Season of Storms (37 page)

xix

I
often felt, looking back later, that it was the longest morning of my life, and yet I had no clear and certain memory of it. I didn’t, for instance, remember walking back to the house with the others, and yet I must have done, because when the first rays of daylight crept over the rim of the mountains and the birds began to sing in every tree I was sitting upstairs in my room, and the doctor, on Alex’s orders, was looking me over. I didn’t remember, either, exactly how the doctor had come to be there, but being in no state of mind to analyse things I accepted his presence without question, though I did put up an argument—I can’t imagine why—when he suggested that I have some tests in hospital. He didn’t press the point. Having found no evidence of lasting damage, he’d left Alex with a list of things to watch for and instructions I should not be left alone and he’d gone off again, and then after a while Alex was gone, too, and Madeleine was sitting in the chair across from mine, and we were drinking tea.

“She feels just awful,” she was saying, and somehow it penetrated that she was talking about Poppy. “She didn’t tell us straight off where you were, you see, and by the time we got there you had gone, and we all figured you had somehow climbed out on your own, and gone back to the house. Den headed back there to look for you, and we’d have gone, too,” she confessed, “if it hadn’t been for Max.”

I failed to see where the greyhound fit into things. “Max?”

“He went absolutely mad—I’ve never seen a dog behave like that. Leaping and barking . . . he practically dragged us all down to the villa, and Poppy felt sure he was tracking your scent. And then, of course, we saw the fire.” She looked away at that, as though not wanting to remember. “Anyway, my daughter’s not a very happy little girl, right now. She wanted to come and apologize to you, but I told her to wait until later . . .”

And then it seemed that even as I looked at her she vanished and the room spun and Edwina took her place, without the tea. Her eyes met mine kindly. “Nothing to apologize for,” she said. “It’s natural for you to cry. You’ve had a dreadful shock, and lost a loved one. Though in time you’ll come to realize that you haven’t really lost him—he’s only passed over, that’s all. He’s still with you in spirit.”

I felt the tears warm on my face as I looked round, half-expecting to see Rupert’s ghost standing at my shoulder. With Edwina in the room, I thought, anything was possible. I didn’t share her faith . . . well, not entirely . . . but something made me ask her, “Can they hear us when we’re talking to them, spirits?”

“Yes, I suppose so, if they’re listening.”

I found a certain comfort in that. Sitting back, I brushed a hand across my cheek and hesitated, wondering whether I ought to say something about seeing Celia the First in the villa last night. Edwina, I knew, wouldn’t question the sighting, but it was precisely that fact that kept me from telling her, because I really didn’t want to have it validated; didn’t want to have to think it truly might have happened. It was easier to write the whole episode off as a by-product of concussion.

My mind was decidedly not working properly, but whether that was the fault of concussion or grief I couldn’t say. Time passed in patches, with great gaps between. Edwina vanished, too, and in her place Bryan appeared, having brought along the old parchment prayer-book to read while he sat with me.

The sight of that book made me think of Rupert, and how excited he’d been when he’d found it, and how he’d tried to share that excitement with me, but I hadn’t been interested. Dull-eyed, I looked at Bryan sitting silent by the window, leafing slowly through the pages.

“He wouldn’t have done it on purpose, would he?” I asked. “I mean, that day on the terrace, when we were all talking about suicide and Roo told us that story about your neighbour in Australia who had cancer. You remember—the one who shot himself because he didn’t want to be a burden to his family. You don’t think that Roo thought that he’d be a burden to us, do you?”

“No, I do not.”

“But he must have known Edwina wasn’t in the villa.”

Bryan raised his head. “How would he have known that? She’d been out with Alex, hadn’t she? They’d only just got back.”

I did have some memory, vague, of Alex saying something similar, of him explaining how he had returned to find the villa up in flames, and how he’d felt when he’d been told that Max had tracked me, frantic, from the Peacock Pool . . . that I might be inside. I heard his voice now, telling me, ‘I would have died . . .’

I thought again of Rupert and, my vision blurring, looked away, towards the sunlit window, through which I could see the snow-capped distant mountains standing clear against the morning sky, with all the callousness of nature, as if one man’s death had altered nothing. But it had, I thought. It had.

I said, “He’ll never get to see our play.”

“He’ll see,” said Bryan, very gently. “And anyway, it wasn’t the performance he was keen about so much as the rehearsals—just to work with you, direct you in your first lead role, that’s all he really wanted. And he got that.”

He was right, of course. As director, Rupert had finished the bulk of his work this past week, and was already passing the torch to his SM—from now on, the play was Den’s baby.

I thought about this. It helped to think that Rupert hadn’t died without achieving what he’d hoped for; that we’d had our ‘special time’ together, just the way he’d planned.

Bryan watched me. “I just wish he hadn’t told you he was ill. That kind of spoiled things. It could have kept another year.”

“Another
year
?” My forehead creased. “So what was all that arguing about then, when you told him that you’d tell me if he didn’t? When you said that I deserved to know the truth?”

“Ah.” He looked down again, distracted by the parchment page spread open to his idly searching fingers. “Well, it wasn’t about him being ill.”

“What was it, then?”

“I’m sorry?”

If I hadn’t known him better I’d have thought that he was being deliberately evasive, as though he almost hoped I’d let the matter drop. I asked him, very patiently, “What was it that you wanted him to tell me?”

Head down, he went on reading. “Angel, I don’t think that this is the time . . .”

“Bryan, nothing you say could possibly upset me any more than I already am.”

He turned another page in thoughtful silence, and then sighed and closed the prayer-book altogether.

And he told me.

xx

THE
round stage, empty in the quiet of the afternoon, felt as though it were holding its breath almost, waiting. Beneath my feet the boards creaked lightly where I walked, then silence washed over again like a wave as I stopped downstage centre and gazed out at the thirteen rows of seats, expensively restored and ready for an audience. I couldn’t help but travel back a moment to the time when I’d first stood here, full of wonder, on a day not unlike this one, with the sun beating down on the hills sloping up on all sides to the trees, and the breeze blowing airily under the high pointed roof overhead. I closed my eyes to trap the memory, breathing in the fragrance of the pines.

And now, as then, the words of that soliloquy from Sophocles came clearly and unbidden to my mind, the speech I’d recited for Den and for Rupert—Electra’s opening lament, made more appropriate by all that had since happened. Electra weeping over Agamemnon’s death:
“But, like some brood-bereavèd nightingale, With far-heard wail, Here at my father’s door my voice shall sound . . .”

My father’s door . . .

The boards behind me creaked.

I didn’t turn; not straight away. Den’s voice said, “Sorry, I didn’t realize anyone was here.”

I let my eyes drift open, no longer Electra but only plain Celia again. “I was just . . .” But there was no real way to explain what I’d been doing, so I looked round instead and said simply, “I had to get out of the house.”

Standing by the entrance to the gangway with a coffee mug in hand, he flashed a brief, self-conscious smile. “Yeah, I know what you mean. I never was too good at grieving in groups.” He held up his mug. “Want some coffee? I’ve just put a pot on backstage.”

“No, thanks.” I walked the few steps over to my opening mark and turned again to face the empty seats that in a few hours would be filled with people.

Den watched me. “Look,” he said, “are you all right with this? It’s not too late, you know, to cancel the performance. In fact—”

“No.” I’d already had this discussion earlier, with Madeleine, and I was as emphatic now as I’d been then. “Roo would have hated for us to cancel on his account. This was meant to be a triumph for him, staging the unstageable play. If we didn’t go on, we’d be taking that from him.”

His eyes, though understanding, held concern. “It’s just that, so soon after . . . well, it’s bound to be a strain.”

“I’ll be all right.”

“How’s the head?” he asked, crossing to feel for the lump at the base of my skull. “That bastard really gave you a whack, didn’t he? You’re sure the doctor says that it’s OK for you to be up and walking around like this?”

I assured him the doctor had said I’d be fine. “There’s no permanent damage.”

“Yeah, well . . .” He didn’t look very convinced, but in the end he dropped his hand and asked, “Is Alex back yet, do you know?”

“I haven’t seen him.” Not since dawn, at any rate. I had a vague remembrance of him leaving in the wake of the police, and though I knew he’d told me where he was going I couldn’t for the life of me recall his words right now.

Den obviously did, because he nodded and remarked that it was bound to take some time, Alex’s errand. “I just hope he makes it back before curtain. I thought I’d ask him to read the announcement, before we go on. About Rupert. I don’t think any of us would be able to do it without making fools of ourselves.”

He had a point. I knew that I, for one, wasn’t a skilled enough actress to make an announcement like that without getting choked up, giving vent to my grief. But I wouldn’t have expected Den to have had the same problem. With new eyes, I studied him. “You and Roo knew each other a long time, didn’t you?”

“Yeah.” The single syllable came stiffly, as he bent his head to take a swig of coffee.

“It’s so bizarre, in all those years, that I never met you,” I said, as he moved off a few feet to stand at the edge of the stage, with his back propped against the curved railing.

“Yeah, well, I didn’t come to England very much.”

“You used to live there, Bryan said.”

“Only briefly. Before you were born.”

“Is that when you worked with my mother?”

He nodded. “I doubt she’d remember me.”

Linking my fingers, I twisted them, searching for words. “Did you love her?”

His hand paused midway to his mouth with the coffee mug. Lowering it carefully, he looked at me hard a long moment. “Yes,” he said at last, “I did.” And then he tipped his head and I could see a question forming in his eyes. “What else has Bryan told you?”

Looking down, I told him, “Everything.”

“Oh, Christ.” He hadn’t been anticipating that. He set the coffee mug down quickly, near the row of seats behind him; passed a hand across his face. “This isn’t how I wanted you to . . . damn, I asked him not to.”

I might have taken that the wrong way, might have even felt rejected, if Bryan hadn’t also told me how emotional Den had been last Sunday morning, when they’d talked together over an early breakfast. So I knew just how much it was costing Den now, to hold all of that in as he faced me, with eyes that asked forgiveness.

“I didn’t know, you understand. I wasn’t told.”

I’d always had a fantasy about how I’d manage this meeting, when and if it ever happened. I’d be poised and in control of my emotions. I would cross the room sedately—for some reason, I’d always envisaged it happening at a party, with plenty of people about—and I would face him as an adult, and extend my hand . . .

But fantasies, as Bryan was so fond of pointing out, were unreliable. And in the end I wasn’t in the least sedate. I went to Den on impulse, like a child, and wrapped my arms around his neck, and held him tightly.

And he held me back, as though he’d never let me go, his breath a sigh that stirred my hair. “I was afraid that you’d be disappointed.”

“Hardly.” I moved my head against his shoulder. “All this time I’ve been thinking what a great dad you’d make, how good you were with Poppy, and I never guessed . . .”

“Yeah, well, I didn’t, either, till that day you and Maddy had your costume fitting, there in the rehearsal room. I mean, there had been little things before, but seeing you done up like that, in the blonde wig and everything, that really hit me.”

I felt my forehead creasing, remembering the incident, the way that he had stared at me. “Did I really look so much like my mother?”

He shook his head. “You looked like mine. She died when I was just a kid,” he said, “but I have pictures of her, how she looked when she was young. You have her smile, her eyes . . . I didn’t see it, though, until you put the wig on. She was blonde, you see.”

“So that’s what made you realize . . . ?”

“Well, it made me suspect. I didn’t know for certain till I’d spoken with your mother.”

I drew back at that, to look at him. “You talked to Mother?”

“Yeah, I phoned her up. She didn’t want to admit it, at first—I think she’d rather have people imagine your father was somebody famous, and I don’t quite qualify—but when I pulled out the big guns and threatened her with DNA tests, she finally gave in.”

“And when was this?”

“Oh, a couple of weeks ago.”

“You might have told me.”

“It’s not the sort of thing you just blurt out at dinner. Not after twenty years.”

“Twenty-two.”

“Well, that was another thing,” he told me. “Rupert saying you were twenty-one . . .”

“He might honestly have forgotten. His memory . . . that is, he’d been forgetting a lot of things, lately.” But I knew the excuse was a weak one. I didn’t believe it myself. The truth was that Rupert, whether he’d been jealous or afraid that he might lose me, or because he’d simply wanted this to be a special summer for us, him and me alone with no one else intruding—the truth was that he hadn’t wanted Den to know about me. He’d even gone so far as to tell me he was ill, a thing he hadn’t planned to do, rather than give in to Bryan’s urging that he tell me who Den was.

But then, in all fairness, Bryan hadn’t told me, either, and he’d known the truth at least as long as Rupert. “Your mother told us once, when she was drunk,” he’d confessed, “and after that we both saw the resemblance, but Dennis wasn’t . . . well, he liked to have his fun; he wasn’t what you would have called responsible, and besides,” he’d added, gently, “you were
our
girl.”

And I’d understood him then, and could forgive them keeping secrets. I wondered whether Den could do the same.

“Anyway,” he said, “however many years it was, you’d got on well without me. You were happy. What right did I have to ruin that?” He asked the question lightly, but his guard had dropped enough for me to see the hopeful light within his eyes, damped down as though he didn’t want to advertise his vulnerability.

I rested my head on his shoulder again. “You haven’t ruined anything. I’m happy now.”

He stroked my hair in silence for a minute, then paused as his hand felt the lump on my head again. “You’re
sure
the doctor said that—”

“Yes.”

“Well, maybe I should call him . . .”

“Den.”

“Hey,” he said, in self-defence, “I’ve never been a dad before. I’ve got twenty-two years of worrying to catch up on. Which reminds me”—he drew back in his turn—“exactly what’s going on, now, between you and D’Ascanio?”