by Angela Arney
‘Thank you.’ Liana took the letter and laid it aside without reading it. Martin Pope was disappointed; he’d been hoping Herr Fink had praised his work. ‘And now,’ said Liana, ‘the other matter in Italy.’ She was not entirely successful in her effort to conceal the tremble in her voice. She hoped Martin Pope had not noticed.
‘Ah, yes, Italy.’ He fished in his capacious briefcase and withdrew a sheaf of notes. ‘I’m afraid I have bad news concerning Italy.’
Liana tensed. Bad news? What did he mean? ‘What exactly do you mean by bad news?’ She leaned forward, her dark eyes fixed on him.
At last the young man felt gratified. He had her attention now, and about time, too, considering all the leg work he had put in. His tone took on an officious air as he read from his notes.
‘“Account of visit to village of San Angelo, March the twenty-seventh nineteen sixty-three. After exhaustive enquiries and with the aid of an interpreter—” I couldn’t understand the dialect. I’m afraid that cost extra.’
‘Yes, yes, that’s all right. Go on,’ said Liana.
‘“After exhaustive enquiries and with the aid of an interpreter, I ascertained that none of the original villagers were still alive. The people now inhabiting San Angelo all come from the neighbouring village of Caltresi, which they left when the water supply failed. They told me there had been an old woman, one of the original inhabitants who could have remembered the people from the castello but unfortunately she died in the severe weather of last winter.”’ He looked up from his notes. ‘So I’m afraid you are too late. There is no-one left for you to help.’
Stifling her sigh of relief, Liana rose to her feet. ‘Thank you, Mr Pope. I’m glad I know, even though it is too late.’ She took the sheaf of papers from him and put them with the others on her desk. ‘The cheque for your services is already with your agency. Please ask them to invoice me for any additional expenses you incurred, such as the interpreter.’
The startled Martin Pope was dismissed, out of the office and on his way almost before he had time to catch his breath.
Once he had gone, Liana read the report for herself, before carefully filing it away. She was safe, and more importantly, so was Eleanora.
But still a tormenting thought constantly plagued her. It was in her mind now as she sat alone in the library office. What if she hadn’t so zealously guarded the deception, the lie that was her life? What if she hadn’t denied William’s accusations vehemently, but instead had acknowledged the truth and asked him for mercy? Would James still be alive? But it was too late for such questions. What was done was done. There was no way of knowing what might have been. Just as there was no alternative but to go on living, day after long day.
Liana shifted restlessly at her desk. The text on the papers before her swam disjointedly in front of her tired eyes. Where had the last three years gone? Am I really a living, breathing human being, she wondered dispiritedly, or is it all an illusion? Unable to concentrate on the work before her, her mind drifted to Nicholas, no longer her husband in the accepted sense of the word.
They still shared the same bedroom, but never made love now. Sitting alone in the darkened office, lit only by the pool of light cast by the reading lamp, she remembered the last time they had tried to make love. Shuddering, she tried to push the memory of that unmitigated disaster from her mind. But as so often, it refused to budge. Nicholas’s voice echoed in her head as clearly now as it had two years before.
He had pulled her into his arms as if she were the lifeline to his existence. No tenderness, just desperation. ‘Darling, I need you. God, how I need you. I want to make love to you, to hold you, to touch every inch of you. To forget.’
Liana resisted. ‘Nicholas, no. I can’t, not yet. Sex won’t help me to forget. Nothing will make me forget James. Nothing, nothing.’ The anguish of grief was still so raw she could not bear to think of making love.
He kissed her bare shoulders. Blind to everything at that moment except his own sorrow, he needed the comfort of her warm body, the closeness of another human being. ‘I don’t mean that we should forget James for ever, darling. How could we? But while we make love at least we’ll forget for a little while.’ He began to kiss her breasts. ‘Please, darling, please.’
Liana capitulated. Why not, she thought. If it helps him, I suppose I can do it. What does it matter anyway? What does anything matter? ‘All right,’ she whispered.
It was a mistake. She knew it as soon as she began to touch him. It was wrong. How could he find pleasure in her body? How could he find pleasure in anything? She wanted to remain as she was, sealed up in the sterile capsule of her own making, insulated against the worst excesses of grief. Why couldn’t he understand? She tried to push him away.
But the familiar feel of her body had aroused Nicholas. ‘I need you,’ he whispered feverishly, ‘God, how I need you.’ His hands moved across her body, feeling, touching, intimately exploring.
Liana lay beneath him, her mind cold and dead. I’ve come full circle, she thought feeling her flesh creep with revulsion. Now I’m a prostitute again.
Her coldness communicated itself to Nicholas. Her lips beneath his were unresponsive but still she pulled him in towards her and wrapped her legs around him.
Entering her, Nicholas closed his mind, shut everything out, and waited for the pleasure of the explosive release of tension. But nothing happened. The tension drained away becoming instead a dull frustrating ache.
‘Come on!’ whispered Liana, rocking her hips, anxious to get the sexual act over and finished.
It was the note of desperation in her voice that finished Nicholas. ‘Christ! I can’t, I can’t. I want to, but I can’t.’ Limp and pitiful his penis shrivelled and slid out of her body. Groaning, Nicholas rolled away from her. ‘I can’t,’ he repeated dully. ‘I can’t.’
I ought to put my arms around him and comfort him, thought Liana. But she did not. ‘It will be all right next time,’ she said.
The words, meant to be consoling, sounded as empty and hollow as they were in reality. She did not mean them, and they both knew it. Since that disastrous night they had both led celibate lives.
Which was one of the reasons for always working so late. Liana put off going up to bed because she knew as soon as she lay by the side of Nicholas, memories of Raul would come creeping out of the darkness, and that made her feel even more guilty about the loneliness of Nicholas’s life. In the past she had always striven to keep memories of Raul at bay but now she welcomed them. By reliving the past, remembering those golden weeks with Raul, the laughter and the happiness took on a magical form and gave a small measure of comfort and strength. Feeble echo though it was of the real thing, it lightened the long dark nights, and was better than nothing. It was all she had.
She sighed and pulled a huge pile of files towards her. Problems, problems, economic and world business problems. Liana knew she must concentrate on the here and now. In trying to solve the problems before her, she could forget her own troubles, at least for a little while. Rhodesia had declared independence and the British government under Harold Wilson as Prime Minister was imposing economic sanctions. Liana believed her advisers who told her it was only a matter of time before all trade with Rhodesia would be banned. Now was the time to divest herself of interests in those companies which were likely to be worst affected and channel the money into other more profitable areas. At last, losing herself in the world of facts and figures, Liana worked on until the early hours of the morning.
A tap at the door startled her. It was Margaret in her dressing gown. She leaned heavily on her stick which she needed to use most of the time these days. Her former gangling figure and long straight legs were bent and crooked now. The cold, wet winters sorely tried her rheumatism and arthritis. Liana could only guess at the pain, as Margaret was a stoic of the first order and very rarely complained; but the twisted limbs and swollen hands and feet spoke for themselves. However, she still determinedly hoisted herself
on to a horse whenever she could. She and Donald Ramsay rode together most days.
‘Can I join you?’
Liana glanced at the clock. It was 2.00 a.m., an unusual time for Margaret to be up and about. ‘But of course, if you want,’ she answered involuntarily, although surprised. ‘I thought you were asleep,’ she added.
‘I was.’
Margaret motioned behind her and Meg emerged from the shadows carrying a tray. Clearing a space amongst Liana’s ledgers and the mountain of paperwork, she put it down. On it was a decanter of whisky, some wholemeal biscuits and cheese.
‘She needs a bit of company, does Her Ladyship,’ said Meg under her breath.
‘There’s no need to whisper, Meg,’ said Margaret tartly. ‘My legs might have given up on me but my ears are as good as ever.’
Liana smiled at the sharpness of the reply and Meg grinned back. Knowing Lady Margaret as well as she did, she had not taken offence.
‘Why, then, do you need company?’ Liana asked, pouring out two glasses of whisky as Meg left the room. She passed Margaret one and took a sip herself. ‘Laphroaig,’ she said appreciatively, letting the smoky, peaty taste of the malt whisky linger on her tongue.
‘Donald’s had a massive stroke. He’s been taken into Winchester Hospital. Dorothy has just telephoned and told me.’ The gnarled hand that held the glass trembled slightly.
‘Oh, my dear.’ Liana was at her side in an instant. She knew how much Donald and Dorothy Ramsay meant to Margaret. ‘Do you want me to drive you to the hospital now? I’ll get a car out ready and wait, while you change into something warm.’
‘No point,’ said Margaret. She took a sip of whisky. ‘He’s not dying. Not yet anyway. But he’s totally paralysed at the moment. Dorothy says they’ve hooked him up to a breathing tube and put up drips. Now it’s a question of wait and see.’ She looked at Liana, her pale eyes watering. ‘I know he wouldn’t want me to see him like that, trussed up like a chicken with tubes and pipes protruding from every orifice. No dignity in that. Dorothy wants him home as soon as possible, tubes and all.’
Liana understood at once. They wanted her to lean on the authorities. Her response was immediate and decisive. ‘Don’t worry, Margaret. I’ll arrange that. He can have a private nurse at home. There’s no need for him to stay in an alien, antiseptic place like a hospital, especially if he is going to die. Knowing Donald, I know he’d prefer to be allowed to get on with it at home in his own good time.’
Margaret sighed. ‘Dorothy and I knew you would understand.’
Liana kissed the wrinkled cheek gently. ‘I’ll get on to it first thing tomorrow.’ Of all the people at Broadacres, Liana loved Margaret most. The affection which had flourished between the two women in Liana’s first few weeks in England had never wavered, not for one single instant. It just shows how unimportant blood ties are, thought Liana, watching Margaret’s tired face tenderly. She is my spiritual mother and always will be.
Liana shared out the biscuits and cheese, and they sat together in silence, eating. Only the regular tick, tick of the French ormolu clock on the mantelpiece disturbed the quietness.
‘This will be the first time Donald will have to miss the Boxing Day Meet,’ said Margaret suddenly. ‘He will hate that, especially as we are having it here.’
Liana thought of death and old age, the tailing-off, the gradual curtailing of all one’s abilities. Which was worse, sudden death in youth or slow death little by little? ‘Yes,’ she said, ‘he will.’
Margaret’s thoughts were running along similar lines. ‘I hope he either gets better or doesn’t linger, helpless and dependent on others. Come to that, I hope I don’t linger either. I want to be snuffed out like a candle, the minute I can’t get on a horse.’
‘We can none of us choose,’ said Liana slowly. For a moment she reflected bitterly on the past. ‘No, we cannot choose,’ she repeated. ‘Not for ourselves, nor for those we love more than life itself. Death strikes when he chooses; it is never our choice.’
‘You are thinking of James.’
Liana bowed her head. ‘I never stop thinking about him,’ she confessed.
‘There are others who need your thoughts as well; don’t forget them.’ Margaret’s voice was slightly sharp, but kind as well. ‘Nothing can make reparation for your loss, our loss. Do you think we, too, do not mourn? There is no such thing as perfect happiness,’ she said, almost as if talking to herself. ‘Oh, it comes sometimes and seems perfect, but alas it is always fleeting. I know that, my dear, far better than you may ever guess.’ Margaret shuffled her chair forward across the thick carpet and took Liana’s hand in hers. ‘You haven’t lost James, you know. Not completely. Because he’ll always be there, laughing and chuckling in his baby way. But his allotted time on this earth was short, and because of that he’ll never grow old, never suffer, never be unhappy. Be thankful for that, and remember that although his candle has gone out in this world, his light still burns in your heart and always will.’
Liana shook her head. ‘I wish I could think that,’ she said, her voice breaking suddenly with unshed tears, ‘but I can’t.’
‘You must try,’ said Margaret gently. ‘Now,’ her voice took on a firmer note, ‘you and Nicholas have a beautiful and talented daughter. And she needs your attention now. Do you ever think of her struggling in London?’
‘Struggling?’ Liana looked up in surprise. ‘She has everything she wants: a beautiful flat in Kensington, plenty of money. She doesn’t need to struggle.’
Margaret shook her head in a slight gesture of exasperation. Liana had missed the point.
‘I mean artistic struggle. The world of opera is a profession existing entirely of highly-strung temperaments, combined with technique, musicianship, intelligence plus a lot of hard work. It is to Eleanora’s credit that she has mastered this difficult world. Already, although young, she is beginning to be noticed. She has achieved a great deal in a short time. She not only deserves your interest but your physical support sometimes, when she is singing in London. You have never been to hear her. Nicholas and I have. How I wish you could have seen him. He was so proud of his daughter, you would have thought she was singing the lead instead of merely the second witch.’ She laughed at the memory. ‘You should be proud, too, and tell her so. She desperately wants your praise and approval.’
Nicholas’s daughter. His pride thinking she was flesh of his flesh, blood of his blood. The guilt of deception had not decreased over the years and now, on hearing Margaret’s words, it seemed worse. But strangely enough the words also had another effect. A door opened just enough to let a crack of enlightenment through. If they loved her daughter, why not put the futile guilt away and enjoy Eleanora’s success and talent with them? Margaret was right, she had not thought enough about Eleanora; indeed, she had not thought of anyone else at all, only herself and her own griefs. There and then Liana resolved to try and put matters right. She owed it to Eleanora as well as to Margaret and Nicholas. In future she would be stronger, more positive, and if guilt reared its ugly head and threatened to spoil things, she would sit on it very firmly. I ought to be able to do that, she thought wryly. After all I’ve had nearly twenty-two years of practice.
‘All right, Margaret,’ she said. ‘I promise I’ll go to her very next performance, and I suppose I’d better educate myself a little regarding opera. It’s an unknown world to me.’
‘Good,’ said Margaret, pleased that she had achieved something. ‘And you won’t forget about Donald in the morning, will you?’
Liana helped Margaret on her painful way upstairs to bed. ‘I won’t forget,’ she promised.
On the way back to the bedroom she shared with Nicholas, she passed the nursery. A light shone under the door. It was not necessary to open it; she knew who was in there, but she opened it nevertheless. Nicholas was sitting by the cot where once James had frolicked so joyfully. James’s favourite fluffy toy, Blue-blue, a large blue bear, was propped up against the pillow. Nich
olas was staring at it, an empty whisky bottle in his hand. Pity tugged at her heart. I was wrong, wrong to shut everyone out, particularly Nicholas. She remembered Margaret’s words about James, that his light was still burning. Maybe I’ll never be able to see the flame, she thought, but perhaps I can help Nicholas to find it. Maybe I can ease his sorrow.
She took the empty bottle from his hand and placed it on the floor. ‘Come to bed, Nicholas,’ she said gently, and started to lead him upstairs.
Confused by the whisky he had consumed, he clung to her like a small bewildered child. ‘Liana,’ he whispered, hardly able to believe that at last she had reached out to him.
Chapter Twenty-Five
‘Well, that wasn’t so bad after all.’
The family standing close together on the Broadacres top step waved goodbye. Eleanora waved back and Peter swung the car round on the semi-circle of gravel before driving under the triumphal Arch and out into the main road. Goodbyes over and done with, Eleanora immediately kicked off her shoes and relaxed, stretching out her long legs, pushing the seat back as far as it would go. Liana was tall but Eleanora was already an inch taller, and now fervently praying she would not grow any more.
‘Not bad at all,’ Peter agreed. ‘Thank God, your parents seem to be well on the way towards a normality of sorts.’
‘Well on the way!’ Eleanora snorted with indignation. ‘I thought everything was back to normal. Daddy hardly drank at all and Mummy was asking me things about opera as if she really wanted to know. In fact I think she did want to know. She actually said she was sorry she had missed Dido and Aeneas, and would definitely come the next time I sang. She was quite impressed when I told her that the Italian director had offered me a place at La Scala.’ She laughed at the recollection. ‘Although I told her that I’d only go to La Scala if he offered me a lead.’
‘Oh, darling, don’t rush into judgements on the basis of the way things appear to be with your parents,’ warned Peter. ‘Everything is not all well, not yet.’ Sometimes Eleanora worried him; she was ingenuous in the extreme. Everything was either wonderful or terrible. There were no in-between times for Eleanora, and that made it so easy for her to get hurt.
