The rich aroma of roasting meat greets me as I walk through my front door. It is a long time since Mother has made a roast, and I stand stock-still in the hallway for a moment to savour it: the familiar fragrance of childhood Sunday dinners, of family birthday celebrations, of Christmas, of home. "Malcolm? Is that you?" Mother calls. As if it could possibly be anyone else, I think, rolling my eyes as I take off my coat and scarf and hang them on their usual peg on the carved oak hall stand, before walking towards the kitchen, replying, "Yes, Mum. It's just me." Mother turns around from the Aga, frowning, at my approach, and I brush a kiss on her cheek. "You know I don't like it when you use that term. It's so common…" My mother, ever the snob's snob… "Sorry, Mother. Supper smells wonderful. Is it roast beef?" She nods, turning back to the hob, where the contents of a heavy baking dish are beginning to bubble as she stirs them. I call it gravy, she calls it jus, thanks to Delia, or Nigella, or one of the other "celebrity chefs" currently infesting British television, but whatever it is, it smells heavenly. No cheating with Bisto or Oxo for my mother, and no help from Messrs Marks and Spencer, either…and then I catch sight of an open bottle of wine, with a white label and red script, standing to the side of the Aga, and I pick it up with a sinking heart; oh, no, no, no, it's nearly empty…
I see Mother's glass on the counter, the inside of the heavy crystal bowl marked with at least two tide-lines, and lean over her shoulder to sniff suspiciously at the gravy. Surely she hasn't… My chest feels tight as I try to broach the subject as gently as possible. "You know I don't mind if you want to use some wine for cooking, Mother, but…" She eyes me defensively. "I do like to make the jus properly, dear. With dry red wine…I made sure to take one of the dusty old bottles, and nothing French – it's just something from Australia. I didn't think it mattered… you've a whole case of it, so I thought you must have bought it cheaply, and besides, look how old it is, 1971! I had a terrible job getting the cork out…and it's probably only any good for cooking now, anyway." Her voice has begun to rise, and I hold up my hands, striving to remain calm; if she gets worked up now, the rest of the evening will be unpleasant at best, and an utter nightmare at worst.
"It's alright, Mother, but perhaps in future you could just let me know if you'd like something to cook with, and I'll fetch something suitable from the cellar." She replies sniffily, "Well, you weren't here, it seems you're never here, lately, and all I wanted to do was to make you a nice meal. It's only wine, Malcolm, not the Crown Jewels, so please don't carry on about it." She reaches into the warming oven, where the beef has been resting, and lifts it out. "Now, I need you out from under my feet. Go up and wash, and I'll call you when supper is ready." She stoops, and retrieves a tray of roast vegetables – home-grown potatoes, small whole onions, and parsnips (why, oh why?). Looking back over her shoulder, she says, "Go on, then, it won't be ready any faster for your standing there, watching," before turning back to the gravy, now giving forth the most delicious fragrance. A bouquet, one could call it, of good Welsh beef, and five-hundred-pound Australian Shiraz…
I look at her, frustration and filial affection warring within as is so often the case; only my mother could have tipped half a bottle of 1971 Penfolds' Grange Hermitage, one of the greatest vintages ever produced, into the gravy, and then drunk most of the rest, completely oblivious to its rarity and value. If I tell her its true worth, she will be horrified that anything could cost so much, and then she will be shocked that I would have had the temerity to buy a whole case of it: wine as an investment is something that I have tried, and failed, to explain to her. And she meant well, I remind myself, it's not as if she's begun drinking on the sly, or selling it off on eBay...she wouldn't even know what eBay was! I force myself to take a couple of slow, deep breaths, and the pressure in my chest begins to ease. Another three breaths, and I unclench my hands, unconsciously balled into fists. Two more, and I roll my shoulders back and up, dispelling most of the rest of the tension and opening up my ribs; only a little knot of outrage remains now, in the pit of my stomach, and I have an idea for getting rid of that.
"Errare humanum est," I mutter under my breath, and fetch my own wine glass from the place set for me in the small dining room. Might as well try the bottle, I tell myself philosophically, even if Mother is hardly the person with whom I would have chosen to drink it…walking back into the kitchen, I reach over Mother's shoulder and appropriate both the bottle of wine and a hot, crunchy roast potato, which I pop into my mouth, walking briskly out of the kitchen before she can protest, but too late: "Malcolm! You'll spoil your appetite!" follows me upstairs, and then I am in the blissful, soundproofed silence of my own quarters, and the knot in my stomach uncurls somewhat.
Crossing to the bedroom window, I look out at the garden, now strangely stark in its winter sleep, as I pour myself the final glass of a long-ago Australian summer, and toast the old oak on the front lawn, which has lived through hundreds of vintages, and will live to see many more. Just looking at the gnarled old tree helps, I find, to put things like this into their proper perspective…I savour the wine slowly, despite having to strain out the tiny bits of cork left from Mother's inexpert attempts to open the bottle, and as the full glory of the Grange rolls over my palate, I fancy myself transported to a wide, brown landscape, shimmering with heat under a high, blue sky… thinking of things which are blue inevitably reminds me of Ruth's extraordinary eyes, and then my mind turns just as inexorably to thoughts of her. I wonder if she did end up going to Cheltenham tonight, and for a moment I consider ringing her, or sending a text message to say that I miss her, but decide against it in the end; surely I can go more than a few hours without thinking of her, or needing to see her? With that, I drain my glass, change out of my suit and into civvies, and go down to supper, the wine melting away the rest of my stress as its warmth spreads through my system like radiant heat from a sun-baked stone, under the bluest of skies…
Mother sits in her usual place at one end of the small dining table, and I take mine at the other. She looks at me expectantly, and bowing my head, I recite Grace, one of my father's favourites:
Bydd wrth ein bwrdd O Frenin Ne
Boed iti fawredd ym mhob lle
Bendithia nawr ein hymborth ni
A gad i'n wledda gyda thi.
Mother nods approval, and I pick up the carving knife and fork and slice into the roast she has set at my place, the meat falling away in juicy pink slices, cooked to perfection. Mother insists on serving everything at table as though we had servants to hand tureens of vegetables around, or offer silver cruets of condiments, and for the next few minutes we are kept busy passing things to and fro; buttered French beans (probably from Zambia, at this time of year), roast vegetables, horseradish sauce, and the gravy boat; I pour a generous amount over everything. "Malcolm! Are you having jus with your dinner, or dinner with your jus?" Mother enquires acerbically, and I put the jug down. "It's nice to hear that you're keeping up your Welsh," she adds, "although there's not much call for it down here, I shouldn't think." I flush slightly; only this morning, caught up in the afterglow, I had wrapped Ruth in my arms and poured Welsh endearments into her ear… "Actually, sometimes I find it useful for… for work," I reply, and Mother looks up from her plate, surprised. "Really? I wouldn't have thought there were many Welsh-speaking terrorists…how peculiar!" I shrug, and Mother returns to her meal; she knows that I never discuss the details of my work, and to my great relief, she respects that boundary, at least. I fork some more meat from the carving tray, and use it to mop up the excess gravy still on my plate; I am determined not to waste a drop, and it is, as it jolly well ought to be, delicious. "You are hungry tonight, dear," Mother observes, her knife and fork already placed primly together on her plate, as if signalling our non-existent butler to take it away.
When we had first moved in, Mother had raised the possibility of having "staff", as she put it, but I had quashed the suggestion in horror; the idea of Mother having people at her beck and call as she had always dreamt of was bad enough, but to have others always in the house was anathema to my deeply introverted personality. I knew that I simply couldn't bear it, so I had negotiated a compromise. The house is a large one, and even with the top floor mostly closed up, I could see it was too much for both of us to clean and keep up, so I had found a firm of professional cleaners and engaged them to come once a week and do exactly what I set out in the contract, and no more; they were not to do anything else unless I cleared it first. I knew that once Mother had them in the house, she would treat them like something out of Upstairs, Downstairs, unless I set some limits. No weekly silver cleaning, no polishing floors on hands and knees, no carrying coal-scuttles or blacking fire grates.
Mother had not been happy at first – they don't do what I tell them! she had complained, until I had several times explained the terms of their employment to her. Over time, the cleaning firm had found it best to send staff with little English, so that they could safely say "I don't understand" if asked to spend the afternoon dusting Mother's hideous, but expensive, collection of Dresden porcelain figurines (something that I vastly preferred her to do, for many reasons), or to Brasso the stair-rails (something I didn't mind doing myself, if only on a yearly basis). On my part, I make sure their wages are twice the going rate, and give them all a Christmas bonus, which Mother never knows about, but which, to my amazement and embarrassment, has resulted in more than one note of gratitude in wobbly English to "Mr Malcolm," making me feel rather like something out of Dickens. My plate empty for a second time, and not a drop of gravy remaining, I push back slightly from the table and look up in response to Mother's questioning voice: something about Christmas? "…ask her to come?" "I beg your pardon, I was miles away. What did you just say?" Mother sighs impatiently. "Honestly, I don't know where you go to, Malcolm, you've always got your head in the clouds…your father was just the same." I look properly contrite, and enquire again. "You were saying something about Christmas?"
"I was asking if you thought we ought to invite Rachel to Christmas dinner?" I stare at her blankly for a moment: Rachel? and then my memory kicks into gear. "Ah, um, yes, Rachel. The thing is…the thing is, she has her own family to go to, if we're not…she's not…working." Mother peers at me from the foot of the table, and I struggle to maintain my countenance; Mother always knows when I'm lying, which is why I do my very best not to. "Hmmm. Are you sure? I thought she told me she was an orphan…" Oh, did she? I wonder what else Ruth might have said while she was perched in Aunt Emily's parlour, alone with Mother, and forgotten to tell me. A legend's only as good as your back-stocked story and established facts, I am forever telling the field staff…check, double check, and then check again, it must be seamless enough to hold up under unexpected pressure from any direction. But Ruth is not a field spook…"Well, I mean, she already has a partner…I expect they'll be spending some time off together." Mother's face falls at that, to my astonishment – she must actually like Rachel/Ruth! Wonders will never cease – and then she sniffs dismissively, "Oh. Some smart young spy, no doubt?" Mother really does think my colleagues are all James Bond…"I don't know, Mother, I've never met him." Which is not strictly untrue… "Why can't you meet someone like her, Malcolm? Someone nice, and clever, and pretty? Surely an…officer…of your experience could catch someone's eye?" she says with what almost amounts to a coy look.
I stare, taken aback at this line of questioning – Mother has never before expressed the slightest interest in my personal life post-Sarah, other than seeming happy that I haven't ousted her for a wife or live-in girlfriend. "I…I…I'm very busy at work, Mother. Not a lot of time to socialise, you know. And Harry doesn't like our personal relationships to interfere with our work." Mother colours slightly at the mention of Harry's name, before saying, to my utter astonishment, "Pity, that. He's a man who looks like he'd be rather good at personal relationships…" She pats her hair, in a self-satisfied way, and next studies her fingernails, as I blush incredulously, and realise that she is slurring her s's slightly. Mother, it would seem, has had rather more Grange than is good for her, and she has just confirmed something I have long wondered about: she, like every other female, apparently, who crosses his path, be it ever so briefly, carries a torch for Harry bloody Pearce, but this is too much; I refuse to continue this discussion. Ruth. Mother. Hells' bells, how does he do it? I wonder bitterly, before answering my own question: he's not me.
Harry is confident, charismatic, outgoing…he has a certain twinkle in his eye when he meets a woman, and a way, when it suits him, of treating them as if they are the only thing in his world. Until, that is, they yield their secrets to him, or profess their love for him, or turn out to be working for the other side; and then he's all business. He's pathologically incapable of sustaining a normal relationship, but then who in our line of work isn't? True, there's Adam and Fiona, but they are the very rare exception to the rule; and then there's the rest of us. Tom, so desperate to find someone to connect with, and nearly destroyed by it; Danny, hopelessly yearning for Zoe, who in turn wanted that slimy little press photographer, for reasons beyond my understanding; or Zaf, still speed-dating his way around London, while making a play for Jo at the same time. As for Ruth, and me…I daren't think about that now.
Standing up, I begin collecting dishes to carry through to the kitchen, while Mother smiles to herself and pours herself a glass of sherry from the decanter on the sideboard. In the kitchen I take a deep breath, and then sniff enquiringly; something's burning! I grab a cloth and hastily open the oven doors; in the main oven I find the charred remnants of what was once an apple pie, its crust blackened and smoking. Swiftly, I carry it out of the kitchen, through the conservatory, and set it outside the back door to get the stench out of the house; as I do, I notice the cyclamen I brought home for Mother drooping unhappily on the bench where I left it: they don't like heat, and the house must be too warm for it. I turn back to put it in the conservatory, where the air is a good fifteen degrees cooler. "Malcolm? What's that dreadful smell? What are you doing in there?" comes from the dining room, and I quickly collect a couple of apples and a wedge of well-aged Cheddar, and take them, along with two small plates, back into the dining room.
"Erm, had you forgotten that there was still a pie in the oven?" I ask, setting the cheese and fruit down, and Mother starts. "Oh, no! I just meant to give it a few more minutes…is it very badly burnt?" I reach over to the sideboard and retrieve a fruit knife, and carefully begin peeling an apple; I like to see if I can remove the skin in one long, continuous coil. "I think the word you're looking for is cremated," I tell her, concentrating on the apple. She huffs in annoyance. "Well, if you hadn't been going on so much about the wretched wine, and getting in my way, I would have remembered it. You know I don't like it when you're in the kitchen." Ah yes, of course, it's all my fault…I never doubted it, but still, it's nice to be certain… I finish peeling one apple, quartering it and setting it on a plate with a few slices of cheese. Patience is a virtue, I remind myself, and start on the second apple, the skin furling away before the small, sharp blade, before saying, "I'm sorry about the pie, but at least we can still have the apple part. Anyway, I've got my annual medical coming up in the New Year; I could probably do with cutting back on the sweets for a bit." Mother looks at me sharply as I pass her the first plate of cheese and fruit. "Nonsense. If anything, you've lost weight lately…and you don't have much of a sweet tooth, you never have. A little bit of what you fancy never hurt anyone," she tells me, reaching for the decanter again. Well, Mother, you'd know…and actually, I have lost weight, two point five kilograms, to be precise, when last I checked the other day, standing on Ruth's bathroom scales…stress, and regular sex with someone fifteen years younger will do that to a chap… that, and so much more, besides!
I quarter my own apple, slice some Cheddar to go with it, and just as I balance a piece of cheese on a bit of apple and convey it to my mouth, Mother says, "Oh, by the way, dear, there's something I should tell you." Mouth full, I cough in surprise, and pray that nothing goes down the wrong way. "It's about New Year's Eve," she continues, "I never know if you're going to be here or not, so I thought, instead of sitting around by myself, I might go down to Bournemouth instead. It's so much more fun for me there, and there's rather a jolly crowd to do things with." I blink in astonishment: only a few weeks ago, Mother was begging to come home, and now this?
Before I can answer, an image flashes into my head: Ruth, and me, alone in the house, on New Year's Eve…hmmm. And Mother does have a point, I concede. The festive season is traditionally a very busy time of year for the security services, and it is rare that I am off the Grid much between Christmas and New Year's Day; I allow Harry to roster me on to allow those with families and children the time off, if they can get it. Harry spends most of the holidays there too; apparently, I'm not the only one without a meaningful life outside Thames House. This year, though, things have changed. This year, I have Ruth, and therefore I have the world, and everything in it.
"Oh. Right. Yes, I see it must be a bit dull for you, when you put it like that. When were you thinking of going?" I ask cautiously, and Mother answers immediately, "The day after Boxing Day, and if you're working, well, I can always take the train. First class, of course." Now I am truly alarmed: Mother has never, as long as I have known her, offered to set foot on a train, or indeed any form of public transport. She says she doesn't see the point of it, and having always had either Father or myself to chauffeur her, I don't suppose that she does. "I'd have to ask Harry, but I should be able to see my way clear to doing that on the twenty-seventh, only…well…" I pause, unsure of how to proceed without sounding like a spoilt child. "I do wish you'd finish your sentences, Malcolm, you know how annoying I find it when you just mumble to a stop!" She's forgotten, she really has forgotten, I realise in shock. "Sorry, it's just that you're going before the twenty-ninth…I'm surprised, that's all." She stares at me for a minute, and then it dawns on her. "Oh, your birthday…surely you don't care about that, at your age… I've already made some arrangements in Bournemouth, and I can't very well cancel them now, it would be rude of me to do so. It's not as if you're likely to be here on the day, anyway. You hardly ever are…"
I can feel my face fall at these words, which are not strictly true – I can think of only two birthdays in the last ten years that I spent all day on the Grid – but I am very familiar with Mother's selective amnesia, and so I choose to overlook this inaccuracy, in the name of maintaining the peace. Besides, another image of Ruth and I, in bed, after a long and leisurely birthday dinner, has just flickered onto the screen in my mind, and it makes for most compelling viewing… "Malcolm? I said, should I book the train, or will you drive me?" Mother, once her mind is set on something, is like a bull at a gate; she just keeps beating forward until she gets her way. I blink, trying to dispel my fantasies, and reply, "Just let me talk to Harry first, I'll see if I can get a half day off. I don't mind taking you to Bournemouth, and it will be good to see Aunt Emily." Mother looks away, and something in the way she does so reminds me of Ruth. Ruth, when she is trying to hide something, looks down and lets her hair fall forward across her face; and Mother is doing the same thing, although without quite the same effect. "Mother? Won't you be staying with Aunt Emily?" She looks up, but doesn't meet my eye. "Oh, no, dear. I thought I might stay at Chalfield Manor instead. Emily's having her spare room completely redecorated, and…and…after I was there so recently, I'd just be in the way."
I sit back and consider what I have just heard, absently eating the last piece of apple and cheese on my plate. Chalfield Manor, I recollect, is a boutique hotel, a converted grand Edwardian house, but still in Boscombe, not far from Aunt Emily's. It's a logical, if expensive, choice, and I nod slowly, still trying to put things together. Mother's giggling phone call the other night, her sudden interest in my private life, that frankly bizarre comment about Harry, her unusual consumption of alcohol this evening – she's on her third sherry – and her absent-mindedness...Come on, Wynn-Jones, think. If she was a surveillance subject, what would your conclusions be? Quite unexpectedly, I recall Aunt Emily saying, "Your mother got it into her head that the other ladies thought she was cheating…" Oh. Oh, no. What if they didn't mean, cheating at bridge? What if they meant…but she's my MOTHER, for heaven's sake, she wouldn't…she couldn't…Oh, dear GOD…
"Malcolm? Are you feeling all right? You've gone a very peculiar colour…do you need your inhaler?" Mother asks solicitously; I stare at her, and a deep red blush spreads over her face (it seems I inherited my tell-tale skin from one of my parents, after all). I haven't seen her look like this since she tried to convince me that she hadn't told all the neighbours that I was about to throw my life away on a worthless, jumped-up little nothing from Essex, after the shock of my engagement announcement had worn off and she had recovered sufficiently from her migraine to embark on a vitriolic round of visits. "After all we've done for him…this is the thanks we get…" Fortunately, my father had still been alive then to help deal with her. But now, there's only me… Mother is getting to her feet, perhaps to look out my spare inhaler, or perhaps to escape before I ask any more questions, but I raise a hand to stop her.
"I'm fine. Please, sit back down, Mother. We need to have a little talk." Mother turns around from the sideboard, sherry decanter in hand. "I really don't know why you're making such a fuss about everything tonight. Did you get out of the wrong side of bed?" The tightness in my chest has migrated to my cranium, wrapping a tight band of tension about my temples; my head starts to throb, and another image passes before my eyes: Ruth and I, just before we finished this morning, her body arched back against mine, panting hard as my fingers find the exact place to ignite her pleasure, and then my own beginning as she writhes against me…No, Mother, I definitely got out of the right side of the right bed today…and if only you knew, would you still be so keen on inviting 'Rachel' for Christmas Day? Mother picks up her now full sherry glass and makes as if to leave the room; and in that moment, I have had enough of the attempts at manipulation, the half-truths. Is there no woman in my life, I wonder, who doesn't try to walk over me? For once, I'm not going to put up with it…
My fist comes down hard on the oak tabletop, rattling the plates on the side board and making Mother spill half her sherry in fright. "Mother. Please. Sit. Down." My voice is as steady and calm as usual, but there is an edge to it, and Mother resumes her seat with alacrity, looking at me with something akin to respect in her eyes, although her face has taken on a haughty expression, the I won't be questioned by my son look that I know all too well. Well, we'll just see about that… "Thank you. Now, would you be so kind as to honour me with the truth about this little trip to Bournemouth that you're so keen on?" Mother's mouth falls open. "Well! I've never been so insulted…are you out of your senses? How dare you speak to me like that?" I wait for her to finish, and then calmly reply, "Aunt Emily said something to me, when I was in the kitchen at her house, doing the drying up. I missed it at the time, but now it makes perfect sense. She said the ladies in her bridge club had accused you of cheating, and that was why you'd had a falling-out with them. But that's not quite true, is it, Mother." I speak as if delivering a statement of fact, not asking a question, and Mother's face pales.
"Ordinarily, I would never dream of prying into your private life, but as you live under my roof, I have to know if you're…involved…with someone; so again, I ask you, what is the truth?" From being as bloodless as marble, Mother's face flushes bright puce. "I don't know what Emily said to you, but she had no business…I refuse to dignify these questions with an answer. I didn't raise you to speak to me in this manner; I feel quite ill, and I'm going to bed now. I'm sixty-eight, not eighteen, and I shall do as I please, with whom I please, and without so much as a by-your-leave from you." Closing my eyes, I massage my temples for a moment, wincing as sharp pains flash behind my eyelids. "Please understand, I'm not asking out of some sort of prurient interest, Mother. It's a security risk, one I'm obliged to manage proactively. Whoever it is, they'll have to be vetted; I simply can't have strangers in my immediate family circle." Mother drinks her sherry in one swallow, and stands up unsteadily. "I'm going to bed, and don't you dare to stop me, you've said quite enough for one night. I've never been so upset; you've made me feel dreadful." She totters out of the dining room, and as she goes through to the hallway, I hear her call out, "And don't go to bed without cleaning up the kitchen." I grit my teeth and will myself to stay silent; she is only trying to bait me, as I usually tidy up anyway, after she has cooked dinner.
I sit at the dining table, head in hands, until I feel calm enough to get up; my mind is racing, searching for clues and connections as I sift through everything that Mother has said. I contemplate calling Aunt Emily, but it's late, and I want to think over things myself first. Mother has neither confirmed nor denied (another American phrase guaranteed to make Harry twitch with annoyance) anything, but I am filled with apprehension and unease. Well, that didn't go very well, I think, recalling Mother's fright at the sharp crack of my fist on wood, and the mulish look on her face. Harry would have either charmed the truth out of her, or put her feet to the fire, if his legendary charm had failed…Growling at the thought of it, I push my chair back sharply, collect the remaining dishes, and walk into the kitchen, surveying the damage with a sigh. Greasy roasting pans, plates and pans everywhere, a day's worth of Mother's tea things…Mother refuses to have a dishwasher, claiming that it would damage her Spode china and silver cutlery; and so I get out the Fairy liquid, fill the sink with hot water, and pull on my washing-up gloves, before setting to with the dish brush. It's hardly the end to the evening I had hoped for; instead of clarifying the situation with Mother, I seem only to have muddied the waters, upsetting her and giving myself a headache in the process, not to mention a great deal of apprehension over what, exactly, Mother has been up to.
Finally, the kitchen is clean, and I pop the kettle onto the hob; I could do with a cup of tea to soothe my jangled nerves. On impulse, I make one for Mother too, dissolving a Valium in it before adding her usual milk and three sugars. For all her pretension, she still drinks builders' tea…carrying it upstairs, I knock gently on her bedroom door. "Go away, I'm not talking to you!" comes petulantly, and clearly, through the door, so I call back, "I thought you might like a cup of tea…" "Well, bring it in then, before it turns cold," she grumbles; I nudge the door open with my foot, and there is Mother, in all her nocturnal splendour. Hair rollers in and secured with bobby pins, her face coated in Pond's cold cream, glasses perched on her nose, and the piece de resistance, her pale pink chenille bed jacket. "Just put it there," she tells me, pointing to the gold-leaf rococo bedside table, while ostentatiously holding up the large-print Regency romance she is reading, so as not to make eye contact with me. "Mother, I'm sorry, I didn't mean to upset you. It's just that I worry about you…you would tell me if there was anything going on, wouldn't you?" Mother slams her book shut, eyeing me balefully. "I said I didn't want to talk about it any more…why can't you just leave me alone…you're always going on at me…I wish your father was here!" And with that she bursts into tears, always my worst fear.
Awkwardly, I try to comfort her, but she bats my hand away and wails at me to get out and leave her alone; I do so gladly, hoping that she will drink her tea sooner rather than later. I know she's not seriously upset; I have seen this too many times before, but I still find it enervating. Retrieving my now tepid cup of tea from a mahogany piecrust table on the landing, I head into my own quarters, shutting the connecting door behind me with unspeakable relief: alone at last. I tip the undrinkable tea down the bathroom sink, before repairing to the hottest shower I can stand, letting the soothing stream of water run over my bunched back and shoulder muscles until the tension begins to drain away, and exhaustion starts to creep over me. As I fall into bed, my mobile phone beeps: Ruth! I think happily as I pick it up.
Had gd nite - u? Sometimes, I wish that Danny and Zaf had not been her texting tutors…
Fair to middling, I reply, Mother made a roast.
Lucky u, mine only did cheese toasties :/
I'd have rather had cheese toasties with you, believe me.
I know. Me 2. Miss u…
Not half as much as I miss you.
Off 2 bed now. Wish we were waking up 2gether again… this mrng was amazing!
Goodnight, my love, and flights of angels sing thee to thy rest.
U have magic hands BTW…I'll b dreaming about them 2nite ;)
I dream of you every night, I type back with fingers that tremble.
There are no more text messages from Ruth, and soon I am asleep, dreaming such dreams of her as would make me blush were I awake; the subconscious will out, they say, and mine has been starved and denied for far too long…Ruth, oh, my Ruth…I jerk awake with her name on my lips, my body shuddering with involuntary release, and the strangest feeling of foreboding flooding through me; a most disconcerting combination. It is December tenth, and quite irrationally, I suddenly wonder if we will still be together, come Christmas. Strange, the things that the subliminal mind can throw up at one…
A/N: Errare humanum est – to err is human. The full quote is, to err is human, to forgive, divine, but Malcolm isn't quite ready to forgive such a crime as making gravy with his very rare, very valuable Grange Hermitage – even the best of men has his limits!
Malcolm's Welsh grace translates as "Be at our table, Oh King of Heaven. May you be exalted everywhere. Give your blessing to our food and let us feast with you."
He texts Ruth a little snippet from Hamlet, in the line about flights of angels – thank you, Mr Shakespeare.
The next instalment of Malcolm's story, chronologically speaking, can be found in Miracle at St Margaret's. When you've read that, please do come on back for chapter 53…
