Mother is back; and with her return, my life reverts to its old, familiar rut. Jocelyn Meyers' name is not mentioned, and nor does any further correspondence for Lady Angela Anglesey make its way to Hampstead. On the few occasions that I try to ask her about it, Mother deflects my concern by pointing out the woeful state of the herbaceous border, browned-off by the late July heat, or by disappearing into the kitchen to roast or stew or bake something, muttering, "Really, Malcolm, ask me no questions and I'll tell you no lies." This phrase is a direct link to my insatiably curious boyhood, when I must have driven my parents mad with endless questions: my father, bless him, had treated every childish enquiry with serious consideration, but Mother had far less patience, and I soon understood that I should stop when she uttered those words. By the age of five, I had discovered my father's old set of the Encyclopaedia Britannica, the gold-stamped spines hinting at the wealth of knowledge that lay between the tall covers, and I would quietly take myself into his library to consult the reassuringly bulky books instead.
Father often found me there, curled up on the window seat, where the light made it easier to read the small, old-fashioned type, and he was always interested in what I was looking up. Those books still occupy pride of place in my own library, despite Mother sniffing suspiciously when I uncrated them after moving into this house, nearly twenty years ago. "They'll be damp, and probably full of mildew, and likely enough will set off your asthma. Why not just buy a nice new set instead?" Opening one, I had breathed in that indefinable scent of old paper and ink and book-dust – the comfortable, familiar smell of my father, sitting at the little oak desk near the window seat, writing his Sunday homily – and suddenly quite unable to speak, I had clutched the book to my chest and shaken my head. "There, see? What did I tell you? You've got the wheezes, haven't you, and I don't suppose you've got your puffer handy…" and she had gotten up, grumbling, to look for the inhaler that I didn't need, unable or unwilling to see the shimmer of unshed tears in my eyes, or understand that a surge of memories was threatening to overwhelm me with each shaky breath. Oh, Father…
I carefully slot the book back into its place on the shelf before melancholy settles on me completely, and turn to look over the garden and towards the Heath, still green, but with the first hint of tawniness threading through the birch leaves, while the bramble tangles in the hollows are starting to set fruit that will steadily ripen over the months to come. A few more weeks, then, of summer, and long light, and the thwack of willow on leather, carried on balmy evening breezes from the cricket pitch on Parliament Hill. A few more weeks of women in summer dresses and men in light-coloured clothing, of sitting outside at the pub, of melty 99 p's and slightly warm Orangina… oh, come on, Wynn-Jones, how old are you, ten? You're not wandering down memory lane today, as much as getting bogged down in nostalgia: this is what happens when you find yourself at a loose end. Following a day of mopping up after Havensworth, Harry has rostered me off for the next seventy-two hours, along with Jo, Adam and Zaf. Ruth, I noticed, had not been included in the breather, as such short breaks are known at Five, and nor had Ms Meyers. Ms Meyers' exclusion I can understand: as the new girl, until such time as Harry and Adam are satisfied that she's a sound team member, she can expect to work dog's hours. Ruth, though, is entitled to time off, and it makes me wonder just what Harry is up to. Perhaps she had refused to go… yes, that would be just like her, as stubborn as a mule when her mind's made up, and twice as ornery, as Harry's old CIA contact, Jim Coaver, has been known to describe particularly recalcitrant assets.
On the lawn below, Mother appears, wearing a preposterously floppy pink straw hat and matching gardening gloves, a trug of seedlings in one hand, and I sigh, remembering that I had promised to dig over a bed for her to plant with pansies, ready for autumn. After setting the seedlings down, she makes a beeline towards my beloved roses, and with horror I spot the secateurs she is taking from the pocket of her apron…oh, no! Turning from the elegant bay window, I go down the stairs in record time and reach the roses just as half a dozen beautiful blooms fall to the ground. "I thought we agreed that I would do the pruning, and you would do the planting," I protest, slightly out of breath, as I pluck the secateurs from her resisting hand. "That's all very well, dear, but you weren't, and the bed still needs preparing, so I thought I'd just make a start on the roses while I was waiting." The emphasis on waiting is not lost on me. "Sorry, Mother. I was just in the library," I begin, and she retorts, "Sitting in the lovely cool with your nose stuck in a book, I suppose, while I'm out here working like a navvy in the hot sun." My mouth opens and closes, but I can think of nothing to say in response to such an egregious accusation; after a moment, she turns away, and her final words are thrown at me over her shoulder. "You're just like your father, always off in your own world instead of making yourself useful." The fallen flowers lie forgotten on the lawn, and I stoop to gather them up, lovely old-fashioned Meilland roses, heavily perfumed and double-petalled, blushing from rich cream to pale gold edged with pink. The cultivar is called Peace, and I can't help giving a little chuckle at the irony, even as my insides churn at the unfairness of my mother's casual accusations. I take them inside and pop them into the first vase I can find, before collecting a garden fork and spade, pulling on Wellies, donning an old Panama hat, rolling up my sleeves, and going forth to do my mother's bidding in the flower beds.
The day is a fine one, and I relish the all too rare chance to spend time in the sun and fresh air; I put my back into it, and in a short time have dug over quite a large area. "I don't know why you don't just ask the gardeners to do the heavy work," Mother says, carelessly separating the seedlings' tangled roots as she plants them in untidy rows. "I don't mind, and besides, it's good exercise," I reply, straightening up to survey my work and mop my brow with a handkerchief. Besides, I add silently, it would never do for the gardeners to unearth some of the more unusual plants, the ones that only I know about… "It's all very well to talk about it being good exercise, but you've gone very red in the face," she observes, dibbling uneven lines of holes for the next punnet of pansies. Just as I am about to return to my digging, I think I catch the sound of a car engine; shading my eyes, I see a black cab drawing up at the gates, and then a lilting voice calls out, "Prynhawn da, fy nai!" and Mother squints in its direction. "What does she want?" she grumbles, and at the same instant I realise joyfully, "It's Aunt Emily!" pulling out my phone and punching in the code to open the gates. All further gardening ceases forthwith, and soon I am carrying a tray of tea things out to the summer house on the back lawn, where the two sisters are sitting in the afternoon warmth. Once tea has been poured and scones have been modestly scraped with butter, in my case, or slathered with strawberry jam and clotted cream, in my mother's, or topped with a little quince jelly, in my aunt's, I ask the question that has been on my lips since the cab pulled up. "So, to what do we owe the pleasure of this visit?"
My aunt smiles at me over her teacup, her eyes crinkling at the edges. "Well, I thought I'd come up to town for a few days, perhaps take in a show, do a spot of shopping, and see my sister, and of course, my favourite nephew. I do hope it's not inconvenient?" Before Mother can reply, I interject, "Of course not, it's always wonderful to see you, isn't it, Mother?" My parent glowers sulkily at her sibling. "You never came to see me when I was in the clinic," she pouts, and Aunt Emily looks at her patiently. "I took you there, if you recall, Milly, and you said I wasn't to visit because you thought I might be followed, or some such nonsense." My mother spoons some more cream onto her scone without looking at either of us. "I never said any such thing," she protests, but my aunt isn't having it. "You did, and well you know it," she says stoutly, before turning the subject to the lovely weather we're enjoying, and how well the apple tree looks, with dozens of tiny green fruits already beginning to form along its espaliered boughs, and surely that's a blackbird, darting there amongst the raspberry canes? The afternoon stretches on into early evening, and my aunt suggests that she and I take a walk on the Heath, before we all go across to the village for dinner.
After making our leisurely way up to the bench where I like to sit and look out over London, I turn to my aunt. "Now, what did you want to talk to me about?" She shifts her gaze from the city bathed in the dusty pink light of dusk, to regard me shrewdly. "I wanted to see how you were with my own eyes," she says, and I ask, "What's the verdict, then?" sounding less certain than I would like; those kind brown eyes search mine, before she smiles back at me. "You're still too thin, and you've the look of a man who doesn't get enough sleep," she decides, "but it's a vast improvement on the last time I saw you. How have you been coping, dear?" And I know she isn't just asking about work, or Mother, but about Colin. "Oh, I have my good days, and my not so good days," I reply softly, "but my work keeps me busy, and the team…" I trail off, shying away from venturing too close to the bottomless pit of pain in which I have sealed my grief for Colin, and caught up in my worry for the others…
Adam, who is nowhere as near over Fiona's death as he would have us believe, and who has point-blank refused to go back to Tring, as I overheard him shouting at Harry yesterday; Jo, who is waiting for Zaf to notice her in the way she wishes for, and in whose eyes a darker secret lurks, one that I can't ignore for much longer; Ms Meyers, who regards us all with the flat stare of a circling shark, even as she makes clear her abundant hatred of, and for, Harry; Ruth, who still gazes at him from beneath the dark fall of her fringe with dog-like devotion, forgetting that the rest of us are also in the room; or Harry himself, with the level in his office whisky decanter dropping alarmingly fast of late. And then there's the unbearable tension that now permeates the Grid, making it almost impossible for the rest of us to breathe whenever Harry and Ruth are in the same space; a simmering, ugly thing that threatens to erupt and destroy the fragile balance of all our lives, if it is not resolved one way or the other, and soon…
"Malcolm? Malcolm?" Blinking, I come back to the present, and Aunt Emily, watching me with worry. "I'm so sorry, Aunt Em. I'm fine, truly I am, is what I meant to say." She eyes me doubtfully, before changing tack with her next question. "Have you seen any more of that nice Doctor Chapman?" Before I can marshal my wandering thoughts to reply, the blood rushes to my cheeks, and my aunt has her answer. "It's really not that difficult, pet. Just ask her out for a drink, or dinner, or for a Saturday afternoon walk on the Heath, at a pinch. She'd say yes in a trice, you know." But I don't know, not for certain, and that's half the trouble… besides, I think I had, and lost, my chance there, and now she's on the other side of the Atlantic… "Erm, she did drop round one evening, to tell me she was taking a sabbatical. Six months in America. I haven't heard from her since, so…" Aunt Em returns sturdily, "So, nothing! Surely you must have some holidays due. Why don't you take a break and do some travelling yourself? You've often said you'd like to see New England in the autumn. You might be able to meet up with her." I shake my head against the barrage of well-intentioned suggestions. "I don't think so. I've already had my heart shattered once this year, and I don't intend to go running after moonbeams. I'm tired of being hurt and of my heart being treated like a plaything. I should never have started with Ruth; I didn't know what I was getting into. Lesson learned, is all I can say. Fool me once, and all that."
The words come out with rather more bitterness than I had intended, and my aunt looks away, out over the view; a small silence ensues, before she says, "Please don't judge all women by the selfish unkindness of one or two, fy nai, or you'll go through the rest of your life lonely, and alone. You've got a heart that could hold the whole world; don't waste that rare and lovely gift." The evening has drawn in while we have been sitting here, and Aunt Emily shivers, pulling her thin cardigan close. "We'd better get back, or Milly will have the police out looking for us," she says, before adding, "And your secret's safe with me." As we get up, I look enquiringly at her, unsure of her meaning. "I thought her name was Rachel, but I understand. It must be so hard to keep track of who knows what about whom. I won't say a thing." My heart, which had skipped a beat at her mention of Ruth's name, resumes its regular rhythm: Aunt Emily's word is even better than gold, as far as I'm concerned. "Thank you so much, for everything," I say, humbled by such steadfast kindness and loyalty, and she laughs, "Oh, go on with you. Now, lend me your arm, and let's get back down this blessed hill before we lose the last of the light."
Later that night, I lie in bed, wakeful as I revisit the events of the day: gardening with Mother to the peril of the roses, the unexpected arrival of Aunt Em, and again and again, the conversation up on Parliament Hill. There is something else too, something that tugs at the edges of my consciousness: something missing, or out of place, something I can't quite put my finger on. Again I hear Aunt Em saying, you'll go through life lonely, and alone. You've got a heart that could hold the whole world; don't waste that rare and lovely gift…you might be able to meet up with her…see New England in the autumn… I do have leave, months and months of it, in fact, and it's true that I have always wanted to tour the East Coast in fall… it wouldn't be too difficult to get in contact with Sally, see if she might be interested in joining me for a week or two… my mind presents me once more with the image of Sally, my hands on her waist, as she puts her arms around my neck, pressing her svelte body against mine as we kiss, and then… nothing. There had been no stirring, no firing of the blood, no sudden rush of sensation there… nothing, not so much as a single twitch, then, or at any time since. Until now, I have been too grief-stricken, or exhausted, or preoccupied with crises at work to devote much thought to what many men would consider a major crisis in itself, but Aunt Em's well-meaning suggestion has brought the matter to a head, so to speak. Turning over, I stare at the darkened privacy glass of my bedroom windows, and give myself over to even darker ruminations.
The truth is, I am terrified of becoming involved with Sally, or any woman, not only out of the wish to guard my heart, but because I no longer feel like a man in the most basic sense of the word, and for the first time in my life, it matters. Now that I've experienced the sheer physicality of it, the way in which two bodies can meld and become one, making something far greater than the sum of their parts, it matters. Ruth has opened Pandora's casket for me, and nothing will ever be the same again. Ruth… will I ever be free of her? How can I put her behind me entirely, when she is at once the best and worst of my life? Even feeling about her as I do now, and knowing that she was always, in her heart of hearts, Harry's, in name if not in deed, how can I forget all that she once was to me? If not for Ruth, I would never have known what it is to sleep with a lover in my arms, or to take each other in the night, half-awake and flushed with happiness, or to feel the ecstasy of my pleasure merging with the peak of hers. Until I met Ruth, I had thought of this sensual world as a secret place, beyond my reach, and had put it out of my mind as I might have put away childish tales of Troy or Atlantis; my problem now seems to be the difficulty I have in believing that I might find it again with another. Sally, for instance... she had certainly seemed keen enough, that night, and she is everything I could ever want: beautiful, sophisticated, intelligent and kind. The doubt and fear had been all of my own making, my customary uncertainty and insecurity fuelled by the memory of my last, disastrous attempt at intimacy with Ruth, on the night of her birthday.
Closing my eyes, I force myself to recall that night once again, studying it like a mathematical problem that I haven't yet puzzled out. I hadn't eaten too much, nor over-indulged in wine; our foreplay had been as enthusiastic and passionate as ever, and certainly I had very much wanted to… so had Ruth, her body seeking mine in eager anticipation. When it became evident that all the wanting in the world wasn't going to make a blind bit of difference, I had been so humiliated… rolling onto my side, I stare into the dark, and for the thousandth time, wonder what had gone wrong. Eventually, I fall into an uneasy doze, only to jerk upright, shocked by a sudden realisation: something is missing. Something small, but precious nonetheless. Hastily, I get up, pull on my old wool dressing gown, find my slippers, and pad down the corridor to the library, my heart hammering as I stare at the tiny gap on the shelf where it should be, knowing that there is only one person who could have taken it, only one who would have recognised its rarity.
Ruth.
In and of itself, the missing edition of the Aeneid is a valuable one, but to me, the book is quite simply irreplaceable. Methodically, I scan the rest of the shelves, hoping against hope that it has simply been misplaced, but the little brown book is gone, and with it one of my most treasured memories of my father, for it had first belonged to him. He had often read to me from it, his voice soft, yet enunciating the sonorous Latin phrases with precision, as my younger self basked in the beauty of the spoken word, and my father's love. My search has disturbed the fine dust that settles wherever books are kept in quantity, and I feel my throat beginning to tighten in warning. Automatically, I reach for the puffer I carry in my dressing-gown pocket, but instead my fingers close on a small, cold, square object, which I identify by feel as the Tessina. I had brought it home during the Kallis operation, not wanting to leave it where Ruth could find it, and in my exhaustion, I must have slipped it into this pocket, intending to put it in one of my safe places, and then forgotten. Technically, I suppose I have stolen it from the Grid, as I have not signed it out of the storage cage, but no more so than Ruth, with her many mysterious and inexplicable excursions. It's funny, really: before Ruth came into my life, I would have hyperventilated at this thought, and now, it doesn't even raise my pulse. I will return it, of course, and no one will be any the wiser. Only Ruth and I will ever know it has not been sitting in its box on the top shelf of the cage for the past month. I find my puffer in the other pocket, and ease the wheezing in my chest, wondering when Ruth must have taken the Ovid. She had enjoyed free access to my rooms, when we had been together, and during the week she had stayed with me, she had found my private library, drawn by her passion for books.
Too unsettled to go back to bed, I sink into a high-backed armchair, recollecting Ruth's delight when she had first seen the room, with its tall bay window and fitted shelves from floor to ceiling on three sides, and how she had trailed her hand lovingly along the spines of as many books as she could reach, murmuring titles and authors' names as though greeting old friends. It had been a sunny morning, and the bright light had revealed the softly curved shape of her through the shirt she had pulled on when she got up, an old linen one of mine in dark blue that made her eyes look more sapphire than aquamarine. When I found her, she had been browsing the shelves, completely absorbed; I was transfixed in the doorway, unable to take my gaze from her body as it moved beneath the loose folds of backlit fabric. Ruth was leafing through a copy of Ovid's Amores, quietly reciting in her near-perfect Latin, "Ferreus est, siquis, quod sinit alter, amat speremus pariter, pariter metuamus amantes, et faciat voto rara repulsa locum," Watching her, I had grown ever more aware of my own body stirring in response… I must have made some small sound, for her eyes had met, and held, mine, before she slowly unbuttoned the shirt and let it slide to the floor, her nipples hardening in the still coolness of the library. As she ran her hands down her sides and across her belly, I had closed the distance between us in a few strides, still unable to believe that this goddess was here with me, and had taken her from behind as she braced herself against the shelves, slanting an inviting smile over her shoulder.
I can still hear the urgency in her voice as I slowly sheathe myself in her welcoming wetness, and our breathing as we begin to move together. Ruth reaches back for my hand and places it between her legs with a decisiveness that leaves me in no doubt as to her meaning, and shortly after she reaches her first climax, crying out as pleasure courses through her, arching against me as I continue to move within her, her nails making tiny, crescent-shaped indentations in the varnish as she clutches convulsively at the wooden shelving. I feel her build and break again and again, until I can hold off no longer. Shaking with the effort, my breath comes in short gasps, as with a final thrust, I reach that moment of suspended animation before the blessed, blissful release begins, clutching her hot, sweat-slick body to mine tightly, seeking to truly become one flesh; and then, something strange happens. Ruth's shoulder-length dark hair turns reddish-gold as autumn leaves, cascading down her back in loose waves, and her skin looks milk-pale, instead of ivory, and when she looks back at me, she's not Ruth at all, but Sally, her green eyes gleaming…
I start awake in my chair, disoriented, and much to my astonishment, with an unmistakable sensation demanding my immediate attention. I hesitate for only a few moments, torn between not wanting to give way to my baser urges, sleepy confusion – was it all a dream, or the expression of a long-repressed fantasy? – and an aching need so fierce in its intensity, I feel all of nineteen again. The need wins out in the end, driven by physical necessity, and justified in my mind by invoking the spirit of scientific enquiry. What will happen if I just permit myself to follow my body's prompting? I wonder, heading towards the bathroom, and a warm shower, which is my preferred setting at such moments of need, rare as they are. A short time later, I have the knee-trembling, head-spinning, heart-thumpingly exhilarating answer: it would seem that I'm fully functional again, for the first time since ending things with Ruth. In some way that I don't quite comprehend, the worst of the poison has leached from the memories of Ruth and I, together, and what remains are feelings and sights and sensations that are as much part of me as my own skin, because I made them. More, there is a hidden truth to my mind's febrile imaginings, one that Aunt Emily has already guessed at, one which has prompted this fusion of memory and fantasy and roused my dormant desire. Ruth might have opened the door to a world I would otherwise never have known, but I walked through it willingly, and the discoveries I made there are mine forever. I feel as though something has been found, or as if something long lost has been restored. I determine that I will retrieve my father's book; Ruth probably just borrowed it and forgot to return it, in the aftermath of the breakup.
It's very late, so late that the first faint streaks of pink are beginning to lighten the sky when I finally fall into bed, utterly worn out and yet with a small, warm glow kindling in my heart for the first time in a very long while. It's been so long, I've almost forgotten what it feels like, but I'm reasonably sure that it's hope.
A/N: Aunt Emily's Welsh greeting means "Good afternoon, my nephew."
Ruth is quoting from Elegy XIX of Ovid's Amores; J. Lewis May's translation is, "He must have a heart like iron, who loves a woman he is free to love. As for us, who are versed in the art, we must have our hopes and fears, and we must have a few rebuffs to give zest to our appetite." Harry, of course, has already given Ruth a volume of Ovid's poetry, the Metamorphoses, perhaps, if she has made off with Malcolm's Amores.
Malcolm's description of himself as being "fully functional" is a tiny homage to Star Trek: the Next Generation, our hero being an avid Trekkie and all-round geek's geek.
Thanks for reading and reviewing, as always. And yes, Cotterdam is next, for those who have been waiting patiently. A little more patience may be necessary, as RL continues to demand rather more of my time and attention than is ideal, but like Christmas, my take on 5.5 is coming.