Bridget was quiet. He knew she was thinking back to that time in the hospital, when – with kindness, patience and understanding – she had slowly talked him back to sanity. ‘You must have nightmares about going through it again.’
‘Yes, and about what we might put up with as a nation to avoid it. But even on a day-to-day level, there’d be no point in hoping or striving for anything if you knew the future, no sense of discovery. You’d know how every painting was going to turn out before you picked up your brush. And as far as people are concerned, you’d miss out on all the joy, all the excitement, all the love, because you’d be obsessed with counting the days. You’d blunt your emotions to stop yourself getting hurt. Of course, some of us do that anyway.’ Bridget looked at him curiously‚ but he didn’t give her the chance to ask. ‘What about you? What are you frightened of?’
‘Losing my . . .’ She stopped and took longer to consider her response. ‘Not being able to express myself, I suppose,’ she said at last. ‘Having a vision that I can’t communicate, either because I’m not talented enough or because of some physical disability. You never quite get the painting you set out to create, but to have a sense of beauty and not be able to share it in some way, or a demon that you can’t exorcise somehow through your work – that would be a form of madness for me, I think.’ Her face had a childlike earnestness when she was trying to understand or explain something; with a smile, like the one she gave him now, it crinkled into life and was completely transformed. ‘Of course, some critics would say I’m there already.’
He couldn’t have explained it, even to himself, but Archie’s curiosity about Bridget’s life became suddenly more urgent. Impatient to chip away at the distance that twenty years had created, he asked‚ ‘What about the good things? Are you happy?’
The question sounded absurdly simplistic but she didn’t treat it that way. ‘Yes, Archie, I’m happy. Most of the time, anyway. There’s not a day goes by when I don’t want to work, and how many people can say that? It hasn’t always been easy being a . . . well, being a painter isn’t the most secure of jobs. Unlike some people, we don’t get promotion.’ He smiled, and listened as she talked about Cambridge and her friends, noticing that she spoke generally rather than about one specific person. All those years ago, that was how their feelings had begun – unconsciously, as friendship. They had got to know each other slowly, without the urgency of love, but the discoveries seemed richer for being leisurely. She had expected nothing from him, had made it clear that he was to do the same – and, because their time together was free of the pain of love, he realised now that he had carried it with him happily. He thought of Bridget without bitterness, regret or any of those other small betrayals that a more intense attachment can breed. And for that reason, she held a unique place in his life. He tried to put his thoughts into words, but she stopped him almost immediately. ‘You think I didn’t love you?’
Archie was taken aback by the question. Bridget looked at him, half teasing, half serious, and he remembered how he had always struggled to work out what those eyes were saying – but he had never minded. Something in her calm, relaxed ability to accept life as it was and at the same time grab all it offered was the antidote to his own need for precision and direction, and, for a while, it had made his life richer. ‘Of course I loved you, Archie,’ she said, taking his hand. ‘Just because I didn’t want to make a lifetime of it doesn’t mean it was less than that. People are so funny about love. It always has to lead somewhere, as if it’s only the beginning of something and never enough in itself.’
The storm, which seemed to have been prowling around the headland, looking for a way through Portmeirion’s defences, finally found its way in‚ and thunder cracked loudly above them. Bridget laughed as the first big drops of rain fell onto the table between them. ‘Wonderful timing,’ she said. ‘Now I’ve got to go and secure that mural. It’s not dry enough to withstand this yet.’ She stood up and pulled him to his feet. ‘You can come and help me while you think of something to say.’
‘You’re angry with me, aren’t you?’
‘No, Hitch. I’m just tired. Don’t worry about it.’ Alma smiled unconvincingly at her husband’s reflection in the dressing-table mirror and carried on removing her make-up. ‘It’s been a long day.’
‘And you’re angry.’
She sighed and turned to face him. ‘I just don’t understand why you do it.’ He sat on the end of the bed, his face flushed from the wine and the heat of the room, and she could see from his expression that he didn’t know either. She worried about his health more and more these days: his weight had always fluctuated but he was heavier now than he had ever been, and recently he had even begun to take short naps on set; it would only be a matter of time before someone mentioned this in an interview, and rumours would go round that his best was behind him. Alma recognised the streak of cruelty that entered her husband’s jokes whenever he was undergoing a personal crisis. She had seen it several times already in the course of their marriage: when
The Lodger
was shelved, for instance, or when
Blackmail
failed to win over American audiences. This time, the intensity of it frightened her‚ and she had to make him see that. ‘I think you went too far,’ she said.
‘Blame David. He invited them.’
‘Only because you told him to. And sending him after Turnbull with a bottle of single malt doesn’t suddenly make everything right.’
He looked defensive. ‘How was I to know they were going to behave like that?’
‘You couldn’t have known, and that’s exactly my point. It isn’t a film set, Hitch. You don’t get to decide what happens. People have emotions that didn’t start in your head. They have jealousies and attachments and grudges that you have no idea about. We all do.’
‘Oh yes?’ He winked at her and tried to soften her mood, a sure sign that he knew he was in the wrong. ‘And what might those be, Mrs Hitchcock?’
‘I was talking generally,’ Alma said firmly, remembering her brief exchange with Bella Hutton, out of character for both of them but symptomatic of the way in which petty jealousies could escalate. ‘And don’t try to joke your way out of this.’ She walked over to the bed and kissed the top of his head, then sat down next to him and took his hand. ‘There’s already enough in our life that’s unsettled, Hitch, things that are beyond our control. Why go out of your way to make trouble?’ It was his chance – one of several she had given him lately – to talk honestly about everything that was worrying him: the colleagues he was losing; the mounting financial crisis at Gaumont which threatened them all; his disappointment with the response to his last film and his doubts about the one that was scheduled for release at the end of the year. Even though she knew he was only doing it to protect her, it hurt her when he hid his anxieties from her, internalising his darkest fears just like the characters in his films. More than anything, she wished that he could shrug them off as easily as he pretended to.
‘Things will work out.’ It was no more convincing now than the last time he had said it. ‘And we
can
do something about America.’
Alma nodded, although she sometimes wondered if she had the energy to start all over again, when the pressure would be so much greater. If Hitch were to succeed in the States, he would need to command a salary which covered their taxes and enough respect to fight a system which placed power in the producer’s chair, not the director’s – and to do those things, he had to have another hit here as soon as possible. But that wasn’t why she wanted this particular project so badly‚ and, having met her, Alma guessed that she would have got Josephine Tey’s approval much faster if she had simply been honest. It was too personal, though – almost too personal to admit to herself. She saw in
A Shilling for Candles
the possibility of a different sort of film, one through which Hitch could rediscover a boyish delight in the simplest of things, a film of sunshine and innocence and tenderness – all the qualities that she loved about him but which had been lost somewhere along the way. For months now, Alma felt as though they had been fumbling about in the dark, playing a game of blind man’s buff with their lives and their careers, and she mourned a more carefree time. She wanted her husband back. For very different reasons, they both needed this film to work.
Branwen stood at the edge of the coastal path and watched as forked lightning ran down the sky. The flash lit up the great mass of cloud that had gathered ominously over the estuary during the course of the evening, a declaration that the rain was likely to continue for some time now that it had started, and she was glad that she had had the foresight to bring an umbrella. There was an old stone hut behind her, marking Portmeirion’s most southerly point, but she was reluctant to take shelter inside for fear of missing her rendezvous with Bella Hutton. As it was, she cursed the weather. This meeting was important to her and to her alone, and she doubted that anyone with less of an incentive would venture out at all. But still she waited, her hand clutching the note in her coat pocket as if her faith in it could bring her what she wished for. Her bond with her mother consisted of one fragile memory, an image of a young woman bending over her to say goodbye. Branwen had no idea if it was the final goodbye or simply an everyday parting, but she knew that her mother had been wearing bright red lipstick, that her clothes and hair had seemed somehow different. It was a fleeting impression, and she had played it through so often now that there was no way of knowing for certain how much of it was real and how much her own invention, but it had spread like a dye over the blankness of the years before and since, colouring her life without ever really giving shape to it.
‘Hello?’ At last, she thought she heard someone coming. She called out a second time, less tentatively now, but the rain was pounding down on the umbrella and she could barely hear her own voice. The lightning darted into the water again‚ and Branwen waited for the thunder to respond, counting the seconds to judge the storm’s distance just as she had when she was a child. She got to three before someone grabbed her from behind and she felt a man’s hand over her mouth, his arm around her waist. The umbrella clattered uselessly to the ground and rain stung her face like a thousand tiny needles. Too shocked to resist, she allowed herself to be dragged roughly backwards. By the time they reached the hut, the intensity of the downpour and her own growing panic had combined to bring her to her senses‚ and she clung to the sides of the doorway, dreading what might happen to her if she let her attacker pull her inside, away from any hope of rescue. The pain as he slammed his fist into her fingers was almost unbearable‚ and she let go instantly, but at least he had had to remove his hand from her mouth to do it‚ and from somewhere she found the strength to cry out. It was a pathetic, half-strangled sound, muffled even more by the enclosed space, and Branwen knew she was deluding herself if she thought anyone was nearby to hear her.
The hut was dark and claustrophobically small, the sort of place that an animal crawled to die. She struggled to get away, sickened as much by the damp, fetid air as by his presence, but he swung her round and pushed her against the back wall, holding her there with the weight of his body while he tied a blindfold over her eyes. The slate was cold and rough against her sunburnt cheek, but she struggled to speak: ‘Please don’t hurt me. I’ll do whatever you want. It doesn’t have to be like this. You’ll hurt the . . .’ Angrily, he grabbed her hair and jerked her head backwards to stop her talking, but there was no longer any need: shame and fear were powerful anaesthetics. He forced her legs apart and her body froze as she felt him pulling up her skirt, tearing at her underclothes, his hands all over her, hurting her again and again and again as the tears ran silently down her face.
When it was over, she was too frightened to move. For what felt like an age they stood locked together in a parody of the peaceful embrace that follows love; Branwen closed her eyes, trying to blot out the shame of his body against hers. Eventually, he pulled away from her‚ and she heard him readjusting his clothes. Without saying a word, he stroked her hair as though he were sorry‚ and she tried not to flinch at his touch, wary of angering him again by showing how much he disgusted her. His manner was calm now – affectionate, almost. Only when she caught the faint scent of leather and felt the strap tightening around her throat did Branwen realise that her suffering was far from over. It was actually just beginning.
When Gwyneth came round, it was already dark outside. She lay on the first-floor landing, listening to the rain pounding against the windows on every side of the house, and tried to work out how she had got there. Her aching head told her what her memory would not. She put a hand to her face, and winced with pain when she found the tender places on her jaw and cheekbone. Then she remembered Henry, standing at the edge of the trees in the afternoon sunlight, staring up at the attic window. At first, she had thought her mind was playing tricks on her, had closed her eyes to get rid of the image – but he was still there when she opened them, and this time he was moving towards the house. Terrified, Gwyneth had run to the stairs to check that the ground-floor windows and doors were locked, even though she never left them any other way – but she must have tripped before she got there‚ and now, hours later, she couldn’t be sure. What if Henry had found a way in after all? What if he was still there?
A clap of thunder shook her from her indecision. She dragged herself to her feet with the help of the banister and hurried down the landing, trying the lights in one room after another, but there was no electricity at all in the house‚ and, as the storm arched its back and roared, it seemed to Gwyneth that every bit of energy had been absorbed into its fury. As if to taunt her, a streak of brilliant white sizzled down the sky. Mesmerised by its power, she stood at her bedroom window and watched as the black, swirling storm made a stranger of the landscape she knew so well, obliterating the silhouette of the mountains opposite and giving a dark, unearthly quality to the water below. The thunder came again, impossibly close this time, and a second crash followed before the first had even died away, then a third and a fourth. She put her hands over her ears, but the noise spoke straight to her heart, shaking her whole body with its force. Not to be outdone, the lightning flashed more vividly than ever, piercing the gap in the curtains and shining directly onto Taran’s face. Gwyneth picked up the photograph from her bedside table and clutched it to her chest, speaking softly to her child as she had always done at the first sign of trouble. She locked herself in and cowered by the bed, longing for it to be over, but it was hard to say now which she was more frightened of: the undeniable force outside, or the possibility of an intrusion from her past. The house felt suddenly vulnerable to both.
Eventually the storm was exhausted. Its outbursts became less violent and more sporadic, and, with a final shudder of thunder, it crawled away to sleep, leaving the landscape to recover quietly from its rage. Gwyneth opened the door and stood at the top of the stairs, listening for the telltale footstep or creak of floorboard which would confirm her worst fear, but there was nothing. The electricity chose that moment to return and, as the landing filled with a comforting light, she caught sight of herself in the full-length mirror on the far wall and stared at the madness and fear in her own eyes, the striking family resemblance which she had tried so hard to ignore. Quickly, she lunged for the light switch, wanting nothing more now than to hide from herself.