nine.”
“You never see him, do you?”
“I almost never see him,” Michael said. “Ever since his wife died, he’s been living in a luxurious old people’s home where everyone has a personal butler and a Jacuzzi.”
“You’re joking.”
“I’ve never seen all this, of course. I get it from Zoe.”
Next morning Brenda Miller phoned to say Zoe was ill and had gone into hospital. She had pneumonia.
“I’ll come straightaway.”
Jane said briskly, “What a shame when I’ve just come,” but seemed quite resigned to his absence. She had lots to do, she said, and hundreds of people to see.
“I won’t stay there,” he said. “I’ll be back this evening.”
“Mind you say hallo to her from me.”
Zoe would be beyond greetings of that kind, he thought, but he promised he would. Pneumonia, which was once called the old man’s friend because, without drugs, painlessly and slowly it gently carried him to his end. They would try to keep Zoe alive and no doubt succeed for a while. But perhaps she had asked not to be resuscitated.
She had said he was her son and she his mother. Those emotive words brought the tears to his eyes that had been withheld while he was with her in her house. He wept in the back of the taxi on his way to the hospital. She was conscious, propped up on pillows, and Brenda was with her.
“I’ll go,” Brenda said. “I’ll leave you alone together.”
He held Zoe’s hand. Her voice had sunk to a whisper. She was lucid but forced to be sparing in what she said.
“Your father. When I’m gone, he will be quite alone.” She paused, looked searchingly at him. Her eyes were still clear. “I have said harsh things of him. Maybe I have been wrong. The alibi—did I dream it?”
“No, no, Zoe, of course not.”
“I don’t know. When I’m gone, will you tell Urban Grange? Tell them you’re his son? They don’t know you exist. Tell them you do, that’s all.”
It had been a huge effort for her. She closed her eyes and rested her head back against the pillows. Michael thought for a moment she was dead, but the hand he held was not only warm but the fingers moved and pressed against his palm. He brought it to his lips and she smiled, a tiny ghost of a smile. Sitting at her bedside, still holding her hand, he thought about his dead, his poor pretty, red-haired mother, unkind though she had been; he thought about father-like Chris, Zoe’s husband, who always had time for the lonely little boy; Vivien, always Vivien, her death unbelievable for month after month, her ghost always with him.
A nurse came up to Zoe’s bed. He relinquished her hand and the nurse took it, feeling for a pulse. She smiled, told him to stay for as long as he liked and she would bring him a cup of tea. Hours went by, he didn’t know how many. The tea had been drunk and another cup brought, her hand restored to his hand. And he too slept, still holding it, to wake up and find the nurse there beside him.
“Your mum’s still sleeping,” she said, embarrassed because her words had called forth more weeping and driven him to touch Zoe’s forehead with his lips before turning away. He was back with her when she died on the following day, in the afternoon. She had had one last wish, uncharacteristic as it seemed, and he carried it out once he had registered the death and made funeral arrangements. The first thing he did when he reached home was to tell Jane she was dead.
“Oh, Daddy,” said Jane. “Would you like a hug?”
What can you say? It’s an offer you can’t refuse. He submitted to the hug. She told him she had passed the news on to her brother and Richard would be there next day. “To be a support,” she said.
Richard came, as cold and practical as his sister was emotional. Both returned for the funeral, sitting on either side of him in the crematorium, literally and physically supportive as each held an arm when the coffin disappeared into the fire.
Only when they were both gone and the bedrooms vacated was he able to creep up to the top floor and open Vivien’s door, doing so literally in fear and trembling. He stood there, his hand still on the door handle, telling himself to expect a disarrangement
of the room, the bed disordered, the flowers he had left still there but drooping and dead in a vase half full of smelly yellow water. Don’t be angry, don’t upset yourself. He opened the door and, taking in the precious room, instead of feeling distress was moved by gratitude and, yes, by love. The dead flowers were gone, there was no mess, no dust, and lifting back the quilt, he saw Jane had even put on clean sheets. His good, kind daughter . . .
These days he was always crying. Making up for not crying much as a child when he had cause to cry. What he needed was someone to talk to, someone who would listen and be kind but not—that childhood word—soppy. Impulsively, he picked up the phone and called Daphne’s number. A voice that wasn’t hers said no one was available to take his call and to try again later.
THE CALL HE should have made, though what “should” meant in this context was hard to say, was to his father’s luxurious sanctuary, Urban Grange. Michael didn’t even know where the place was. Asking Google to find it gave him something to do. That was easy. He hadn’t expected the website, page after page advertising the place. It was described as the most luxurious (there was that word again) haven for discerning seniors in the United Kingdom, a sanctum and a retreat, a grace and favour residence of seclusion, an exquisite Palladian mansion in the Suffolk countryside. Photographs abounded in hot colour. The gardens overflowed with blooms or in other parts of the grounds with exotic trees and shrubs. There were gazebos, follies, temples, and even a ha-ha. Each suite had its own small garden, approached from a glazed-in patio furnished with cane, quilted silk, and silver. What did it cost? No mention was made of money. Money was vulgar. On the other hand, Michael thought, wasn’t it vulgar to show testimonials from satisfied residents? One was from a certain Dame Doris Perivale (“Lovelier than any home I have ever had”) and Prince Ali Kateh (“Number one in palace category”).
