The Lorimer Line (38 page)

Margaret stared at it unhappily. She found it a terrible thing that William should be accusing their father of what seemed to be a deliberate deception. If his theory was a true one, it would add substance to the ravings of Charles's father: certainly, it could not be used to challenge his suspicions. She sighed to herself once more as she tore the letter up. It seemed that she had no choice but to accept Charles's opinion. The subject was indeed one which should not be discussed between them again. Her friendship with Charles must remain one which forgot the past and did not allow any hope for the future.

News of a stranger's death can be curiously cheering to those who survive, but not when it is the wrong stranger. It was Charles Scott's mother, not his father, who broke her hip in a fall shortly before Christmas in 1885: she died of pneumonia three weeks later. By that time Margaret was twenty-eight years old: a professional woman. She had passed her M.D. examination with honour and now had a good appointment as resident obstetrician at the Lying-In Hospital for Women. The hospital supplied her with accommodation, but she still contributed to the rent of Lydia's apartments and used them when she was off duty.

Deliberately she organized her work so that there should not be much time to think about her private life, although her friendship with Charles had deepened as the years passed. They were both members of a committee whose purpose was to improve the health of London schoolchildren. It pressed for regular medical inspections in the schools and raised money to send poor children from the city slums to the country or seaside for a week's holiday. Margaret was whole-heartedly in sympathy with the committee's aims, but valued its meetings additionally for the assurance they gave her that she would see Charles at least once a month.

Mrs Scott's accident, however, interrupted the pattern of the time they spent together. Charles wrote often to Margaret - first during his mother's illness and then at her death. Later there were letters of a different kind, apologizing for the fact that he could not leave his father for more than the hours of hospital duty. Margaret studied the words anxiously, wondering whether he was preparing her for the news that he would not be able to see her again.

This three-month period during which they did not meet
seemed more like three years to Margaret. Her loneliness reminded her how much she relied for happiness on the hope of catching at least a glimpse of him. When at last a letter arrived to propose a meeting, her relief and excitement were tinged with fear.

His invitation was for an evening together. It was tacitly agreed between them that when Charles visited her in the apartments which she shared with Lydia, her friend should always be present. But in the freer atmosphere of the capital city there seemed no objection - now that Margaret was no longer a young girl - to theatre visits and even dinners in public restaurants without a chaperone. It was an invitation of this sort which Charles now offered in February of 1886.

She was unprepared for the change in his appearance since their last meeting. His eyes were black with tiredness, as though he had not slept for nights, and his forehead was lined with strain. Assuming that all his obvious unhappi-ness was caused by the death of his mother, she repeated the condolences which she had already written. This must have revealed to Charles that he was not appearing as the most stimulating of companions, for he made an attempt at cheerfulness, although his gaiety was forced. Margaret responded to it, accepting his suggestion that after dinner they should go to a music hall instead of a play.

The atmosphere inside the music hall made cheerfulness compulsory. The vulgarity of the comedians and the earthy energy of the dancers did not allow for half measures: the audience was forced willy-nilly into disapproval or delight. Margaret became aware that her companion was gradually relaxing in her company. Whatever had been troubling him seemed for the moment to be forgotten. He clapped as vigorously as she at the jugglers. With just as much amusement he laughed at the clowning of the gentleman whose baggy trousers threatened to engulf him as he balanced a bowler hat by its brim on his forehead, his nose, or his toe.

As this act ended the accompanying band changed the style of its music from a brisk brassiness to a plaintive whisper of strings. The chattering audience was hushed into silence by the appearance of the next performer - a little girl, only eight or nine years old. She was dressed in rags, in imitation of an adult style; but the beauty of her face and the shine of the strawberry blonde hair which contrasted so astonishingly with the drab grey of her long skirt and shawl, robbed the whole theatre of its breath. There was no sound from the audience as she began to sing, as though it were assumed that her voice would be as small as her body. But her sweet, pure tones projected to the back of the theatre as professionally as those of her predecessors on the stage.

Her song was sentimental, even maudlin. ‘I have to be a mother to my father,' she carolled, acting out the words of each verse in a childish way which contrasted strongly with the maturity of her voice. Margaret found her own attention gripped more closely than the act itself could justify. The child's face was familiar, although she could not remember where she had seen it before. The recognition carried with it an association of unhappiness. Margaret puzzled over this without being able to take her eyes off the agile, graceful figure.

‘I have to be a mother to my father,' sang the child for the last time, “cos my mother went to heaven long ago.' She curtsied and smiled and ran off to the heaviest applause of the evening. Margaret opened her programme and looked inside.

The name told her all she needed to know. ‘Alexa, child of song.' Margaret remembered the imperceptible cough from a baby's cradle. ‘Her name is Alexandra, but I call her Alexa,' Luisa had said. And on the day before John Junius Lorimer fell to his death, Margaret had seen that baby again, a little older, sucking her thumb shyly in a corner, but already beautiful. Luisa was a teacher of music
and would certainly have trained her own child. There could be no doubt that this was the very same girl.

Margaret sat through the last comedy act of the show and the final chorus without giving them any of her attention. She wanted to ask Charles whether he would take her backstage to find Alexa and her mother, who must surely be caring for the child. But first she would need to explain how she had come to recognize Alexa. That meant referring to her life in Bristol, which by mutual agreement had become a subject not to be discussed.

The rule would have to be broken. Alexa, after all, had nothing to do with the Lorimer family. It would be possible to speak of her without referring to any of the forbidden subjects. They rose to their feet, still clapping the exuberant last chorus.

‘I recognized one of the performers as someone I know,' Margaret said. ‘I would very much like to speak to her. Will you escort me?'

He hesitated, and she realized with a shock that he was going to refuse. Perhaps that was because he did not consider music-hall performers to be proper companions for her. About to reveal to him the age of her acquaintance, she was checked by the expression which clouded his face. Whatever had troubled him when they first met that evening had returned to make him even more unhappy than before.

‘Not now, if you will excuse me,' he said. ‘I hardly feel fit company for comedians. There is something I have to say to you, and I have postponed saying it long enough. It cannot wait any longer.'

He offered her his arm and she took it doubtfully. The programme at the music hall changed each week. By the time she could return, Alexa might have moved on. Margaret was reluctant to miss the opportunity; but she could feel the intensity of Charles's concentration on whatever it was he wanted to say. Suppose that should prove to be what she most hoped to hear. His mother's death must
have changed his circumstances. Perhaps he was going to tell her that his father's condition now necessitated treatment in some kind of private asylum, setting Charles himself free to live his own life. Because of his unhappy look, she had not allowed herself to consider such a possibility before but now she found it difficult to control a surge of hope.

‘Are you cold?' he asked.

‘No,' she said, although the night was chilly. If they went back to her rooms, Lydia would be there; and whatever the subject of this conversation might prove to be, Margaret assumed it would be private.

They walked in silence until they reached the river. Then at last, leaning over the parapet of the embankment wall, he turned to face her.

‘My father has been much affected by my mother's death,' he said. ‘She was his companion throughout the day, while I was working at the hospital. It was not merely that she acted as our housekeeper: she allowed him to talk to her, to rave about his grievances. I find now that he cannot be left alone for very long. Yet I cannot find a servant patient enough to bear with his rages.'

‘Ought he perhaps to receive hospital care?' asked Margaret.

‘He is lucid enough for part of the time to understand what his condition is. He has lost everything in life except the support of his only son. I cannot rob him of that as well.'

Margaret felt her body chilling with something sharper than the frost in the air.

‘So what do you intend to do?' she asked quietly.

Charles gave a single deep sigh. Then he spoke in a businesslike manner.

‘My father has a widowed sister who lives in the country,' he said. ‘She came to London for my mother's funeral and was shocked at the change in her brother's condition. She has written to tell me that the doctor in her village is about
to retire. I have decided to buy his practice and settle down to country life with my father.'

‘But you are a surgeon!' exclaimed Margaret, using the professional objection to express all the disappointment she felt.

Charles shrugged his shoulders.

‘I have become a very bad surgeon in these past weeks. My life at home has not been good for my concentration at work. I am as well fitted as any other medical man for general practice, and I may do as much good there as in a hospital. My aunt has already found a village woman who will act as our housekeeper. She is a simple soul, I am told, but kind. My father's situation has been explained to her and she will indulge his outbursts without becoming upset or indignant herself. My aunt is willing for him to walk each day to visit her. The walk will occupy a little time, providing exercise and fresh air, and she will give him tea and company before he walks back again. It all represents an offer which I cannot bring myself to refuse.'

‘I see that the arrangement is a convenient one for your father,' Margaret said quietly. ‘You can hardly expect it to seem equally welcome to me.'

‘No,' agreed Charles. He stared down into the water as though he could not face her. ‘We have always known, haven't we, that this moment might come? It need not be the end of our friendship. We can correspond. It would help to reconcile me to my quieter life if I could share it with you at least in letters.'

Margaret slowly shook her head.

‘I don't think I could bear to go on in such a way.'

‘But it was you who first said with such assurance that we could be friends.'

‘That was three years ago.' As she spoke, Margaret wondered whether it had been true even then. Certainly it was not enough for her now. Only hope had enabled her to endure it for so long. She looked into his eyes. ‘In that time I have grown to love you. I cannot any longer bear the
strain of longing for something I may not have. But there has never been any way for me to conquer my longing unless you should send me away. The first time you tried I would not allow it. Lydia told me then that I was unwise, and perhaps she was right. Now that it is happening again, I must try to accept it.'

‘I am not sending you away,' said Charles. ‘I have to go away myself, but that is a different matter.'

‘The effect is the same.'

‘But I love you too!' he exclaimed. He flung his arms over the parapet, groaning to himself. ‘Oh, if only you were any other woman! Any other woman in the whole world! If the obstacle were your name alone, I would marry you and present you to my father as Mrs Scott and we would invent a whole past life with which to answer his questions. But he knows your face. I cannot let him see you.'

‘Then there is nothing more to say, is there?' Margaret bit her lip, determined not to weep.

‘I cannot endure that you should be angry with me.'

‘I am not angry. I admire your loyalty to your father. It is my misfortune that I cannot deserve the same loyalty myself. But I am well aware that the sins of the fathers must be paid for by their daughters.'

I have paid twice, she thought to herself, but she was ashamed that at this moment the memory of David Gregson should intrude into her mind. Instead she looked steadily at Charles, trying to memorize for ever his strong features, his kind eyes, his thick, fair hair, his sturdy shoulders and firm hands.

‘You have no choice,' she continued. ‘Perhaps it is unkind of me not to continue as you would like. But if I were to consent, I am afraid that I would quickly come to wish for your father's death; the very thought makes me feel wicked. Now it is time for me to plan a career for myself. I had always intended to return to Bristol. It was only because you were in London that I stayed on, taking
whatever appointment I could find in the hope that it in fact need only be temporary. It is time for me to be selfish in considering my own future.'

She lacked the strength to face the sadness in his eyes and instead looked down into the river, as he had done earlier. The water was dark, moving imperceptibly to break the reflections of the gas lamps into darts and splinters of yellow light. A mass of floating brushwood was trapped just below, borne down towards the sea by the current of the river and then pressed back again by the tide surging up from the estuary. She had been like that herself for the past three years - floating in a backwater, waiting for some stronger current to carry her away. It was not a way of life of which she could be proud. She might see herself now as striking out into midstream, but the current could only carry her out to sea, further and further away from any prospect of the home and family life which she had been brought up to believe provided the natural, the most contented existence for a woman.