A Hallowed Place

by Caro Fraser

  Perhaps he was lying to himself, trying to construct safe, conventional relationships that were ultimately doomed to disaster. Leo was probably the one person with whom he was happiest. But Leo now had his struggles, his own problems to contend with. That visit to Stanton, although it had helped Leo to some degree, had shown Anthony just how isolated Leo really was. With a sigh Anthony sat down at his desk to work.

  Felicity and Henry looked up as Leo came into the clerks’ room, shrugging off his coat. Felicity thought he looked better than he had when he left, though he still had dark hollows beneath his eyes.

  ‘Good morning. I hope you managed to keep my practice afloat while I was away?’

  Felicity caught Henry’s stony look and said brightly, ‘Yeah, we muddled through, Mr Davies. There’s quite a lot of stuff here for you, though. And your diary’ll need sorting out. We weren’t certain when you’d be back.’

  Henry waited to see if Leo would take this cue for an apology, but Leo merely put out a hand for his mail and said, ‘Thanks. Pop up in half an hour and we’ll go through it.’

  ‘Bloody cheek,’ muttered Henry, when Leo was out of earshot. ‘You’d think he could at least say sorry, all the trouble he’s put us to.’

  ‘You know what he’s like. No excuses, no apologies. I’m just glad he’s back.’

  In his room Leo leafed through his mail. He paused at one letter, a small, oblong envelope with his name written on it in meticulous script, obviously hand-delivered. He tore it open and read through the contents. It was from Desmond Broadhurst, letting Leo know that he was going to be leaving the Temple by Christmas to live with his daughter in Lincoln, and would Leo care to come to a small drinks party he was throwing on December the eleventh. Leo read the letter thoughtfully, then folded it up. An astonishing yet rather obvious idea had just occurred to him. He sat thinking for a few moments, then stood up and walked to the window, and looked across to Desmond’s top floor flat. Was there any reason why it couldn’t be done? In his mind he mapped out the plan of the rooms on the floor above. The room at the end, where Desmond’s flat adjoined number 5, was occupied by Roderick, so he’d have to move out while the work was done. But it was possible. There were eight good sized rooms in Desmond’s flat. Leo tapped his chin thoughtfully and smiled.

  Felicity climbed wearily up the flight of stairs to the flat. It had been a long day, made longer by having had to field all the little jokes and congratulations in chambers, now that the news of her pregnancy had gradually got around. The kind things everyone said only brought home more forcefully to her the fact that she would be leaving in a few months to face a future that suddenly seemed frightening in its uncertainty. She reached the front door, wondering whether Vince would be in. She almost hoped he wouldn’t be. Since the events of Saturday evening, everything was suddenly horribly, starkly changed. Vince had retreated into a state of angry depression. He seemed more concerned about the idea that he might not be able to get his black cab licence now than about the condition of the youth with whom he’d had the fight. Felicity sometimes wondered whether Vince properly appreciated what would happen if the boy died. The thought tormented her every waking moment and each day she would come back home, half expecting to discover that Vince had been carted off by the police again to face a more serious charge than GBH. When she tried to discuss it with Vince, he simply clammed up, refused to speak.

  The sound of the television as she opened the front door told her that Vince was in. She glanced into the kitchen as she passed it and saw the empty cans by the sink. Her heart sank. The one thing she didn’t need was for Vince to start drinking. But it was inevitable, she supposed. It was his way of coping.

  She went into the living room and found Vince stretched out on the sofa, watching television, the pages of Sporting Life scattered about and a half-drunk bottle of vodka on the floor next to the sofa. He looked up when Felicity came in, but said nothing, merely reached for the bottle and took a swig.

  ‘Oh, Vince …’ sighed Felicity. ‘This isn’t going to do any good. Have you just been sat in here all day?’

  ‘Course I bloody have,’ replied Vince. ‘What else is there for me to do? What do you suggest, eh?’

  ‘Don’t have a go at me,’ said Felicity, taking off her shoes and rubbing at her toes. ‘I just think you’d be better off getting out, instead of lying around here feeling sorry for yourself and getting pissed. That’s not going to help.’

  ‘Oh, yeah? Go out and do what, exactly?’ Vince glared at her. ‘You know what that pig said. My chances of doing my knowledge are knackered now.’

  ‘You don’t know that. Not yet. You might not go down on that GBH charge. You can’t tell. So why don’t you just carry on doing your routes? Then at least you’re not wasting your time—’

  ‘Oh, do me a favour!’ Vince suddenly shouted, swinging his feet off the sofa. ‘Of course I’m gonna go down! Aren’t you the one who’s been going on about this bloke dying, an’ all? Then I’m gonna go down fucking big time, aren’t I? And you tell me I ought to be out on the bike, like I’ve got nothing to worry about!’ He grabbed his boots and pulled them on. ‘Okay, lady, if that’s what you want me to do, I’ll do it. I’ll pretend that everything’s hunky-dory. Anything to get away from you goin’ on at me.’

  He got up and picked his jacket off the back of a chair.

  ‘Vince, don’t be stupid,’ said Felicity in alarm, getting up and following him as he strode to the front door. ‘You’ve been drinking all afternoon. Don’t go and make it all worse.’ Vince picked up his cycle helmet in the hallway, ignoring her, then opened the front door. Felicity, in her bare feet, followed him out on to the landing, grabbing at the sleeve of his jacket.

  He stopped on the top step and turned to her, his eyes angry and drunk. ‘I’m doing what you want, Fliss. All right?’ He shook his sleeve free of her grasp and started down the stairs. Felicity reached out to pull him back, but he had moved away too quickly. Her hand clutched at air and she stumbled forward, missing her footing, and fell. An agonising pain shot through her knee as it made contact with the concrete steps and she tumbled past Vince, grabbing for the banister and missing. It seemed absurd to her that she kept on falling, as if for ever. Then a searing light touched her vision for a second as her head hit the stairs and she was unconscious, sprawled at the bottom of the flight of steps.

  Henry learnt about Felicity’s accident from Roderick the following morning. ‘How is she? What happened?’ he asked in alarm.

  ‘She’s not too bad. It was quite a tumble, as far as I can gather. She’s cracked a bone in her knee and - well, very sadly, she’s lost the baby.’

  ‘Oh, God …’ muttered Henry. His mind reached out to Felicity, filled with pity and unhappiness.

  ‘Anyway, she’s going to be away for some time. I don’t think we can expect her back until after Christmas, at the earliest.’

  ‘No, of course not.’

  ‘Think you can cope?’

  ‘Probably not,’ sighed Henry. ‘But don’t worry - you’ll be the first to know.’

  Henry went about his work in miserable distraction. He would go and see her that evening, take her something. She liked those glossy magazines, Tatler and Vogue. He’d pick up a couple on the way, and some chocolates. But how useless and trivial such things would appear in the light of her loss.

  Some flowers? No, there was something too celebratory about flowers. Maybe he should take nothing. It was ironic, really, to think that when she had first found out she was pregnant she had wanted to get rid of the baby. And now that she had come round to being happy and accepting it, this should happen. Poor Felicity. Still. A sudden realisation came to Henry and with it a little surge of happiness that made him feel quite guilty. Felicity wouldn’t be leaving chambers after all. There was that. So one of Felicity’s worries had been wiped out, in a cruel way. Henry sighed. Perhaps it was wrong of him, but given that Vince’s chances of earning a living for Felicity and the baby had vanis
hed overnight, he couldn’t help thinking that, in some ways, it was all for the best. He really couldn’t.

  At the end of the day, just as he was about to leave, Rachel rang Leo. ‘I just wanted to thank you for looking after Oliver on Saturday night.’

  ‘He’s my son,’ replied Leo. ‘You don’t need to thank me.’

  ‘No … Well, anyway … I suppose the real reason I’m ringing is to say that you can drop the application for access in respect of Oliver.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘I mean there’s no need. If you want him every other weekend you can have him.’

  There was silence for a moment. Then Leo said slowly, ‘You do know that because of what happened when the welfare officers came round, I’d probably have been unsuccessful anyway, don’t you?’

  ‘Yes. And I said some things to them which might not have helped, if we’re being honest. But I’ve done a good deal of thinking since Sunday and I think Oliver needs you just as much as he needs me.’

  ‘Thank you,’ said Leo, his voice light with relief and happiness. ‘Really, thank you.’

  When she put the phone down, Rachel felt lifted by the fact of having made the decision, but was conscious of a sense of loss, too. Still, Oliver would only be away for one night every two weeks, she told herself. And perhaps she had been unfair on Charles recently, by not taking him into account in all this. Maybe he did need more of her love and attention than she’d been prepared to give him. An idea suddenly came to her. Tomorrow was the day of her mother’s funeral and after that ordeal was over there were four more days until Charles got home on Sunday. She had told Nichols & Co. that she wouldn’t be back until next week. Why shouldn’t she just leave Margaret in charge of Oliver, and fly out to spend the last couple of days with Charles? She would have to start getting used to being away from Oliver for brief spells, after all. It would be good for all of them, all three of them. With a smile she picked up the phone to enquire about flights to Romania.

  Leo came downstairs. He dropped a brief on Henry’s desk and glanced at his gloomy face. ‘Thinking about Felicity?’ he asked.

  ‘Yes. I’m going along to see how she is once I’ve finished here.’

  ‘Good idea,’ said Leo. ‘Give her my best. I’m very glad I talked her into taking out private health cover a few months ago. You never know when something rotten is going to happen.’ He slung his scarf around his neck, about to leave, then paused. ‘By the way,’ he added, ‘I’m sorry if I rather dropped you in it over the past couple of weeks.’

  ‘That’s all right,’ replied Henry quickly. ‘We all need a bit of time off now and again.’

  ‘Yes …’ Leo paused. ‘Rather interestingly, I stopped shaving while I was away. It’s only the second time in my life I’ve ever done that. Grown a beard, I mean. It was amusing while it lasted, but I’m rather glad to be rid of it. Facial hair’s a bit of a transitory novelty, don’t you think?’

  Henry flushed slightly. Was Leo having a go at him? All right, he knew his moustache hadn’t been the success he’d hoped, but still … He resisted the temptation to put his hand up to his mouth. ‘You could be right, Mr Davies,’ he replied stiffly.

  ‘Night.’

  ‘Night.’

  When he had finished, Henry went into the little downstairs lavatory and stared at his face. Then he went back to the clerks’ room and fished out Felicity’s nail scissors from her drawer, and the electric razor he kept in his own desk, and went back to the mirror. Carefully he clipped away most of the length of the moustache, then shaved off the bristles. He stared at the result. Better. Much better. In fact, it was a real relief to be without it. He gave himself a smile, rinsed the hairs out of the washbasin and went off to lock up.

  Melissa wrapped herself in a long towelling bathrobe after her shower and lay down on the bed. She closed her eyes and drew her hands idly, sensuously across her body and thought of Leo. Sexual fantasy had taken on a whole new dimension where he was concerned. It had been astonishing to discover how pure loathing failed to eclipse desire, but, in fact, ignited new and stranger passions! Passions which needed to be satisfied in their own ways. The very creation of those emails had been in itself a voluptuous and pleasurably obscene act, and sending them, envisaging Leo’s repulsion and fear on receiving them, had been deliriously vindictive. There was something almost sexual in the participatory nature of it, sharing in her imagination his reactions, probing his vulnerability, reaching to the very core of him. She shivered with pleasure as she thought of it and the movements of her fingers quickened. That was the black and secret pleasure of it - reaching him, touching him. A very intimate revenge. The phone calls, the sound of his voice, at first assured and then slightly hesitant, talking into the void, while she remained silent at the other end, had been particularly satisfying, but she would make no more of those. They were too risky.

  After a moment she sighed and drew her robe together. She opened her eyes. In an hour she would see him. The fact that she still wanted him after the memory of that disastrous evening together no longer surprised her. It was desire of a very different flavour, after all. What she now felt, this mixture of lust and hatred, made her previous infatuation seem quite innocuous - almost innocent. These new feelings were lubricious, intoxicating. She gave a little shudder of pleasure at the thought that she had yet to explore all the different and decadent ways in which she could torment him and satisfy her cravings. She rose from the bed with a smile and began to dress herself in readiness, trembling like a girl at the prospect of seeing him again.

  Leo drove to Shoreditch. Anthony had said the meeting was at seven, and that he would come along later after he had finished what he suspected would be a lengthy con at 4 Essex Court.

  Work on the museum had progressed considerably since Leo’s last visit. The renovations were now complete and the whole place had an exciting, airy feel to it, a showplace just waiting for its exhibits. It looked as though Chay’s hopes of having the opening around Christmas would be realised. He walked through the empty, echoing galleries to the meeting room and found everyone already there. Chay gave his customary peace sign greeting and came over. ‘Glad you’re here. I was a bit worried you might not make it. Anthony said you’d been away.’

  ‘I took a couple of weeks off, that’s all. I hope Anthony reassured you about the sculpture. It’s on its way from Paris, plus a few other rather interesting items. I’m afraid I didn’t have time to run them past the rest of the committee, but I don’t think you’ll be disappointed.’

  Leo took his place at the table and said good evening to the rest of the trustees, meeting Melissa’s cool gaze with a faint nervousness. He didn’t care to remember the embarrassment of that last encounter. The sole resulting benefit, he hoped, was that she was probably now disinclined to continue her amatory pursuit of him.

  The meeting got under way. Chay ran through the list of works which had been accumulated over the past months, and there was discussion as to where and how they would be exhibited. Leo made a few contributions, but mainly listened. He was conscious of Melissa studying him covertly. ‘So now, finally, we come to the matter of the open space,’ announced Chay. ‘I’m pleased to say that Melissa’s come up with some very exciting plans. I’ll let her tell you all about them.’

  Melissa smiled and glanced round the table. ‘I don’t really deserve any credit. That belongs to the people who have come up with the ideas. They’re a women’s collective called Beaver - well, it’s actually spelt with a ‘u’ at the end, and it stands for “beautification of the environment and visual urban regeneration”. Their field of work is urban environmental projects, with a particular focus on bringing rural values to inner-city sites, utilising their essential drabness to accentuate the textual contrasts of city and countryside.’

  ‘Lovely, but I wish you’d get to the point, Melissa,’ interrupted Derek Harvey dryly. ‘What exactly is going to go into the open space?’

  ‘I was about to tell
you, Derek,’ replied Melissa tartly. ‘As I say, the idea is to juxtapose nature and the urban setting. What they’ve done so far is to break up the ground and turf it. Unfortunately it’s dark now, and there isn’t an awful lot to see, as it’s still at the formative stage. Now, when the turf has grown - and unfortunately some of it seems to have died, but then, it’s not the optimum time of year to start this kind of project - anyway, when it’s grown, the idea is that it will be long and lush, giving the feel of a country meadow, but it’s the anarchic context which will give it its real impact. And in this meadow area the women are going to build a sheep pen, and in the pen will be sheep, cropping the grass. Around the green area they’re going to erect a series of television monitors, on which will be shown - and this, I think, is one of the most exciting aspects of the whole thing - continuous film of rolling countryside. In addition, they’re planning the use of reflective material to mirror the urban decay that surrounds the museum and heighten the contrast.’