The Cilla Rose Affair
Page 28
Anthony crossed the road, and within a few minutes, was home.
As he stood in the shadows, digging out his key, he was aware of somebody coming up behind him. He turned around, startled, on the defensive, and then, just as quickly, relaxed.
“You,” he said, with a smile.
“Sorry,” his father answered, apologetically. He looked tired. “I was waiting for you to come home. You’re somewhat later than I expected.”
“I went exploring.” He jingled his keys. “Care for a spot of tea?”
Evan touched his son’s hand. “I feel the need for a walk.”
Anthony put away his keys.
“Come with me,” he said.
They walked together in silence through the deserted streets of the village.
Evan glanced at his middle son. “What?” he said.
Anthony shook his head. It took a moment before he was able to speak. “I was just thinking, that’s all. I was thinking…here we are…a couple of chameleons…schooled in the fine art of climbing into somebody else’s shell…taking on somebody else’s personality…able—upon the whim of a director—to shed all inhibition and pretence—”
He stopped. They had arrived at the gates of Primrose Hill.
“Up there?” Evan inquired.
“Up there,” Anthony confirmed.
They began the long ascent.
“You were saying.”
“It doesn’t matter. Never mind.”
They climbed in silence.
“I haven’t been up here in years.”
“I know,” Anthony said. He thought for a moment. “Do you know why I decided to become an actor?”
“I would have thought it was because you were passionate about the theatre, Anthony. And talented.”
“But the passion and the talent had to come from somewhere—from you. Nobody else in our family’s the least bit inclined towards the stage.”
He stopped, not because he was tiring, but because his father was. He’d forgotten how steep the pathway to the top was: the walk was too familiar to him.
“I think I must have become an actor,” he said, “so that I could talk to you. So we could have something in common. Besides DNA.”
Evan smiled, and Anthony began to walk again, with his hands clasped behind his back, a small jauntiness in his step. He reached the summit well before his father, and waited for him by the bench.
“London,” he announced, when Evan had, at last, arrived, considerably out of breath, the backs of his legs aching.
“It’s beautiful.”
“Changed a lot in twenty-five years, hasn’t it?”
“More lights,” Evan judged.
“More money,” Anthony replied. “Were you pleased with my performance?”
“Pleased with your performance, pleased with all your help. Couldn’t have done it without you, Anthony. Thank you.”
They stood in silence.
“You were saying.”
“About what?”
“‘Here we are, a couple of chameleons.’”
“Oh. That.”
“Yes, that.”
“It’s all right. It was only a thought.”
Evan waited.
“We’re on opposite sides of a canyon,” Anthony said. “That’s all. A huge, deep slash in the earth…and we want to touch each other—but we can’t. Neither one of us can bring ourselves to hurl a rope bridge over…and stagger across.”
He swallowed. Courage.
“Instead,” he said, slowly, “we send signals to one another, you and me. You’re on that side and I’m on this side and we’re both jumping up and down like a couple of lunatic mime artists.”
He stopped again, and blinked away the tears. He reached out, and drew his father close, clumsily, and was surprised by the strength of the arms that embraced him in return, readily, holding him tight.
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