We spend a wonderful day together, Ruth exploring my home with the curiosity of a child and the appreciative eye of an aesthete; she knows the finer things in life when she sees them. The garden delights her most of all, and secretly I am thrilled, as I too love my garden best. It is my sanctuary, the place where I have sought peace and order and stability, in a life where I all too often witness events that threaten their loss. Over the years, I have patiently brought order to the once overgrown grounds; evidently, the upkeep of the property had proved beyond the ability, and the purse, of the previous owners.
Now, the tall box hedges are neatly clipped, the flower borders planted with colourful annuals in Spring and Autumn. The sadly neglected rose garden on the front lawn has been rejuvenated, the fine old rose bushes pruned back hard, nurtured and nursed into glorious bloom once more, their heady fragrance filling the air in early Summer. The ancient oak at the front of the house has been restored to health, and underneath, year after year, I have planted freesias and bluebells, snowflakes and daffodils; a medley of colour and perfume that resembles the vernal copses of the Heath itself, just beyond the hedge. The back garden is given over to a walled kitchen garden, a lawn with a summer house, and a pond with fat goldfish drifting lazily through the water lilies. Upon seeing them, reddish-gold and bronze against the dark water, Ruth exclaims, "They're huge! What are their names?" as she tries to count them all. There are fifteen, and it has never occurred to me to name them, so Ruth takes great pleasure in assigning a name from the Argonauts to each one. I will never remember which is which; but Ruth knows, and that is all that matters.
The kitchen garden is where I spend most of my time, now that the rest of the grounds have been restored; there is something so satisfying in growing one's own food. Mother loves rhubarb, so one corner is given over to it, even though I don't much care for the sour stems. At summer's end, now fast approaching, I will turn over the soil, digging potatoes and onions to store in the shed, and then let it lie fallow over the winter. Along one wall raspberry canes are in need of cutting back, their fruiting season over; on another is my prized espalier apple tree, nearly a hundred years old, by my estimation, and still putting forth the delicious Cox's Orange Pippins which I remember from my childhood. I had not quite believed my eyes when I first found the tree, hidden behind a thicket of thistles and other weeds; it had been like discovering a Rembrandt hidden beneath a banal painting.
This part of the garden is always sunny, with its South-facing orientation, and Ruth basks in its sheltered warmth as she wanders amongst the beds. Turning to me, eyes sparkling, she comments, "It's so beautiful, but how on earth do you find the time for all this?" I flush slightly, but it's a fair question which deserves an honest answer. Scuffing my feet along the old brick path, I reply sheepishly, "I don't…I can only do what I have time for, so I have gardeners who come in a couple of times a week." Ruth frowns, "Are they safe?" I understand intuitively what she means: have they been vetted? Drawing level with her, I put an arm around her waist, and we walk on for a bit, before she nudges me to answer. "Yes, of course. Actually, they may have a higher clearance than either of us…" Ruth looks up at me then, puzzled, and I explain, "They used to work at Buck House; they're a father and son team, and when Ron – that's the father - retired from service, they decided to go into business for themselves. I was their first client…" Ruth is laughing, her body pressing against mine as she tries to get her breath…"Buck House? You mean…they're the Queen's gardeners?! Oh, Malcolm!" Grinning back at her, I take her in both arms as we stand in the sun, enjoying the moment; when she regains control, I add, "You can imagine how pleased my mother was…I think she was on the phone for a week, calling everyone she knew…you would have thought the Queen herself was deadheading the roses!" Ruth puts her arms around my neck and draws me towards her for a kiss; when she releases me, suddenly feeling weak-kneed and breathless despite the clear, brisk day we are enjoying, she says, "No, I can't imagine. Don't you think it's about time you told me about your mother?"
I'm taken aback, at first, by the directness of her request, but then I see how things must look from her point of view: I cohabit with my mother, but I rarely refer to her, even to Ruth, and I certainly haven't offered to introduce the two women in my life. Having Ruth here, in my home, has changed things between us; our relationship feels more real, more tangible - more normal, I suppose, is the word I am looking for. "Yes, I suppose it is, but let's go into the summer house and sit down, first." When we are comfortably installed, with a view of the Heath rising up just beyond the end of the garden, and I have fetched a pot of tea, and some slices of Fortnum's Dundee cake, Ruth looks at me expectantly over her teacup, and I begin, trying to be as dispassionate as possible as I attempt to explain the unstable mass of neuroses, insecurities, petty vanities and massive snobbishness that is my mother.
"I suppose you think it odd that I haven't offered to introduce you to her, especially as we have been seeing each other for nearly nine months now. Believe me, if it was at all easy to do so, I would have, long ago." Ruth simply watches me, waiting for my next words. "And while you didn't – don't – want to tell anyone about us for your own reasons, I have to admit it suits me, too. My mother is…fragile…she was very dependent on my father, perhaps too dependent, and when he died, she had a breakdown. She was in and out of hospital for about a year, and during that time, she was diagnosed with cardiomyopathy. That made her even more fearful and nervous, of course, and eventually, she developed an arrhythmia, and needed a pacemaker…she came to live with me, after that. The doctors said that she shouldn't live by herself any more, and I had promised my father that I would look after her." Ruth nods; so far, so good, I think, bracing myself for the next revelation.
"As you know, I'm an only child…my mother always wanted another, but I believe there were several miscarriages, before they accepted that I was to be the sum total of their offspring. Mother was always a bit…overprotective… of me, and she became more so, once it became apparent that there would be no more little Wynn-Joneses. She had grand aspirations for me, or for the family name, rather…she saw me marrying very well, and restoring our fortunes…to be honest, I think she had read rather too many historical romances…when I brought Sarah home to meet my parents, after we were engaged, she was bitterly disappointed." Ruth raises an enquiring eyebrow, her face carefully neutral.
Sighing, I explain, "Sarah was a junior clerk in the Home Office; I had been there for a couple of years, slowly being bored out of my brain, when she arrived. She hadn't been to an ancient university, or even a redbrick. She was from a working class background - she was the first in her family to get A Levels – in short, she was the antithesis of everything my mother had envisaged for me." And had I not believed her to be pregnant at the time, it is highly unlikely we would ever have become engaged…I blush as I recall how very ignorant, and innocent, I had been. "As common as muck," had been my mother's opinion of Sarah, "No better than she should be, and not even a passable face or figure to speak of, she's far too skinny, but then, they all are these days…Malcolm, how could you?" her voice full of dislike and disappointment…
"What, exactly, was she hoping for? Lady Diana?" Ruth sounds slightly more acerbic than I would have expected. "Well, yes, actually…certainly someone like that, from that milieu, would have fit the bill nicely, as far as she was concerned." Ruth's other eyebrow is elevated to join its fellow. I know how she feels. Mother always had hopelessly high expectations for me, and all I have done is disappoint her…but I could have no more existed in the vapid, vacuous world of high society that was my birthright, if not my inheritance, than I could live on the Moon. "Mother took the news of our engagement very badly…she left the room and went straight to bed with a migraine, and stayed there for three days. Sarah insisted on going back to London immediately…it was an unmitigated disaster. When Sarah left me, Mother bought a Waterford vase to celebrate…it's still in her parlour, next to that family photograph you saw." Ruth sits back, thinking.
"Let's see. I went to Cambridge, I have a First in Classics and in Philosophy, I speak six languages, I'm a competent musician, I do a difficult job which contributes to the nation's security, my father was a doctor… but if I don't have a title to my name, then all bets are off, as far as your mother is concerned? Is that it?" Her tone is undeniably combative, and I hasten to pour oil on troubled waters. "And all of those achievements and accomplishments are part of why you're so remarkable to me…I wouldn't have you any other way, than the brilliant, beautiful daughter of Dr Evershed, formerly of Exeter. It's just that my mother is very set in her ideas, and what with her living here… it would be very tricky to explain the nature of our relationship… she's old fashioned, even more so than me. That, among other things, is why I felt I should wait until she was away, before inviting you here."
Ruth locks eyes with me, before asking bluntly, "If it came down to a choice between us, who would win?" I had hoped to avoid such a discussion, but Ruth is used to dealing in hard facts, and cutting straight to the heart of the matter is second nature to her. "Who do you think, my darling? You've transformed my life, and I love you to distraction, but you should know that I love my mother too, for all her faults, and she needs me." Ruth's face is a study, as she tries to work out my answer, so I clarify further, "What I'm saying, I suppose, is that I hope you wouldn't ask me to make that choice, because it would be a cruel one." She looks away, then, and says softly, "I don't have the right to ask you that, I know…" My heart twists at her words, and for a wild moment, I imagine how things might be if she did have the right; if I were to propose to her, and if she were to accept, how would that change things? Quite considerably, I decide, exhaling heavily; how have we come to be wading through such heavy emotional weather? I glance up and see that the Heath is beckoning, cheerful in the sunlight, and impulsively, I suggest a walk; Ruth agrees immediately, obviously wanting to move off this awkward topic as well. Some things, I am learning, are better not said, better not analysed and dissected and talked to death. And some other things are as yet too bright and delicate to stand up to such rigorous cross-examination…
Collecting our coats from the house, we set off through the back gate which lets out onto the lovely green expanse of Hampstead Heath. Hand in hand, we follow the path that leads up to Parliament Hill, and pause at the crest to take in the sweeping view of London, glittering in the golden afternoon light, before continuing on over the Heath to Keats' house. We spend an enjoyable couple of hours there; Ruth has never seen it before, although she is of course familiar with the bittersweet story of Keats and his beloved muse, Fanny Brawne. On our way home, we take turns quoting bits of Keats as the mood takes us, and once more, I find myself wondering what everyday life with Ruth would be like. For a moment, I indulge in the fantasy; Ruth and me, walking through the woods, my ring bright on her finger, exchanging verses of poetry, on our way home to the house we share together. I forget about my mother, and Ruth's fears, and even about Five itself, as I imagine how it would be to share my life with hers. Ever since Ruth arrived, the truth has become harder and harder to ignore; I want her, in my life, in my home, and in my bed, forever. I want to wake up beside her each morning; I want hers to be the last face I see at night; I want to make love with her, provide for her, comfort her, and laugh with her every day, for the rest of our lives. Cutting into my cosy fantasy, this is an agonising realisation, and it occurs to me that the increasing tightness in my chest is not solely due to the physical effort of ascending Parliament Hill; I stop, and pat through my pockets, looking for my inhaler. Ah, there it is…I head towards the nearest bench, and sit down heavily, wheezing slightly until I deploy my medication…that's better!
"Oh what can ail thee, knight-at-arms/alone and palely loitering?" Ruth, standing in front of me, gently squeezes my shoulder to get my attention, looking at me worriedly. "Malcolm? You were miles away, just then…are you all right?" She mustn't know…it's too much, too soon… "I'm sorry, my love. I don't normally get short of breath like that, coming up here." I smile at her reassuringly and slide across so she can sit down, but she eschews the bench, choosing instead to sit on my lap, to my surprise. She leans back against me, her head on my shoulder; I can smell the faint scent of flowers after rain in her hair. Still amazed at this very public display of physical affection, even though there is no-one nearby, just a couple of people further down the hill, I wrap my unzipped Barbour jacket about her, then tuck my arms around her, sharing our warmth in the rapidly cooling air.
From our lofty vantage point, Ruth spots the dome of St Pauls', gleaming in the early evening sun, and points it out, a constant landmark in the ever-changing city skyline; it reminds me of my odd encounter in St Margaret's, the day that Danny was killed, and I remember that I haven't yet told her about it. She listens with rapt concentration as I recount my meeting with the old gentleman (I do not tell her about my crisis of faith: some things are best kept between a man and his Maker). When I have finished, she wipes away tears. "I miss him terribly, Malcolm. I still expect to see him laughing with Zoe, when I walk through the pods each morning …sometimes it feels like the whole place is populated with ghosts." I know what she means; the departed are always with us, in memory, and the Grid has a longer collective memory than most. She continues, "But I feel as if everyone else has moved on already, that Danny is just another name on the wall now." Ruth is referring to the sombre, smoked glass Wall of Remembrance in Thames House, Five's honour roll for officers who die in the line of duty, and possibly the most depressing and distressing place in the entire building.
"That's not quite true, my darling. Adam misses him – just yesterday I heard him ask Danny to do something, before he remembered. And Fiona hasn't yet been able to come back to work – how must she feel, knowing that he gave his life to save hers? Zaf didn't know him, but he still regrets the loss of an officer on his watch. I miss him, his decency and his quick wit, as much as his technical abilities on operations; and I want you to know that you can always talk to me about him. As for Harry…he might seem to be business as usual, but you don't know him like I do, and trust me, he is devastated…haven't you seen how much he has been drinking, lately?" I stop, berating myself for mentioning Harry, but it's true, he has been drinking too much, and I surmise that the self-medicating stems from the guilt he is suffering over Danny's death. She looks at me, concern writ large in her eyes. Damn, damn, damn… "Is he? I hadn't noticed, but then, I haven't really been noticing much lately…should I start topping up his decanter with cold tea, d'you think?"
Despite the seriousness of the topic being discussed, I chuckle at her unexpected humour; I can just imagine Ruth sneaking into the inner sanctum, funnel in hand, and doctoring Harry's beloved twelve year old single malt whisky with a pot of PG Tips. She begins to laugh too, and we give in to a wave of mirth, the strained atmosphere dissipating in an instant. Recovering, I become contemplative once more. "Ruth, you know I've been in this job a long time now, and I've known many good officers, good people, whose names are on that wall; but I remember every single one of them, and I do my best to honour their memory each day, through my own work. It's the only monument that makes any sense to me." Her answering smile is radiant, despite the sheen of tears still in her eyes. "And that is what makes you who you are; you have integrity, Malcolm, and that's a precious thing, in this compromised world. It's one of the things I admire most about you…" My heart leaps at this: she admires me!
In a rush of confidence, I hear myself say, "Ruth, there's something I have been wanting to ask you…"I stop; her whole body has become tense all at once, and she appears to be holding her breath. Disconcerted, I hastily add, "It's not anything earth-shattering." Ruth still looks doubtful, so I continue," I was just wondering if…if you would like to stay for a few more nights?" She starts to breathe again, and her eyes light up, and then become thoughtful, as she gives my invitation her full consideration. "Oh, I'd love to, but what about my cats? And going to work…we couldn't arrive together…what if your mother came home suddenly, or if someone from the Grid went to my place, and I wasn't there?"
I address her concerns one by one, desperate to convince her to stay. "You could always board your cats - I'd be happy to pay – what do you usually do with them if you're away?" She pulls my arms closer about her. "If I'm only away for a couple of nights, or we're working late, I ask my neighbours to look after them…they think I travel a lot for work." Curious, I ask her, "What do they think you do?" There is a slight pause before she replies. "Program coordinator for an overseas aid NGO…I'm always a bit vague about the exact details, but so far they've bought it, and so has my family." Yes, I bet they have…Ruth even looks the part, with her exotic jewellery and unusual clothes. "But if I go on holidays…not that I've been since working at Five… I either take the cats to Mum's, or put them into boarding at the vet's." "So that's one objection resolved; they can be boarded for the week…next, going to work…the fact of the matter is, I won't be, not for the next week, at least."
At this unexpected statement, Ruth squirms round to face me, straddling my lap, and I gasp at the movement and pressure of her body against mine; she looks at me innocently enough, but she is fully aware of the effect she is producing; the gleam in her eye tells me everything I need to know. Forcing myself to refocus, I continue, "I always have a week off, when Mother is away, and my leave starts tomorrow. Usually I go away, up to Scotland, or down to Cornwall; somewhere by the sea, anyway. This year, I had been playing with the idea of Italy…but I wouldn't want to go by myself." Ruth's eyes grow big at the mention of Italy; she says wistfully, "Oh, I've always wanted to go…I've never been to the Continent…silly, really, seeing as I speak French, Spanish and Greek…" I store this snippet of information away, immediately imagining surprising her with a romantic weekend in Paris, or Florence, or some little island in the Cyclades…"So, other than pottering in the garden and perhaps taking in the Turner exhibition at the National Gallery, I have no plans at present... if you like, we could do a few things…dinner, or the theatre, perhaps?" Ruth beams at me, and from a distance of about six inches, the effect is dazzling. "Could we go to the Globe? They're performing Much Ado About Nothing…I love that play!" Of course you do, I think, even as I respond in the affirmative – I'm rather fond of Beatrice and Benedick, myself.
"As for my mother, she loves Bournemouth, and she won't come home until I drive down and collect her – if the weather holds, she may even decide to stay on (especially if I speak to my Aunt Emily and tell her I need a little longer…) Finally, I'm not entirely certain why anyone from the Grid would need to go to your house, but the simplest way around that is to tell them you're not going to be there this week…say your place is being rewired and you're staying at your mother's … I can easily arrange to make it look authentic. Was there anything else?" Ruth giggles, a rare sound, and shakes her head, No. "It looks like I'm all yours, then," she tells me…oh, Ruth, if only… she wriggles closer, and I tighten my hold on her as our embrace intensifies, setting my pulse rate soaring and my blood rushing downwards until I feel dizzy with desire. "Not here…we'll be arrested!" I finally manage to get out; she looks around at the almost empty parklands, only the odd jogger here or dog walker there. "I suppose your bed is more comfortable, and warmer too," she concedes; we nearly tumble down the hill like Jack and Jill, in our haste to get home.
Later, we bathe together; there is easily room for two in the deep, old-fashioned tub in my bathroom. Ruth stretches out luxuriously between my legs, her breasts floating in the warm water. The sight brings to mind the strange dream I had at Toad Hall, of placing a pearl between her breasts, and her horrified reaction and subsequent flight. It all seems so silly, now, as I knead her shoulders gently, and she makes noises of contentment deep in her throat. "We'll have to get out soon, if we want to go across to the village for dinner," I remind her, but she groans in protest at the thought; my hands glide downwards, and she draws a sharp breath as they come into contact with her nipples, before she bats my hands away. "I'm exhausted, but starving too," she informs me. "So I am I… but I'm sure we can find something to eat, downstairs."
We climb out of the cooling bath, towel each other dry, then pull on pyjamas, dressing gowns and slippers, in my case, and fluffy socks in Ruth's; at her insistence, she wears my old wool dressing gown, with the cuffs turned back twice, while I am clad in a heavy silk robe that once belonged to my father. If we were starving before, we are ravenous now, and we ransack the kitchen in a way that Mother would heartily disapprove of: cheese and tinned peaches and biscuits and ham and tomatoes and Dundee cake and leftover cold salmon are all unearthed and carried through to the drawing room; Ruth head back into the kitchen to boil up some potatoes, while I lay a fire, at her suggestion.
"Can't we have a carpet picnic, and a fire?" she pleads, her eyes glowing at the idea, and feeling like a little boy, I eagerly agree. Meals don't need to be taken in dining rooms, or at tables, after all… by the time I have got the fire burning nicely and drawing properly, Ruth comes back, carrying a dish of potatoes, their pinkish skins split open, glistening with butter. She scouts round for cushions, and finally settles for retrieving two from the parlour – Mother would have a fit at her favourite Laura Ashleys going onto the floor – and we settle down in front of the fire with plates balanced on our laps and a bottle of Beaujolais between us. When we are replete, Ruth lies down, putting her head in my lap, sighing happily as I stroke her hair, then trace the outline of her cheekbone and jaw over and over, committing her to memory. She reaches up to take my hand, weaving her fingers through mine.
"This is so nice…don't you wish every day could be like this?" she murmurs. Ah, Ruth, you have no idea how fervently I wish it, I think, looking down at her; I have to bite my tongue to stop myself from proposing to her here and now, settling instead for, "Ruth, you make me so happy." She turns to look at me, and says, "Don't. I don't like the idea of being responsible for your happiness, when most of the time I can't even seem to manage my own…" And there it is again, her black dog, lurking in the shadows cast by the firelight, always there, seemingly forever just out of reach, like Ruth herself. "My darling, I didn't mean to upset you…I merely meant to say that, that…" Words fail me, choked by the fullness of my heart, as she gazes at me, the firelight reflected in the depths of those luminous eyes, her lips curving into a smile. "I know you didn't mean to. It's just that knowing something, and believing it, are two very different things… haven't you ever wished for something, and then, when it finally arrived, you didn't recognise it at first, because the reality was so different to what you thought you wanted?" I nod, unable to speak; she tightens her fingers around mine reassuringly.
"Well, that's how I feel about all this. About us. At the beginning of this year, I thought I was in love with a successful businessman who had a bad knee and likes to sing Mozart…it wasn't real, but if I hadn't followed that path, I would never have known how you felt about me. I would never have found you, instead of an idealised character based on some surveillance recordings, and my own imagination. I've lived in my head for most of my life, where things can be ordered as I like… I don't very often meet someone who exists in both worlds at once, so it's hard for me, when it does happen, to separate out reality from my own thoughts… and sometimes, I have to be reminded of what's real…does any of that make sense, or do I sound completely mad?" Ruth's eyes, which had been focused on the flickering, dying flames while she speaks, return to mine, anxiously seeking my answer.
I too have lived most of my life in my head, but I am not having the difficulties that Ruth describes; instead, I have begun to find it hard to keep the rest of the world in focus whenever we are together: it seems to blur and recede slightly, and it is only with an effort that I maintain a normal awareness of everything around me. "You don't sound mad, unless being in love is a kind of madness in and of itself… certainly there are a lot of poets who would agree, don't you think?" I venture. She turns away to watch the last embers of the fire, flickering in the grate, and after a while I hear her whisper drowsily, "There is always some madness in love, but there is also always some reason in madness…" Nietzsche…only Ruth would think of Nietzsche, even while half asleep in her lover's lap…
It is getting late, and I am decidedly too old to sleep on the floor, even if it is covered by a silken carpet. "Ruth. Ruth? Come to bed, my love…"She mutters something incoherent, and so I carefully ease myself out from beneath her head, replacing my lap with a cushion, and go about the business of tidying up our feast, and raking apart the fire until the last sparks die down. Ruth is fast asleep by the time I crouch beside her, and gather her into my arms; like many men, I am far stronger than I look. As I straighten up, she rouses enough to wind her arms about my neck, allowing me to carry her upstairs to our bed. My final waking thought is, So this is what it would be like, to have her here beside me each night…to have and to hold…
We have a marvellous week.
A/N: On Parliament Hill, Ruth is quoting from Keats' La Belle Dame Sans Merci.