Song at Twilight (11 page)

"It's to do with Morag," he said. 

Morag. That was she.

"Her husband's in hospital."

"Her husband!" I couldn't disguise my astonishment. And in my heart there was fear.

"Not a very nice man I'm afraid," Eric went on casually. "He's given her a dreadfully tough time, poor girl."

Morag's husband, it turns out, is an inveterate alcoholic but she, having some kind of lingering affection or perhaps pity for him, has always refused to leave him although he has been making her life a misery for years. Occasionally, when she feels that she can't go on any longer, she escapes for a few days and perhaps comes down to stay with Eric. She is a very, very old friend of Eric's. I hate to think how old and neither can I bear to consider the nature of their intimacy, nor the closeness of their friendship. And now she is taking him away from me.

Suddenly it dawned on me with a wave of blissful relief that, in fact, Morag was probably a friend whom Eric had inherited from his wife. Yes. That must be the case. And she, of course, would be bound to be extra caring of him as the widower of her old friend. But then that explanation didn't really help me. Neither did it, nor does it entirely convince me, as even if Morag was initially Eric's wife's friend there is no doubt about it that she is now his and he has been alone for quite some time.

I suppose that at various times in my life I have longed for some kind of emotional entanglement, yearned for the excitement it might bring, the relief from tedium, the thrill of involvement and above all the feeling of not being passed by, or rather of not allowing life to pass me by. I have wanted to feel what other people felt and I have wanted to know that I, too, was participating in life, not merely watching it go by from the sidelines.

The grass, as Eric would undoubtedly say, is always greener… So now, here am I, long past what is normally considered, even in this modern age, to be the proper time for romance, on the other side of the fence at last, yearning for peace of mind, worrying myself sick over an elderly man and eaten up with jealousy for a chiropodist called Morag. Seen from the outside the whole thing would surely appear utterly ridiculous. 

Morag's husband has been ill for a while. Cancer of some unmentionable part of the body. According to Eric this has not prevented him from drinking, but rather encouraged him to turn to the bottle to relieve the pain. Poor Morag has been having a terrible time. He's been in and out of hospital which has given her some respite, but she's quite worn out. Last time he was in hospital Eric went to stay with her to hold her hand and cheer her up. That was the time they went to see
The
Magic
Flute
. It had taken Morag out of herself to go to the opera. But this time Eric didn't think they'd be doing anything like that. Morag's husband was too ill. It could be the end. She'd be round at the hospital most of the time when she wasn't at work.

I am ashamed to say that I have begun to hate Morag. What right has this unknown woman to interrupt the even – or, suddenly, not so even – tenor of my life, with her problems? With her sick husband and her miserable marriage? I imagine that she is a very selfish woman, the sort of person who expects her friends to drop everything for her sake. I wonder what, if anything, she has ever done for Eric.

Dear Eric is so good and kind that he has probably always allowed Morag to trample on him. And now that she is about to be widowed, she will probably eat him alive, take him over, possess him… even marry him. To be perfectly honest, the thought of poor Eric marrying that woman makes me feel quite ill. I do hope, for his sake, that he will avoid that pitfall. He may well enjoy opera, but I cannot imagine how he could bear to live in London. And as for Morag moving down here! That would be quite out of the question. She could hardly accommodate herself to country life. I know that kind of woman. She would be most unsuited to the country. I do hope that Eric will avoid making so terrible a mistake, the sort of mistake which he might be quite capable of making merely out of pity.

So Eric has gone to London now and I am appalled by the gap his absence leaves in my life and am permanently haunted and tortured by the image of him with that scheming woman. Sometimes I almost wish that Eric had not come into my life so great and so persistent is my anxiety about him and so constantly do I think of him. But then, had he not come into my life, I would have nothing to look forward to now, at this late stage in my time whereas I do have his return to look forward to and further outings in his old jalopy… provided Morag doesn't keep him for ever. God forbid.

Yesterday Victor and Patricia came to supper, bringing Laurel.

They had not been to see me for some time and I, who usually rather dread their crowding into my little house, was for once glad of their company, as it took my mind off Eric and his absence.

Laurel, I was pleased to see, had a faint fuzz covering her head. She has decided at last to grow her hair again which should at least have been a consolation to Patricia. But Patricia was her usual gloomy self. Laurel, she is sure, has wasted so much time shaving her head and doing other unspeakable things to herself, that she is bound to fail her 'A' levels.

I can hardly see the logic there.

Victor said that he would rather not discuss Laurel any further, as he finds the whole subject of his daughter, her hair, her exams and even her opinions, thoroughly upsetting.

"You're not much of a father," said Laurel, "making remarks like that in front of me. You'll probably give me anorexia if you go on. You could upset me deeply, you know."

"Oh do shut up, Laurel," Patricia said with unaccustomed sharpness.

For once I rather sympathised with Laurel.

Victor had turned his attention to his food and was scrutinising a piece of chicken on the end of his fork in an attempt, I presumed, to blot out any awareness of the presence of his daughter.

"Who would you have liked to have had for a daughter?" Laurel asked her father in a provocative tone. "I would like to have had a father like Eric."

"Mr Janak to you, dear," said Patricia, sharply again.

"Eric," said Laurel, "would be a wonderful father. He's so broad-minded and understanding and, considering how ancient he is, he's really interesting to be with. He can talk about anything." 

I was delighted to be talking about Eric.

"I don't think you should spend so much time bothering him," said Patricia. "I'm sure he has better things to do than to think about little girls."

Laurel sniggered.

"Eric is a very kind man." I said. "I'm sure he's delighted to be able to help Laurel in any way he can."

This morning Patricia telephoned to thank me for supper and to discuss Eric's relationship with Laurel,

She was frankly worried. She didn't like what was going on one little bit. Did I think that Eric might perhaps be a little bit funny? You did hear such dreadful things these days – you could never be too careful.

I, too, have had my doubts about Eric's attitude to Laurel, but to Patricia, I would defend him to my eye-teeth. In any case, I told her, I don't know what all the fuss is about as Eric has gone away to London now and goodness only knows when he will get back.

Patricia knew that Eric was in London and that was one of the things that worried her. Laurel had a postcard from him there this morning, and now she is planning to rush off up to London and see him.

Where, I wondered, was my postcard from Eric?

Chapter 11

June 10th

My postcard from Eric came this morning. Or rather, my letter. Morag's husband, he tells me, has died. The end came quite peacefully but poor Morag is in a dreadful state. He is planning to stay on in London to help her with the funeral arrangements.

Morag, it appears, has no close relations apart from a sister in Canada. After the funeral she is going to fly out to Vancouver to stay with her sister for a while and "to get away from it all". Everything has been too much for her and she won't be feeling up to going straight back to work immediately after the funeral.

Eric plans to stay with Morag until he has put her safely on her aeroplane by which time he will be glad to get back home. He is missing the country, he says, and is worried that the weeds may be growing too quickly in his garden. He expects to be back in about ten days' time.

I hope that Morag stays with her sister for a very long while. The news that she is to go to Vancouver is the best news I have heard for weeks. The news that she is now a widow I find rather less pleasing.

Oh dear, how I do miss Eric. And to think that there was once a time when his endless calling on me was a source of aggravation. Now I long for his return and find it hard to think about anything else. When I try to read, my mind wanders so that after three or four pages I realise that I have not taken in one single word. The television likewise fails entirely to distract me.

I have decided to try to concentrate on Timothy and on my memories of that traumatic time in my life when he was so important to me. That may be the one positive way in which I can avoid dwelling on the trauma of the present.

But I must not forget to telephone Patricia to tell her what has happened as it would be no good at all if Laurel took it into her head just now to run up to London in search of Eric. There is something about Patricia which often makes me put off the moment of telephoning her. Perhaps I will speak directly to Laurel.

*

When Leo came to Blenkinsop's, he came, as he had promised, alone and he came by train. There was no Mrs Hooper and there was no gleaming Porsche. I hoped that they were both things of the past.

I hadn't seen Leo for a while and the first thing I noticed about him was that he had changed. That is to say that he had changed his appearance. His hair was no longer dyed in different shades of mauve, but had returned to its natural blonde colour. At least it had returned to its natural blonde colour enhanced by what I imagined to be some extremely expensive highlights. I wondered at a poor drama student being able to afford such luxury.

Leo appeared on my doorstep, his usual buoyant self.

"Dear Auntie," Leo said in his affected way, "you are a peach to receive me." He was quite aware of all the unanswered letters I had sent him, and no doubt felt that a certain amount of buttering up was required in mitigation for his remiss behaviour.

When I had shown him his bedroom, he suggested that we go to a pub for a drink.

It seemed like a good idea as a change of scenery would no doubt make the evening pass more smoothly, but I did not want to go to any of the local pubs where I knew I would run the risk of finding Blenkinsopians.

Some of my colleagues used to delight in doing the rounds of the local pubs on a Saturday evening in the hope of catching a few red-handed miscreants. I wondered at their having no more agreeable way of spending their evenings and for my own part would have done anything to avoid unnecessary confrontation.

So we drove in my little Renault to a well-known public house some eight or ten miles outside the town.

I do not spend, nor have ever spent, a great deal of time in public houses, but I was pleased to go with Leo to the Black Swan.

He, poor impoverished boy, insisted on buying me a drink and as I sat sipping my gin and tonic, I looked at him sitting opposite me, with his vodka and lime and wondered at the improbability of his parentage. It was quite amazing that Victor and Patricia between them could have produced so handsome a creature. With his newly golden mane, Leo was very good-looking indeed. He waved his hands about in ludicrously camp gestures which did nothing but enhance his natural beauty.

For a moment it even crossed my mind to wonder if perhaps Patricia had been playing fast and loose all those years ago. After all she had taken a long time to conceive her first child. Perhaps Victor was not only enuretic, but sterile. But the idea of Patricia as an adulteress seemed highly unlikely, so, somewhat ashamed at having allowed the thought to cross my mind, albeit not for the first time, I dismissed it.

I asked Leo if he had seen his parents lately, but he had not. He hated to go home because his father never did anything but complain about his chosen profession, producing an endless liturgy of all the pitfalls which lay ahead. His mother, he said, was not much better, always moaning about something.

"Poor Patricia," I said, "she's never had a very cheerful outlook on life."

"But we haven't come here to talk about poor, darling Patricia, have we, dear Auntie," said Leo, running the fingers of his left hand through a golden lock and tossing his head like a young horse.

I noticed around his long neck a thin gold chain from which there hung a heart-shaped locket. Victor would not like that, I thought. Not one little bit. Then as I glanced at the red and blue and turquoise parakeet which adorned Leo's left ear, I remembered the fuss Victor had made when his son had first had it pierced.

Not quite ready and therefore reluctant to embark on the subject which was dear to both our hearts, I returned to the topic of Victor.

"You know," I said, "your father will never be able to reconcile himself to that parrot – nor to that gold chain for that matter."

Leo fingered the heart which hung from the chain.

"It was her last present to me," he said with another toss of his head.

I looked at my drink.

"Marietta's," he said. "We're through, you see. Finished. It's all over. The end of the affair…"

"Sh…" I said. He seemed to me to be talking dreadfully loudly so that even in the noisy pub people were turning to stare.

Throwing back his magnificent head, he gulped down the last of his drink. I suppose I have always been so fond of Leo partly because he is such an unexpected person to be a member of my family. With his beauty and flamboyant showing-off he is almost as unlikely a nephew for me as a son for Victor.

It was my turn to buy the second round which we would definitely need if we were properly to deal with the matter in hand. I had left a stew to keep warm in the oven for our supper, so we were in no particular hurry.

"Tell me about the summer holidays," I said, venturing at last to come to the point.

"The summer holidays were cataclysmic." He leaned his elbows on the little round pub table as, from behind his folded hands, he gazed at me with an appalling frankness.

There had been the three of them in this villa in Corfu, and right from the beginning Timothy had sulked. So much so that it had become almost impossible to get one word out of him. Marietta was so angry that, much against Leo's better judgment, she decided to leave Timothy alone to sulk while she and Leo went off to drink Retsina and to eat Feta cheese and houmus in little seaside restaurants. 

In fact this arrangement did not please Leo at all because, to be perfectly frank with me, as he said, he only went to Corfu in the first place to be with Timothy.

"I cannot help the way I am," he said. "As a matter of fact I'm perfectly happy that way. Anything's better than being in bed with Marietta Hooper."

"Sh…" I said again, both fascinated and appalled at what I was hearing.

"Well, I told you in the first place that I wouldn't succumb. But I had to really. It was dreadful though. Perfectly dreadful! Not my scene you know." He pulled an exaggeratedly disgusted face. "But then she was in love with me. Quite besotted, you see. And I was in love with Timothy. I am in love with him still, the dear boy."

"Oh Leo," I said, "what a muddle. What a dreadful muddle. You shouldn't have done it, you know. You really shouldn't. Your behaviour has not been very laudable, and whatever your
moeurs
you should not use other people." I could not entirely abandon my role as school-mistress and, in any case, there was no doubt about it, he had behaved badly. But what was extraordinary was that he was prepared to be quite so open with me about the whole affair.

In fact Leo has always been open with me ever since he was a little boy when he probably sensed my liking for him. But I certainly never expected to hear such things as this.

"When people are in love," said Leo, "they don't always behave exactly as they should. You must know that, dear Auntie." Then he added, not unkindly but with an air almost of connivance, "Even a spinster lady like you must know that."

I ignored his remark and merely asked him how the rest of the holiday had been.

Apparently he had eventually gone on strike about leaving Timothy alone. For one thing it really was not kind and for another thing Leo couldn't bear to spend all his time with Marietta, being fussed over and petted and spoiled and caressed and praised and kissed.

"She sounds like a pretty silly woman to me," I said tartly, thinking that on the whole she had only got what she deserved. 

"She was besotted, I tell you, besotted," he said. "So besotted and so vain that she never realised that what I wanted was Timothy."

"Don't talk like that Leo, please," I said. "Anyway, I think you ought to know that Timothy is now in love with a girl in the school."

Leo had already heard about that from Marietta which was one of the reasons why he had decided to come and see me. He was worried that the girl would do Timothy no good. Timothy was a deeply sensitive, very unhappy boy and a vulnerable one, too. The last thing he needed at this moment was a love affair with an unreliable girl who was probably just playing around with him. She would drop him as soon as she had had enough, which, knowing her kind, would be quite soon. Then what would happen to poor Timothy? He was miserable enough as it was.

At this point I found myself entirely agreeing with everything that Leo said. He only wanted the best for Timothy, as indeed did I. I had to warn him, though, that I did not consider that the best for Timothy included any pressing advances from Leo. That, I insisted, would be quite wrong and I begged him to desist from pestering the boy.

As we drove back to my house, Leo told me that as soon as they had returned from Corfu, he had told Marietta that it was all over between them. She, of course, had been utterly distraught and it was then that she had presented him with the amulet around his neck.

"It's to preserve me from myself," he said with a fey wave of his hand. "But we've remained good friends. Such good friends that I've introduced her to my flatmate. He's ever so good-looking and quite fancies her."

Over supper we discussed endlessly and from every angle what exactly we could do given the status quo and given the fact that, beyond any question of doubt, Timothy's relationship with Natalie must be put to an end before he became too deeply involved.

Leo didn't think that he could speak to Timothy. Sadly he doubted, and rightly, I'm sure, that Timothy would give him the time of day. I certainly did not imagine that I could approach the boy and, as I explained to Leo, I had already rejected the idea of speaking to Natalie.

There remained only one course of action. Leo should speak to Mrs Hooper with whom he was convinced he still had a certain influence and when we heard her reaction we should, as they say, play it by ear.

I cannot now imagine how it was that I then supposed I was acting reasonably nor how I could possibly have thought that by involving Mrs Hooper we were doing anything useful. I knew perfectly well how Timothy felt about his mother and must have been out of my mind to entertain for one instant the idea that he would listen to anything she had to say, particularly concerning affairs of the heart. All I can say is that I was desperately worried for Timothy and in my desperation I was haunted by his pale face and by the terrible look in his sad green eyes as he stood in my kitchen that day asking me if I had ever wished I were dead.

The following morning was a Sunday and while Leo lay slumbering in the spare bedroom I took myself off to church where I prayed hard for Timothy.

Leo didn't surface until nearly one o'clock and then after lunch it was time for him to go back to London.

Almost as soon as Leo had left me I began to feel that the experience of the last twenty-four hours had been a mere dream. If not a dream, it was as though I had been on board ship, somehow removed from the everyday reality of my life to a place where the ordinary rules of behaviour could more easily be flouted. A place where emotion and fantasy took over from common sense.

It seemed strange to think that I had been sitting in the Black Swan with Leo discussing the rather squalid events of his summer holiday in Corfu, events in which I could not help but feel that I was somehow implicated.

I wondered how long it would be before I heard from Leo again, or from Mrs Hooper herself, and decided that until I did I must try to put the whole affair out of my mind as the constant going over and over of it was both upsetting and unconstructive.