Live to Tell (25 page)

“And do you know what,” she continued, ignoring me. “Most of all, even though he was the most gorgeous, good-looking, courageous and brave man we’ll ever meet, he was something else. He was wise. He had wisdom and sense way beyond his years. And do you know what? He would be appalled to see you like this. Appalled, embarrassed, guilty even, thinking he had caused your life to go out of control in this way. Don’t you think he’s watching over you somewhere? He would want to be proud of you, just as you are proud of him. He loved you so much that it would really hurt him to see you in this state. Do you want that? Don’t let him down, Dear. Don’t Dear, please.”

There was a break in her voice and tears in her eyes. “Come on, Dear. Come on now. I’ll run you a nice bath, then we’ll go down to that hairdresser, you know the one down the road and get your hair washed properly and maybe cut a bit. And before we do that, I’m going to ring your doctor and make you an appointment. Then, after you’ve seen the doc I’m going to take you home to stay with your mum for a while until you feel better. She’s going to look after you for a few days. Mr. Singh rang her because he was worried about you. She’s got your room ready. OK? Alright?” She stared at me intensely.

I nodded, defeated, and she hugged me close to her.

Back at the Gloucestershire base, where he was waiting until a proper post could be found for him, Ben sat in his bedroom, at a desk. Like an old pipe, a ball point pen was clamped between his teeth, and screwed up pieces of paper littered the floor. He tried to think of the best way to phrase the letter to Cpl. Powel’s widow but what he really wanted to say was impossible to write. He wanted to say, he told me how lovely you were, and, he told me he thought about you day and night, and he told me you sprayed glitter on your face and were a good fuck; can we meet? But he knew that he couldn’t. It was inappropriate behaviour for an Army officer to write to a subordinate’s wife like that, or anybody’s wife for that matter.

Instead, he had to say,
i
t was my privilege to serve with your late husband. In the last few days together, I got to know him well.
No, I mustn’t say that. Sounds fishy.
It was my privilege to serve with your late husband. He was liked and respected by all.
No, that won’t do. Got to make it more personal, otherwise, why bother?

He struggled on. The flak he was expecting about the failed mission and the civilian death had not materialised. Instead the colonel thanked him for his efforts and hoped that they would meet again. Probably lying, thought Ben. I wouldn’t want to meet me again, probably thought I was an inadequate ‘toerag’.

It was my privilege to serve with your late husband during the last days of his life.
No, mustn’t say that.
During the last few weeks,
that’s better.
Danny was a fine soldier, liked by all who came into contact with him. He earned the respect of everyone he worked with and will be sadly missed. We worked closely together and he talked about you often. If I can assist you in any way, please feel free to call on me.

That will have to do. I’m obviously not going to be any good at this sort of thing. Hope I don’t have to do it too many times. Wish I’d seen that picture.

Signed: Ben Jacobs, 2Lt, Intelligence Corps.

On second thoughts, perhaps I’ll re-read it again tomorrow. Some better inspiration might come to me after a night’s sleep. Yep, I’ll do it again in the morning.

CHAPTER NINE
 

September 1997

Danny died in 1990. It was October. Well, I think it was. Subsequently 1991, ’92… 3… 4… 5… and ’96 passed me by almost un-noticed. Here I am having reached 1997, sitting in an anonymous office where I work, wondering what happened to me, and where I’d been all this time. It’s been nearly seven years since Danny passed away, I thought. Seven years of utter desolation and misery. Seven years of not knowing who I am or where I belong. Somewhere I’ve lost all sense of identity. I don’t know where I’m going. I don’t know if I seem older or younger than my real age. I don’t know whether I am ugly or attractive. I have no idea how others view me, and for the longest time, I didn’t care.

My anonymous workplace has three redeeming features. My father works in a room across the corridor; I have a wonderful assistant, Angela; and best of all, our building overlooks a quiet corner of St Paul’s Cathedral.

I reached past the desk-top computer on my old-fashioned mahogany desk and pressed the switch on the intercom. “Angela,” I called out. “Are you there? I’ll be out of the office for an hour. I’m going to look at the flowers.”

It was a small firm and I shared Angela with two colleagues. She makes certain our diary appointments don’t clash and keeps our group moving in harmony. She is the one who deals with my clients when I am not there, so I felt I owed it to her to keep her up-dated. I already knew she would understand without any further description which flowers I meant.

It was now four days since an early morning call shattered my rather tenuous well-being. On Sunday the ringing of that phone beside my bed woke me at seven forty-five. It was my mother.

“Have you heard the terrible news,” she said. “They say Princess Diana is dead!”

Shocked, I sat bolt upright. “What? No! Are you sure? What ever happened?”

“They say it was a road accident, in Paris, a few hours ago.”

“No! I can’t believe it.” I lay back, still clutching the phone.

My mother continued, “Well, they must be sure or they would never have broadcast it, would they? I’m keeping the TV news channel on, to catch more details. So far that’s all they’ve said. But oh, those poor boys of hers.”

I’ll do the same, I thought, swinging my feet out from the bed to find the fluffy yellow slippers kicked off nearby. “This is terrible, Mum. I can’t believe it. She wasn’t much older than I am. And how are you and Dad? He must be really shocked.” I last saw my father two days earlier but the news of the death cleared everything from my mind. My father was now a partner in the firm I worked for although our paths did not cross often. Conscious of the feelings of my colleagues, I deliberately tried to distance myself from a ‘family relationship’ in our working lives.

Later that same Sunday I pondered the dilemma that faced a large proportion of the female population. What could I wear to the office the next day? The weather was hot and humid and, since the start of the heat-wave, the clothes people wore became lighter and more colourful by the moment. Despite the heat, that seemed totally inappropriate now.

On Monday morning I dressed in a conservative navy suit. On the train travelling to my office I felt self-conscious, but this feeling soon vanished when I saw that my fellow female commuters all chose similar subdued shades. A sea of sombre hues filled the railway car and a silent, un-communicated sorrow hung about us like a veil. There seemed to be no gaiety left in the land.

During the journey I had to change trains at an underground station, and on the platform I passed a gaudily decorated kiosk selling sweets and cold drinks. The two young Asian girls who worked there stood crying behind the counter, holding on to each other for comfort. Despite the heat, I shivered and kept walking. The mood in the country was strange, almost hostile, and it felt to me as if a wall of solidarity, woman-to-woman had sprung up. Floral tributes to the late princess were mounting daily, piled against the railings of Buckingham Palace and at her Kensington Palace home. It was to the former that I decided to go.

The intercom machine gave a short hiss and Angela’s voice echoed around the room.

“Okay Mrs Powell. I went yesterday, you know. I guess there’ll be even more there now. It’s so sad. If anybody calls I’ll just tell them you’ll be back later. Okay?” Click!

I found her soft Welsh accent strangely reassuring. “Yes. Thank you,” I said and turned off the machine.

My office was in a Georgian building on top of Ludgate Hill. As well as the view of St. Paul’s, it would have had other stunning views but for the crowds of other buildings clustered around it. I set off down the hill on a number eleven bus. It took me along Fleet Street and The Strand teeming with noisy traffic past the Royal Courts of Justice to Trafalgar Square. I alighted and crossed the square, passing the fountains and the stone lions guarding Nelson’s Column. It was a relief to be in the pedestrianised area as the vehicles around it seemed in a perpetual race from one red traffic light to the next. Leaving the noise and bustle of the square, I walked across the road and under the white Edwardian facade of Admiralty Arch, and into The Mall.

The Mall, the road that linked Trafalgar Square to Buckingham Palace, was a broad tree-lined avenue devoid of traffic. It was the route the Household Cavalry and the royal coach took on state occasions, a road more associated with celebration and ceremony than grief. The Queen and the royal household were away in Scotland and the palace seemed quietly deserted. Even from a distance the huge array of flowers, candles, and messages piled high against the railings was visible despite the crowds huddled around them. Among the bouquets were teddy bears, toys, and photographs. Some were mounted on sticks and a number of candles were alight in the heavy mid-day air. Together with dozens of other people I moved slowly around the display to read some of the tributes. Then I walked back across the road to the stonework of the Queen Victoria Memorial and leaned against it. I stood for some time in silent contemplation, thinking about Danny.

After his death I was taken back to live with my mother and father, re-inhabiting the bedroom I slept in as a schoolgirl. In a dreamlike existence I drifted barely conscious through the ensuing weeks and months. The only event that stayed in my memory from that cataleptic time occurred one Sunday morning, when the three of us were having breakfast together in the kitchen. Why did these things always happen on Sundays?

My father was reading the newspaper, or he may have been doing a crossword puzzle. Mum was making coffee and the radio was playing in the background. Only vaguely aware of the music until then, I suddenly realised that the moment that defined the start of my love affair with Danny was being reassembled in front of my ears in my parents’ kitchen. The opening crescendo of “I’m Not In Love” filled the room until I felt that I was suffocating.

With a howl I covered my ears trying to block out the sound. I banged my head down on the table, anything to stop the noise resonating inside my brain. Engrossed in his paper, my father looked up, startled.

“Alan,” shouted my mother, rushing to me, “turn that thing off.”

He stood up and turned the radio down as sobbing I clung to her. “I wish I were dead too, Mum. I wish I were dead as well.”

“It’s all right, it’ll be alright dearest,” she whispered. “Alan! I told you to turn that thing off. Take it out of here.”

Grumpily, he obeyed her while not understanding as she had, the significance of the music.

Later I heard them muttering angrily at each other and I knew I had caused the first rift between them that I could ever remember. I decided then I had to learn to be controlled, circumspect, and to contain my feelings. I must never again give them this unwarranted distress.

I jerked my mind back to the present. More people were joining the crowd, which now spilled onto the road. Standing there watching I thought, I can’t go on like this. It had taken the death of the princess to make me realise that life continues regardless and I had to accept that I was still part of it. Instead of feeling empowered by this decision, I felt weak and drained, wishing I didn’t have to go back to the pile of spreadsheets awaiting my attention at the office.

Walking across the road in my direction a female tourist said to her companion, “They’re just a load of ghouls hanging about and making such a fuss. It’s just mass hysteria. Let’s go to Covent Garden.”

Well, the outpouring of grief may not have been universal but it was monumental for those who suffered it. I stood there thinking about Danny, feeling my arms around him holding him close. I never even had the chance to say goodbye. I would give anything just to hold him one last time. I wondered how many others, assembled here were also re-living their own private agony.