“I didn’t treat you any differently from your brother,” he said. “At the beginning we didn’t even know that you had that—that trouble . . .”
“No. At the beginning you didn’t know I was any different. Not till the time came for me to start moving around. And then you had all that—that boring stuff to cope with; taking me on those endless visits to the doctors . . .” As I went on the realisation came to me, dawning slowly but surely, that I didn’t want his love. Not now. Not even if it was offered to me. And the knowledge was like an unexpected gift. I held on to it, and it gave me strength, and the courage to continue.
“How did you look upon me?” I asked. “I’ll tell you. You viewed me as someone who had killed her, didn’t you? And all the time I stayed around I was a constant reminder of what you’d lost—what you felt I was responsible for your losing. And it wasn’t even as if I were a worthy consolation prize, was it?—in those splints for months on end—having to be looked after all the time. God, that must have rankled: having to give me so much attention when you couldn’t stand the sight of me. No wonder you packed me off out of your way as soon as you could.” I felt my anger merging with self-pity as I added bitterly:
“And what about Aunt Marianne? I hope you made it worth her while. She certainly didn’t do it for love.”
I swallowed, cleared my tight throat. My voice was calmer when I continued.
“I’ll tell you something: for years, from the day I was old enough to realise, I’ve tried to—to make you—care. I wanted you to love me. Oh, God, I did. All my life, since I can remember you’ve been my one constant ache, a single, unbreaking thread of unhappiness. This”—I slapped my leg—“I could deal with. I learned to live with it. It hardly ever bothers me now. But your—rejection . . . that was something else. I never got used to that. That was something I never learned to cope with.” Carefully I put Colin’s letter into my inside pocket, moved to the door. My father made no effort to say anything. I turned back to face him.
“No, I never learned to cope with that. Until now. Today. Now, at last, I finally have. I’ve realised that my love, my caring are too bloody precious to be thrown away on someone such as you. I’ve realised today something that you’ve known all along: all that guff about—kinship, blood-of-my-blood—it doesn’t mean a thing. Not a thing. I know now that I loved Colin because he was himself—and not just because he was my brother. And I realise too that it no longer matters that you are my father. Father!—the word’s a joke. I realise that for you I feel absolutely nothing. Nothing.” I opened the door, stood with my fingers gripping the handle. I added, more quietly:
“If you had wanted my love you could have had it; earned it. But you didn’t. And now it doesn’t matter any more. I’m glad you won’t be at my wedding. Shelagh wanted you to be there—but she doesn’t know you. I do. And I know that without you it’ll be a better day. I’ll be happier, and she’ll be happy too. And her happiness is the only thing I care about.” I shook my head, slowly; it was as if I was seeing him, really seeing him, for the first time. “You were supposed to have loved my mother, loved Colin. But I have to ask myself: what kind of love was it?”
All the time I had been speaking he had sat there in his armchair, looking at nothing. Now, with the mention of his love for my mother he got up, faced me.
“Don’t talk about her,” he said. “Don’t talk about either of them—not where they concern me.” His tone was slightly outraged, as if I’d trodden on forbidden ground. I wasn’t bothered.
“You deserve to grieve,” I said. “It makes me glad.”
He just looked at me, frowning.
“Do you know,” I said, “that for all your great love, when you die you’ll die a frustrated, embittered old man. And more than that—you’ll die alone. Completely and utterly alone.”
Before I pulled the door closed behind me I added, very softly, without passion:
“And that certainty doesn’t touch me, move me at all.”
In the taxi on the way to the station, and in the train going back to Reading I sat numbed. Reaction setting in. But, I told myself, what had happened was positive. I had finally acknowledged that my father and I would always be apart. We had been apart before, and now I knew it would never change. Couldn’t change. I knew now there would never come that moment (had I wanted it?—I suppose so) when he would come to me and say, “David, my son, forgive me.” No, that was for the movies. Strictly B movies.
But there was something else I knew. And that was important too.
I knew now that there was no truth in the assertion that Colin had been in love with Elizabeth Barton. And if those who had spread such a rumour were wrong about that then they could be wrong about other things . . .
On the train I took out Colin’s letter and read it. Below my father’s address—and that fatal date—he had written:
David,
As you can see I’m staying at Dad’s. I came here so quickly, without any preparation—a very quick exit. Well, I had to go somewhere. I couldn’t stay there—not on my own. I wish I could talk to you. It’s so difficult; the phone at the cottage is kaput, and anyway, with the time difference I hate the idea that I might be dragging you out of bed or something—just to have you listen to my ravings.
Dave, I just don’t know what to do any more. I’ve got to go back there to get my things, but I can’t face the prospect of going back alone. If she weren’t there—well, everything would be O.K. I could cope somehow with it all—with everything that’s happened. But she is. She is there. It doesn’t matter that I keep telling myself she’s dead, that she can’t hurt me, because I know she could if she wanted to. I’m afraid of her. I know what she’s done already, in the past—things nobody else knows about, and I know what she’s capable of doing—even now. She told me she loved me—still loves me, but it’s an evil, possessive love; I know she’ll stop at nothing to keep what she loves, what she wants. God save me from such a love. Oh, Dave! Jesus Christ, I must sound like a madman. And I’m asking myself whether any of this makes sense to you. How can it? You don’t know the story. I’m not mad, Dave, though over the past weeks, months I’ve really felt I was being driven in that direction. I wish you were here. I know we’ve never been together that much, but I do know also, at this time, that you’re about the only person I can rely on—who I could turn to. Somehow I’ve never ever had to explain things to you . . . She wants me to stay there . . . But how could I? Not after what’s happened. No. And once I’ve been back there and packed what I need I shall never go there again. I just want the courage to do that and then I shall be O.K. Yes. I must go today. I’ve decided. There’s no sense in putting it off. When I’ve finished this I’ll go. Not alone—if I can help it—but I’ll go.
I don’t know how long I shall be staying here with Dad. Not too long. Just as soon as I get on my feet again I must start to look for a flat somewhere. I need a rest. I’ll sell the cottage. Or it can stand and rot. I don’t care. Dad would like me to stay here, but that wouldn’t work. Anyway, you can write to me here for the time being. You know—I’m trembling. Even now, just at the thought of setting foot in that place again. Stupid, isn’t it. I really must get a grip.
Now the thought occurs to me that perhaps it’s really the embodiment of emotion that lives on. Could it be, do you think? Whether it’s a great love, great hatred, or great sadness—perhaps it’s that strong feeling that keeps the spirit here, earthbound. All the “ghosts” one ever reads of—they all seem to have one thing in common—some strong, restless emotion. Well, it seems to be the case here—though I’m not sure what the particular emotion is. I said she loves me—but it’s a kind of love I want nothing of. She’s consumed with jealousy and I know she would hate whoever I loved. My God, here I am, writing to you about her as if she were some living, breathing person; presuming your acceptance of such an unbelievable situation. All I can say, Dave, is believe me. Please. Of course, I knew nothing about all this at the beginni
ng, and I’m sure that if anyone had hinted at such happenings I would have laughed. Of course I would. How could I ever have dreamt what was going on? Later, of course, I knew that something was, but at the time—well, it isn’t anything that would cross one’s mind—even to wonder about it; it’s so apart from everything we accept as the norm, the acceptable. Knowing nothing at all of her history there was nothing to make me suspicious. It was the summer-house that made it all clear to me—getting to work on that. Or made it clearer, at any rate. I knew then what she was, and that it wasn’t safe to be under the same roof with her.
I wish you were here. Come, please. Bring Shelagh with you. But if she can’t come, then come alone. I feel I need some support—and I must have it if I’m not to be a candidate for the bin.
My God, how depressing this all is. But how else can I write at this time? Anyway, I console myself that by tomorrow everything will be settled and it will all be in the past. It will only remain for me then to pick myself up and pull myself together . . . I know I’m taking the right course in getting out of that place. Well, it’s the only course. If I’m to survive. One thing’s for sure, I’m not staying there to let her do to me what she did to him.
I’ve just read through what I’ve written, and I sound such a mess. God help me. Maybe I won’t send this after all. We’ll see.
I must stop. Dad is hovering about. He just came in and asked me who I am writing to . . . He seems concerned—I think it’s that—that I should seek privacy in order to write to you . . . Ah, well.
Please, Dave, write to me soon. Or better still, come and see me.
Colin.
So that was it. Soon after writing the letter he must have gone to see Elizabeth Barton to ask for her help . . .
I folded the letter and put it back in my pocket. It didn’t really tell me much that I hadn’t already guessed at. Or did it? My doubts returned. What had Colin written? I took out the letter and found again the line that presented me with a different answer: One thing’s for sure, I’m not staying there to let her do to me what she did to him. What had Helen done? And to whom? And what was that about the summer-house? What did that mean? Did he mean De Freyne . . . ?
Later I took out the letter and read it yet again. But nothing was made clearer—only the tortured state of his mind. I remembered that my father had read it, and vaguely I wondered how he had reacted. What had been his feelings when his son’s last written words had made him, his father, seem like some stranger . . . ?
When I got off the train I got the car from the car park and made my way straight to the hospital without going through the village. I’d only been with Shelagh for a second or two when she asked (again) what was on my mind. “Nothing,” I told her. “Why?”
“You forgot to bring my suitcase.”
In Helen’s studio I found some turpentine and some cotton-wool and went up to the main bedroom where I set about cleaning the newly-added paint from the pictures. I didn’t want Shelagh to see them as they were. To my relief I found the job was surprisingly easy—the paint hadn’t had long enough to dry. Within ten minutes I had finished, wiping away the crude daubs until the roses had gone, until the birch shadow was back, until the girl’s hair was once again its original colour, until the magpie had disappeared and the bluebird could be seen again, as bright and romantic as ever.
It came on to rain as I washed my hands. So many showers recently. I found later, in my bedroom, that the rain had come through the ceiling, dripping down onto the turned-back covers of my bed. Already it had made a large wet patch. I gazed at it for some seconds then flicked off the light and went across the landing to Colin and Helen’s room. No ceiling leaks there, just the paintings as Helen had first painted them, the large, comfortable-looking bed and, now, the single white rose on the pillow.
In the bathroom I brushed my teeth, washed my face, then returned to the bedroom to prepare for sleep.
I sensed the very moment she came into the room. I saw nothing, heard nothing—but I knew when she was suddenly there.
For some seconds I remained absolutely still, not moving a muscle, arrested in the act of slipping off my shoes. I could feel the louder, faster pounding of my heart, hear the quickened rate of my breathing.
I continued, fingers trembling as I dropped the second shoe on the carpet. If she wanted to stay there watching me then there was nothing I could do about it.
And she was watching, I could tell. I knew. She was watching me as I got undressed. I realised suddenly that I was not hurrying my actions. Rather I was slowing them down. I felt no modesty or shyness at all. I saw my shaking fingers undo my belt and peel off my trousers. I found something so unbelievably exciting in the knowledge that a strange woman, unseen by me, was watching my every movement, watching as I draped my trousers over a chair, watching as I slowly, languidly took off my socks, my shirt. Standing before the dressing-table mirror I pulled my undershirt up over my head. And then she was watching me as I stood only in my underpants.
I was shivering, but it was not from cold. Anticipation? Fear? Excitement? One part of me, my sense, was yelling out that I must be mad to give such a show of encouragement, while the other part of me—my sensibility—was revelling, glorying in my near-nakedness.
I waited a moment longer, then hooked my thumbs under the waistband of my underpants and slipped them off. I straightened up, my sex a figurehead, proud, denying any shame my brain told me I should feel.
I studied myself in the glass—all the time feeling her eyes upon me. It was as if I was seeing myself for the first time. And I was not just a walking limp. No, my body was fine, good. From this angle my deformity could barely be discerned. One would hardly know it was there. It wasn’t there. I was perfect. Perfect.
I wouldn’t speak to her, to the woman who eyed me so rapaciously. I wouldn’t make it easy. By such a decision I could cop out of responsibility; I could still pretend I was alone if I didn’t acknowledge otherwise.
I walked slowly, perfectly on my perfect legs, to the bed, put out the light, then lay down and drew the sheet up to my waist.
And waited.
I knew she would come to me. Feared she would. Hoped she would. I closed my eyes and waited for her touch.
By the time it came I’d begun to think (with relief?—with disappointment?) that I’d been mistaken, that I was, in fact, alone.
No, I was not. She was with me.
It started like a whisper, her touch, and at first I wasn’t even sure it was there. But a moment later I was. Her fingertips brushed my shoulder, my nipple, then moved to the line of hair that ran down to my navel. Yes! I wanted to say. Yes! Yes! I was not me. I was someone else. Yes. Yes. I felt a slight weight moved from my thighs and realised that she had fully drawn back the covers, leaving me completely exposed again. A wetness, her tongue, caressed my calf, my knee, and moved up my thigh. She kissed, kissed, while her hands roamed, sweetly exploring my spreadeagled body. Her fingers moved down, encircled me, and then her mouth, warm, wet, open, was there. My back arched. I thrust forward, joining deeper. I reached out for her, grasping, clutching, and together we began our moist, sliding, hot, fevered battle; a battle that raged long into the night. A battle where we were both the victors and where ecstasy was the weapon and the reward.
26
After I had bathed and dressed the next morning I packed Shelagh’s little red case and set off in the car.
At the bottom of the hill I turned left and drove up the lane to Timpson’s house. There was no one in so I left a note telling him that the roof was leaking and asking if he could arrange for somebody to come and fix it. Then I continued on to the hospital.
Shelagh was waiting impatiently, sitting in her dressing-gown when I got there. I embraced her, kissed her, and then retired to the waiting-room while she got dressed.
I was preoccupied as we drove back to the cottage. I still couldn’t get over what had happened last night (had that really been me?)—and also I was faced
with the unpleasant fact that I was taking Shelagh back to a place where a lingering spirit had tried to do her harm. That same spirit that had come to me in the dark; that woman in whose embrace I had touched a passion that I had never before experienced. Briefly, on my skin, I felt again the touches she had touched, the kisses she had kissed, felt again the contact, slipping, of writhing, twisting limbs; I remembered, so vividly, my blind, consuming wanting, the obscenities I had uttered, softly at first, and then, with her encouragement (“Yes! Good! Good!”) and my own swiftly increasing abandon, loudly-shouted, defiant, joyful. Nothing held back. Nothing at all . . . Nothing . . .
I mustn’t think about it. I must not. And it must never happen again. Nor would it, ever. I was determined . . .
I must think, instead, on how to ensure Shelagh’s safety. I had toyed with the idea of booking us a room in a hotel, but how could I do that without provoking from Shelagh all kinds of questions? And the last thing I wanted was to tell her what I knew. Would she have believed me, anyway? I doubted it. So, there we were, heading back to Hillingham, back to Gerrard’s Hill. But, I had decided, it wouldn’t be for long: Just three nights. On Tuesday we would return to New York. It couldn’t be before then; I would need the Monday to fix with the bank for the sale of the cottage . . . So just three nights and three days. It wasn’t that long. And during that time I would make sure that Shelagh was safe. I would watch her . . . watch her . . . watch her . . .
Arriving at the cottage I saw that Jean Timpson was all ready for the wedding. Beneath her apron her violet-coloured linen suit smacked of Sunday-best. She brought us tea into the living-room and joined us as we drank it. Afterwards Shelagh looked at her watch and I said, “How much time have we got?”
“You make it sound like a death sentence,” she said, and I inwardly shuddered.
Sweetheart, Sweetheart Page 24
