Authors: Emma Darwin
Is
that
why he wants me? The chill of this thought shrinks
down onto me. The heat in my belly shrivels. I’m closed and cold and I have to force myself not to roll aside.
Mark sees, or feels, or both. His hands leave me; he moves away. “You all right? Cold?”
“A bit.”
“Here,” he says, “let’s get under the covers.”
But when I’ve rolled aside and he’s pulled the duvet up and over both of us, I don’t turn into his arms; I can’t bring myself to. It would be like letting him take possession of my entire self.
I feel his hesitation, his uncertainty, like a shiver between my shoulder blades. Then he lies down behind me and puts his arms around me.
“It’s all right. We don’t have to, not if you don’t want to.”
“I…” I try to start, but what can I say?
“Is it Adam?”
I nod because I can’t lie out loud, and besides, if I speak I’ll cry. And then the tiredness hits me again and, worse, the miles of road, the driving and the talking: Gareth’s eyes looking at the end of his working life; the jagged spars and shadows of Sheriff Hutton; Anthony, whom I’ll never know; Elizabeth, who knew my widow’s grief better than I know it myself; and Adam, who owned my heart though not my soul, and whose heart I own still.
“Would you like me to go?” says Mark, very gently, after a long time.
“I’m sorry.”
“It’s okay. I understand.” He slides away from me, and only when he’s dressed does he crouch beside the bed so that he’s looking me in the eyes. “But are you sure you’re okay? I could stay downstairs, if you don’t want to be alone in the house.”
“No, I’ll be all right. I just need to sleep.”
“Of course.” He reaches out and strokes my hair, just once, then leans forward to kiss my forehead before he leaves. “Sleep well.” By the time I hear the front door close I’m sinking into sleep.
In the middle of the night I wake, burning and sweaty, and get up to go to the bathroom. On the landing, just outside my room, are my bags. Mark must have carried them silently upstairs and set them down before he left. “Are you all right?” he said. He was doing what he could, even right to the end. I suppose it is the end, I think stupidly, but grief is so tiring. I sleep.
When I wake again, it’s midday light that spills into the room in bright shards. I stretch, and feel the stiffness in me soften and warm, then remember.
So it was an ending, it seems, an ending of sorts, anyway. This soft, sad lead in my belly is so familiar I don’t even have to ask what it is.
Still, I’ll take it easy, get up slowly, I think. The technique, too, is familiar. Perhaps go to one of the new-old pubs that do lunch or even just for supper, take it gently after my busy few days. That’s it. I’ve had a busy few days, that’s all. Later I’ll phone Gareth: arrange to see him tomorrow to say good-bye. I haven’t got much to pack. Perhaps I’ll indulge myself with a taxi to the airport.
I have a long, hot bath, and unpack my small bag from our little trip. Not many clean clothes left, but enough for today: jeans and a sweater. I tidy up, put some washing on. It’s three by the time I’m drinking coffee and eating toast, and I think I’m fully awake, but the phone ringing makes me jump almost out of my skin. I pick up the receiver. Perhaps it’s…“Hello?”
“Una? Lionel.” His voice buffets me. “You’ve heard from Izzy?”
I try to shake my brain into some kind of sense. “She phoned when we were at Fergus’s. She said she’s arranged the shipping. I knew she was anti the whole thing, but I’d no idea she’d do this.”
“I don’t think any of us had,” he said. “Anyway, don’t panic, Fergus phoned me later—said how nice it was to see you and Mark, by the way, and Mark’s stepdaughter. What’s her name?”
“Morgan. Yes, we had a lovely visit. I thought he seemed very well.”
“Got his balance better now, I think. Morgan, goodness, the things they call themselves, these days.” I forbear to point out that our family’s names aren’t exactly ordinary. “Anyway, we can get an injunction tomorrow on the grounds that ownership’s disputed.”
“Oh, good, well done. Have you told her? But I hate thinking of this kind of war.”
“I know. Family businesses can get messy,” says Lionel, and I’m awake enough now to be able to tell that though he’d rather Izzy wasn’t on the other side, he’s quite enjoying the prospect of a fight. “But an injunction’s only temporary. And if she decides to fight, it’ll get very expensive, which is silly, when we could spend the money on working out this plan for the Chantry properly. Besides, discretion’s the better part of valor in these things, isn’t it, don’t you think? When it’s family?”
“Undoubtedly,” I say, and am amused to find myself slipping into his style.
“Quite. So I’ve been doing a bit of phoning in the last few days. Anyway, I tracked down a publishing acquaintance who works for Hesperium Press—you know, Hesperium, the big liberal-arts college in Maine?”
“Yes, I’ve lectured there. Big design faculty. Excellent bibliographic archive.”
“That’s the one. Very well endowed. Turned out he was over here on business for the Press. I asked him and Izzy for drinks this lunchtime. Champagne, all the trimmings. Anyway, as I hoped, he’s offered her a commission to write a book about the restoration of the Chantry, and she’s agreed.”
“Oh!” I say, too astonished to work out the implications.
He chuckles, and I realize he is—he definitely is—enjoying this. He never once laughed while I was visiting him. “I pointed out to Izzy that the book’s only worth writing if the Chantry’s as fully restored as possible. Everything any of us has going home.
Everything
. Including the things she wants to sell to San Diego.”
I start to laugh too, because this I do understand. “Lionel, you’re a genius!”
“Well, she’s only agreed in principle, but I’m sure it’s all right. No advance, of course, and he couldn’t commit himself to details, said he wasn’t allowed to do back-of-an-envelope costings, these days. But it’ll be a handsome affair, they always do a good job, especially for what they’d consider one of their own. Nothing less than the best for William Pryor and the Solmani Press. And the royalties split between Izzy and the Chantry Trust. That’s symbolic, more than anything. I don’t suppose it’ll be serious money.”
“That’s not the point, though, is it? And having that bit of publicity will encourage the fund-raising.”
“Quite. So I don’t think we need to worry about Izzy.”
“You said she’s only agreed in principle, though.”
“Yes, but I’ve known my dear older sister for half a century. She won’t change her mind.”
I think of her absolute certainty about her work. “No, you’re right.” Now that what he’s said is beginning to sink in, I’m shaking slightly with shock and relief. “You’re brilliant, Lionel. Have you told Mark?”
“I tried to ring him, but he’s out. At least, I only got the answering machine. Do you want to?”
Everything comes back to me properly, like being winded in the throat. “No…No, you do it. I’m horribly busy. You try later. He—you’d explain it so much better.”
“Yes, of course. Listen, Una, if I don’t see you before you fly, have a good journey.”
“I will,” I say. “Don’t know when I’ll be back, I’m afraid.”
“No, I know. Though I’m thinking of getting my computer at home hitched up to do electronic mail. Do you have it at the university?”
“Yes. That would be good. Let me know. And lots of love.”
“And to you. Good-bye, Una.”
“Good-bye, Lionel. Good luck with all the Chantry stuff.”
In the event, I can only arrange to see Uncle Gareth on my way to the airport on Tuesday afternoon. “I’ve booked you a taxi for later,” he says, giving me a hug. “And I’ve boxed up
Dawn at East Egg
, though you’d better take it as hand-luggage if you can. I never trust those baggage handlers. But come in and tell me how Fergus is, and all the places you saw. I’ve never been to Sheriff Hutton, though I know York.”
“Fergus was very well, as far as I could tell. A bit shaken by the Izzy stuff.”
“I know. I think we all are. But…but it does sound as if it’s going to be all right.” He’s saying cheerful things, but he sounds so tired and sad. “I could never have forgiven myself if my not wanting to lose the Press made a rift between you all.”
“But it’s as Lionel said, family businesses are like that,” I say quickly, following him into the workshop and sitting down in one
of the armchairs. “You’ve said yourself that you wondered sometimes what it would have been like if my father had been alive.”
“I know. Family things…York—yes—the battle of Towton, I remember, 1471, isn’t it? Your father…dear Kay. Who knows? You’re very like him, you know, Una. Especially about the eyes and nose.”
“I know. But it’s always nice to be reminded. Except that I always think of you as my father.”
“Oh, Una,” he says, rather shakily. “That’s—good. Yes. Well. You and Mark…” His voice trails off.
And then I know what I must do, though not how to say it. It’s dangerous, but I’ll probably never see Mark again, or not for years. It won’t matter by then. And I can trust Uncle Gareth. He’ll do what’s best with what I suddenly know I’m going to tell him.
“Uncle Gareth, Mark said…While we were away, Mark said…He said about why he left. And stayed away. Because I think he wanted to finish things properly. An ending. We were talking about endings…” I hadn’t known I was going to put it like that and my voice stumbles. I’m avoiding Uncle Gareth’s eye. “I—I think ending things…ending things properly is important to…Though I suppose it’s his…private thing, really. But I’d like to tell you.”
His gaze sharpens. I have wondered if he knows what I’m going to say, but if he does I think he’d say so, to spare us both embarrassment. But he doesn’t, he just says, “He didn’t tell you in confidence, did he, Una? Because if he did you shouldn’t…”
“No, no, he didn’t. I wouldn’t dream of it if…In fact he sort of said he wished he could have told you. He said, ‘I couldn’t tell him, not face to face.’”
“Fair enough,” he says.
So I go on. As nearly as I can, I quote Mark’s words so that I’m faithful to them, and Lionel’s, too, because it’s easier than recast
ing such words as my own, though they’re shocking still, said to Gareth’s gentle, thoughtful face. “And—and it had never occurred to him, not till then. Mark—he wasn’t very old,” I say, and try not to sound pleading. “None of us was.”
Gareth sits very still for a long time. “I suppose I should have known, or guessed, and said something to make it clear that…that I loved him because he was the nearest thing I’ve ever had to a son. Maybe I hoped no one would think anything else, if I didn’t say anything. You know how people were about queers.”
“Maybe he was so shocked because he—he loved you so much. ‘Gareth was the nearest thing I ever had to a father,’ he said.”
Tears start to roll down his face, stumbling in the creases of his age and running again. He pulls a handkerchief out of his trouser pocket and mops his eyes, and I don’t say anything, because I’ve never seen him cry before, not even at Aunt Elaine’s funeral, but I do lean forward and take his hand, and we sit like that for a long time.
At last, when he’s blown his nose and stuffed his handkerchief back, I say, “Should I not have told you?”
“No,” he says. “I’m glad you did.” He doesn’t say anything more, and I keep quiet. After a while he says, “Shall you come for the opening?” with a half-grin that means I must know he wasn’t born yesterday, that many another plan to save the Press has come to nothing.
“Of course.” But I wonder if I’ll be able to face it. I don’t know, I can’t tell. Everything that’s happened…I want to go home and I’m about to start crying, but I mustn’t, not even in front of Uncle Gareth, not when it’s like this, not after what I told him.
The distant crunch of gravel, and a car hoots. “That’ll be your cab,” he says. We both get up and I turn away as if to pick up my
bags, so that I can brush my sleeve across my eyes. “Oh dear, it’s sad to see you go. You and Mark…Yes…He…But never mind. Who knows what will happen?”
“Who knows, indeed? I still want you to come out to stay in Sydney and get some sun. My birthday party, too. I’ve got so much out there I want to show you.”
“We’ll see,” he says, and I know he’s thinking he’s too old. “And
bon voyage
, dear Una.”
Summer holidays seem to have started early this year, and the check-in desks at Heathrow are thick with travelers. I’m flying home into winter, of course, gray and cold, but that’s all right. And home without Adam is…just how it is.
But my skin still feels sore with knowing the emptiness waiting for me.
I fish a book out of my shoulder bag. “We know little about Elizabeth’s childhood and upbringing, not even the exact date of her birth…” I read, and sigh the exasperated sigh of the academic balked of the most elementary facts.
“That boring?” says Mark, close to my shoulder.
I drop the book. He picks it up and gives it back to me. “What are you doing here?” I say, when I’ve recovered.
“Gareth phoned me. I thought if I could get here while you were checking in, I’d be able to find you. He said you told him what—what I told you.”
I turn full on to him, because this matters so much. “Was I wrong? Should I not have? I’m sorry if…”
“No, you weren’t wrong. I’d have said if I didn’t want you to. We talked. We might not have, otherwise. I came because I wanted to say thank you for making it happen.”
“Did you…Sorry, it’s none of my business, but you sorted it out? With Gareth?”
He nods, but then it’s my turn to check in and there’s a fuss about whether
Dawn at East Egg
is too big for hand-luggage, though it isn’t, because Gareth’s been too clever for that: it slots in and out of the size-testing frame with millimeters to spare. I’m worried Mark will go, because he’s said what he needed to, but he doesn’t.
“Coffee?” he says. “Or do you need to go straight through?”
“Coffee would be nice,” I say, my heart giving a kind of lollop for some reason, though I refuse to think it’s embarrassment. My head’s starting to feel light and buzzy. “They won’t call the flight for ages yet, and in the next twenty-four hours there’ll be quite enough time to stare at departure-lounge walls of one sort and another.”