She feels surprisingly calm. This is where she needs to be today, and everything is fine. Only one thing is missing – Janet – though Nora understands that she would be here if she could.
She checks the bow at her neck and runs her hand over Janet’s pearls, just as her friend Alice comes alongside.
‘Nervous?’
‘I’m OK,’ she manages. ‘I just can’t believe it. I’m so grateful.’
And Alice squeezes Nora’s fingers and then lets go. Together they simply survey the scene before them. ‘It is rather grand, isn’t it?’ Alice says. ‘I haven’t been to Berlin before.’
‘Neither have I, but Janet was telling me about it. If we have time tomorrow morning, I want to go to the Island of Museums and see the Ishtar Gate. Shall we go together?’
‘That would be great, if we have time. It sounds like you could be quite the tour guide, Nora.’
‘Janet also told me about Café BilderBuch, where we could have lunch and where sometimes there’s someone playing the piano.’ Alice puts her arm around Nora’s shoulders. Nora remembers how she was just a couple of years ago, much of the time hardly daring to go out of the house, worried about whether she’d remember her way around the small town in which she lives. And now here she is, offering to take charge of their free time in a foreign country! She sends a thought of gratitude to Janet and wishes again that she was here. She looks up at the high arch with its intricate carving, the choir stalls polished with such love and dedication over so many years that the burnished wood fairly glows in the flickering light of the candles in their brass holders.
And now, it’s time. Nora is in the front row. A signal ripples around the group and the silence descends, every eye focused on the conductor, Herr Schimmer, in black tie and tails. His hands, held out in front of him, hold each and every one of them as securely as if he were touching them individually. He nods to his choristers then turns to face the audience.
‘Guten Abend, meine Freunde,’ he begins. ‘Welcome to our international evening for peace. We have with us today three choirs as well as our own church choir and I know that you are going to enjoy our music. So, let’s not waste time. We begin our programme tonight by welcoming our friends from England. First is the Puccini, then the Fauré and lastly, “Ave Maria”.’
As the first notes of the organ flood the cathedral, Nora’s heart opens, and as Herr Schimmer signals with an elegant hand, she begins to sing. She is transported with a joy she remembers from her early adolescence – that amazing feeling of transcendence as she allows her voice free rein. It’s almost as though it is a separate entity, that the music is flowing through her without effort and she is but an observer, a listener to her own music.
The final chords of the Fauré ascend heavenwards. There’s a moment of hush and then the audience erupts into an applause that reverberates throughout the cathedral.
When it finally dies away, Herr Schimmer gives Nora a little smile, and a twitch of his fingers beckons her forward. She advances a little, her memory swinging back to when she was just seventeen and choirs were assembled to mark the occasion of the election of Pope Pius XII. It was a glorious event made all the more special by the fact that it was Nora’s first time as the soloist. She can still hardly believe that she’s here, having the opportunity to do it again. She takes a breath and lifts into the music, her voice strong and clear.
Ave Maria, gratia plena, Dominus tecum.
Benedicta tu in mulieribus . . .
And she’s soaring. Nothing exists now but the music. She’s home. She’s whole. She’s fully Nora in this moment.
Finally, the rapturous applause subsides. Herr Schimmer smiles at her, his admiration and respect radiant on his face. Nora bows to another crescendo of applause. This is beyond any dream she could ever have conceived. She’s here. She’s alive and her heart swells with gratitude and joy. I did it! Janet, I did it!
She gazes down at Joe who is clapping furiously, his cheeks glistening, and she smiles for him alone. This evening will last her until she dies.
The final chords are still ringing in Nora’s ears as she walks towards Joe. He reaches out his hand, drawing her towards him until finally they touch and she bends to give him a hug – something she’s wanted to do for many years but had never dared.
‘I can’t believe you’re here,’ she whispers.
‘Wouldn’t have missed it for the world.’
Then a vaguely familiar figure stands up from its seat on the pew beside Joe and looks into her eyes. ‘Nora . . . ’
‘Dr Stilworth!’ She’s immobilised, incredulous, for what seems like a long moment, and then smiles and places both her hands in those he has stretched out towards her.
‘Nora, you were wonderful,’ he says. ‘Inspiring, truly inspiring.’ They both just stand looking at each other, beaming. What else is there to do? They are beyond words.
‘Thank you, Dr Stilworth,’ she says. ‘Thank you for taking care of me.’
‘I wish I could have done it better,’ he says, the light in his eyes dimming slightly.
‘No. You did it,’ she says. ‘Dr Stilworth, you saved me.’
And he smiles a completely different smile to the ones she remembers from all those years ago. ‘I hope you’re proud of yourself – that you can sing like that and in front of all these people.’
‘Dr Stilworth accompanied me on the plane,’ Joe says, his face shining. ‘Janet and Audrey put us in touch.’
‘I wish Janet could be here now,’ she says. ‘This feels like all my family.’
Dr Stilworth slips an arm around her shoulders and gives them a little squeeze. ‘Yes, we’re all your family.’
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Standing in the courtyard of Lincoln’s Inn Fields, Nora looks up at the imposing building, feeling a bit dazed. Even though she read in the newspaper two months ago that Robert had died, having been fighting cancer for some years, the telephone call had been a shock. Thankfully, a stroke had taken him in the end, before the cancer had the opportunity to claim his beautiful mind.
At the funeral, she’d stood in the back of the church with Audrey by her side as they carried him in, with the card that Janet had sent clutched in her hand for comfort. Nora had known no one there, nor did anyone know her. She assumed that the elegant man standing by the coffin crying silent tears was his partner.
And now she’s here, at this place she’d never heard of until a few days ago. She takes a deep breath and enters.
‘Good afternoon, Miss Jennings.’ The thin and balding man with gentle, sympathetic eyes smiles down at her, offering his hand. ‘I’m sorry to meet you like this.’
Nora lowers herself into the proffered leather chair and stares at the envelope on the desk in front of her, her name written upon it in a hand that she remembers from long ago.
‘This letter is for you, Miss Jennings. Would you like some privacy?’
She nods. ‘That would be kind, thank you.’ She can’t seem to look away from the envelope and her hand moves towards it almost unconsciously.
‘Would you like a cup of tea? Or coffee?’
She withdraws her hand. ‘Er, no . . . No, thank you,’ she says, not looking away from the letter.
‘Some water, perhaps?’
She finally looks up. ‘No, thank you.’
He nods and bows out of the room, closing the door quietly behind him. Nora grabs the letter, holds it to her face as though she could feel him through the ink. She slides her finger under the gummed flap. She smells it, but there’s nothing of Robert. Just the smell of the cream vellum and something else vaguely familiar. Violets? Surely not.
She unfolds the vellum and there, within its creases, is a lace-edged handkerchief embroidered with the letter N. She lifts the handkerchief to her face, closes her eyes and sniffs at the trace of the scent she always used to wear. Tears threaten as it transports her back fifty years. She inhales again and holds her breath, then turns her attention to the letter.
>
My dearest Nora,
The enclosed may mean little to you, but it has been of great import in my life ever since our evening together when I asked you for something to keep. You gave me your handkerchief. Some men carried a lock of hair, an amulet or talisman into battle. My tunic pocket contained a memory of you. It did me well. It made life bearable and meant that I never abandoned hope of returning, despite the fact that I abandoned so much else, including my self-respect, my self-image and you. That small piece of linen has continued to be the source of comfort it always was. It was placed by my bed when I was unconscious in Stoke Mandeville and has been with me ever since. By the time you read this, I will no longer be needing it.
Nora, I’ve regretted so many times that the only time that I came to see you – that first Christmas morning – I left without doing so. There was a misunderstanding that, I’m ashamed to say, allowed me to escape. Later, I made myself believe that it was best not to upset you, but probably, at the heart of it, was guilt and shame, and cowardice. The latter is something for which I cannot forgive myself and will carry with me to the end now.
It’s too late to say all the unsaid things, or to redeem the sins both of omission and commission, but I want to say that I’m deeply sorry and ashamed of my failings and for the misery I caused you and the suffering that you had to endure alone.
You see, even then, I already had feelings for boys, but thought they were just childhood fantasies, since I always loved you. But in the weeks following that one perfect evening, I knew that my homosexual urges were still strong and would in the end destroy us. I was filled with confusion and I avoided you, while I tried to sort out my mind. I left it too late, for then came the dreadful news of what had happened to you and I froze. I told everyone that I was called up to the forces, but that wasn’t true. I volunteered in order to get away and have time to think. I wrote to you many times, but didn’t send the letters. But one was in my battledress pocket when I was taken to hospital. I asked for it to be sent to you; I hope you received it.
Money can never make up for what you’ve lost, but maybe it will make things more comfortable for you in your latter years. What you choose to do with it will be up to you.
Tears spring to Nora’s eyes and she clutches the paper so tightly that it crumples. She rummages for her handkerchief and then reads on.
But there’s something else that I must now tell you. I’m sorry that this may be very shocking for you. It was for me when I learned about it. I went to see your father the day I found out about your incarceration and told him that I was the father of your child and that we should be married. He then shared with me the horrible truth about the nature of our relationship.
When my father became very sick with testicular cancer and both he and my mother knew he wouldn’t live long, they discussed my mother’s yearning for a child. He was rendered sterile by his illness. They agreed that they would approach your father to see if he would be willing to provide semen that my mother would have a chance to fulfil her desire. This all sounds so horrendous now and one wonders what on earth they were thinking. I’ve spent long hours over the years wrestling with it. The only conclusion I’ve drawn is that it would have been such a shameful thing to even consider artificial insemination as a Catholic in those days, and they therefore wanted to keep it in the family – in every way, it seems. Obviously, he agreed, though I don’t know whether your mother did – or even whether she knew about it in the first place. But it makes sense of why your father always called me ‘my son’ and why we had such a special bond in the early years, though we became somewhat estranged after the war when I found out what had happened to you. You see, Nora, I am your half-brother.
Nora almost lets the letter fall as she tries to absorb this new, shocking information. Her mind races back to the night after which everything changed. She’s back on the stairs in her nightgown, her hand clutching the rail of the staircase, her mother screaming, ‘I’ll never forgive you.’ Oh God! She feels herself blanch and wishes she’d accepted the offer of water. Nora holds her chest and tries to staunch the wound that reopens yet again. She closes her eyes, squeezing the lids together to prevent the flood that could so easily swamp her. ‘Robert . . .’
She stares out of the window, counting her breaths as Janet has taught her to do in moments of stress. ‘I’m all right. It’s all right,’ she whispers. ‘I can survive.’
Eventually she turns her attention back to the letter and reads the last paragraphs.
It would have been considered dreadful for us to be cousins and to have a sexual relationship, but this . . . Now you have the right to know, though I am heart-sore to tell you. Neither of us knew, and we cannot do anything about it now, but, again, I apologise from the depth of my heart. I wish I could say this to you face to face.
My time is now limited. The dreaded prostate cancer that takes out so many of us men has got me too. Though my life took me on a totally different path than either you or I may have expected, as did yours, my love for you has remained always. I hope that does not raise anger in you now, as I know it could.
My lifestyle has been, let’s say, alternative, and less traumatic than yours, but has not precluded love and sorrow, guilt and shame. These last years have been the most calm and peaceful, as I found love and companionship with my beloved partner, George. I hope to find more peace when I finally seal this envelope, though I’m truly sorry if it brings you less. Please, if you can, forgive me, Nora. I’m sorry that I hurt you by things I did and did not do.
When I finally make my exit, I want you to have most of what I have. George will have my share of our home and its contents, but he is a man of independent means and needs nothing more financially. He knows about you and that I love you as always. I know it may appal you, but I love you both and always will.
When you receive this I will be elsewhere – drifting in the breeze, playing in the waves and rock pools as we used to do. I’ll be rustling the leaves and smelling the flowers and I’ll be waiting for you. So, till the next lifetime . . .
Yours, always, in love
Robert
Nora traces the words with her fingers, lingers over his name, then reads it all again, finally retracing the ‘Yours, always, in love’.
She folds the pages and, with fumbling fingers, places them back in the envelope with her handkerchief.
She sits quietly. The clock ticks away, until finally she gathers her bag and the letter and stands steady and firm. She needs to go home.
Back at her flat, feeling somewhat shaken, Nora still clutches the letter as though she’ll never let it go. There’s only one person she wants to talk to now. One person she wants to share it with. She dials the number she has to use in emergencies only.
‘Janet?’
‘Yes, Nora. Are you OK?’ Janet says, concerned.
‘Could I have an appointment, please?’ Nora is pleased her voice sounds so calm.
‘Of course,’ Janet says, though there’s a hint of confusion in her voice. ‘Did you go to the meeting this morning?’
‘Yes.’
‘Do you need to talk now?’
‘No, thank you. Not till I see you.’
Nora can hear Janet flicking through her diary. ‘How about tomorrow afternoon?’
‘Yes, please. What time?’
At three thirty precisely, Nora walks into Janet’s office, looking young and radiant in a summer dress, a bunch of summer flowers in her hand. Janet stares in surprise. From the phone call, she was expecting a very different Nora.
‘I brought you these,’ Nora says, smiling broadly at Janet, who offers the now customary hug.
Janet takes the flowers, buries her face in them and sniffs appreciatively. ‘Thank you, Nora, they’re gorgeous,’ she says. She places them on her desk and indicates that Nora should sit down. ‘What happened?’ she asks, settling into her own chair.
‘There was a letter from Robert.’
‘And?’
No
ra pauses. ‘It was with his will . . .’ She hesitates, clearly struggling to find the words. Finally, she meets Janet’s eyes. ‘Janet, he left me nearly all his money.’
Before the session, Janet had determined not to show any emotion, no matter what Nora said, but now she gasps, her hands flying to her mouth.
Nora’s face slips into a rather mischievous grin. ‘It’s a great deal of money.’
Janet sits back in her chair, feeling her shoulders fall. ‘Wow!’ she breathes. ‘That’s . . . well, that’s . . . incredible.’
‘It is. I’m going to buy a little house and have a dog. And a piano.’
Janet chuckles through the tears that prick at her eyes. ‘That’s wonderful, Nora. Just wonderful.’
‘I think I’ll have a bungalow by the sea. I always wanted to live by the sea. I’m sure Robert would like that.’
Janet leans forward, enthralled by yet another new insight into the woman she’s known intimately so many years. ‘Yes, I’m sure he would.’
Nora lowers her eyes, then lifts them shyly. ‘Janet, there’s something else.’ She opens her handbag and produces Robert’s letter. ‘It would be hard for me to tell you, so I’d like you to read his letter. Sorry. It’s quite long.’
Janet holds Nora’s eyes questioningly for a moment, then takes the precious letter and starts to read, back-tracking occasionally to make sure she’s understood fully. There it all is – the answers to all Janet’s questions about this ill-fated love story that has defined Nora’s whole life. As she reads about the awful secret that Robert kept for the rest of his life, her breath catches and she raises her hand to her face and her eyes to Nora, but Nora’s are resolutely focused out of the window. What a tangled mess.
The Girl Behind the Gates Page 33
