‘I’m sorry, Florien. I just don’t love you any more,’ she repeated. It was springtime, the woods vibrated with the clamour of birds and the vitality of growing foliage and plants, giving them a soft mattress of bluebells to lie on. They hadn’t made love for Alicia felt uncomfortable. She desired Florien, but he was too poor. It was as simple as that.
‘Yes, you do,’ he retaliated, shaking his head, unable to come to terms with her sudden change of heart. ‘I’m not grand enough for you, that’s all.’ She listened to him speak with his coarse country accent and cringed. She could never share her life with him for his was going nowhere. She envisaged private yachts and aeroplanes. The fast life of the rich and famous. The open road of the privileged. Holidays on the French Riviera, skiing in St Moritz, shopping in Paris. She gazed at him with regret. She would miss him, but he was right. He wasn’t grand enough for her.
‘Florien, it’s not that. You’re lovely but we’re just not right for each other. I want to spend more time in London. It’s not convenient.’
‘I’ll come up to London.’
She laughed. ‘And stay where?’ She placed her hand on his but he withdrew it. ‘It’s been a lovely affair. We’ve enjoyed each other. All good things come to an end.’ He looked at her with dejected eyes and she realized that she was being flippant. She adjusted her face to reflect his and sighed heavily, the way women do when they don’t know what to say.
‘You have no idea how I feel, Alicia. I love you. I can’t live without you.’ His throat shuddered as he swallowed while the weight of emotion on his chest began to suffocate him. He looked at her with glassy eyes and the corners of his mouth twitched as if he was trying his best not to cry. ‘I thought you were capable of feeling. But now I realize that I was wrong. You don’t feel like other people. You’re too selfish to allow yourself to be touched because you can’t bear to be vulnerable or to suffer pain. But I’ve been touched by you and now I can’t live without you, in spite of your faults.’
Alicia shrugged. ‘What do you want me to do?’
‘I was going to ask you to marry me,’ he said in a small voice, reflecting on the magnificence of the spring day that had seemed such a perfect setting for his proposal.
‘Well, I’ve answered,’ she said, growing impatient with him. ‘I can’t say I’m sorry any more because there aren’t any other words for sorry. Sorry, sorry, sorry.’
She stood up and brushed down her jeans, adjusting the silk Hermès headscarf that one of her suitors had given her.
‘So this is it?’ said Florien, blinking at her in astonishment. ‘This is what I get in return for loving you like I do?’
‘What do you expect?’ she asked, putting her hands on her hips and shaking her head with irritation.
‘I don’t know, but not this.’
‘Well, if you don’t know, how am I supposed to? God, Florien, I’ve just finished our affair, what do you want, a medal?’ He reeled back as if she had struck him. ‘I’m going back to London now. Marry Leonora, she’s more your type and, unlike me, she wants to be a gypsy,’ she said, stomping off through the bluebells.
‘I thought we had a future together,’ he protested, following her.
Alicia spun around, her eyes blazing. ‘Look, Florien. I have never loved you, okay? I desired you. I enjoyed you. You’re a good lover. I’ve had many. Don’t think for one moment that while I was in Switzerland or in London I was saving myself for you. No, I took lovers when I felt like it. Lots of them. They all fulfilled me in the same way that you did. The only difference was that I liked you. You were more than a body, Florien. You made me laugh. We had fun together. But that doesn’t mean I want to spend the rest of my life with you. It’s the seventies, for God’s sake.’
Florien watched her stride through the trees until she was out of sight. He stood there with his mouth agape and his eyes bulging. He had never felt so humiliated in his entire life. So used and so discarded. He was too furious to cry so he let himself go like an enraged animal in a cage, kicking the surrounding trees and pounding his hands against the bark. Finally when he was sweating and exhausted he collapsed onto the ground and put his face in his hands and wailed. His whole body felt hollow, as if she had scooped out his insides with a spoon and left only his skin. He hated her with all his strength and yet hate is love’s other face. When he had calmed down he realized that if he had loved her before he was now entirely consumed by her.
Florien retreated into his gloomy world. He no longer smiled and Leonora was once again cast aside. She knew what had happened although neither Alicia nor Florien ever mentioned it. He was so miserable that she found herself hoping they would patch up their differences and get back together, then at least he would be happy and he would notice her again. But the weeks rolled on into months and soon a year had passed and they had seen nothing of Alicia.
The following year when the bluebells once again occupied the woods like a vast blue army Florien began to speak again. He remembered the day Alicia had spurned him as if it were yesterday and the wound was still raw and bleeding. But his misery was damaging his health. He’d grown pale and thin and his glossy black hair had begun to fall out. Then one day he was shaken from his stupor by his own, haggard reflection staring miserably back at him from the mirror. He gazed upon the strange face in horror, scrutinizing his now bearded chin and the haunted look in his eyes. If Alicia were to see him now she wouldn’t recognize him. What’s worse, she would despise him for having let himself go. If he wanted to win her back he would have to shave, scrub up and look as if he was enjoying life without her. No one respected a man who didn’t respect himself.
Leonora was shocked when next she saw him. Not only was his face smooth and clean but he was smiling. ‘Let’s take a look at what we planted last autumn,’ he suggested, walking with her around to the back of the house. Leonora felt uncomfortable for surely her sister was back, why else would he have made such an effort? He hadn’t smiled in a year. But she soon realized that the sudden change in his appearance as well as his humour were entirely his own initiative. He must have decided to get on with his life.
Then, just when Leonora was beginning to enjoy her deepening friendship with Florien, Cicely announced that the gypsies were leaving. ‘But Florien hasn’t mentioned it to me,’ she exclaimed in astonishment.
‘That’s because he’s still dreaming of your sister,’ Cicely replied, pursing her lips. She was awed by the masochism of the men who took her on. They were no match for Alicia; she was stronger and more resilient than any of them. She would always have the advantage for she didn’t have a heart to be broken.
‘When did Panazel tell you?’
‘This morning.’
‘Where are they going?’
‘I don’t know. They’ve been here for years, perhaps they want a change of scene.’
It was late evening. The sun was sinking over the ripening corn fields and the warm kitchen smelt of steak and kidney pie. Leonora was in her usual place on the floor with the dogs, having changed out of her muddy gardening clothes for dinner. They waited for Marcel to emerge from the attic. ‘Do you think Florien will go too?’ Leonora asked, trying to hide her sadness, but her voice cracked. She coughed to disguise it, then got up and poured herself a glass of water.
‘He’s an adult. I’m sure he can do what he wants,’ Cicely replied, straining the peas. ‘He likes it here, doesn’t he?’
‘Yes, I think he does. He’s certainly been a lot happier in the last few months,’ she said.
‘I wish I could say the same for Marcel.’ Cicely sighed. ‘He’s been broody for so long I can’t remember the last time he smiled.’ She wandered back to the Aga, glancing at the clock.
‘Marcel is always broody. That’s the way he wants to be seen. He’s like a caricature,’ said Leonora and laughed. ‘But he’s very handsome.’
‘You know, initially I fell in love with him for his looks. It was hard not to. But then, as I got to know him, I realiz
ed that a very tender man dwelt beneath that smouldering Gallic exterior. It’s an unconventional relationship. He’s young enough to be my son. He’ll probably run off with someone his own age in the end, but I have enjoyed him immensely.’
‘Don’t say that, Aunt Cicely,’ Leonora exclaimed. ‘He’s lucky to have you. He should be worrying that you’re going to run off with someone your own age.’ Aunt Cicely chuckled.
‘Goodness me, I’m almost sixty!’
‘And you’re still young and attractive. Love doesn’t stop just because you’re sixty. Daddy’s in his mid fifties and love hasn’t dried up for him and Mummy. I think it just gets better as one gets older.’
‘You’re so positive, darling,’ she said, then shook her head. ‘Let’s start. If broody Byron upstairs can’t come down on time for dinner he’s going to find his food has grown cold.’ Then she looked at Leonora and grinned wistfully. ‘I like the person I am when I’m with him and that’s half the battle.’
They started to eat in silence, Leonora worrying that Florien might leave with his family and Cicely quietly furning over Marcel’s absence from the dinner table.
In all these years he had never let her see any of his paintings. ‘My elusive creativity,’ he would say, locking the door behind him. She assumed it was because of shyness, but lately she had begun to wonder whether he did any painting at all. He had grown sullen and distant. At least Florien had snapped out of his mood; Marcel was still so tightly wrapped in his ill-humour, she could hardly make him out.
Dinner was finished and Leonora went to bed. She didn’t sleep much for her mind was like a flour mill, grinding all her hopes into dust. If Florien were to leave, what would become of her? In the morning she came down to breakfast to find the dogs in a state of excitement, chasing each other around the kitchen table. She frowned and fought her way through to the biscuit tin, then threw them one to quieten them down. When her aunt appeared with swollen eyes and blotchy skin she realized something serious had happened. ‘He’s left me,’ she wailed, crumpling into the armchair beside the Aga. ‘No wonder he didn’t appear for dinner. He’s left the attic empty but for a painting leaning against the wall. I haven’t looked at it yet, I can’t bear to.’
‘Are you sure he’s gone?’ Leonora asked, crouching down beside her and placing her arm on her aunt’s.
Cicely smiled cynically. ‘Darling, he’s packed his bags and gone, there’s no doubt about it. He hasn’t hopped off on holiday, I can assure you.’
‘But didn’t he give any indication that this was on his mind?’
Cicely shook her head and squeezed out a few more tears. ‘We’ve hardly spoken recently. He’s been so grumpy. I just thought that if I ignored it, it would go away. It did. All of it.’ She chuckled sadly. ‘What a fool I was to believe that he loved me. He didn’t love me at all. He loved my cooking and my washing machine. I was convenient.’
‘Don’t be hard on yourself, Aunt Cicely. You were much more than that. He’s a rat.’
‘Yes. I wish I had known that. But he made me feel young again and attractive. After Hugh died I felt like an old woman. A stiff, conventional old bag. Marcel was like the Prince in Sleeping Beauty, one kiss and I came alive again.’ She took a deep breath then looked at her niece with weary eyes. ‘What is it with me? My lovely gypsies are leaving me too.’
Leonora made her aunt a cup of coffee while she snivelled into a hanky. She suddenly looked her age, as if Marcel had taken her youth with him. She wondered where he had gone and why he had left so suddenly. ‘Didn’t he leave a note?’
‘Nothing.’
‘Perhaps he left a message in that painting,’ Leonora suggested, pulling a chair nearer her aunt and sitting down.
‘Do you think so?’
‘Well, why else would he leave it? He took all the others, didn’t he?’
‘What others? I doubt he’s painted much in all the years he’s been sponging off me. What he did up there is nobody’s business.’
‘When was the last time you saw him?’
‘At lunch yesterday.’
‘He didn’t say a word,’ she recalled.
‘Not a word.’
‘But he was always grumpy. He never made conversation, just delivered monologues.’
Cicely laughed into her coffee. ‘You know you’re very sharp, Leonora. Alicia might have all the beauty but you’ve got all the wit.’
‘Thank you,’ Leonora replied, wishing that God had been a little fairer in distributing the beauty; perhaps if she were prettier Florien might have fallen in love with her instead.
‘You know what else?’
‘What?’
‘You’re getting better looking every day because your nature is beginning to show in your features. Alicia will end up looking as sour as her heart. You watch. Beauty only lasts beyond youth if one’s got the character to match it. I’ll confide in you now, because I’m drunk with grief. I’ve never liked your sister. She’s a nasty piece of work and always has been.’
‘She’s not a bad person. She’s just selfish. But I love her all the same,’ Leonora protested.
‘I know you do. The mind boggles . . .’
‘She’s my sister. We were sent away together, she was the only family I had.’
‘Poor old you.’
‘Not at all. She’s beautiful and gifted.’
‘What’s that got to do with it? She’s unkind and selfish. She’s been horrid to you and you’ve always taken it. She’d sell her own grandmother if she had to and she’d sell you too!’ But Leonora just smiled the smile of someone entirely confident with her own judgement. She’s bewitched you too, thought Cicely. Then her skin began to crawl.
She ran upstairs to the attic leaving Leonora sitting in front of the Aga, patting a very aged, nearly blind Barley. With a heart suspended with anticipation she hurried as fast as she could to Marcel’s small studio, terrified of what she would find. She turned the doorknob and walked inside. The room still smelt of him, that sweet scent of France mingled with the strong blend of paints and paper, dust and stale air, because he had rarely opened the window. She stood a moment, surveying the room, seeing him working there still in the dawn light that tumbled in through the glass. Her eyes rested on the painting that lay against the wall. It was large, painted onto hard canvas. She bit the skin around her thumbnail, scarcely daring to breathe. She feared she knew what was on it. If Leonora was right and Marcel had left the painting in order to communicate a message to her, then she prayed her fears were unfounded. Slowly she walked towards it.
With trembling hands she pulled the canvas from the wall and let it drop on the floor. She caught her breath. There in delightful abandonment was the luminous body of Alicia, as naked as the day she had been born. Cicely turned cold at the sight of her niece. She didn’t question her innocence or presume for one moment that the painting might have arisen out of Marcel’s imagination. A work of fantasy. She looked back to when Alicia had left and realized that it coincided with Marcel’s declining humour. Could Alicia have seduced Marcel as well as Florien? Why not Panazel as well? In her aunt’s mind Alicia rose up like Medusa, her hair a writhing mass of snakes and her eyes capable of enchanting anyone who dared look into them. She could have coped with Marcel leaving her for a younger woman eventually, but to leave her because of Alicia was more than she could take. With one kick her foot shot straight through the canvas, transforming Alicia’s beautiful, self-indulgent face into a ragged hole.
Chapter 30
Florien didn’t want to leave with his family. He knew that if he went away he would never see Alicia again and his spirit still burned in its own hellish inferno, ignited that day in the hay bales when they had made love for the first time. From the moment he had shaved off his beard he had silently vowed to himself that he would win her back. However long it took and whatever he had to do to achieve his goal, she would come crawling back begging forgiveness. And he would forgive her.
But while Florien
focused his thoughts and intent on Alicia he failed to notice that little by little his heart was slowly yielding to Leonora. Leonora who was always there. Leonora, whose affection was as unconditional as one of Cicely’s dogs. He took her friendship for granted and felt so comfortable with her that he barely noticed her, like an old blanket whose warmth he could always count on. She rode out with him over the Dorset hills, shared the sunrise and the sunset and enjoyed the delights of the ever-changing countryside. She understood him, but most of all she made him feel magnificent.
Florien sat in the tractor by the side of the field waiting for the combine to be ready to unload. The heat was insufferable. It was midday and not a cloud marred the clear perfection of the sky. He had taken his shirt off and his brown back and chest glistened in the sunshine but he was still hot and longed for a swim in Mrs Weatherby’s pool. Then he heard the familiar bell on Leonora’s bike as she arrived with a basket of cold beer. He thought of leaving and his heart lurched. How he’d miss the sound of Leonora’s companionship. She climbed up and handed him a can, withdrawing a packet of biscuits from the pocket in her dungarees. She didn’t smile. Instead she gazed at him with her large, sad eyes and asked in a tentative voice if it was true that he was going to leave. ‘I’m afraid so,’ he replied flatly, watching her carefully. ‘Dad wants to move up north.’
‘But it’s so nice here and you’re happy, aren’t you?’ Her eyes began to glitter with tears.
‘I love it here. I don’t want to go,’ he said, opening the can.
‘When is Panazel planning on leaving?’
‘After the harvest.’
‘Can’t you stay?’ He looked at Leonora’s long, sensitive face and he felt a strange stirring in his heart, like the slow thawing of ice. He held her in his gaze for a long moment. For the first time ever he actually saw her, not as plain, but as endearingly beautiful and he wondered why he had never noticed before. She lowered her eyes as the intimacy of his gaze sliced away her confidence. He had never looked at her like that before.
The Forget-Me-Not Sonata Page 38
