A/N: Just a short chapter, this time, but I hope everyone will enjoy it; there's plenty of Mother and Aunt Emily! Hatchets at the ready, then…
Mother is happy to see me, or so it seems from her enthusiastic greeting as I arrive at Aunt Emily's villa in Boscombe, half an hour after leaving Tring. I had received a call from Chalfield Manor, Mother's preferred hotel, a week or so ago advising that she had left my contact details 'to settle the account'; surprised that she had checked out without paying, I had immediately transferred the money, and then called my aunt, who had confirmed that Mother was again with her. Aunt Emily rolls her eyes at me from behind my mother's back as Mother toddles towards me to give me a peck on the cheek. I eye her immaculate coiffure, gold brocade jacket and cream linen dress curiously: surely that's yet another expensive-looking new outfit? I'm surprised there's anything left in the shops… "Malcolm, dear, how nice of you to come and visit your poor old mother. I've been having a spot of bother with my Barclaycard lately; the shop assistants refuse, simply refuse, to accept it, I don't know why. I do wish you'd ring the bank and sort it out, it's been most inconvenient…" My spirits ebb even lower, as I realise that Mother is already looking about for her purse, pleased at the thought of being able to get out to the shops once more. Aunt Emily steps forward, and as she pulls me into a warm embrace, she whispers into my ear, "I'm about to kill her…she hasn't left the house once since her card stopped working." Aloud, she says, "Lovely to see you!" and the crinkles radiating out from her eyes as she smiles proves that one of the sisters, at least, is telling the truth.
I return her embrace, swallowing the lump at the back of my throat; it's such a simple thing, genuine affection, and yet in such short supply in this world. "Aunt Em, it's good to see you too." My voice is unsteadier than I'd like, and she pulls back to look at me keenly. "Is everything all right?" she asks, but my glance towards Mother – who seems to be digging through her vast black handbag in search of something – warns her not to say any more for now. I see understanding in her eyes, and then Mother emerges triumphant from scouring the interior of her bag. "Look, I saved all my credit card slips. I don't understand why the stupid shop girls didn't just ring the bank themselves and get it authorised like they used to…there's no such thing as service anymore, I've said it before and I'll say it again." With this, Mother hands me a thick sheaf of transaction slips for varying amounts at different Bournemouth boutiques, and I fan them out like a hand of cards to see if I can spot a commonality.
Of the first three I look at, one is for a shoe shop (two hundred pounds); another is for Miss Vivian's Dress Circle (three hundred and fifty pounds); yet another is for a milliner's (five hundred pounds – for what? I find myself wondering incredulously). A cursory inspection reveals the problem: they each bear the same declined transaction code. In my mind's eye, I visualise the relevant page of the Barclaycard scheme rules, and yes, there it is. This particular code means 'declined due to insufficient funds'. I certainly should know it, for I have hacked suspects' cards often enough to force a declined transaction when it suited operational needs. In this instance though, nothing so sinister is happening; Mother has simply tried to exceed her extremely generous card limit, and the system has pinged her for it. I feel ill as I contemplate what this means, for I pay her bills. "Well? Do you know what the problem is?" she asks, bright-eyed and hopeful, and I turn to Aunt Emily. "Would I be able to bother you for a cup of tea?" I beseech her, and she replies, "Of course, unless you'd rather something stronger?" Oh, wouldn't I just! I think wistfully of a large sherry, or perhaps a stiff gin-and-It, before saying reluctantly, "Better not, I'm driving back up tonight." Now that Diana has cleared me to return to duty, I will be doing so forthwith; Colin has been keeping me apprised of the ever-increasing workload, and he will be only too pleased to see me back on the Grid. There's something nasty blowing in the wind, and Harry is keen to locate the source of the stench; he suspects home-grown terrorists, Colin told me in his last call a couple of days ago, Five's worst nightmare. Aunt Emily gives me a conspiratorial wink, and disappears down the hall to the kitchen. I sincerely hope she still has some Valium left: I have a feeling that I'm going to need it.
Mother fiddles with her handbag for a moment, before shooting me a sharp look. "You're looking dreadful, if I may say so. Too thin, and you're losing more and more hair every time I see you. You used to have such lovely hair, just like mine. And why on earth are you wearing your best suit? It's so warm today, aren't you feeling uncomfortable?" In every possible way, I almost reply, but say instead, "I came down here straight from a meeting" – well, it's true enough, in a certain manner of speaking – "but it is rather warm, now that you mention it." I slip off my jacket and tie, and unbutton my shirt collar. Mother bustles forward and takes the garments away to put over the banister, and I follow her down the hall towards the parlour, trying not to think of my last visit here with Ruth, wearing only that red dress and a smile, her eyes sparkling wickedly... Mother indicates that I should be seated, and I choose a slightly too hard armchair upholstered in brown leather; it had once been my uncle's favourite. Mother arranges herself on the comfortable settee opposite, covered in a faded green Liberty print, and waits expectantly, her eyes darting from my face to the jumble of receipts that I have laid on the coffee table between us. "I do wish Emily would hurry up with that tea!" she grumbles, just as the parlour door is pushed open and my aunt appears with a laden tray. I get up to help, and as I take the heavy tray from her, she nods towards one of the cups, and I understand; at the bottom of the delicate china vessel is a fine white powder, waiting for tea and sugar and milk to be added. I pour Mother's cup first, and when we are all seated, with cups and saucers perched on our knees, and slices of Aunt Emily's delicious seed cake have been passed round, I take a deep breath and wish I was anywhere else than here, and about to embark upon this particular discussion.
"Mother, the problem with your card is that you've spent all the available funds on it; there's nothing left. That's why it's stopped working in the shops." She stares at me, then at the receipts, blankly, before saying with a little laugh, "Don't be silly, Malcolm, that's a credit card. How can there not be any money left in the account?" I pray for patience, and explain, "Yes, but even a credit card has a limit. Quite a high one, in this case, but still. If you use up all the credit, the card stops working." Mother's brow furrows. "I didn't know there was a limit; why'd you put a limit on my card, when you've got all that money? I don't believe you. This has never happened before. Why don't you just ring the bank and tell them who you are?" I feel my face flush, and not just from the warmth of the day. Aunt Emily interposes, "Amelia, do you really mean to say that you haven't the faintest clue how your card works? Honestly, do you think there's some sort of magic that allows you to keep spending money you don't actually have? And it's the bank that sets the limit, not Malcolm; what a thing to say!" My mother turns towards her, and I catch a glimpse of uncertainty in her eyes. "Well, I don't know about these things. Malcolm takes care of all that, don't you?" she appeals to me, and I wonder how much of her tea she has drunk, while I quickly tot up all her approved receipts. My head has begun to pound, and I find myself thinking longingly of the cool green glade at Tring, and the professionally soothing voice of Diana Jewell.
"Yes, I do, but Mother, how could you not know that you've spent over ten thousand pounds?" At her affronted look, I sort the receipts into little piles. "All this is clothing and shoes and jewellery; these here are for hair and beauty services, and these are for restaurants and, and accommodation." Even in shirtsleeves, I begin to sweat, for I can't allow this to go on. I choose to donate my official salary, such as it is, to charity, as we live very comfortably off the interest and returns from my investment portfolio; but Mother has just spent almost a month's worth of income, where she would once have spent a few hundred pounds at most, and that at Laura Ashley, not Yves St Laurent. Mother tosses her head and drinks the rest of her tea in high dudgeon. Good, I think, seeing her hands lying loosely in her lap, the Valium's kicking in. "I'll pay the account, but I'm afraid I can't have you running up bills like this again. The limit will have to be reduced by quite a lot, if you wish to keep the card." I brace myself, and sure enough, Mother's eyes bulge, her face turns puce, and her mouth twists into an ugly shape as she shrills, "How dare you threaten to cut me off, I've never heard of such an ungrateful son, after everything I've done for you…kept your house, cooked your meals…you can't bear that I'm happy, so you do this, and you with more money than you know what to do with. If your father were here he'd turn in his grave to see how you treat me!" she finishes with devastating illogic, knocking her cup to the floor as she struggles to get up. I close my eyes, striving for calm; I can hear my breathing becoming wheezy, and feel through my pockets for my inhaler.
When I next look up, Aunt Emily is watching me closely, and Mother is still trying to push herself up from the soft settee. "I'm sorry that you feel that way, but even we can't afford to live beyond our means, you know. I am very grateful for everything you do, and I miss you; actually, that's why I'm here. I thought you might like to come home, now that the tourist season is about to start here." Mother closes one eye, then the other, then opens them both to peer owlishly at me. "No, I'm very happy here, thank you. This is where I want to be, not London. There's nothing there for me now; and I will just have to get used to living in reduced circumstances, if you're determined to punish me for buying a few frocks and shoes." The sheer unkindness and unfairness of her words makes me gasp in shock.
She turns her face away, and Aunt Emily speaks up sharply, unable to keep silent any longer. "Well, I'm not very happy to have you here any longer, Milly. You come and go at all hours, you don't give me anything for the housekeeping, and I haven't even met this chap of yours once! He can't be all that wonderful, if you won't introduce him to the family. I think it's high time you went home; you might be my sister, and I do love you, but at the moment I don't think I like you very much. And as for the things you've said to Malcolm today, I've got a good mind to slap some sense into you. No-one, no-one, could have a better son, do you hear? Oh dear, there she goes," this last as Mother's body slackens and her eyes roll back in her head, the Valium finally taking full effect. I feel guilty about it, of course, but I know from long experience that the alternative is to endure an escalating situation of excruciating embarrassment that nearly always ends in tears, and not always on Mother's part.
I press the heels of my hands into my eyes, fighting to retain control as I have done over the last week, but when I sense a gentle touch on my arm, as Aunt Emily asks softly, "What is it, pet? You know you can tell me anything, anything at all," all my hard-won self-denial and self-discipline dissolves, and when she kneels down to hug me as if I am a little boy who has hurt himself, I can't help it: I sob silently on her shoulder, and wrap my arms around her as though to stop myself from washing away on the tide of misery which threatens to engulf me, while she utters small noises of sympathy. "Dear heart, what's happened? Is it Rachel?" she asks in Welsh, after a time, and I answer in the same tongue, "It's over, finished… she's in love with another man, and so I ended things between us, but oh, it hurts so much!" And after that, I don't remember anything other than the feeling of my aunt's hand on my cheek, and the sympathy in her eyes as she looks into mine, and says, "I know it doesn't seem so now, but I promise you that one day, this too shall pass. Girls today, they don't know a good man when he's standing right in front of them… as for Rachel, I'm sorry to say it, but I thought she was a cunning little minx, even though she was nice enough when I met her. There was something about her, something calculating, perhaps, or too studied; or maybe something was missing." Never a truer word was spoken...
I shake my head, thumbing moisture from my eyes, and insist, "No, I broke up with her…" and Aunt Emily says reasonably, "And what else could you do, and her pining all the while for another man?" I sigh and a long shudder runs through my frame, as Aunt Emily gives me a final squeeze and then sits on the edge of the coffee table, facing me. "I don't wish to sound melodramatic, but there really are…were… three people in the relationship," I tell her, "and I just couldn't bear it any longer… I had loved her so much, for so long, I would have done anything for her, given her anything, but it wasn't enough; nothing would have been enough to have turned her completely away from him. What's wrong with me? Why can't I just accept that I'll always be alone?"
My aunt reaches towards me, beckoning, and just as I did when I was a small child, I give her my left hand; she turns it over, holding it carefully she traces the lines of my palm with a cool, dry forefinger. "Your heart line runs deep, see here? And this, this is your head line, cutting straight across it, that's your incisive intelligence overruling your emotions; but the heart wants what it wants, Malcolm, and it cannot be denied forever. While this one, this one is your life line, and a longer life line I have yet to see." I half-chuckle; she's making it all up, of course, but it still makes me feel a tiny bit better, in some obscure way, just as it had when I was young. I give her a watery smile. "Thank you," I tell her, and mean it.
On the settee, Mother slumbers on, and with a cautious glance in her direction, my aunt says, "I'm going to send her home in a day or two. She won't want to stay in Bournemouth if she can't play the rich lady any more, and I really can't put up with any more of her sulking about the house. Besides, I think her fancy man might be headed that way himself, shortly; I overheard her talking to him on the phone yesterday, and she was begging him not to go back to London. I said that she hadn't introduced him, Malcolm, and that's true enough, but I've seen him once, when he dropped her off very late." Interested in spite of my promise to myself to keep out of my mother's love life, I raise both eyebrows. "Well?" Aunt Emily shrugs, "Oh, I don't know him – I'd thought perhaps she'd taken up with some retired TV celebrity or other has-been; there's enough of them round about here, you know, but I didn't recognise him. He was handsome enough, in a posh sort of way, wore a dinner suit, had a good head of hair, drove a late-model Rolls – I saw the silver ornament on the bonnet – perhaps in his late sixties or early seventies. I only caught a glimpse from my bedroom window, and then he was gone."
I am impressed; many junior field officers would have been hard put to have noticed so much in such a short time. "All very good, Aunt, but that description could fit any one of a thousand men," I say, but Aunt Emily shakes her head, "There's something else; I heard him say good night to her. I'd know that voice if I ever heard it again." On the settee, Mother mutters, and my aunt sighs, "You'd better go; I'll lead her up to bed shortly, and in the morning she won't remember half of it, you know what she's like." Yes, I do… I gather up the tea things and take them through to the kitchen, and when I come back out into the hall, Aunt Emily has brought down a dozen large, glossy carrier bags, and the full length black mink. "You may as well take these back with you now; she can't bring it all on the train. She's worn everything, sadly, or I'd make her return them; it would do her good." Collecting my jacket and tie along with the bags, I lug it all out to the Rover. Aunt Emily walks out with me, and when the car is packed, I turn to her for a final hug. "Are you sure you can cope with Mother for a few more days?" I ask her anxiously, and she says, "I've been dealing with your mother all my life; I know what I'm doing, dear. Now, are you going to be all right by yourself?" I assure her that I am, and for the first time I begin to believe it, as I start the engine and turn out of the drive.
One day, this too shall pass…one day… one day at a time, I realise, as the Rover slides onto the motorway, is the best I can hope for; it's the best that any of us can hope for. I pray that it will be enough to get me through the lonely nights and awkward days that lie ahead, and the uniquely personal pain of working closely with Ruth, while maintaining my professional demeanour. My thoughts stray back to the sight of the two of them in the darkened corridor; once more I see that all-consuming intensity rising between them and I know that it is now just a matter of time; like Lancelot and Guinevere, their passion cannot be contained forever. The only question is whether, like those star-crossed lovers of legend, it will prove to be their undoing, as well as their greatest joy. Oddly, I find myself wishing them well, rather halfheartedly, for the thought of Ruth with another man pierces me to the core; I suppose I had better resign myself to such conflicting and contradictory emotions, at least until I can find some peace about the whole situation, and that, I fear, is going to take quite some time. As I drive onwards through the deepening dusk, an ancient Latin canon, part of the Mass, comes to mind; properly, it should be sung as a round in three parts, but there's only me, and so I sing the melody written by Mozart, beautifully simple, yet poignant too, all the way back to London. Music is such a balm to the soul, even one as world-weary and wounded as mine.
Dona nobis pacem, pacem
Dona nobis pacem
Dona nobis pacem, pacem
Lord, give us peace… give us peace.
A/N: Malcolm's comment about there being three in the relationship is, of course, a reference to the late Princess of Wales' observation that 'there were three of us in this marriage, so it was a bit crowded' during her televised interview with Martin Bashir in 1995. I rather suspect he knows how she felt...