Two Loves (8 page)

After they'd spent far too long discussing his performance, he'd turned to Rosamund. ‘And this is your daughter,' he said, taking her hand and gazing into her eyes, as though auditioning for a romantic lead. ‘Shall we have a drink together in the pub over the road when I've changed?' he asked her father. ‘Is she on the stage too? I must get to know her.'

‘No, she's an artist,' Dora said briskly. ‘Yes, we'll wait for you as long as you don't take too long.'

‘Oh, let's get a taxi,' her father said as soon as they got outside. ‘Let's not wait. He's such a boring old fart.'

‘Oh Paul,' Dora wailed when they were in the taxi. ‘How selfish we are. We should have waited. He was bowled over by Rosamund, and they might have hit it off.'

‘No,' Rosamund said, ‘I wasn't at all interested. I thought he looked moth-eaten and a bit spiteful. I was glad to escape from him.'

‘So why are you looking so gloomy?'

‘I was thinking of old age, as a matter of fact.'

‘It's time you had a new man,' Dora said. ‘You've been on your own too long. I know several attractive young men. Just give me a few days, that's all I ask.'

‘She doesn't like young men,' her father said drily. ‘Surely you know that much about her.'

*   *   *

‘Darling,' Dora said later that night when Rosamund was tucked up on their sofa. (Dora and Paul had a smart flat in a smart square in Fulham, but it was minute, with only one bedroom.) ‘You must come and stay for a longer time and let me find you a boyfriend. I know exactly the sort of man you'd like, someone very handsome and very dependable and rather rich. I was thirty-five when I met your father. It's the age of discernment, the age when one makes the right choice. Trust me.'

‘You think you made the right choice?' Rosamund asked, surprised but pleased.

‘Of course. We're very happy together.'

‘But isn't he rather … rather self-absorbed?'

‘Oh yes. But you won't find a man without faults. But if he gives you enough pleasure, you'll put up with him very happily. That's what it boils down to, Rosamund.'

‘So why didn't that work for my mother?'

They were both silent for a moment. ‘Because she was too young,' Dora said then. ‘She wanted everything. It takes maturity to work things out, your own worth, how much you can justifiably expect from life. You know the score by the time you're thirty-five.'

‘I don't think I've learnt much.'

‘I'm sure you have. You seem very wise, eager and calm at the same time.'

‘I was very timid when I was at art school, I can't quite understand why I didn't get more out of it, why I didn't make the most of being with all those dazzling young people.'

‘They were probably a lot of pseuds and show-offs. That's what I was anyway, when I was young – a show-off and a predator, only after the quick thrill. Now things have settled down to a nice steady richness.'

Rosamund took Dora's hand and kissed it. It was heartening to know that people could be happy instead of unhappy, bored and discontented. ‘Good night,' she said. ‘I'll be back by seven tomorrow night to help you make supper. I won't be late again.'

*   *   *

At first Rosamund thought the woman at the door was Molly. ‘Mrs Gilchrist?' she said, holding out her hand.

‘No,' the woman said, ‘I'm her cousin, Lorna Drew. I'll take you to Mrs Gilchrist. She's expecting you.'

Lorna Drew was about seventy with short frizzy white hair and wide hips. She scrutinised Rosamund for several unblinking seconds as though she'd been curious to see her for many years. Perhaps she had.

Rosamund followed her along a wide hall to an elegant Victorian conservatory where Molly Gilchrist was sitting. She held out her hand again. ‘I'm Rosamund. Please don't get up.'

‘I'll bring some coffee,' Lorna Drew said, leaving them together.

‘Please sit down.'

Molly was small and frail, expensively dressed in a pleated black and cream suit, perfumed, coiffeured and carefully made-up – her face a mask, but not at all grotesque. In fact rather beautiful, Rosamund thought; rather beautiful when you got used to it.

‘I'm so glad you decided to come and see me. I suppose you must be as distressed as I am.'

‘I'm sorry you're distressed. You must try not to be, you know. Men aren't worth fretting about.'

What a strange thing to say, Rosamund thought. She's probably fretted about Anthony for fifty years and she's not likely to stop now.

‘All his life's work,' Molly said, opening out her hands as though setting it free.

‘It won't affect it,' Rosamund said. ‘People expect poets to be passionate. They're judged more leniently than other people.'

‘Perhaps his indiscretions, his divorce, his third marriage at the age of seventy-something, yes. But not pornography. That's not for poets. That won't be excused. Well, I'm too old to fight on his behalf, but you're not.'

Rosamund chewed her lip and looked about her, trying to think of something to say, something non-committal, non-combatitive. ‘What a beautiful conservatory,' she said at last. ‘What wonderful flowers.' The French doors were open to a tumult of pink and cream and the conservatory itself had groups of glazed dark blue flowerpots containing shrubs and climbing plants, many with strange, exotic, trumpet-shaped flowers.

‘I water them all myself every morning,' Molly said.

‘Gosh.'

‘Lorna does the garden, but I have a man who comes on a Tuesday afternoon to cut the lawns. A frightful expense. Frightful.' For a second Rosamund glimpsed the hard eyes and pursed lips of a formidable woman. Then the mask was in place again. ‘Are you fond of gardens?'

‘Very. But mine is quite informal – a wild garden, I suppose. But it suits us.'

‘How is your little son?'

Rosamund felt her heart lurching. The last thing she'd expected was to have Molly treat her as family. ‘Very well, thank you. Joshua. He's almost ten now. How old are your grandchildren?'

‘Seventeen and fifteen. But I rarely see them. They live in France, you know. I suppose you heard that Alex and Selena are divorced?'

‘No, I hadn't heard. I'm sorry.'

‘Oh, Alex had a very bad time. A total breakdown.'

‘I'm sorry,' Rosamund murmured again. There was a short silence.

‘I'd like to meet your son.'

Oh my God, Rosamund thought. Just what is going on? This is the crabby and intransigent ex-wife – rich, spoilt and determined on her own way. Why is she being so bloody nice to me?

‘I went to see Erica Underhill yesterday,' she said, to turn the conversation away from Joss.

‘Thank you,' Molly whispered, relaxing her shoulders as though all her problems were now over.

Lorna Drew brought in the coffee, Molly managing to indicate that they shouldn't go on talking in front of her. ‘Lorna is my cousin and companion,' she told Rosamund.

‘Also housekeeper, cook and gardener,' Lorna said briskly, pouring out the coffee. ‘But I have a little flat at the top of the house where I can escape to when things get too tough.' She gave Rosamund a bright smile, as though to mitigate the complaint in her words.

‘Hers even after my death,' Molly said.

‘If I live that long,' Lorna replied. There was a great deal of tension between them.

‘She's twelve years younger than I am and strong as an ox.'

‘Did you know Anthony?' Rosamund asked Lorna.

‘Oh, yes. For many years. I used to be the secretary at a girls' boarding school in Folkestone, and Molly and Anthony would look me up on their trips back and forth from France. Sometimes during the holidays they left Alex with me. Have you met Alex?'

‘Yes. But not for some years.'

‘Have another scone,' Molly said.

‘Thank you. They're delicious.'

The conversation flagged. Rosamund could suddenly hear the bees in the garden, traffic in the distance.

‘Oh Lorna, would you phone Cécile's about my new jacket?' Molly asked, then, ‘They said they'd have it in at the beginning of the week. No, you may leave the coffee here. Rosamund may want to help herself to another cup.'

Lorna left, realising she was being dismissed.

‘Lovely coffee,' Rosamund told her as she went out.

*   *   *

‘How kind of you to visit that woman,' Molly said as soon as they were on their own again. ‘I do hope you managed to persuade her not to publish the poems.'

‘Mrs Gilchrist, I couldn't ask her that because she's very short of money, and the book won't get half the publicity without the poems. Her flat in Earls Court has large, high rooms and the central heating is totally inadequate. She stayed in bed for a part of last winter, too cold to get up. She's over eighty, she has no help and I don't think she sees very well.'

‘She's certainly got round you all right, fooled you all right. She sees well enough to drive a hard bargain. Giles says she stands to make a mint of money.'

‘She's very badly off.'

‘Someone has to suffer. Why should it always be me? Why should I be disturbed again in my last years? She was the one who caused all the harm. Why shouldn't she suffer?'

‘Perhaps it was Anthony who harmed you both.'

There was a moment's intense stillness, as though even the flowers were holding their breath. Then the moment passed. ‘She wasn't blameless. That sort of woman never is.'

‘I'm sure she wasn't. But it all happened so long ago. I can understand you feeling hurt and bitter at the time, but now you've built up your own life. You have your lovely house and garden, your son and grandchildren, your own full life.'

‘I've never had any life since Anthony left me.'

‘But
you
divorced
him!
'

‘That's how it had to be in those days. I had to divorce him on grounds of adultery. He wouldn't consent to any decent settlement even for Alex unless I agreed to divorce him.'

‘But if he was as cruel as that, why do you worry so much about his reputation?'

Molly considered the question very gravely. ‘For my own sake, I suppose. I'm the one people will feel sorry for, and I hate being pitied. I had enough of that at the time of the divorce. “Poor Molly,” people said. “Such a devoted wife.” And besides, Alex and my grandchildren have always felt proud of Anthony. Now they'll despise him. I don't want that, either.'

‘I don't think they will. There'll be some little publicity, but it will soon blow over. He's only written some erotic poetry, after all. He didn't blackmail or murder anyone.'

‘I can't tolerate the idea of that woman benefiting from them. You seem to think of them as some sort of harmless diversion. Such harmless diversions cost me my marriage.' Molly's voice had become high and shrill. She sat very still for a moment or two, then continued in a calmer voice; ‘Alex tells me you've read the poems. How could you bear to?'

‘It's love poetry, nothing more. It celebrates certain parts of the body, certain love games not usually mentioned in today's more respectable poetry, but in other cultures, other times, it wouldn't be anything out of the way.'

Silence again. ‘It might even enhance his reputation,' Rosamund continued. ‘Anthony's poetry is often considered too cerebral, too remote, too philosophical. These poems will change all that.'

Molly seemed quite unimpressed with Rosamund's attempts to cajole her, but she spoke in a gentler voice. ‘At first, we were very happy,' she said, ‘though I suppose he married me on the rebound. You probably know that his first wife, Frances, had cancer and died very young. Her death left him very lonely and at first he seemed so thankful that I'd taken pity on him. For the whole of that first year he was very gentle and considerate. I thought we were happy, but perhaps not. Perhaps I never made him happy. I was never really resigned to certain parts of marriage, though I tried not to show it. I expect that was the trouble. But that was the way I'd been brought up. Was it my fault?'

She didn't seem to expect any answer, but carried straight on. ‘He was the one who broke the marriage vows, anyway. I would have forgiven him – I'd forgiven him several times before – but he couldn't give that woman up. She was different from the others…'

‘She had an abortion, you know.
Did
you know?'

Molly seemed to shrink into herself. ‘No. He told me nothing. Not after I'd…' She failed to go on. ‘Not after…' Her mouth trembled.

Rosamund didn't prompt her, didn't really want to hear any more. Pretending to be unaware of Molly's distress, she took her hand and patted it. ‘Now try to stop worrying,' she said. ‘Ignore the poems. Regard them as a little aberration. They're not important.'

‘I tried to commit suicide,' Molly said, ‘and he wouldn't discuss anything with me after that. It wasn't that I really wanted to die, but wanted to punish him.' Her voice became harsh again. ‘I cut my wrists.'

She unbuttoned her chiffon cuffs and showed Rosamund the jagged scars, yellowish like gristle. Rosamund felt faint. ‘I must go,' she said. ‘You're getting tired. I'll come to see you again if I decide to write the book.'

Molly thrust out her small hand at Rosamund who was almost afraid to hold it, let alone shake it. ‘Bring your son with you when you come next,' she said.

Lorna Drew followed her along the wide oak-panelled hall to the front door. Rosamund turned, waiting for her to speak.

‘I suppose she showed you the scars on her wrist,' she said in honeyed tones. ‘Oh yes, she'd want that in your book.'

The sun, streaming in through the coloured glass panels of the door, cast purple and vermilion patterns on her face and hands and cotton dress. “Wronged wife's suicide bid.” She'd never let anyone forget that.'