There was some debate about it but in the end Florence Parker came to London for the funeral. Audrey was curious to see this woman who had created such a son, who had wished her such harm, and who had then been dealt such a blow herself. And curiously, when Florence arrived on the doorstep, Audrey's immediate reaction was fear. Her second was that she was quite glad, after all, not to have that for a mother-in-law . . . Certainly she looked frightening. The hard jaw and the jutting chin were now like steel and rock. A belligerent, angry, unforgiving woman, with lines at the side of her mouth and a pious regard for the one she referred to as Our Lady, Queen of Heaven, Mother of Jesus, who has pity on all mothers and just as well
somebody
has
...
Audrey kept her distance. They nodded to each other from their respective pews, and she felt Florence eyeing her up and down, but they said no more until they were back at the house. After her second sherry she dared to approach this Mother of Mothers - and even dared mention Patrick's name. Florence was sitting alone on the edge of one of Dolly's old armchairs looking as if not to take comfort from it was a matter of pride.
'Can I get you another cup of tea?' she asked.
Florence shook her head. 'One is quite enough, thank you.' The taking of even one piece of refreshment was - it seemed - a clear sign of weakness. 'Poor Dolly' She added, 'Us mothers. What we have to bear. You went away and never came back and I know what
that's
like.'
'Ah,' said Audrey, 'yes.' She waited for a moment and then dared to say, 'How is your Patrick?'
Florence looked up at her. Her eyes were hard and bright. 'Not mine,' said Florence. 'Not any more. And certainly not yours. Not anybody's, I doubt.'
'No,' said Audrey. 'But he thought the world of you.'
Florence sniffed. It was a familiar sniff, and Audrey was suddenly Little Audrey again, eager to please.
In a mixture of pride and betrayal, Florence said, 'I gave that boy everything, everything
...'
'You did,' said Audrey. 'And George did, too.'
There was a dreadful silence as Florence cast her baleful eye upon the humble Audrey.
'George had nothing to do with it.'
They both stared at each other. Little Audrey departed and Big Audrey returned. It was a ludicrous statement. She wanted to laugh and say that he must have had
something
to do with it - but managed to contain the vulgarity. 'You were certainly
’
she said, searching for the right words. 'You were certainly very close to him. And he's done very, very well.'
Florence eyed her. 'AH thanks to me
’
she said. 'And now he scarcely comes near. Born out of the fire and rubble
’
she said. 'What I went through. And look where it's got me.' She sniffed once more, pulled her mouth back into a line of chilling disapproval and added, 'All I get is the children sometimes. If they can't think of what else to do with them.'
'Children?' said Audrey.
'Two
’
said Florence, the first softness appearing in her face. 'Boy and a girl. Isambard and Polly'
'Nice
’
said Audrey, though her heart pounded. 'He always admired
Brunel
. He'll be very busy then? Erecting his bridges all over the world? He was always good at erections.' She stared at Florence. Would she or wouldn't she? But Florence had no sense of humour where her son was concerned. I suppose, thought Audrey, that I never had any where he was concerned, either. The difference was that she had learned to laugh at herself, so she could laugh at others. Florence had never, would never, learn that lesson.
Florence gave her another baleful look. 'Oh yes. All the time in the world for his bridges - building them here, building them there. And
she
does the running after him nowadays. Peggy Boxer!' She leaned forward and poked Audrey's knee-cap, giving her a terrible urge to giggle. 'You should have been a bit flyer, my girl
...
You could have kept him.'
'I'm not sure I would have wanted him
’
she said, keeping her smile as bland as possible. What a huge and wonderful irony it was that this pious, prudish woman who had encouraged her own husband's sad little side-show should be telling her deceased friend's daughter that all would have been well if she had only opened her legs a bit wider. What was it that Mahatma Gandhi said?
‘I
would have become a Christian if I had ever met one
'I'm very happy as I am
’
said Audrey. Good Lord, she thought. I really am.
'Not married though
’
replied Florence.
‘I
believe that may be why I am happy
’
she said. And walked away. Leaving Florence to contemplate the possibility that she might, just, be right.
Back in Coventry, and almost before taking off her hat, Florence telephoned her son's house in London. As usual the call was answered by her daughter-in-law. On the pretence of wishing to talk about the funeral and Dolly and the day, Florence managed to let Peggy Boxer As Was know that Audrey looked about half her age, had a nice little figure to her, wore very smart clothes, and was - all in all - a credit to her mother (no greater tribute could she give). Audrey Wapshott - for she was not married and never had been and was probably still holding a candle for Patrick, Florence wouldn't be at all surprised the way she talked - continued to live in Paris, and was obviously very, very wealthy. She enjoyed hearing the intake of breath and the nervous breathing, as Peggy received the news.
11
Patrick in Paris
It was the talk of the college. The fabulous exhibition due to open in Paris. Housed in a spectacular new addition to the Louvre designed by the donor of her bursary. Apsu underlined the word 'spectacular' and signed up for the student trip to see this wonder. Paris was - if nothing else - a city of bridges and she never tired of it. And she was interested to see what Patrick Parker and his cohorts (all men) would do with such an illustrious site. She had, she told her tutor, very grave doubts. Her tutor opened his eyes very wide. It was as if she had said that Michelangelo was possibly not all he was cracked up to be and that she was off to investigate the Sistine.
Apsu looked at the catalogue. Even the subject of the opening exhibition was a strange one to choose i
n this age of open-mind
edness and simplicity.
Spectacular? Spectacular bothered her. She just did not like the word. It conjured up images of Disneyland. It went with the word Celebrity. And all three of them made her shudder.
She liked the Eurostar, though. Now who else was it who once struggled to create such a tunnel?
After the funeral when Audrey returned to Paris after being away for nearly a month, Edwin was ardent as he used to be after their separations long ago. She understood. Now the boot was on the other foot, the sauce for the goose was transformed into sauce for the gander - Edwin was afraid she might leave him. She saw how much frailer he looked. And she saw it in the way he clung to her. He had played the field, behaved cavalierly towards her, controlled her - and now he needed her and they were equals. Equals in a very pleasant way of life which she doubted would last for very much longer. In the meantime, 'It was very pleasant' struck her as perfectly acceptable.
What the French call
le mot juste.
There were virtues, as Edwin remarked wryly, to choosing to live and therefore grow old in France. Good medical practice for a start. He willed her to agree. Audrey did not argue. In Pleasant Land you did not need to. Once a month he took the train to Perpignan to visit his wife who was now in a nursing home. A very nice nursing home, so it seemed, with fine views and an interesting group of companions. Edwin played cards with her and read to her and then came home. One afternoon, when he returned, he took Audrey's hand in his and said sadly, 'I knew you would keep me young. My wife is
...
pitiful now. Perpignan will be her last resting place.' The humiliations of the past seemed as nothing. Here she was, alive and healthy while Madame Bonnard lay in her lonely bed and her husband visited her once a month only. She noted, but said nothing, that it never crossed Edwin's mind to nurse her. She, at least, had been with Dolly at the end.
He continued to visit Perpignan and he continued to say that Madame Bonnard would not last long. Her not lasting long, thought Audrey mildly, seemed to be lasting long enough. Indeed, it began to look quite likely that Edwin would leave the arena first. But at least Audrey no longer felt her inferior. Equals in the land of Egalite she was now, and she liked the feeling. It had been a long time coming and she had been patient enough.
And when an invitation and press release arrived inviting Edwin to his old friend the Curator's retiring exhibition, Audrey smiled to herself. And so the circle finally turns, she thought. For his old friend the Curator had moved on from L'Arlesienne and become, very grandly, Director of the Louvre's Modern Programme. In the press release he explained, with the pedantic wisdom of the Grandee (French or otherwise) that he had become, that when one reached three score years and ten, one could no longer be considered a Modern and should began to make plans to slip quietly away, which he would do now that this, his last and greatest achievement, was realised. He had persuaded the Higher Grandees that the Louvre should have a new addition to its galleries. He had argued that it was not long until the Millennium and that - being Paris - the world should find them well prepared. 'We have only to look across the sea and observe the foolishness taking place among the British about extending their own National Gallery,' he wrote. And he proposed that his Fellow Keepers of the Arts should forsake Nationalism in the cause of Excellence.
This was his final wish as Director of the Modern Programme. And it was granted.
The best Architectural Partnership was used. The Higher Grandees were persuaded to commission the same people who created the L'Arlesienne Centre. Alas - they were British - but then they were requested to forsake Nationalism - and they did. When the building began nobody rioted in the streets. Now it was finished and - it was agreed - was a spectacular success. Spectacular.
Audrey had read about the proposal in her
Architecture Today.
Of course the team, as before, was Patrick Parker's. When building began she drove past the site occasionally, sometimes she walked past, sometimes she lingered, but it was shrouded like a Christo sculpture and she never saw in. Of course she might have requested a visit around the site - it would not be difficult to achieve - but -well - she did not. Chance was interesting, Planning was not. Besides, if there was a possibility of glimpsing the designer, she thought of it as a very remote one, and in any case, you could not tell the men apart in their hard hats.
Also in the press release the subject of the inaugural exhibition was announced. Clever, brilliant, wonderful, were the epithets for the idea and its progenitor, The Retiring Director of the Modern Programme. For it would salute another Franco-Anglais union. The work, influences and times of Isambard Kingdom
Brunel
. Everyone thought this was a Splendid Idea. Another one in the eye for the Philistine British who, as with Turner, were unable to recognise their influential geniuses.
The French would share the honours with the Japanese, as well as half the cost of the exhibition, and it would travel to Tokyo and Yokohama. The Japanese were a nation of bridge builders themselves and admirers both of the Great
Brunel
and The Parker Partnership (indeed, very early on in his career they had honoured him). Everything was set, and everyone was happy and proud. It was all going to be absolutely glorious.
'Well bloody well bugger it,' said Audrey out loud when she had read to the end. 'He's pinched my idea.' It was too much, no, really it was. The sensation she felt somewhere in her solar plexus was rather like being punched and her heart raced again. She gave a little gasp. Edwin looked up startled from the invitation. She put her hand to her chest and saw his expression change to fear. She smiled. 'Indigestion
’
she said, 'only.'
He relaxed and took the invitation from her and read it.
'Will you go?' she asked, trying not to sound too hopeful. 'Your friend the Director would be glad to see you. And I should enjoy it. Very much.' She felt safe to suggest it now that Madame Bonnard was so frail, and according to Edwin (who wandered off the subject himself occasionally and was inclined to be vague), also apparently more or less senile.
'You should go
’
she said, with incautious urgency. 'If you don't, you'll be missed. Noticed. It will be the exhibition of the decade - like before. You should be seen to be there at the opening night.'