by C F Dunn
An uncomfortable truth, made more so because he had lived it and asked me to understand and forgive those who had betrayed him. I didn’t answer and he didn’t press me, because we both knew what that answer would be, so I could only stare at my feet and mumble, “I would rather die than betray you.”
He tipped my chin with his finger. “Well, let’s just hope it’s never put to the test. Come on, this is far too serious and melodramatic a conversation for a museum, and we still have to get to The Cloisters before it shuts or I am going to have to work very hard at earning your forgiveness.”
As it was, we had a mad rush to make it to the Medieval European section at The Cloisters with barely enough time to do justice to the collection. Occasionally, I would find Matthew lingering near an exhibit lost in thought, and I would wait patiently until he looked up and came back to me, back into our world from wherever he had been. Then he would return my smile and take my hand and move on. Sometimes he told me what he had been remembering, and sometimes he wouldn’t and left it to my imagination to work out. There was a tantalizing moment when, with the briefest sideways glance, he tried to whisk me past a display that caught my eye. I dragged him back to get a better look, squinting at the brightly coloured rectangular cards with rounded ends and strange little symbols. “I’ve never seen anything like these fifteenth-century playing cards, Matthew, a complete set – and the suits – they’re different but quite recognizable. I had no idea cards were being played in this form at that date. Did you?” He wasn’t even looking, so I tugged at his arm. “Did you, Matthew?”
He almost seemed embarrassed. “Misspent youth,” he confessed. “Well, part of it. It’s not something of which I’m particularly proud. Home could be very quiet, and my uncle, he… well, despite everything that happened and the inevitable tensions that left between the brothers, despite all that, he was lively company.”
I shifted weight from one foot to another. “You were bored,” I stated bluntly.
“Yes, I was,” he admitted. “It wasn’t my father’s fault and I don’t think it was just my mother’s death that made him so. He was a modest man, very temperate in many ways, and my uncle didn’t have his responsibility…”
“And was more fun?”
“Yes, and prepared to take risks that seemed immensely adventurous to me at the time – until I grew old enough to see him for what he was: empty, shallow, without thought or regard for anyone else. I must have given my father many a sleepless night.”
I lifted a foot off the ground and rotated my ankle to ease the aching. “Like Henry did to you?”
Matthew made a face. “In a manner of speaking.”
“Did your father reprimand you? Were you beaten soundly and left chastened and repentant, never to gamble again?”
He gave a short laugh. “Oh no, he was far more subtle than that. He let me make mistakes, find my own way, discover my conscience so that I had nothing to fight against but myself. It must have taken singular strength to do what he did, when he did it. My aunt, Elizabeth, would have taken a rod to me if he had let her. I remember her berating him for spoiling me, saying he would let the Devil take refuge in his son unless he drove him out with daily beating. She mistook his wisdom for weakness. She always had a sharp tongue and she actually crowed when the rumours about me started. We didn’t see much of her after that; she didn’t want to be infected.” He shook his head. “Anyway, that was much later. I must have put my father through purgatory before I went to Cambridge and sorted myself out.”
“Matthew, do I detect a twinge of guilt?” I didn’t need to hear it; I could see it clearly enough.
“Is it that obvious? Believe me, you don’t know what you put your parents through until it’s done to you.” My face must have fallen because he quickly added, “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean you; there’s also the law of cause and effect. Your father didn’t handle you with any great subtlety, did he? You were a sensitive little girl and he gave you reason to rebel. Would you have done so otherwise, do you think?”
“I don’t know. I can’t ever remember a time when we didn’t argue. Would you have handled me differently?”
He brushed my cheek with the back of his fingers, his smile warm. “Absolutely.”
I thought it strange that, generationally, he had more in common with the creators of the contents of the displays next to us than he did to me, yet he had more insight into parenting than my own father, who had seemed only a shade off despotic at times. There had been moments when I fancied that Dad had more in common with a Gauleiter.
By the time we arrived back at the hotel, my appetite for antiquity satiated at last, my feet had become leaden blocks and a nagging ache worked all the way up from my legs to my hips and settled in the small of my back. It was at times like these that I seriously envied Matthew’s stamina, and opted for dinner in our suite and respite in a hot bath.
I hadn’t heard the phone ring.
Screwing the last drops of water from my hair, I emerged from the bathroom. Matthew didn’t need to tell me something was wrong. He held my mobile in his hand. I let the towel drop.
“What is it?”
He took what seemed like an age to answer as he came to me and placed his hands on my arms, his eyes dark with distress. “Emma, that was Rob.”
My pulse beat raggedly as my breathing shortened and my chest tightened in response. “It’s Nanna, isn’t it?”
“I’m so sorry. She died a few hours ago; he’s been trying to reach you ever since.” He still held the shiny mobile. I hadn’t thought to take it when we went to the museum. “She died peacefully in her sleep without pain or discomfort.”
“Mum… what about my mother?”
“He said she’s coping. She was there at the end so had time to say goodbye.”
How many times had he broken similar news to grieving families, trying to make the shift from this life to the next easier for them, as he had when he told me Nanna was dying? We had visited her that sleet-laden evening in December and he sensed her approaching death and tried to prepare me. The waiting room – the antechamber to a better life beyond the only one we knew.
I waited for the tears to come, for the overwhelming grief to surge in a black tide, to submerge me as it had when Grandpa died. I waited for the growing awareness, long anticipated, that something so beloved and perpetual as my Nanna had come to an end. Despite her illness, she had always been there. She had been there until a few hours ago and now she was not. She was gone. She was nothing. She was memory.
Matthew said something and put his arm around me, but I couldn’t feel it; I couldn’t make his words join up. He tried to get me to sit down because I shook, but my knees locked and I couldn’t move. I could see the concern in his face, his lovely face, and I didn’t want him to worry.
I disengaged his arm. “I’m all right. I just need a few minutes.” I didn’t look at him, but sightlessly returned to the bathroom and closed the door.
Lavender’s blue… The marble floor beneath me felt as hard and relentless as the throbbing melody pounding my veins, the one Nanna used to sing in the sunny garden days of childhood, when Grandpa was still alive and with a lifetime of song to look forward to. Lavender’s green… I rested my head against the soft fabric of my bent knees and let the song cycle around and around until it became a wordless stream of images, the images melting into emotions and the emotions, pain. When I am king, dilly, dilly… But the pain didn’t touch me; it was somewhere else, a separate part of myself – boxed in, contained, controlled. You shall be queen… I had to cry; it was the least I could do for her in recognition of all that we meant to each other, of what she meant to me.
In an attempt to feel something, anything other than this nothingness, I dared to conjure Nanna’s face, her flyaway hair, her blue eyes glinting with mischief behind her sensible granny specs, the laughter bubbling just below the surface ready to burst from her with the least provocation, the scent of summer flowers she always wore because
it reminded her of sunshine and picnics. I reached out and grasped the pain and made it mine, and I felt it – a grief that pierced the very heart of me and became real.
Lavender’s blue, dilly, dilly, lavender’s green… Nanna, my Nanna – her song was over.
I could feel Matthew’s anguish from behind the closed door and he hadn’t moved from where I left him. He said nothing but searched my face when I emerged, touching the tip of a finger to the last tear clinging to my eyelashes that I had missed. “End of an era?”
I nodded because it was safer than speaking, and leant against him, welcoming his arms around me now that I had found my grief and made it my own.
CHAPTER
8
Happenstance
The sudden shower from the clear sky caught us all by surprise. Matthew moved in closer behind, sheltering me from the squall. Sunlight struck the diamond drops as they fell on the coffin.
“Foxes’ wedding,” I said, “a sun-shower; Nanna would have liked that.”
Beth smiled wanly. “She would have told us to catch the raindrops for luck.”
“And make a bridal necklace for our wedding,” I added, remembering her laughter as we danced in the falling rain, our hands outstretched and our grandmother clapping in glee. Beth sniffled into her hanky and wiped her eyes and we both looked over to where our mother stood, palely brave, with Dad beside her struggling with an umbrella.
Behind us stood several dozen people who had come to the cemetery to see Nanna safely laid to rest. I had imagined a quiet ceremony. I didn’t know how many people she knew, but it was gratifying to see the number who wanted to mark her passing. She would not be easily forgotten.
I leant towards my sister. “Nanna would be sorry to have missed the party.”
Beth blew her nose and her voice wobbled. “She would have hogged all the salmon sandwiches.” Rob raised an eyebrow, but we either cracked jokes or else we cried, and we both knew which Nanna would have preferred.
After a short silence the vicar resumed the interment. The rain stopped and the sun shone on the upturned cups of lilac crocuses scattered between the graves. I shook the sleeves of my black coat free of the last drops of moisture. I had hoped not to have worn it again so soon after Ellen’s death. Listening to Matthew’s quiet and steady breathing, I wondered what recent memories this resurrected for him. I found his hand and held on to it tightly.
A small group of sparrows flocked and gossiped in the bare branches of a nearby tree, drowning the vicar with their voices. Beth blew her nose again, distracted. “It’s a good thing Archie isn’t here. Can you imagine the commotion he would make with such an audience?” She almost giggled. She found this harder than she expected and her emotions were all over the place. She fought more tears and, to prevent my own, I bit my lip until it stung and Matthew tightened his hold on my hand.
It was all over in a few minutes. Most people drifted away after a few words spoken to Mum, eager to be off, not sure what to say but needing to say it anyway. I watched as she responded to each in turn with a little nod, a part smile, and nobody else could see how bleak she felt inside, how angry, how abandoned. One of our neighbours latched on to her. Her head bobbed up and down as she spoke, tight, iron-grey curls bouncing about her perpetually rosy cheeks. I knew her to be devout with a well-meaning enthusiasm that spilled over into every conversation and, whatever she was saying now, Mum’s emotional status turned from confused blues into fuming resentment the colour of damsons.
“Wait here. I’ll be back in a moment,” I said hurriedly as I headed towards them.
“… rise again and be reborn like a butterfly from a chrysalis,” our neighbour was saying, fluttering her fingers when I intervened before Mum exploded.
“Hello, Jackie. Thanks for coming; Nanna would have appreciated it. I think Mum’s a little tired now and we should be getting home. Would you like a lift?” I put my arm around my mother’s shoulders as they vibrated with fury. “Mum, Dad’s gone to organize the cars so he won’t be long.” The woman declined the offer and smiled sympathetically, still nodding happily, her world all sunshine and eternal love.
My mother scowled after her. “Bloody woman – who does she think she is?”
“It’s all right, Mum, she means well. The car’s on the way. Let’s go home.”
Her eyes stared and she gripped my arm, her fingers biting through the thick fabric. “Bloody, bloody butterfly – what does she know? What does she know?” Her voice became shrill, and several faces turned to look at us. Her thin frame encased by my arms quaked violently, her face paler than white – bloodless – almost blue.
“It’s over now.” I sought Matthew for help, but he was engrossed in conversation with Rob, then looked more desperately in the opposite direction to see if Dad might be ready with the car. A number of people walked at a respectably funereal pace down the slight slope towards the gates, but one figure, striding against the tide, steamed towards us. I stopped short, my stomach crunching in recognition.
“Blast,” I said before I could stop myself. Mum looked at me in dismay, her anger momentarily forgotten.
“What’s the matter, darling?”
I should have foreseen it; I should have known. Making his way purposefully towards us I saw the stringy, grizzled form of my parents’ friend, Mike Taylor. Heart racing, I glanced rapidly at Matthew. He had his back towards us and Mike hadn’t seen him yet. What were the chances he wouldn’t recognize Matthew after all these years?
Don’t turn around! I yelled silently at Matthew’s back, but too late; he was already turning as he caught the panic in the ether. Instantly wary, he saw the expression on my face. I adopted as genuine a smile as I could manage as Mike reached us, but all he had to do was raise his eyes. I tried to block his line of sight. “Mr Taylor, it’s lovely to see you,” I began, frantically.
Coming to a standstill in front of us, Mike focused over my shoulder. His jaw slackened. “Good heavens! It can’t be…”
I broke his field of vision, pulling Mum with me. “We need to get Mum back home; she’s not feeling very well.”
“It’s impossible,” he exclaimed, still staring over my shoulder.
“Emma, darling, what is it?” Mum’s voice trembled with spent emotion. “Mike?”
It was out of my hands and I could see no point in bluffing now. Beth and Rob were looking our way, confused, but Matthew was crossing the ground towards us, his expression indecipherable, so I couldn’t tell if he recognized Mike or not. He didn’t look at him as he approached but offered Mum his arm, and she placed a fragile hand on it gratefully as he spoke quietly to her. “Mrs D’Eresby, the car is ready.”
Mike studied him without speaking and, for a second, I thought the charade had worked as Matthew began to lead Mum across the soft ground towards the path.
“Matthew Lynes?”
Matthew stopped, turned, and met the eyes of the older man.
“Matthew Lynes,” Mike said again. Matthew assumed a polite smile.
“Yes,” he said.
“You don’t remember me?” I could tell from the taut line Matthew’s mouth made that he did, but his expression remained ambiguous. Rob and Beth joined us.
“Is everything all right?” Beth asked, looking from one man to another.
“I’m sorry, I don’t believe we have met,” Matthew replied evenly, ready to walk away.
“Do you know Matthew?” Beth continued brightly.
“No, he doesn’t,” I said too quickly, kicking myself.
“I never forget a face.” Mike shook his head. “Thirty years ago, on a video link. You talked me through a heart procedure you pioneered and saved that boy’s life – and my career.”
Matthew frowned as if trying to remember. “No, I’m sorry; you’re mistaken. Excuse me, I must take Mrs D’Eresby to the car.” He turned away, but Mike called after him.
“Mike Taylor – thirty years ago – I never forget a face. When Emma mentioned your name, I thought it
must be a coincidence, but seeing you now…” He took several steps towards him, studying his features. “You look just the same. You haven’t changed.”
Blood pounded in my ears and the knot in my stomach tightened until I felt sick. Matthew needed to get away; he needed a distraction. Why didn’t he go, leave, run? But he just stood there, calm and composed while he had his identity laid bare before my family.
Matthew – go! I pleaded, and his eyes flicked to mine before he looked back at Mike, and smiled. “It’s an extraordinary coincidence, but I suspect you spoke to my father, Mr Taylor. We are very alike and he specializes in cardiology.”
It seemed abundantly clear that Mike struggled to accept the story, piecing together his memory until, bit-by-bit, the puzzle would be complete.
Mum’s brow furrowed. “Matthew, I thought Hugh said your father’s name is Henry. It is Henry, isn’t it, Emma? Yes, I’m sure that’s what he said.”
I opened my mouth but Beth jumped in before I could think of something to say. “That’s daft – you would have been about two at the time, Matthew, wouldn’t you? Honestly, and I thought Em’s maths was bad.” She scraped her thick brown hair behind one ear. “Golly, I’m famished. Isn’t it lunchtime?”
Heavy feet snapped a winter twig. “Mike,” Dad’s voice boomed, “I didn’t think you could make it.” He took Mum’s arm as Matthew relinquished her to his care. “Penny, I’ll take you home and put the kettle on.”
Her peaky face looked up at him. “Matthew’s father’s name is Henry, isn’t it, Hugh?”
He looked nonplussed. “Henry? Yes, it is. Mike, you’ve met our future son-in-law, Matthew Lynes?” He might have added “the one who messed with my daughter’s head”, but he didn’t need to because Mike remembered perfectly well from our conversation before Christmas when he had been asked to assess my mental state and before I discovered Matthew’s true identity.
