Making It Up (29 page)

I have needed to be resilient. Life has not been easy. An exacting occupation. A husband obsessed with earthquakes and famine relief; in my view humanitarian aid should start at home. A somewhat wayward son. And I have had to resist those whose demands became too pressing, a woman alone attracts attention, at least certain women do, and I have never been short of admirers, but people can become tiresome with their insistence on commitment. Isn't it enough that we're having such a lot of fun? I'd say. Don't spoil things. And I must think of Orson. Wherever he may be. Yes, I know that I would have every justification in taking matters into my own hands, but I'm not like that, I respect my marriage vows. One day, perhaps, I may feel differently, but not just yet. So please, my dear, don't insist. Let us just enjoy what we have.

While it lasts. Because of course love doesn't, does it? One always knew that, but it's cruel to make a point of it. To disillusion a person.

In any case, I've come to prefer rather younger men these days. Time's up for dear old Carlos, I'm afraid. Along with one or two others. Of course I have not been entertaining on the scale that I used to, since Orson came back. He was never an enthusiast for parties, preferred an evening in a pub with a few cronies. Plus he complained of the expense. But my Saturday evenings were
famous
—people just came, invited or not. I never knew who would turn up and far be it from me to be inhospitable. If Orson had thought fit to tell me he was arriving back from his final assignment, if he'd avoided the weekend, he wouldn't have found such a crowd that evening. Suddenly appearing like that, this bearded figure—for a few moments I couldn't think who this
was
. Everybody was staring and people were muttering and exchanging looks and some of the young may have been a bit offhand, but the gracious host Orson was not, I'm sorry to say. The party just kind of melted away.

Tam turned up a few months later. Toby had gone to Australia by then and the first thing Tam did was set to and redecorate the room himself which was so thoughtful. And he was a delight to have around—well-behaved, charmingly attentive, in stark contrast I'm afraid to my son. Tam is interested in a career in investment management, and I have been able to put him in touch with a few people. He was sweet with Orson, too, going on trips with him, driving him around—Orson had a back problem, arthritis triggered by an old injury, some dust-up in the past about which I have not asked questions, Orson was always combative, to put it mildly. Tam made himself thoroughly useful and what happened was in no way his fault, absolutely not, no blame attaches whatsoever and I have told him this again and again but of course he is desolated.

The brakes failed. The car started careering down a hill and Tam steered for the side and the car tipped over. Tam had cuts and bruises but Orson . . . No, I can't talk about it.

Orson would never have made old bones. I console myself with that thought. He had recurrent malaria and he had had every kind of tropical disease—there must have been any number of bugs rampaging around in his bloodstream. If it hadn't been that, something else would have got him, sooner or later.

And now he is laid to rest . . .

. . . and we must all move on. I shall pick myself up, as I have done so many times before, put on a brave face, continue. Orson is in my heart, dear man, despite all, and there are others who need me. Tam is staying here, I have said that he must feel that this is his home for as long as he likes, and he is the greatest support and comfort. Toby took himself off again immediately after the funeral, and now there is this postcard from
Greece
. It seems he is at this artists' colony that Clara runs and I cannot feel that this is entirely appropriate but he is no longer a child and must make his own choices. Who am I to pass judgment?

 

 

I once had a letter from a reader saying that the surname of a character in one of my novels was that of an old acquaintance of hers
from Chester; she wondered if my character had connections with that city, and, if so, could I please send her the character's address. I sympathize with this view of fiction; I read in this way as a child and very satisfying it was. The cast of
The Iliad
and
The Odyssey
joined me under the eucalyptus trees and the casuarinas; together we defeated boredom. Everything that I read was woven into a fantasy world that merged with reality. My daily life was populated with figures from my own internal narratives, most of them lifted from my reading and tweaked about a bit to suit personal requirements: heroes, gods, mythic beasts, resourceful children messing about with boats in the Lake District—all coexisting reasonably enough with family, friends, and the teeming backdrop of the Middle East in 1942. Books were intimate and entirely relevant. Reading has never been quite the same since; it continues to fuel fiction, but differently. Penelope is no longer myself. This exercise in confabulation has been another kind of experiment, a different way of enlisting story to complement reality, at the opposite end of my life.