The Restoration of Otto Laird (27 page)

They would travel there regularly at weekends, sometimes staying over with her elderly parents, who remained living in the family home; at other times booking into a pub or B&B.

In thirty years of visiting the area, it was not only Cynthia and Otto whose faces had become lined by experience, creased by the cares of the world. The countryside across which they travelled at weekends now also bore such marks. The M40 motorway cut a swath through Buckinghamshire and beyond. New suburbs ribboned outwards from High Wycombe and Aylesbury. The rural peace Cynthia had known in her childhood was supplanted by the drone of traffic and the sprawl of new housing estates. She felt these changes, Otto sometimes thought, as though the scars on the landscape were her own.

There was still peace to be found, however, among the hills themselves, and it was there that they would escape whenever time allowed.

*   *   *

One afternoon, in the spring of 1985, as they sat side by side on the high hill of Ivinghoe Beacon, Cynthia asked Otto a question.

‘How would you feel about selling up in Hampstead? Moving out to the countryside? Somewhere truly rural.'

A model aircraft buzzed overhead.

‘It's a nice idea,' said Otto. ‘I know how much affinity you feel with this area. I like to come visiting here myself.'

She sensed the slight reticence in his voice and squeezed his hand.

‘I realise you're an urban creature, with a fear of open spaces. But you may find those fears are unfounded, once you give it a try.'

Otto smiled.

‘It's not that. My concerns are more practical. What about our professional commitments? Could we realistically fulfil them from the middle of nowhere?'

‘Not as things stand, no. We would both need to make some changes; hand over control to others. Maybe I could sell up the textiles firm altogether. But I don't see why not. Neither of us exactly enjoys the business side of things. We could focus more on design, like we used to.'

The engine of the model plane cut out suddenly, causing it to plummet to the ground some fifty yards from where they sat.

‘And Daniel?' Otto asked. ‘What if he wants to return to Hampstead after finishing at university? We really ought to talk it through with him first.'

Cynthia looked away a moment, the breeze catching her hair as she turned.

‘I already have,' she said. ‘Dan won't be returning to the family home again. He's not that type of person. Too restless, independent, eager to discover life for himself. He's gone now, Otto. It's just the two of us once more.'

Otto watched the model plane – set upright, by its owner – trundle up the incline of the hill.

‘Sounds like you've been thinking this through,' he said.

‘I have, I must admit.'

She leaned over and brushed her face against his. Her eyes shone with some of the thrilling intensity of old.

‘I've a feeling it might be time for us,' she said. ‘We're both in our fifties now. It would mean that you and I could be together properly, without all those distractions.'

She reached up and brushed a stray strand of hair from his forehead.

‘
This
is life, Otto, not the other stuff.'

The model plane lifted into the air with difficulty, circling above them once again. Otto watched the shadow of a cloud as it drifted over the wheat fields. Absently, he stroked Cynthia's hand.

‘What do you think?' she eventually asked him.

A quiet life in the country was something Otto had never considered before. Yet the idea, now that she mentioned it, seemed revelatory. They could live somewhere peaceful, design and draw each day. They would be able to walk, and talk, sit quietly together in the evenings. In terms of the space and creative freedom, it would be like a return to the old days, before their lives became complicated by success.

Cynthia smiled, even before Otto had spoken. She sensed the spark of excitement, kindling in his eyes.

‘Why not?' he said. ‘Yes, why ever not? I hesitate only because your suggestion is so unexpected. But, thinking on my feet now, I would say that you are right. We don't need to carry on at breakneck speed. Why should we? We've achieved all that we wanted, in a professional sense. And we come to the countryside as often as practicable these days. That alone must tell us something. Besides, I must admit that I do find London tiring lately. Rattling along with thousands of others on the Northern Line each morning.'

‘Tired of London, but not of life. Samuel Johnson was talking nonsense. There's inspiration to be found in new beginnings.'

Cynthia's enthusiasm was becoming infectious to Otto, just as it had been throughout their lives.

‘It will complete a circle,' Otto said. ‘Not just for you, for both of us.'

He was remembering their first trip to the Chilterns together, as students, thirty years before.

Their plans began to solidify in the following weeks and months: they discussed them together with a mounting sense of anticipation. They even spent a weekend looking at cottages. But the longed-for move to the Chilterns never took place.

*   *   *

Otto stood and waited for the lift to arrive. The dilapidated state of Marlowe House no longer seemed to oppress him. Memories of Cynthia, of the stolen years together that followed their reconciliation, brought with them a new-found sense of peace.

There's always hope, he told himself, as the doors slid open and he stepped over the shards of broken glass littering its floor. Even in the bleakest of surroundings, even when all appears lost.

Twenty-Five

Back in his apartment, Otto discussed with Chloe his final thoughts on revisiting Marlowe House. He was determined to get it right this time. The cameras rolled as they talked.

‘Would you do things differently, if you were designing the building again today?'

‘Yes, absolutely.'

‘What would you change?'

‘The apartments themselves seem to have stood the test of time, judging by the one in which I've spent the past few nights. But the public spaces would definitely need to be reconsidered. The lifts, the corridors: their condition is very poor. Personal safety is clearly something of an issue.'

‘But you still believe it deserves to be saved? Given a listing, perhaps?'

‘I do. I had my doubts initially, I must admit, when I arrived and saw its condition. It needs some investment, some attention and care, there's no question at all about that. But I still think it's worth saving.'

‘And your reasoning for that?'

‘A simple one, really. The residents want to stay here; some of them, anyway. They want to remain in the building that's their home.'

‘You mean Ravi and Mrs Pham?'

‘And a few more people, I hope. Our sample was unscientific, I realise, but it's all I have to go on. For them, at least, Marlowe House is clearly important; a repository of memories and associations. Mrs Pham has lived here half her life; Ravi for all of his. If the demolition goes ahead as proposed, they will take away more than a structure.'

‘How do you mean?'

‘Memory is such a complex matter. It's not just mental, but physical. It's embedded in the landscape itself. Buildings are deeply interwoven with people's experiences – with their sense of identity, if you like. It's something of which I've become acutely aware myself in recent days.'

‘But not everyone feels positive about Marlowe House. Joe, for instance, and some of the others we've spoken to.'

‘Clearly, its fate is a matter of indifference to some. For others, it no doubt evokes feelings of hostility. You were kind enough not to introduce me to any of them! But on balance, naturally, I support those with an emotional attachment to this place. And that's because, in the end, I share that attachment myself.'

‘Will that kind of argument be enough to save the building?'

‘No, not a chance. We need hard-headed, pragmatic arguments in order to win this battle. Technical, legal, financial. Property is such a minefield, these days. The developers are circling, there's money to be made. But fortunately, given my fuzzy state of mind, there are other people who can deal with these hard realities much better than I. Hopefully, Angelo and the others will succeed with the campaign.'

‘You don't appear to regard yourself as very important in all this. Surely you retain some influence. Don't you think that the people who decide these things will value your opinion?'

‘Not really. I'm just here to raise a few questions. But I certainly don't expect my views to be taken seriously. Not at my time of life. Don't worry – you look concerned. I've grown used to it by now. Though it is, perhaps, the hardest part of growing old.'

Otto smiled, a little sadly, and Chloe signalled with her hand for the cameras to stop filming.

‘Thanks. That's it. I think we have all the material we need now.'

‘It's over?'

‘Yes. We're finally done. We'll move on to post-production in the next few weeks. I'll let you know when we've got a date for the broadcast.'

‘Do you think we have any chance?'

‘Of saving it, you mean?'

‘Yes.'

‘If you don't know, Otto, then how could I? But I hope you do. It's a remarkable building.'

He looked at her, a little surprised, and wondered if she meant it. This was the first time she had expressed an opinion on the subject.

‘It's sad to see it in such a bad way,' she added. ‘But I've seen footage of Marlowe House from its heyday, remember? I admire the vision architects showed back then. They were made of different stuff, your generation.'

‘Why, thank you,' Otto said.

Chloe, having embarrassed him, decided to change the subject.

‘Can we give you a lift somewhere? Arrange a cab to take you to the airport? Sorry to rush you, but we have another appointment at twelve.'

‘It's kind of you, but I plan to stick around a little longer. My flight doesn't leave until this evening. There's somewhere I'd like to visit first. So if it's okay with you, could I pop the key back through the letterbox when I leave?'

‘Sure. I don't see why not.'

*   *   *

A short while later, Otto stood on the wind-blasted forecourt, lifting his hat to Chloe and the others as their van sped away into the distance. Seconds before, they had shaken his hand and wished him well for the journey home. He wondered, briefly, just who they might be filming that afternoon. Other lives, half captured. Other stories, partially told.

After pressing down his restless homburg, its brim flapping mournfully like a flightless bird, Otto rubbed particles of grit from his eyes. Through the main doors of Marlowe House, the occasional resident came and went. One of them, a tough young man with close-cropped hair, wearing blood-red sports gear, produced a skipping rope and began exercising on the opposite side of the forecourt. On the back of his sweatshirt were the words
Mikey J,
printed in silver lettering. Laying down the rope, the young man shadow-boxed for a minute or two, then embarked on a series of sprints across the forecourt. Passing close by, he nodded absently to Otto, who touched the brim of his homburg in response. Fifty years earlier, in a more neighbourly age, they might well have engaged in some pleasant conversation. But that was not how society operated, nowadays.

Otto looked once more at the forecourt. If the interior of the building was decrepit enough, it took an even greater leap of the imagination to equate the environs of Marlowe House with what had existed back in the 1960s. The sculpture garden was not the only element ravaged by time. With an effort, he tried to reassemble the landscaped grounds, raising them mentally from among the weeds and broken paving. A sculpted concrete arch, he recalled, once framed the approach along the main gravel pathway. But the arch, like the pathway, seemed to have disappeared completely. It would take an archaeologist to find any trace of it now.

Whatever happened to it? Did it fall down of its own accord? Seems unlikely; it was constructed of reinforced concrete. Was it stolen, maybe? Broken apart by vandals? Where on earth could it have gone?

Otto wandered over to a patch of grass in the vicinity of where the arch had once been, and dabbed at it with his cane. Bending down, he scooped out handfuls of earth in order to reveal the solid surface he had detected beneath. His fingers uncovered a low concrete base. Another, he discovered, lay some yards to its east. From the cleanness of the cuts across both surfaces, he assumed that the arch must have been removed in some official capacity. But no other clues to its fate remained.

Can fifty years of wear and tear really bring about this much change? he thought. It feels like the work of centuries.

With a shake of his head, he abandoned the remains of the arch to walk around the columns that supported the main structure. On one of them, a spray-painted image caught his eye. It looked like a cluster of vine leaves, or they could have been the leaves of a cannabis plant, curling upwards from the base to eye level.

It could almost be a classical ruin. But then again, maybe not. Perhaps that is being a shade too optimistic! Who knows, though? Maybe in the fullness of time such parallels will sound less fanciful.

Time and distance always brought a certain romance, even to the least likely of locations. And Otto remembered that Pompeii, too, had its graffiti; some bawdy, some political and some nonsensical. When was it they had visited again? Once, in the mid-1960s, and again in the spring of 1981. Herculaneum, too. Mount Vesuvius. The Archaeological Museum in Naples. Now that was some city, with its high and cooling alleyways, sheltered from the glare of the afternoon sun. The narrow, crumbling tenements, linked by the criss-cross lines of washing, hung out like gossip above their heads by signoras with work-thickened arms.