The Last Dance

by Carolyn McCrae

  He sat there staring at the dying flames. He seemed so sad I wondered whether I should have told him.

  “I still love her you know.” He said, almost to himself. “I can’t change that. I need to know she’s happy. I can’t just forget her. I need to look after her, know she’s OK, even if I can’t do anything about it.”

  I thought he was going to say more but he didn’t.

  I was just about to leave, we were all in their large hall saying “goodbye” and “thank you” and “lovely to meet you again after all these years” when the phone rang.

  It was Maureen, Alicia had been rushed to hospital haemorrhaging. They were transferring her to a hospital in London as it was very serious, could we go to her there. She was very ill, time may be very short.

  I said there was no need for Carl to go, though he didn’t appear to want to anyway.

  And so I became more closely involved in Alicia’s life.

  She was in hospital for some time and I visited her on my monthly trips to London. After she was discharged I arranged for her to have a full time nurse living in with her so she could go back to her ‘little house’. I visited her there many times, month after month.

  I had always known her to be a fascinating woman; but now I got to know the true depths of her vulnerability, intelligence and wit. She seemed to want to talk about old times, she told me many things I didn’t know and some I didn’t particularly want to know.

  Our talks answered many of the questions I had had from seeing the Donaldson and the Witherby families from the outside. I was able to tell her some things she didn’t know – about Charles’ escapade when I had been taking him back to school. She was able to tell me about her history, her family, why she had married Arnold in the first place and how the convoluted parenting had really happened.

  I had, and still have, no reason to believe she told me anything but the truth.

  I don’t think she knew that my visits were the highlight of my life. They were days I looked forward to all the time I was away, and how much I loved heading off into Surrey those Thursday afternoons each month.

  Initially it was the nurse who made the tea and set everything out for my visits, Alicia was far too ill. Then she was up and about – I suspected especially for my visits – in the early days of the spring of 1968. Then we would sit out in the garden, the nurse enjoyed gardening and kept the small area neat and tidy.

  As the months passed I kept her up to date with family events, another grandson, Al, born on 8th June 1968. “Do you think they called him after me?” she had asked rather wistfully. I said “yes”, though I didn’t think for a minute that they had. Joe had had an uncle Alfred who, I think, had died during the war.

  On July 4th 1969 news of another grandson – Bill. I had not told Alicia of Susannah’s pregnancy, aware that she would think it was far too soon, but I had to tell her after the boy was born. She didn’t dwell on it, simply changing the subject to current affairs. Another topic we covered over the long hours of our conversations.

  On one visit, June 4th 1970, she met me at the door and completely without preamble told me the news I had been dreading. “The doctors have finally decided they can’t do anything. They’ve given me six months at most.” I had dreaded the words, but it wasn’t that much of a surprise, anyone who saw her could see she was losing the battle with the cancers inside her.

  “Are they sure?”

  “I’m afraid so. It’s all moved from those bits to those bits.” She waved her arms vaguely across her body.

  I had known what I would do when the time came.

  “Right then, we have to sort out the rest of your life.”

  “I knew you would be practical. No one else would be able to help.”

  “I’m always here at your service.” I tried to sound light hearted and chivalrous – I fear I just sounded flippant.

  “I know, Ted, you have always been a good friend to me – God knows my only real friend.”

  “What do you want to do with this time that you know you’ve been given?” I leant forward and put her hands between mine. I don’t think I had touched her in this personal way before.

  “I don’t want to be alone, Ted, I’ve never been very good at being alone.”

  I squeezed her hand “You told me that once before, you won’t remember, when you got back from Switzerland. I promise you you’ll only be alone when and if you want to be. Anything else?”

  She thought for a while.

  “I would like to see Charles. I want to know how he’s turned out. Whether there is anything of me heading off into the hereafter. It’s the only ‘life after death’ I can believe in.”

  “What of your daughter, your grand-children?”

  “No. No need to see them. There’s nothing of me in Susannah.”

  So later that month I packed Alicia into my car, specially driven down for the day. I couldn’t help remembering driving her to the hospital when she was having Susannah, and the other times I had ferried her between Hoylake and Liverpool. I knew her so much better now.

  She didn’t bring much luggage.

  She sat almost silent in the passenger seat next to me as I settled in to drive the 200 odd miles back to the Wirral.

  I had loved this woman who sat to my left, looking out of the window as we drove, for so long. She had prevented me from loving any other woman, and yet she had no idea what she had done to me and my life.

  She simply had no idea.

  The traffic was light – there was a general election. Polling Station signs littered the towns and villages as they passed. We talked of politics, how in the old days she would have been so involved – what Arnold would have thought of the unfolding events.

  We had decided that, for as long as she could, Alicia was going to stay with me. I had a large flat, plenty of room – she would have her own bathroom and sitting room.

  I wondered what she would say when she saw my new arrangements.

  She had never asked where I lived now my mother was dead, she had never asked and I had never told her. As we drove northwards I couldn’t find the words to warn her and so left the words unsaid. She would find out soon enough.

  There were motorways open now, there was no need to follow the A1 up through Dunstable and Atherstone, past Birmingham and along the wonderful long straight road built by the Romans up through the forest until the right turn to Brownhills and Newport.

  But I drove the old road anyway.

  This would be Alicia’s last drive through the heartland of England. She would never see these fields, these towns and villages again. She had made the trip north many times as new wife and reluctant mother, now she was making it for the last time. We both knew it but, of course, neither of us said anything.

  As we approached home, driving northwards up the Wirral, through the sandstone cutting of Thurstaston and down past the cricket pitch and the open fields towards West Kirby.

  “Shit.”

  “Pardon?”

  “Sorry, I was just remembering those long summer afternoons, watching the cricket, scoring matches at that ground. It all seems so very long ago.”

  “So you did have good times?”

  “Yes. However much I would love to say ‘no’ I must admit there were good times. It couldn’t have been all bad could it?”

  “No. There are always good things to be remembered.”

  As we drove we reminded each other of cricket matches and the other times we had been together. Our lives had overlapped for so many years.

  As we came into West Kirby, she asked me to stop the car at the top of Grange Hill.

  “I love that view. The view over the Dee and Hilbre to Wales, I gave birth looking at that view – Susannah it would have been. I can’t remember having Charles. Perhaps I ought to see her. None of it was her fault really, was it? None of it was any of their faults, not Susannah nor Charles nor Carl. It was us wasn’t it?”

  I didn’t, I couldn’t, answer.

&nbs
p; I drove on, down the hill, past the station – all the places she had been familiar with and which were now bringing so many memories back to her. I turned into the drive.

  “What the hell are we doing here?” She sounded surprised

  We were pulling up outside Millcourt.

  “They divided it into flats a couple of years back – I’m afraid I couldn’t resist it. My rooms are on the second floor – where the nursery used to be. I have a lovely view out over the golf course. I’m sorry I hadn’t told you. I thought you might find it a little – well – morbid.”

  “Oh Ted! It’s absolutely wonderful. Perfect! Oh how fantastic! I’m going to die here at Millcourt!”

  She actually seemed amused by it all.

  She walked through the door – the same front door as had been her own – and she tried to see the house as it had been. The partitions made it almost unrecognisable. I helped her up the stairs – surely not the old staircase – until there was another door – the entrance to my flat.

  This had been the nursery suite.

  She tried to work out the rooms as they would have been when she left, when Charles and Susannah had been so ill, where had Nanny slept? Where had the cots and the beds been? As we walked though what was now a well proportioned and spacious three-bedroomed flat she knew exactly what the rooms had been.

  In another life.

  She sat down in the window seat of what was now the lounge, which had been the old playroom, and looked out over the garden to the golf course and the dunes beyond.

  So many things had changed. So many things had stayed the same. So many things looked the same from the outside but on the inside had changed utterly and completely.

  She soon settled into a routine, sleeping late, the nurse I had engaged getting her up just before lunchtime, eating, resting and getting dressed ready for my return from the office at around 6pm.

  We would have drinks in the small sitting room, immediately above Arnold’s old library, and eat supper, either on trays or in the small dining room, which had been Monika’s room adjacent to the kitchen.

  “Very different from the old days?” I ventured after Alicia had been there a week.

  “Indeed.”

  “How are you, my dear? Settling in?” We were very comfortable together.

  “You are very kind. I feel well looked after.”

  “I will be going out on Saturday.”

  She didn’t say anything so I continued. “You aren’t asking me where I am going?”

  “That is none of my business.”

  “But it is. It is your youngest grandson’s first birthday party.”

  “Oh.” That seemed to shock her. “You’re invited?”

  “I am, I am often a guest in Susannah’s house, I normally get invited to the children’s birthdays – I think Joe thinks it is a way of tying himself into the future of the firm and I try to go when I can to keep an eye on them.”

  “Of course, he works for you doesn’t he?”

  “Yes. And he sees me as an integral connection with the Donaldson family.”

  “Is he that cold blooded?”

  “Yes. I’m afraid he is. He’s clever, don’t get me wrong, he’s taken and passed all the relevant exams with flying colours and has established himself in the office as an extremely useful voice of what people are really like. You can imagine that we were rather staffed with the ‘old school’ well Joe is definitely ‘new school’ he sees the way people think in far clearer perspective than we old fogies do. He is making himself quite indispensable.”

  “You sound bitter.”

  “I don’t mean to. In many ways he is a very useful young man, working and trying hard. I just can’t trust him. Sometimes he’s just a bit too good to be true.”

  “Is Susannah happy?”

  “As far as I know, yes. She’s always very supportive of him”

  “And he of her?”

  “Not so obviously.”

  “Tell me about it all when you get back. They don’t know I am up here do they?”

  “No. I haven’t told them. We need to wait until you are well enough to visit on your terms.”

  So I went to Bill’s first birthday party.

  Two days later I took Susannah to lunch.

  Two days after that Susannah had her termination.

  What was I to say to Alicia? What could I say?

  I said nothing.

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Charles’ surprisingly successful booklets about the bird life of the estuary had given him a career. He had sighted some rare species and had hopes of others. He had a recorded spotting of a Great Snipe in October 1957 and it was that that had sparked his interest in birds. He really wanted to see a gull-billed tern, an ambition finally fulfilled one hot August day 19 years later. His bird reports had a good following and he got a spot in the local newspapers. He was becoming quite well known and in early 1968 he had been asked to record a programme for the BBC. His gentleness and complete lack of ostentation made him an instant hit with listeners and by 1970 he was a regular contributor to many BBC nature programmes – on radio and television.

  One of the regional newspapers had arranged a day of seminars to be held early in July 1970 to be given by local academics – not just people from the university but people who had links with the area from a wide variety of backgrounds and covering a wide variety of fields. Amongst those invited to give talks at the Liverpool Philharmonic Hall were two young men both making their reputations on radio and television, Charles Donaldson, local ornithologist and Carl Witherby, originally from the Wirral but now an increasingly popular national television historian.

  By lunchtime on July 7th Charles had given his talk and was waiting for a taxi in the foyer. Carl, sitting next to him, was deciding whether to go straight back down south or spend some time with the Forsters, who were now living back in the Wirral. The two men were both reading The Guardian and had cast no more than a casual glance at each other.

  They hadn’t recognised each other. Why would they? It had been a long time.

  “Carl, are you OK? Do you need anything?” Amanda, a secretary at the paper was making sure one of the guests assigned to her was comfortable. She noticed the man sitting next to him “Ah Charles. Have you two met? Carl this is Charles Donaldson, the ornithologist. He’s been giving one of his wonderful talks on the recent rare bird sightings on Hilbre Island. Charles – this is Carl Witherby, you know the budding young historian, he’s ...”

  Carl interrupted her “Hello Charles”

  “Carl. ‘Long time no see’ as they say.”

  “You know each other – how marvellous!”

  “Not necessarily. Is it marvellous Charles? How long’s it been?”

  “The Winter Gardens, May 1963”

  “Saturday May 18th 1963 at about 10 o’clock in the evening to be precise.”

  Amanda was beginning to realise there were some serious undertones to this conversation and she was out of her depth. It was not just a fortuitous meeting between old friends.

  “I don’t suppose you are going to forget that.”

  “No I don’t suppose I ever will.”

  “Come on you two” Amanda tried to ease the tension “whatever it was it was a long time ago – you must both have been children then – come on let’s all go for a drink. It’s still early but I think you both need a drink – I know I do!”

  “Yes, why don’t we Carl – we’ve a lot of catching up to do.”

  There was quiet reluctance in Carl’s voice as he agreed. “I suppose we have to start somewhere.”

  So Amanda shepherded the two to the pub over the road and bought the first round of drinks.

  By the second round the older man had relaxed. He was confident in his life, ‘content’ as Max would say, but unused to beer at lunchtime.

  “You won’t believe this,” he turned to Amanda

  “No, Charles.” There was warning in Carl’s tone but Charles continued regardle
ss.

  “Carl and I are brothers.”

  Amanda showed shock and delight all in one movement.

  “How fantastic! That’s absolutely fab!”

  “Half brothers. We aren’t brothers – only half brothers – we share – if that’s the right word – a father.” Carl tried to correct things.

  “So it’s complicated.” Amanda said slowly, “Wonderful! What a fab story!”

  “No!” they both shouted at the same moment. That probably broke the ice between them. They had a mutual cause now, they were on the same side against Amanda.

  She looked from one to the other. Charles the older was traditionally dressed in suit and paisley tie whereas Carl wore jeans with a black polo neck sweater and a leather jacket. Charles’ hair was cut short, a traditional short back and sides where Carl’s long hair was tied back in a pony tail. But there was a real similarity between them. Their hair was the same dark brown, their eyes the same deep blue. She decided to leave them to it.

  “Don’t go.” Charles put his hand out as Carl got up to leave with Amanda. “Stay. Let’s talk.”

  It took a few moments to confirm after Amanda had gone, but they both knew Carl would stay.

  “You still live in Hoylake?”

  “Yes I do, still, funnily enough, still at Sandhey. And you?”

  “Cambridge, just outside actually. It’s not so easy a drive. I’m staying at the Adelphi. Should we go back there, have something to eat? I think perhaps we need to talk. Maybe we’ve met like this for a reason.”

  Carl wanted to find out about Susannah, he needed to know how she was as he hadn’t heard any news for a couple of years, since his autumn in Bookham. Charles’s motives were rather less clear. Perhaps he was just curious, perhaps he wanted to try to sort things out, perhaps he felt responsible.

  As they got back to the hotel Charles saw a young woman leaving the hotel with a man he recognised. He didn’t say anything. He couldn’t think of any good reason why she would be in Liverpool on a Tuesday lunchtime.

  After they had ordered their meals Charles opened the conversation.