Maureen rang me on Remembrance Sunday, after the Cenotaph ceremony had finished on the television. It was unusual for her to call.
“Ted, I’m worried. That woman is predatory. She has absolutely no scruples. She will do exactly what she wants regardless of how many people she hurts.”
“What are you afraid of?”
“They don’t seem to have a..” she fought for the right words and ended lamely “mother-son relationship.”
“You’re not suggesting they’re sleeping together?” It should have been a completely unnecessary question, but the more I thought about it the more it seemed a very real threat.
“That’s exactly what I am suggesting.” Maureen was firm “and I’m very much regretting ever having put the two together. Think about it Ted, she’s vulnerable he’s caring; she’s so like Susannah – the girl he believes is the love of his life; and he’s very like the nicer bits of Arnold, not to mention very good looking, young and probably very virile.”
“But she’s nearly 50 and he’s what.... just 21?”
“She’s 46. And this is 1967. Stranger things happen – just read your newspapers.”
“What do you want me to do? Is there anything I can do?”
“God knows Ted. I haven’t a clue. Do we have to do anything? Even if they are” she hesitated before speaking the words as if speaking them made the fact more likely “sleeping together or whatever the current euphemism is. Is that so very wrong? I really don’t know. Sometimes I think it is the worst thing that could possibly happen and then I think ‘why ever not?’ If he was 46 and she was 21 no one would bat an eyelid.”
“It’s not just the age gap though, is it? They’re practically family.”
“But they aren’t family are they? They’re absolutely no relation to each other whatsoever. They have not lived in the same house together – she’s not his step-mother or anything, they’ve probably only met twice – if that – before last month. There is no reason to object. No real reason.”
“Of course there’s a reason. There must be hundreds of reasons.”
“Sorry, Maureen, put like that I can’t. But both you and I have the gut feeling that it is completely unacceptable. We can’t both be wrong.”
“Let’s hope that if there is anything between them it’s only sex. They’d soon get that out of their systems.”
I tried not to be shocked. Or jealous.
“Keep an eye on it Maureen, if you think there is anything I can do I will come down – of course I will. But you know you can always call me – just to talk if you need to. We both care for Alicia too much to let her make a complete fool of herself.”
“Yes, Ted, we both do don’t we.”
In early December I had another letter from Maureen.
Alicia had told her what turned out to be a very edited version of her birthday trip, but did admit to telling Carl his and Susannah’s true parentage and worse, something of the circumstances.
Maureen wrote in no uncertain terms that she thought Carl was a loose cannon – she didn’t know him well enough to be able to guess what his reactions might be. She couldn’t contact the Forsters but she knew I could.
Someone had to make sure the boy was all right despite the revelations that had been sprung on him.
I would have to get involved.
And so on the next of my monthly trips to London I visited the Forsters in Dulwich.
They made me very welcome. We had a lovely informal meal with Pat and Jeff reminding me of our brief meeting four years or so earlier, when I had worried about the arrangements after Carl’s precipitous departure from his parents’ home. We all decided it had worked out well. They asked about the circumstances of Arnold’s death and I briefly described the quiet funeral and Kathleen’s quiet life. “Carl will always be welcome here, you must tell his mother that he always has a home with us.”
But the whole meal was not taken up with sadness, much of the conversation around that table was light hearted and Carl seemed completely at ease. I understood in that one evening how much better Carl was as a person because of his time with the Forsters than if he had been exposed to the politics and darkness of life with Kathleen and Arnold. This Carl was adult, relaxed and polite, showing no sign of the trauma or imminent breakdown I had feared.
After dinner the Forsters left us alone to talk and I soon realised, when we turned to the subject of Alicia and Susannah, that he was under control.
It was a talk where we had slightly different agendas.
He wanted to know if what Alicia had said about Susie’s father was actually true or whether it had all been a rather dramatic figment of her imagination. I had to confirm that it was, as far as I could tell him, indeed true.
I had to agree that all four parents in this imbroglio had behaved very badly. I had to agree I had known since Susannah’s wedding, though of course, by then, it was too late to do anything.
It upset him to hear the words, but once spoken he wanted to know all about it and about Joe and the children. I needed to know if there was any way he felt the need to tell Susannah what he had found out. I told him I hoped he would do nothing rash.
It was obvious he still cared for her a great deal. I knew that values were changing, that many young people are fickle and change their allegiances and loves like changing clothes but in those few minutes with Carl I realised he was different.
He was one of those rather old-fashioned, rare, possibly unlucky, people who once they give their hearts to someone never, ever, take them away.
It was a characteristic I recognised.
He mentioned nothing about any relationship between his mother and his father. If he had done I would not have been able to confirm or deny anything other than the fact that Arnold’s father knew Kathleen’s mother and that some people thought it a distinct possibility. Nothing, of course, could ever be proved.
I felt I needed to tell him something I did know to be true that he didn’t know, to clear the air completely, so I told him about Maureen.
I told him how Maureen and I had written to each other over the years, because she had been a good friend of Alicia’s when they had both lived in the Wirral. That she had an interest in what the family was up to. I told him that I had never broken confidences, merely sending her copies of newspapers and short notes to keep her informed. When he asked me why she would be so interested in them I had to tell him. She had taken such an interest in him because she was Kathleen’s eldest sister.
She was his aunt.
I think of all the things I said that evening that was the one that made him feel most betrayed.
He was quiet for a short time, peering into the fire that was beginning to die down in the grate. “Why did she play such a game? Why didn’t she say? She did seem to know a lot about us. She seemed so nice. Why didn’t she say?”
“That I cannot answer, I believe she wanted to keep that up her sleeve, you see Alicia has never known that her best friend over the years is the sister of the woman she most dislikes, her husband’s mistress and second wife. How do you think she would you feel if she knew that?”
He sat there staring at the dying flames. He seemed so sad I wondered whether I should have told him.
“I still love her you know.” He said, almost to himself. “I can’t change that. I need to know she’s happy. I can’t just forget her. I need to look after her, know she’s OK, even if I can’t do anything about it.”
I thought he was going to say more but he didn’t.
I was just about to leave, we were all in their large hall saying “goodbye” and “thank you” and “lovely to meet you again after all these years” when the phone rang.
It was Maureen, Alicia had been rushed to hospital haemorrhaging. They were transferring her to a hospital in London as it was very serious, could we go to her there. She was very ill, time may be very short.
I said there was no need for Carl to go, though he didn’t appear to want to anyway.
And so I became more closely involved in Alicia’s life.
She was in hospital for some time and I visited her on my monthly trips to London. After she was discharged I arranged for her to have a full time nurse living in with her so she could go back to her ‘little house’. I visited her there many times, month after month.
I had always known her to be a fascinating woman; but now I got to know the true depths of her vulnerability, intelligence and wit. She seemed to want to talk about old times, she told me many things I didn’t know and some I didn’t particularly want to know.
Our talks answered many of the questions I had had from seeing the Donaldson and the Witherby families from the outside. I was able to tell her some things she didn’t know – about Charles’ escapade when I had been taking him back to school. She was able to tell me about her history, her family, why she had married Arnold in the first place and how the convoluted parenting had really happened.
I had, and still have, no reason to believe she told me anything but the truth.
I don’t think she knew that my visits were the highlight of my life. They were days I looked forward to all the time I was away, and how much I loved heading off into Surrey those Thursday afternoons each month.
Initially it was the nurse who made the tea and set everything out for my visits, Alicia was far too ill. Then she was up and about – I suspected especially for my visits – in the early days of the spring of 1968. Then we would sit out in the garden, the nurse enjoyed gardening and kept the small area neat and tidy.
As the months passed I kept her up to date with family events, another grandson, Al, born on 8th June 1968. “Do you think they called him after me?” she had asked rather wistfully. I said “yes”, though I didn’t think for a minute that they had. Joe had had an uncle Alfred who, I think, had died during the war.
On July 4th 1969 news of another grandson – Bill. I had not told Alicia of Susannah’s pregnancy, aware that she would think it was far too soon, but I had to tell her after the boy was born. She didn’t dwell on it, simply changing the subject to current affairs. Another topic we covered over the long hours of our conversations.
On one visit, June 4th 1970, she met me at the door and completely without preamble told me the news I had been dreading. “The doctors have finally decided they can’t do anything. They’ve given me six months at most.” I had dreaded the words, but it wasn’t that much of a surprise, anyone who saw her could see she was losing the battle with the cancers inside her.
“Are they sure?”
“I’m afraid so. It’s all moved from those bits to those bits.” She waved her arms vaguely across her body.
I had known what I would do when the time came.
“Right then, we have to sort out the rest of your life.”
“I knew you would be practical. No one else would be able to help.”
“I’m always here at your service.” I tried to sound light hearted and chivalrous – I fear I just sounded flippant.
“I know, Ted, you have always been a good friend to me – God knows my only real friend.”
“What do you want to do with this time that you know you’ve been given?” I leant forward and put her hands between mine. I don’t think I had touched her in this personal way before.
“I don’t want to be alone, Ted, I’ve never been very good at being alone.”
I squeezed her hand “You told me that once before, you won’t remember, when you got back from Switzerland. I promise you you’ll only be alone when and if you want to be. Anything else?”
She thought for a while.
“I would like to see Charles. I want to know how he’s turned out. Whether there is anything of me heading off into the hereafter. It’s the only ‘life after death’ I can believe in.”
“What of your daughter, your grand-children?”
“No. No need to see them. There’s nothing of me in Susannah.”
So later that month I packed Alicia into my car, specially driven down for the day. I couldn’t help remembering driving her to the hospital when she was having Susannah, and the other times I had ferried her between Hoylake and Liverpool. I knew her so much better now.
She didn’t bring much luggage.
She sat almost silent in the passenger seat next to me as I settled in to drive the 200 odd miles back to the Wirral.
I had loved this woman who sat to my left, looking out of the window as we drove, for so long. She had prevented me from loving any other woman, and yet she had no idea what she had done to me and my life.
She simply had no idea.
The traffic was light – there was a general election. Polling Station signs littered the towns and villages as they passed. We talked of politics, how in the old days she would have been so involved – what Arnold would have thought of the unfolding events.
We had decided that, for as long as she could, Alicia was going to stay with me. I had a large flat, plenty of room – she would have her own bathroom and sitting room.
I wondered what she would say when she saw my new arrangements.
She had never asked where I lived now my mother was dead, she had never asked and I had never told her. As we drove northwards I couldn’t find the words to warn her and so left the words unsaid. She would find out soon enough.
There were motorways open now, there was no need to follow the A1 up through Dunstable and Atherstone, past Birmingham and along the wonderful long straight road built by the Romans up through the forest until the right turn to Brownhills and Newport.
But I drove the old road anyway.
This would be Alicia’s last drive through the heartland of England. She would never see these fields, these towns and villages again. She had made the trip north many times as new wife and reluctant mother, now she was making it for the last time. We both knew it but, of course, neither of us said anything.
As we approached home, driving northwards up the Wirral, through the sandstone cutting of Thurstaston and down past the cricket pitch and the open fields towards West Kirby.
“Shit.”
“Pardon?”
“Sorry, I was just remembering those long summer afternoons, watching the cricket, scoring matches at that ground. It all seems so very long ago.”
“So you did have good times?”
“Yes. However much I would love to say ‘no’ I must admit there were good times. It couldn’t have been all bad could it?”
“No. There are always good things to be remembered.”
As we drove we reminded each other of cricket matches and the other times we had been together. Our lives had overlapped for so many years.
As we came into West Kirby, she asked me to stop the car at the top of Grange Hill.
“I love that view. The view over the Dee and Hilbre to Wales, I gave birth looking at that view – Susannah it would have been. I can’t remember having Charles. Perhaps I ought to see her. None of it was her fault really, was it? None of it was any of their faults, not Susannah nor Charles nor Carl. It was us wasn’t it?”
I didn’t, I couldn’t, answer.
I drove on, down the hill, past the station – all the places she had been familiar with and which were now bringing so many memories back to her. I turned into the drive.
“What the hell are we doing here?” She sounded surprised
We were pulling up outside Millcourt.
“They divided it into flats a couple of years back – I’m afraid I couldn’t resist it. My rooms are on the second floor – where the nursery used to be. I have a lovely view out over the golf course. I’m sorry I hadn’t told you. I thought you might find it a little – well – morbid.”
“Oh Ted! It’s absolutely wonderful. Perfect! Oh how fantastic! I’m going to die here at Millcourt!”
She actually seemed amused by it all.
She walked through the door – the same front door as had been her own – and she tried to see the house as it had been. The partitions made it almost unrecognisable. I helped her up the stairs – surely not the old staircase – until there was another door – the entrance to my flat.
This had been the nursery suite.
She tried to work out the rooms as they would have been when she left, when Charles and Susannah had been so ill, where had Nanny slept? Where had the cots and the beds been? As we walked though what was now a well proportioned and spacious three-bedroomed flat she knew exactly what the rooms had been.
In another life.
She sat down in the window seat of what was now the lounge, which had been the old playroom, and looked out over the garden to the golf course and the dunes beyond.
So many things had changed. So many things had stayed the same. So many things looked the same from the outside but on the inside had changed utterly and completely.
She soon settled into a routine, sleeping late, the nurse I had engaged getting her up just before lunchtime, eating, resting and getting dressed ready for my return from the office at around 6pm.
We would have drinks in the small sitting room, immediately above Arnold’s old library, and eat supper, either on trays or in the small dining room, which had been Monika’s room adjacent to the kitchen.
“Very different from the old days?” I ventured after Alicia had been there a week.
“Indeed.”
“How are you, my dear? Settling in?” We were very comfortable together.
“You are very kind. I feel well looked after.”
“I will be going out on Saturday.”
She didn’t say anything so I continued. “You aren’t asking me where I am going?”
“That is none of my business.”
“But it is. It is your youngest grandson’s first birthday party.”
“Oh.” That seemed to shock her. “You’re invited?”
“I am, I am often a guest in Susannah’s house, I normally get invited to the children’s birthdays – I think Joe thinks it is a way of tying himself into the future of the firm and I try to go when I can to keep an eye on them.”
“Of course, he works for you doesn’t he?”
“Yes. And he sees me as an integral connection with the Donaldson family.”
“Is he that cold blooded?”
“Yes. I’m afraid he is. He’s clever, don’t get me wrong, he’s taken and passed all the relevant exams with flying colours and has established himself in the office as an extremely useful voice of what people are really like. You can imagine that we were rather staffed with the ‘old school’ well Joe is definitely ‘new school’ he sees the way people think in far clearer perspective than we old fogies do. He is making himself quite indispensable.”
“You sound bitter.”
“I don’t mean to. In many ways he is a very useful young man, working and trying hard. I just can’t trust him. Sometimes he’s just a bit too good to be true.”
“Is Susannah happy?”
“As far as I know, yes. She’s always very supportive of him”
“And he of her?”
“Not so obviously.”
“Tell me about it all when you get back. They don’t know I am up here do they?”
“No. I haven’t told them. We need to wait until you are well enough to visit on your terms.”
So I went to Bill’s first birthday party.
Two days later I took Susannah to lunch.
Two days after that Susannah had her termination.
What was I to say to Alicia? What could I say?
I said nothing.