Dubious Legacy

  ‘Morning Glory suits me,’ answered Barbara. ‘When Susie’s hormones go astray, let her try HRT. Meanwhile—’

  Antonia laughed. ‘You should not let Susie get up your nose. I don’t.’

  Barbara, laughing too, said, ‘I don’t, much,’ and, changing the subject, ‘What are you bringing Henry?’ They were on their way to Cotteshaw.

  ‘Caviar.’

  ‘Gosh.’

  ‘He once brought caviar for Margaret, do you remember? Only the dogs profited.’

  Barbara said, ‘I do remember. My offering is humbler, Gentleman’s Relish.’

  ‘Most suitable,’ said Antonia, and drove in silence until they had passed Chiswick and were heading down the M4. Then she said, ‘What’s the latest news? Is he better or worse?’

  ‘It’s always worse with emphysema,’ said her friend, ‘progressively.’

  ‘Alas, that’s true,’ Antonia agreed. ‘Such a shame, he never smoked. It seems unfair.’

  Barbara thought it would be unkind to remind her friend that Henry only developed emphysema after the double bronchial pneumonia he had caught from fishing two people out of the lake when suffering from a fearsome summer cold, so she said no more.

  Presently Antonia, laughing, said, ‘Gentleman’s Relish; would you describe Henry as a gentleman?’

  ‘Oh yes,’ said Barbara. ‘Sans peur—’

  ‘And no reproaches?’ quizzed Antonia.

  ‘What would Henry have to reproach himself with?’ asked Barbara.

  ‘What indeed!’ said her friend with ironic lack of conviction.

  ‘Oh, come on!’ exclaimed Barbara hotly. ‘Think of all the things Henry has not done and weigh them against what he has.’

  ‘I agree,’ said Antonia equably, ‘The scales whizz up in favour. It was naughty of old Calypso to say he had pushed Margaret under when she was in difficulties.’

  ‘She did not say that!’ exclaimed Barbara. ‘What Calypso said—I was there so I know I’ve got it right—was that if it had been her she would not have pulled Margaret out. You must try to be exact. It’s all at least twenty years ago, anyway.’

  ‘You sound like your solicitor husband,’ said Antonia, grinning. ‘My version makes the better saga, but all right, I will try and remember.’ She glanced slyly at her friend. Amazing how Barbara kept her figure, she thought enviously; from a distance she looked like a girl and the white threads in her dark hair suited her. I am glad, though, thought Antonia, that my hair is fair and white doesn’t show. Glad, too, that a little extra weight suits me. I am not nearly as lined as she is. ‘Did you ever sleep with Henry?’ she asked idly.

  ‘Sleep with Henry?’ Barbara sounded astonished. ‘Goodness, no! Did you? Why?’

  ‘I just wondered.’ Antonia ignored the question.

  ‘He had call-girls, don’t you remember? He told me—must have been on his trips to London—and “other women”—I am sure there wasn’t anyone in the village. Of course, he may have been pulling my leg.’

  ‘He wasn’t. I slept with him.’ Antonia watched the road ahead. There is something about conversation in cars, she thought, which leads to indiscretion. Perhaps it is because one doesn’t see the other person, doesn’t look them in the eye? ‘I slept with Henry,’ she repeated, ‘from time to time. It was most agreeable.’

  Barbara said, ‘Gosh! Matthew?’

  ‘Matthew strayed, too, but not with Henry. Are you positive you didn’t sleep with Henry?’ Antonia probed.

  ‘Of course I did not.’ Barbara sounded shocked.

  Noting the use of two words, ‘did not’, as opposed to the less emphatic ‘didn’t’, Antonia was certain that Barbara had slept with Henry at least once, but was for reasons best known to herself intent on forgetting it. She would, anyway, being Barbara, have called the act ‘making love’, so out of affection for her old friend she refrained from saying, Ho, out loud, but thought it nevertheless. But when Barbara, unable to leave well alone, said, ‘You are peculiar, Antonia. What an extraordinary suggestion,’ Antonia could not resist teasing. ‘Oh, darling,’ she said, ‘no need to be so prissy. Surely we all had our flings. Look at you and James.’

  ‘James?’ Barbara bristled.

  ‘Yes, James and that woman.’

  ‘What woman?’

  ‘The one who made the bed squeak. That woman. Valerie Something. I saw her the other day, you should see what she’s done to her hair—’

  ‘That was another of Margaret’s wicked inventions, a fantasy,’ said Barbara.

  ‘So you and James have always been true? Wasn’t it dull?’

  ‘Not dull,’ said Barbara. ‘Yes, we have.’

  Ho, ho, ho, thought Antonia, and we used to tell each other everything! But all she said, pretending to change the subject, was, ‘Have you noticed how Matthew, since he got into Parliament, has latched on to their jargon? Everything is Perfectly Clear or Absolutely Clear. They never give a straight answer.’

  ‘That is how politicians survive,’ said Barbara. ‘I couldn’t do it myself.’

  This time Antonia said, ‘Ho,’ out loud, but as they were passing a noisy lorry Barbara did not hear. Antonia heard Barbara say, ‘What is clear and absolutely true is that Henry is dying.’

  Antonia said, ‘Oh God, how I shall miss him! He was such an attractive man.’

  ‘Still is, the old darling.’

  ‘Not as old as all that; he’s only in his seventies. Are we supposed to stay the night? I’ve brought my things in case.’

  ‘Hilaria said she and Clio thought we’d better not, he gets very tired,’ said Barbara. ‘We could spend the night at the cottage, if you’d like.’

  ‘I think I’d rather get back to London,’ said Antonia, ‘if that’s OK by you.’

  ‘I don’t think Hilaria and Clio want us to stay,’ said Barbara. ‘We shouldn’t be hurt.’

  ‘I am not hurt,’ said Antonia. ‘Their attitude is understandable. Henry has always belonged more to them than to us. It’s natural, when you consider that they were practically born on his doorstep.’

  ‘They saw Margaret drown,’ said Barbara, her mind niggling back to their earlier conversation.

  ‘Of course,’ said Antonia, ‘and they saw him save Susie’s life. He’s been their hero.’

  ‘That’s another myth,’ said Barbara. ‘Both Hilaria and Clio told the same story. Susie was quite recovered when she had sicked up the water she’d swallowed; she was only half-drowned.’

  ‘Don’t let’s split hairs,’ said Antonia. ‘It was, half or whole, a terrible experience for all three girls.’

  ‘Worse for Margaret,’ said Barbara. ‘One shouldn’t laugh,’ she said, stifling a giggle. ‘Why don’t you turn off here? The road’s prettier, even if it’s half a mile longer. It’s the way James brought me the first time I came to Cotteshaw.’

  ‘And Matthew brought me,’ said Antonia, complying with her friend’s suggestion.

  Turning presently into the Cotteshaw drive, Antonia slowed to let an oncoming car pass. The driver, Peter Bullivant, stopped and wound down his window. ‘Antonia!’ he said. ‘And Barbara! We have just been to visit Henry; he is very poorly, poor fellow.’

  ‘He wouldn’t see us,’ said Maisie, leaning across her husband, ‘so he must be pretty bad. Your Clio and Hilaria seem to be in charge. I hope they know what they’re doing. They said he is too tired to see anybody.’

  Antonia said, ‘Oh. Oh dear.’

  ‘Come from London?’ Peter asked. ‘A wasted journey. You should have telephoned.’

  ‘We will just leave our presents and a message, then,’ said Antonia sweetly.

  ‘You two might tell your grandchildren not to make such a racket,’ said Maisie, leaning further past her husband. ‘Sick people need quiet. They are watching Dr. Who on TV and shrieking.’

  ‘It frightens them,’ said Antonia, ‘and the television is downstairs out of Henry’s earshot.’

  ‘Henry should be in hospital,’ said Maisie in an aggr
ieved voice. ‘We told him so weeks ago.’

  ‘What did he say?’ asked Barbara, leaning across Antonia, joining in.

  ‘Something about his father dying in that bed and he would, too. Henry can be hurtful. He told me not to talk rubbish when I told him he was looking better, one has to tell ill people they are looking better, it bucks them up. Henry is one of our oldest friends, it’s wounding when he won’t see us. He should be in hospital, well away from noisy children.’

  ‘We are blocking the drive,’ said Antonia tightly. ‘We mustn’t keep you.’

  ‘Goodbye,’ shouted Barbara as they drove on. ‘Silly old cow,’ she exclaimed, ‘of course Henry doesn’t want to see her.’

  Antonia cried angrily, ‘Noisy children, indeed, and hospitals! What’s quiet about a hospital? I have never understood how Henry could find time for those bores!’

  ‘It seems to have run out now,’ said Barbara, beginning to weep. ‘I knew Henry was going to die when he refused to have another dog after the last Cringe died.’

  ‘But that was months ago, when he was still up and about,’ cried Antonia. ‘Oh, Barbara, don’t cry, you will set me off and I’ll run us into the ditch.’

  ‘Henry was so wonderful and comforting when one was unhappy,’ sobbed Barbara.

  Antonia said, ‘Oh, Barbara, shut up and brace up. We are nearly there. And look,’ she said, ‘there’s Hilaria with your grandchild waiting to greet us.’ And in trying to distract Barbara she forgot to hark back and puzzle as to when Henry could have comforted Barbara and she not have been aware of it.

  Hilaria put her arms round her mother and hugged her, while her dark and lanky child Eliza hopped from foot to foot awaiting her turn. ‘Come in,’ Hilaria said. ‘Henry is longing to see you. Do you want some tea? Or you, Antonia?’

  ‘No, love,’ they said. ‘Later, perhaps, before we go.’

  Hilaria said, ‘We thought we’d leave you alone with him. He gets weary with too many people. Go and ask Katie to come away,’ she told her child. The child raced off.

  ‘How that child has grown,’ said Antonia. ‘How old is she now?’

  ‘Ten, same age as Clio’s Katie,’ said Hilaria. ‘The Bullivants tried to see him,’ she said, following her mother into the house. ‘We had to say no.’

  ‘We met them,’ Antonia laughed, ‘bubbling with injured feelings.’

  ‘He preserves his strength for nearest and dearest.’ Hilaria led the way to Henry’s room. ‘He has not been downstairs for weeks.’

  Henry lay propped by pillows in his tall four-poster. The two women were shocked at how gaunt he had become. His furrowed cheeks sucked in, his large nose larger, the sinews of his neck stringy, but eyes lighting at the sight of them, he said, ‘Hello girls,’ pleased.

  They took his hands and leaned to kiss him.

  Antonia said, ‘I brought you caviar. Do you think you could eat it?’

  Henry said, ‘For my supper, thank you. Is there any vodka, Clio?’

  Clio, who had been sitting by the window, said, ‘Yes, and lemon. It will do you good.’ She came forward and kissed Antonia. ‘Hullo, Mum.’ Then she said, holding out her hand, ‘Come on, Katie, don’t pretend you are not there. Kiss your grandmother and come with me.’

  A child similar to but smaller than Eliza uncurled from where she had been lying at Henry’s feet.

  Henry said, ‘They lie there, taking the place of all the Humbles and Cringes. Go on,’ he said to the reluctant child. ‘See you later.’

  Antonia hugged her grandchild, then let her go.

  The door closed, Barbara said, ‘Gentleman’s Relish,’ and put her offering by his hand.

  Henry said, ‘You spoil me,’ and ran his hand through his thick white hair. ‘I shall eat it for tea,’ he said. ‘Please sit down.’

  Barbara sat by the bed, but Antonia moved to the window. ‘Do you want this open?’ she asked. ‘It’s quite chilly.’

  ‘Leave it, it helps me wheeze.’

  Henry’s breathing was painful to his visitors’ ears. He said, forestalling questions, ‘Hilaria and Clio are doing a great job. The nurse comes to wash me, there’s a terribly hearty physiotherapist, the doctor of course, and the little girls,’ he gasped, ‘entertain.’

  ‘How do they do that?’ Antonia left the window and sat by the bed.

  ‘Dance.’ Henry gave a choky laugh. ‘And sing.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘The old Jonathans gave them clown costumes. They chalk their faces,’ Henry coughed and fought for breath, ‘black crosses across their eyes, clowns’ make-up to conceal pain. The children don’t know.’ He looked away from Barbara and Antonia, trying to breathe.

  From his bed he could see across the garden to the fields and woods beyond. There was a blackbird singing, and if these two would not interrupt he might hear a mistlethrush and, ah yes, the sheep. They looked all right from here, but I wish I could get to them. No good. Can’t. They are listening to my breathing. It’s a free country but I wish they wouldn’t, he thought.

  Barbara said, ‘I see the girls have brought you a television; what do you watch?’

  ‘The news.’ How old was Barbara? Fifty-five? Fifty-six? Must be. Antonia, too. Grandmothers. ‘Exciting, isn’t it? Who would have thought Eastern Europe, in our lifetime—And David Attenborough’s animals consummating their liaisons—’

  Barbara laughed. ‘Anything else?’ James had told her that old people watched the children’s programmes, perhaps—

  Henry said, ‘No, I don’t,’ and shot her a sly glance.

  Antonia asked, ‘Radio?’

  Henry said, ‘Third programme.’

  ‘Of course,’ she said, ‘music’

  Henry wheezed, ‘There’s a concert I want—ask one of them to bang my pillows—’ It was dismissal.

  Antonia exclaimed, ‘Can’t I?’

  Henry gasped, ‘They know how I like—’

  Barbara caught Antonia’s eye. ‘We must go,’ she said. ‘We will come again.’ She stood up, then bent to kiss his cheek. ‘Goodbye, darling Henry.’ She felt his bony fingers grip her hand and felt inadequate.

  Henry said, ‘Pilar came last week. Good of her. She’s frightfully fat and old, chesty like me.’

  Antonia said, ‘Dear Pilar.’

  Henry said, ‘She made me laugh,’ and started a laugh which almost choked him.

  Antonia, kissing him goodbye, said, ‘Sh—’

  Henry, wheezing, said, ‘It’s a bit thick when you can’t even laugh.’

  On their way back to London Antonia complained fretfully, ‘Clio and Hilaria and their children have eased us out,’ but Barbara was not listening; she was wondering what Pilar had told Henry that was so amusing.

  Pilar had not intended to amuse when she confessed that she had read his father’s letter all those years ago. Steamed it open, read it, then posted it. ‘As I put it in I feel the box will bite my hand. I had done wrong,’ she moaned, her eyes cast down in shame. ‘But he save my life and Ebro,’ she said more robustly. ‘Who was I to refuse an old man’s last wish? I was young. Now I know old man’s last wish often stupid.’

  ‘I shall bear that in mind,’ Henry whispered.

  Pilar said, ‘I waited to get back to Spain for my spitting on Franco, as your father ordered, then I confess to priest.’

  ‘You confessed to spitting?’

  ‘No, no, to posting letter.’

  He had laughed and almost choked on spongy phlegm. When able to speak he said, ‘Dear Pilar, you did right.’

  The Jonathans visited Henry several times a week. One of them would read snippets from the paper, for they thought Henry’s arms too weak to hold it. Some days Jonathan opened his bills and wrote the cheques for him to sign. John apprised him of local gossip and the state of his farm or told him long, rambling tales about their cats. Sometimes they just sat, hiding their concern.

  Halfway through June they came down from Henry’s room and ambled into the kitchen, as was their wont. ‘We lef
t him snoozing,’ the elder man told Clio.

  Clio said, ‘Cup of coffee?’

  They said, ‘Yes, please.’

  ‘I am not sure he is asleep.’ The younger man pulled up a chair.

  ‘He shuts his eyes and listens to the birds,’ said Hilaria. ‘They give him pleasure.’

  ‘More than we do?’ The old man was aggrieved.

  ‘It is no effort listening to the birds,’ said Clio. ‘Sugar?’ She passed the sugar.

  Hilaria was sorry for the old men. They were nearly eighty, their eyes and their teeth gave trouble; they complained of rheumatism and were short of breath. One was too fat and the other too thin. They frequently mentioned that old age was no joke.

  But Clio, who had inherited Antonia’s briskness, maintained they were wonderful for their age and should not be pandered to, that they came not so much to see Henry as to gain sympathy themselves. ‘You should not encourage them to come so often,’ she told Hilaria when they left.

  ‘They are part of Henry’s life,’ Hilaria protested.

  Clio snapped, ‘That does not give them the right to precipitate his death. I shall ask Henry what he wants.’

  Hilaria said, ‘He will be too kind to say.’

  Clio said, ‘No, he won’t. I shall ask him.’ Which she did that afternoon. ‘Do your visitors tire you? I mean do some of them, the Jonathans for instance, stay too long?’

  Henry said, ‘They come for comfort, darling, you know that.’

  And Clio said, ‘That’s why I asked. They should restrain themselves, they tire you.’

  But Henry, catching his breath, said, ‘They arranged with the men for the sheep to be in the top field, so that I can see them from my bed and hear them bleat.’ Clio, miffed that she had not thought of this ploy herself, admitted, ‘You wrong-footed me there. I shall mind my own business.’

  And when Henry said, ‘You do that,’ felt she deserved the rebuke.

  Calypso came one afternoon, bringing a sumptuous bunch of lilies of the valley, which she put in a bowl near the window where Henry could see them but not be overwhelmed by their scent. ‘And how is the old widower today?’ she enquired, seating herself by the bed.