I’d like to be able to say that from that moment I never looked back, and while in a way that’s true, I still had disconcerting flashbacks and moments of something akin to panic. And I still couldn’t look at Edward’s body.
‘I shouldn’t worry too much about that,’ he told me. ‘It’s not what it was.’
‘Maybe not, but it’s yours, and I ought to be able to accept it — all of it — because it’s all of you.’
‘Undress me, then.’
‘What?’
‘Undress me. Take my clothes off. You can do it in any order you like, stop if you want to, put things back on again if you want to. Imagine I’m a — doll.’
We were in my studio again, and Edward was sketching me. I was half-turned towards him, but couldn’t see his expression.
‘Do you mean that?’
‘Yes. Why not? I’ve undressed you often enough. I know the male body isn’t as beautiful as the female. Well, not to me, anyway. And mine certainly isn’t beautiful. But if it helps you to feel that you’re in control, then maybe it won’t be quite so alarming.’
‘It’s certainly an interesting idea.’
‘You’ve moved your head!’
‘Of course I’ve moved my head! It’s not every day I get an offer like this.’
‘Turn your face back a little to the left, chin down a bit — yes, that’s fine.’ Edward continued to draw, the strokes of his pencil making soft sweeping sounds across the paper. ‘Well? What do you think?’ he asked, after a few minutes had passed.
‘It sounds a bit — artificial.’
‘Can you think of anything better?’
‘Not really.’
‘Well, then.’ He stood up to examine his drawing, then sat down and took up his pencil again.
‘Won’t you mind?’
‘Mind? Why should I?’
‘I don’t know.’ I shrugged. Maybe it was I who minded; my own reaction, rather than Edward’s, that I feared.
So that evening, I undressed Edward, while he lay on the bed reading aloud from the instruction manual for my new steam iron.
‘This is crazy,’ I said, unbuttoning his shirt.
“‘Ensure that the plug is correctly fitted.” Carry on Cass.’
‘But —’
‘No buts. If I think about what you’re doing, I cannot answer for the way my wicked body will react, and then the whole point of this operation will be wasted. This very boring leaflet is an excellent distraction. Now, where was I? Ah, yes. “Always use distilled water when filling your iron.” Well, fancy that. “Turn iron to correct setting ...’”
‘I love your hairy chest.’
‘Good. “Stand iron on its end when finished ...”’
‘I can’t get your shoes off.’
‘Try undoing them first. “Before seeking help, please consult the following checklist for problems. Is your iron switched on?” They must think people are frightfully stupid. “Check the fuse —’”
‘Gosh. Purple socks! I never thought you were the kind of person to wear purple socks.’
‘They were a present. Cass, will you please, please get a move on? I can’t manage to keep up my boredom levels if you don’t. And will you please stop talking. How can I concentrate on this if you’re prattling away all the time? “For address of your nearest stockist please phone ...’”
It took a long time, but eventually I managed to remove all Edward’s clothes. And of course, he was right. There was nothing to be afraid of. Edward’s body, unlike Uncle Rupert’s, was all of a piece; I hadn’t been suddenly presented with one disembodied (and uninvited) part of it; he had already given me all of it, together with all of himself. His was the body of the man I loved, and yes, it was beautiful. How could I ever have thought it might be otherwise?
‘I’d like to draw you,’ I said, standing back and admiring him. ‘If you just stay like that —’
‘Don’t you dare!’ Edward leapt to his feet and pulled me back onto the bed. ‘And now, if it’s all right with you, I think I deserve some kind of reward.’
Forty-two
It’s some hours now since my mother opened her eyes or gave any indication that she knows what’s going on, and I’m reluctant to disturb her. The nurses have washed her and brushed her hair, but she looks desperately thin and frail, and has aged ten years in as many days. She would hate to know that she has been reduced to this dry fragile shell.
‘Don’t let just anyone see me when I’m dead,’ she told me, only last week. ‘I shan’t be looking my best, when I’m dead. I don’t mind you, Cass. And Lucas, if he wants. But not Greta. She’ll only be too upset. And not Gracie. I don’t want Gracie to see me. Being dead is — well, it’s private, isn’t it?’
I agreed that death was certainly private, and promised that all unwanted visitors would be kept away. She had seen Lucas’s two daughters, who had visited her a few days ago, and had made it clear that she had said her goodbyes to them. And Mum has never seen eye to eye with Gracie. But there is still that one person; the person she so desperately wants to see. Every time someone opens the door, I hope it will be her, but despite several messages (missed trains, a lost mobile phone), she still hasn’t arrived. I know she will never forgive herself if she’s too late, but the matter is out of my hands. All I can do is hope.
Mum always minded about her appearance. She wasn’t vain in the conventional sense, and spent little money on clothes or make-up, but she was proud of her luxuriant hair, her slender legs and enviable figure, and as she grew older, she mourned their inevitable deterioration.
‘It’s so unfair, being a woman,’ she once said to me. ‘It’s as though nature is saying you don’t need to look good any more, so everything starts to go downhill. It’s different for men. Men seem to grow better-looking as they grow older.’ She sighed. ‘Of course, it’s all about babies.’
‘What on earth do you mean?’ I asked her.
‘Droopy boobs, saggy tum, grey hair, wrinkles. If you can’t make babies, then you don’t need to attract someone to make babies with any more, do you?’
‘Oh, Mum, don’t be ridiculous. You still look fabulous, you know you do. Besides, you don’t want to make any more babies, do you?’
‘No,’ she admitted. ‘But I’d still like to have the choice.’ Mum had looked on the menopause as an unwelcome intruder into her life, and she grieved for the passing of her fertility. It must have seemed especially poignant that it had come at a time when I was finally discovering myself as a sexually functioning woman, and while she rejoiced for me, it brought it home to her that she wasn’t getting any younger. Of course, she still had relationships, and it appeared to me that she was as attractive to men as she ever was, but some of her gay confidence was lost, and recently there had been some interesting, not to say colourful, additions to the bottles and jars on her dressing-table.
I had told Mum just enough about Edward and our relationship to keep her happy, without disclosing those aspects I wanted to keep to myself. I have always been a private person, and while I didn’t mind Mum telling me about her love life, I didn’t always want to exchange her confidences for those of my own.
‘When are we going to meet him?’ was a question she asked increasingly often, and one which was becoming more and more difficult to deflect. The fact that he was married didn’t work at all, since Mum had scant regard for marriage (although she had rarely had affairs with married men herself). I tried telling her that Edward felt awkward about his married state, but that didn’t work either.
‘What’s to feel awkward about?’ Mum asked. ‘We’re not here to judge him. Besides, didn’t you say he was separated?’
I recalled Edward saying all those weeks ago that ‘in a way’ he and his wife were already separated, and while I had been reassured by his words, they inevitably raised more questions than they answered. But while I did ask him several times if he couldn’t explain what he meant, he always refused.
‘Don’t you trust me?�
�� I asked him once. ‘Is that it?’
‘Of course I trust you.’
‘Then please tell me, Edward. Please. I feel as though I’m being — excluded from an important part of your life. I’ve told you all about me. Things I’ve never told anyone.’
‘But this isn’t just about me, is it? Someone else is involved. You’ll understand one day, Cass, I promise. I have — I have my reasons for keeping it to myself for the time being, but I will tell you.’
‘Is she abroad? Is that it?’
‘No. I only wish she was — could — go abroad.’
‘A long way away, then?’ I persisted.
‘No, not a long way away. Not a long way away at all.’ He smiled, but his eyes were full of such enormous sadness that I couldn’t bring myself to question him further. If Edward had promised me he would tell me what I wanted to know, then he would keep his promise. Meanwhile, I would just have to wait. As for Mum, she would have to wait, too. And while it would have been wonderful to celebrate our love publicly, to be seen out and about together without subterfuge and to be able to acknowledge openly our coupled state, secrecy seemed a small price to pay for my new-found happiness.
And so I remained in ignorance until the day when, quite by chance, I saw Edward’s wife.
It was my half-day, and I had gone into town to do some shopping. I was waiting at the bus stop for my bus home when I saw coming towards me a wheelchair, pushed by a tall and very familiar figure. Edward was leaning down, speaking to the woman in the wheelchair, but even from a distance I could see she was only half aware that he was talking to her. It was like a flash photograph. In those few seconds, I took in Edward, the wheelchair, the woman huddled beneath a rug, with glazed unseeing eyes, the awkward angle of her head, the twisted hands. And then I turned and fled, before either of them should see me.
When I got back to my studio, I sat on the bed and wept. I wept for Edward and for the woman who was so cruelly crippled, but I also wept for myself. For if Edward really loved me, why hadn’t he let me in on this part of his life? Why hadn’t he trusted me to listen and to support him? That I had assisted in betraying a wife was bad enough. Doing it to someone ill, someone handicapped, someone at such a terrible disadvantage, seemed unforgivable.
When Edward came round that evening, I told him what I had seen.
‘You could have told me. You should have told me. How could you have kept something this important — this painful — to yourself? What does that say about me? About our relationship?’
Edward shrugged helplessly.
‘Please, Edward. Tell me all about her. You have to tell me now; now that I’ve seen her. I want to understand.’
‘I don’t know where to start.’
‘Well, the beginning would be a good place.’
Edward sat down, gazing at the floor, his hands between his knees.
‘We’d only been married five years,’ he began.
‘Go on.’
‘We were going to a wedding. I was driving. There was — an accident.’
‘And?’ I prompted.
‘She — Vanessa — was terribly injured. They didn’t think she’d make it through the night, but she survived. Oh, Cass. It would have been so much better for her if she hadn’t.’ He took out a handkerchief and blew his nose. His head was bent and I couldn’t see his face, but I believe that he was crying. ‘She was so beautiful, Cass. Vibrant, happy, full of life. And now — well, you’ve seen her. Sometimes she recognizes me, but most of the time she’s no idea who I am. I tried looking after her myself, but in the end I couldn’t manage, so she lives in a home. They’re very good to her, very kind, but there’s not much anyone can do. I visit her once or twice a week; sometimes her family come and see her. Today was the first time I’ve taken her out in ages. I thought it might help, but I don’t think she even realized she was outdoors.’ He looked up at me and attempted a smile. ‘So there it is. Now you know.’
‘Oh, Edward. I’m so so sorry.’ I knelt down by his chair and took his hand. ‘But why didn’t you tell me? Wouldn’t it have helped, to tell me?’
‘I didn’t want you to feel sorry for me, I suppose. Or sorry for Vanessa. I didn’t want you to be tied to me by pity, or because you felt you had to support me. And Vanessa ... She has so little dignity left, and to be pitied by my lover — and you are bound to pity her, Cass; how could you not? — is so degrading, somehow.’
‘The accident ...’ I hesitated. ‘Was it — was it your fault?’
Edward shook his head.
‘A lorry came out of a side road and didn’t see us. It hit the car on the passenger side.’ He ran his hands through his hair. ‘But I still feel responsible. I know there was nothing I could have done — goodness knows, I’ve replayed it over and over in my head — but there are all those “if onlys”. If only I’d filled the car up the day before and we hadn’t had to stop for petrol, if only we hadn’t been running late, if only we hadn’t been going to that wedding at all — we nearly didn’t. If only.’
‘How long ago did it happen?’
‘Seven years.’
‘How terrible. How absolutely terrible, for both of you.’
‘Yes. Though I don’t think Vanessa is aware of anything very much at all, which I suppose is a blessing. She likes her food, and seems to enjoy music. Sometimes I read to her, but I don’t think she takes it in. It’s such a waste, Cass. Such a tragic waste. I lost the woman I loved on the day of the accident. The Vanessa who’s left is someone quite different. But I owe it to her to visit her, to make sure she’s well looked after. To do the little I can.’
‘And — her family?’
‘Her parents are dead, but she has two sisters. I get on with them both, and they made it clear some time ago that if I — well, if I found someone else, they would understand, but they’d rather I kept it quiet. At the time, I never imagined that would happen, so I didn’t give it much thought. But now there’s you.’ He sighed. ‘I hate keeping it a secret — you and me — but I feel in a way it’s the least I can do. To divorce Vanessa would seem unutterably cruel, when she’s done nothing to deserve it.’
‘But don’t people round here know? They must have heard of the accident. News like that usually travels pretty fast.’
‘We lived in Surrey at the time, but I couldn’t bear to stay on in the house, so I moved up here where nobody knows us. I brought Vanessa with me and found her a place to live so I could still visit her.’ He got up and walked over to the window. ‘No one here knows about her, and it’s best that way. I don’t want sympathy for her or for me. You can have too much sympathy, you know, Cass. I think in a way I was trying to get away from that, too. I didn’t want to be “poor Edward” any more. I just wanted to get on with my life.’
I think that at that moment I loved Edward more than I had ever loved him; for his caring, his loyalty and his integrity. And I ached for his loss and for the seven lonely, agonizing years which had followed.
‘Humphrey told me that you — well, that you had problems,’ I said now. ‘How much does he know?’
‘Humphrey knows everything. He’s the only person I’ve told, and he’s been such a good friend to me. He was probably trying to protect you, Cass; warn you off. He knows I can’t offer you what you want.’
‘How does he know what I want?’
‘Well, I suppose it was an assumption. But he probably assumes you want marriage and children. Don’t most women?’
‘Not this one. Not necessarily.’ I joined him by the window and took his hand. ‘I’ve never been particularly interested in marriage. I suppose it’s because I’ve never lived in a married household. Mum never wanted to get married, and she’s managed all right. Of course, I’m not really like her. One relationship is enough for me. But marriage? To be honest, I’ve never really thought about it.’
‘And now?’
‘And now what?’
‘What — what do you want to do? Now you know about Vanessa.’
I sighed.
‘It’s a difficult one. I hate to feel I’m taking advantage of her in some way. On the other hand, you say she can’t really be hurt by anything we do.’
‘I love you so much, Cass. I’m not sure I could cope without you now I’ve found you.’ Once more, Edward’s eyes filled with tears.
‘Can I sleep on it?’ I asked, after a moment.
He nodded. ‘Of course. And I’ll respect whatever you decide to do.’
But when it came to it, there wasn’t really any decision to make. I think my mind was made up even before Edward left the room.
Forty-three
Living with a secret is never easy, but I probably coped better than many people because I’ve always been quite good with secrets. I had friends, but none of them particularly close, and except for Myra (who was very understanding and could be surprisingly discreet), I didn’t tell any of them about Edward.
It was with some reservations that I finally told Mum about Edward’s situation, having extracted from her a promise of absolute secrecy. Her reaction was typical.
‘Oh, the poor man! How perfectly dreadful for him. I wonder if there’s anything I can do to help. Perhaps I could go and visit his wife? Or even take New Dog to see her? They say people like that often respond to animals rather than humans. And New Dog is handicapped too, isn’t he, so they’ve got something in common. I could go on the bus —’
‘No, Mum. No!’ Whatever Vanessa’s state of mind, I was sure that there were few things she needed less than New Dog.
‘Why ever not? Honestly, Cass. You’re such a wet blanket sometimes.’
‘Mum, I’m not telling you about this so that you can do something about it. I’m telling you because you’re my mother and you wanted to know. There’s nothing you can do for Vanessa. In fact it doesn’t seem there’s much anyone can do for her.’
‘I could make her a cake. Most people like cake.’
‘Mum, please. Just leave it, will you?’
For a moment, Mum looked crestfallen, then she brightened.
The Frances Garrood Collection Page 25
