At the end of the story, silence fell. Nina yawned and asked, ‘So how’s the
Gerontius
going?’
‘All right,’ said Ben, offering everyone more wine. ‘But I’m appalled at how little preparation anyone does. So many people seemed to be sight-reading on Monday. It’s not good enough, really.’
Michael waved away the wine bottle and said, ‘It’s not that sort of choir, Ben. Most people belong for the pleasure of singing, not for polished performance.’
‘But we need to bring in bigger audiences to cover costs, Michael. And you can’t ask an audience to pay to hear something less than polished these days. There’s so much else for them to go to in London. Anyway, think of the pleasure to be had from making something the best it can be.’
‘True enough,’ answered Michael, taking a well-bred bite from a cheese cracker. ‘But go carefully, is my advice. You don’t want to alienate people.’ The clock on the mantelpiece gave out a soft ‘chng’ as the hands moved to eleven. ‘Christ!’ he said, checking his watch. ‘I’m catching an early train to Gloucestershire tomorrow. Haven’t even packed. Nina, shall we share a cab?’
‘Oh, yes,’ she said, glancing from Ben to Michael to me and looking slightly helpless. ‘I suppose I’d better go home now. There aren’t many Wimbledon trains at this hour.’
‘And you mustn’t travel alone, anyway,’ said Ben, standing up, yawning. ‘I’ll ring for a cab.’
She was going, and something relaxed inside me. But when the taxi arrived the uncertainty was back, for Ben took Nina’s hands, pulled her lightly to her feet and kissed her soundly on both cheeks.
‘Goodbye, darling,’ he said.
‘I suppose I’d better go myself,’ I said, after Michael gave me a stiff little bow.
Nina hugged me in a brief, distracted fashion. ‘Simply lovely to have met you,’ she murmured. ‘Are you sure I wasn’t nervous?’ She smelled of something light and flowery.
‘You were wonderful,’ I said gravely, and she looked pleased.
When Ben came back from waving them off, I was examining my shoes. They were still damp, but I had no choice but to put them back on.
‘You’re not going yet?’ he said.
We stood looking at one another, his obvious tiredness lending him a soft, vulnerable look. At some point during the evening he’d pulled off his tie. His shirt was coming untucked. He looked tousled and scruffy, yet somehow inviting. I hesitated, then decided he was merely being polite.
‘Saturday’s a working day for me. I really ought to get to bed,’ I said.
He gave a charming disappointed pout, then shrugged and opened the front door.
‘Thanks very much for the concert,’ I said. ‘I so enjoyed it.’
‘We must do it again. Sure you don’t need me to see you home?’
‘You can stand just where you are and watch me get there safely if you like,’ I said, laughing.
‘I will then.’
When I reached
Minster Glass
I turned to see him slouched in his arched doorway on the other side of the Square, haloed by the hall light, like some dissolute stone angel come to life in his niche. I waved, and the angel gave me a thumbs-up sign.
See that you do not despise one of these little ones; for I tell you that in heaven their angels always behold the face of my Father, who is in heaven.
Matthew XVIII. 10.
On Saturday afternoon, I caught Zac rearranging the pieces of our broken angel once more. He had been unusually silent all day, even for him, but now he looked downright miserable. I wondered if it was merely because of the missing eyes.
‘No one else knows exactly which pieces were in the box,’ I said hopefully. ‘They won’t be missed.’
‘It’s enough that we know, Fran. It’ll be on our conscience.’
‘I suppose you’re right. Zac, cheer up. Is there anything else the matter?’
‘There’s nothing wrong, Fran.’ He shot me his most glowering of looks and tramped off to start some new task. Cutting my losses, I retreated into the shop.
Apart from Zac’s stormy mood it was proving a quiet Saturday. Eventually, at about three, I said, ‘Why don’t we close early? We could both do with some time off.’
Zac seemed unable to forget about the angel. Earlier I caught him searching the box again, though we’d already done so twice in the last few days and shaken it out in case we’d missed something. For a while this afternoon he’d tried to sketch how he thought the angel should look. Finally he’d given up and gone back to making candle-holders. These always sold well in the run up to Christmas. He’d made a dozen by early afternoon and, when I found him once more, he was back looking at the angel, hands in his pockets.
‘I’d like to visit your dad,’ he said, looking up. ‘Or were you going?’
‘We could go together if you like,’ I said, and he looked pleased.
‘Let’s do that.’
The leaves on the trees in the Square were tinged with red and gold now. Whenever a cloud masked the sun, the air was chilly. Down Horseferry Road, the front of the flower shop was a glorious array of dahlias and chrysanthemums, which always made me think of autumn and decay. Actually chrysanthemums are symbols of life and happiness, and Dad had always admired their complex structure, so I asked Zac to wait while I bought a bunch.
When we arrived at the ward it was to find Dad still wearing his oxygen mask. Zac sat down by the bed while I went off to find a vase. When I asked at the nurses’ station what they knew about Dad’s condition, they shook their heads and told me to ring tomorrow, explaining that the doctor was unavailable. I turned away, frustrated. Why was everyone so reluctant to comment?
I returned with the jug to find Zac leaning forward, talking to Dad in a low voice, apparently explaining something quite involved and complicated. It seemed that Dad, not a man who had sought out anyone’s confidences when well, had become the perfect repository for their secrets, though with what anguish he might receive them in his semi-conscious state, who could say. I crept away again, to find somewhere nearby to arrange my flowers.
‘Why don’t you come and sit here for a bit,’ Zac said when I returned a few minutes later. ‘I’ll wait for you in the café downstairs.’
Today all I could do was sit and be with Dad as he slept. I thought of Gerontius, the old man pleading, terrified, as death drew near. Did Dad, with what was left of his damaged mind, have any concept of his condition or was he merely drifting? I felt helpless. Yet he seemed peaceful.
Twenty minutes passed before I remembered poor Zac waiting downstairs. ‘Goodbye, Dad. I’ll come tomorrow.’ When I kissed him, his forehead felt cool and dry against my lips.
Zac was deep in a fat paperback book when I spotted him across the crowded café, oblivious to the admiring glances of two young nurses at the next table.
‘Like another coffee, Zac?’
He stuffed the book into a sagging pocket of his jacket. ‘I’ll fetch them,’ he said, getting up.
I watched him weave his way between the tables to the counter, a graceful lean figure with his own private brooding air. His hair needs cutting, I thought maternally, and a new jacket wouldn’t be out of place.
‘What were you reading?’ I asked when he returned with coffee and a couple of Danish pastries.
‘Trollope,’ he said.
‘Anthony or Joanna?’
He smiled, eased the book out of his jacket and passed it to me. It was a volume of
The Pallisers
. I opened it and an envelope he was using as a bookmark slid out and would have fallen to the floor. His hand collided with mine to catch it and our heads bumped together.
‘Sorry,’ he said, picking up the envelope. ‘Are you all right?’ But it was he who looked wounded.
‘I’m fine. What’s the matter?’ I whispered. ‘Tell me.’
After a moment he sighed and passed me the envelope. I turned it over. It was inscribed to a Miss Olivia Donaldson in Melbourne, Australia, but the address was struck through, with
not known, return to sender
scribbled above.
‘Olivia’s my daughter,’ Zac said, his voice dull.
‘Your daughter? Zac, I had no idea…’
‘That’s surprised you then.’ He caught my eye and tried to smile, but his eyes were sad.
I sighed. ‘You are a dark horse. For goodness sake, Zac, why haven’t you told me anything about it before?’
‘Subject’s never come up.’
‘No, I suppose not.’ It showed how little we communicated. ‘How old is she?’
‘She’ll be twelve. This was a card for her birthday.’
Zac had a girl of twelve called Olivia. A pretty name, a name I’d have chosen for a daughter. Now I remembered his gentleness with Amber. He’d be a good, caring father.
‘I haven’t seen her since she was three months old.’
‘Oh, Zac…’
‘I’ve sent her a card every year but I’ve never heard back till now. And then this.’
We both stared at the envelope.
‘I don’t even know how long ago they moved.’ He looked miserable.
I passed him back the card. ‘How can you bear it, not seeing her?’
‘Most of the time, to be honest, I try not to think about it. But I like to acknowledge her birthday. No idea if her mother ever shows her the cards. I’ve never had any response. That’s the worst thing–not knowing if Olivia even knows about me.’
‘Wouldn’t her mother have told her?’ It was hard finding the right questions to ask. We were too used to keeping our private lives at a respectful distance.
He shrugged. ‘I don’t know. We were once so close, Shona and me, but by the end she cut herself off. I couldn’t say any more what she would or wouldn’t do. She’d changed, Fran.’ He sat, locked in his own thoughts, a faraway expression on his face. I picked at my pastry. Zac hadn’t touched his. Finally he said, hesitantly, ‘I was telling your dad upstairs, you know. About the card. I expect that sounds stupid.’
‘No. No, it doesn’t.’ I was rather moved by this. A thought came to me. ‘Did he know all about Olivia?’
‘Yes. It was he who helped after I lost her.’
‘Is this when you were rock bottom?’
‘Yes. He gave me the job. After Shona took Olivia and went back to Australia I got a bit desperate. Had nowhere to live and no proper work. Your dad rescued me, Fran.’
Twelve years ago. I’d started college. I remember coming back to visit Dad one day and seeing with a shock the notice he’d put in the window advertising for an assistant. Not long afterwards I’d called in to find Dad was out. There was only this quiet, sad-looking young man working in the shop.
‘I remember meeting you for the first time,’ I told him. ‘You hardly said a word to me.’
‘No.’ He smiled. ‘You looked like a scared rabbit yourself.’
‘I didn’t.’
‘Did.’
In truth I probably had seemed nervous. I’d found Zac surly–rude, even. And I was appalled when Dad told me Zac was sleeping in the spare room.
‘It was the surprise, that’s all. And Dad had given you a room in the flat. It was odd after there being the two of us for so long. I know I’d moved out. It took some getting used to, that’s all.’
‘I wasn’t there long. It’s funny, I’ve been thinking, I was like Amber at the time. Had nowhere to go. When I told your dad everything that had happened he said I could stay with him until I got myself sorted out. So I did.’
‘Where had you been living before?’
‘It’s a long story, as they say. And this isn’t the place.’
I looked around. The café was getting crowded. The young nurses had gone but a middle-aged couple had taken their seats. Other people with trays were roaming around looking for free tables. A vast, weary-looking woman with a clutch of dark-eyed children indicated one of the spare chairs at our table and asked in broken English, ‘OK to sit here?’
‘Sure,’ Zac said. We piled up our crockery to make room for them. Then he picked up his book and whispered, ‘Shall we go?’
When we got outside he asked, ‘Are you busy now? We could walk along to the South Bank, get a proper drink.’
‘Good idea.’ I hadn’t anything planned that evening and was curious to learn more about Zac’s story.
It was early evening and still surprisingly sunny, though a cold breeze blew up from the river. We bought a couple of beers at the National Film Theatre bar and found stools by the window, where we could see the cruisers on the river. On the esplanade, a young juggler performed some pathetic antics.
‘Even I could do better than that,’ said Zac, sipping his beer, and I smiled. He brought out his wallet and extracted a piece of card which he passed to me. It was a colour photograph, somewhat faded, of a fair-haired baby in a sunhat.
‘Olivia?’ I asked. He nodded and I saw the flash of pride in his eyes. She was pretty, this baby, a smile lighting up her face.
‘She’s gorgeous, Zac,’ I said, and I meant it.
‘It was her first birthday. Shona sent me it from Australia. That was the last time I heard from her.’
I passed the photograph back to him and watched as he returned it to the wallet.
‘You and Shona,’ I probed carefully, hoping I wasn’t intruding, ‘were you…married or anything?’
He shook his head. ‘No. Though I asked her once.’
‘Is she Australian by birth? Is that where you met?’
He laughed. ‘I’ve never been further than France. She’s from Melbourne and we met in Glasgow when we were both twenty. I’d been in work a couple of years then, got an apprenticeship at a stained-glass workshop up there. Shona was a barmaid in a pub I used to go to. Supporting herself through university. She was so pretty and bubbly, easy to talk to.’ I imagined her drawing Zac out of himself. He must have been even shyer in those days.
‘Don’t know what she saw in me.’ His face was suddenly alive with the memory of her. I remembered the two nurses trying to catch his attention in the hospital café and I could see. With his dark eyes, that white skin, shadowy beard and his brooding presence, many women would find Zac attractive. I suppose I hadn’t noticed before, but then Zac had never made any effort to make me notice. He became aware of me staring and I said hastily, ‘So you got together?’
‘Yes. I told you about my mam having passed away? She had started to get sick then, was having lots of hospital tests, and it turned out Shona’s dad was ill, too, so we sort of helped each other, her and me. Our worries were a bond between us. We understood what the other was going through, you see. I didn’t get on too well with my dad and I had no brothers or sisters. It was great having someone to talk to.’
I thought about my own father. How difficult it could be, coming to terms with a parent’s illness. Zac took a long draught of his beer. Outside, the juggler had given up and was packing to go home.
‘We were together most of her last year at uni,’ he went on. ‘She was the first really serious girlfriend I’d had and I fell for her completely. When she talked about moving to London I couldn’t accept it. Mam’s motor neurone disease had been diagnosed by then and I needed Shona so much. Looking back, I should have recognised the signs, let her go. She was restless, wanted to move on. But I thought there was a future for us.’
‘What about her father?’
‘He had heart problems, poor guy, but he’d just had an operation, seemed better, so she didn’t feel she had to rush off home. She badly wanted to live in London for a bit, for the experience of it. In the end I jacked in my job and went with her. Felt bad about leaving my mam, but I told myself I’d go back and see her often. I didn’t think about what might happen long-term–whether Shona would go back to Australia and what I’d do then. You just live for the moment when you’re young, don’t you?’
I nodded. I’d been doing precisely that for years. Living for the moment, not knowing what else to hope for. And now time seemed precious. Time with Dad, time to think about my own future. I mused about this as Zac went up to the bar for more drinks.
When he came back I prompted, ‘You were saying you moved to London.’
‘Yes. We found a small flat in Cricklewood. Shona got a job in a travel agency somewhere off Oxford Street, but I didn’t have any luck. I hadn’t finished my apprenticeship, you see, and it was the early 1980s. There was a recession, so people were being laid off rather than taken on. It was difficult. And Shona and me, it started to fall apart. I was still crazy about her, but I could tell she wasn’t so keen. She hated me hanging round the house all day. Didn’t think I did enough to help. I probably didn’t, but my mam had done everything at home. I didn’t notice whether the bin was full or whether the washing-up was done. I thought she was fussing.’
I laughed. ‘Remind me not to come and live with you then.’
‘Don’t worry, I’m fully housetrained now. Anyway, what happened next was, Shona announced she was pregnant. I was stunned. We hadn’t planned it, you see. Once I’d picked myself up off the floor I was quite pleased. I thought it meant Shona and I would stay together. But it didn’t turn out like that.’
‘Did she want the baby?’
‘Yes. Her dad had had another heart-attack and she was worrying about whether she would go home. The baby decided her. So in the end you could say that Olivia didn’t keep us together–she pulled us apart. Shona left when Olivia was three months old. I’d got a job in a local supermarket, and one day when I came in from work, it was to find they’d gone.’
‘Without telling you?’ I was appalled.
‘She’d left a note with her address in Melbourne but asked me not to follow her. She couldn’t face telling me what she was doing, she said, because she’d be too upset.
She’d
be too upset.’ His fist was clenched and I saw in his face that even now, twelve years later, the pain of that day had never left him.