Aunt Margaret's Lover Read online

  I heard the intake of breath, looked up expectantly, had read the signs correctly. Le flick, le preparatory flick. And instead of going into accepting mode, as one who has heard its variations over many years, I found myself inwardly infuriated at what she was about to say . ..

  'God, Aunt M,' she said. 'Bloody men ...'

  Yes, yes. That was it. The usual.

  'Do you know what he did on Saturday?' She waited.

  And then the most curious thing happened. Instead of Aunt M saying, 'No, tell me, what did he do? Oh, you poor thing ...' I said none too kindly - well, in fact, acidly - 'No, Joan, I don't. What did that vegetable head do on Saturday? Microwave the canary?'

  She looked at me. Le flick. And the look was one of pained amazement. Her mouth was open but no sound issued forth. Very well. I would continue. I felt inexplicably vengeful.

  I said, counting on my fingers, 'Joan, I have heard about Sean, Robert, Lucian, Enoch. Now it's this one and he's exactly the same. Let's see. Which one of the many scenarios will it be? He didn't get up until three? He used your bread knife to mend his bicycle? When he got up at three, you found somebody else in the bed there with him?' My voice was rising. The hank of hair had slipped back and she was one-eyed again. 'He put on your three-quarters-wired underlift? He wouldn't pay half the telephone? He ate the sodding cooked canary?'

  Le flick. She spoke. Quietly. 'Yes,' she said. 'He's been having sex with somebody else.' The hair slipped back.

  'I'm not surprised,' I shouted. 'You should wash your hair more often.'

  She blinked her one eye.

  'At least he's having sex. At least you are having sex ...' By now I was getting a bit muddled. 'I bet even the sodding canary was having sex before he cooked it!'

  The one eye widened. 'Aunt M?' she said uncertainly. 'He didn't actually do that.'

  'Oh, damn everything,' I yelled. 'It's a great pity he didn't!'

  She moved towards me, hesitant, puzzled. 'But I haven't got a canary . ..'

  'Well, you wouldn't have after that,' I said, half laughing. 'Now, would you?'

  She was so woebegone that I felt instantly remorseful. I looked at my watch. Half an hour before I had to leave for Mrs Mortimer's house. 'I'm sorry,' I said. 'I don't know why I shouted. It's probably just seeing Sassy off.' But I knew it wasn't that. 'I apologize. Go and make a cup of coffee,' I said, 'and tell me about it before I leave.'

  There is a very tender painting of the Visitation, I think by Tintoretto - or rather, since the picture is in Venice, certainly by that fame-hungry, ubiquitous genius of the Veneto - in which the artist shows Mary supporting the stumbling - or perhaps helping up the kneeling - Elisabeth. It touches the mysterious and universal heart of Woman-to-Womanness, as they stand completely absorbed in each other's joy, which could just as easily be sorrow. A saintly pair of men flank the scene and look on, distant and bemused, not privy to the enigma. I remember the tears welling up when I first saw it. I thought of me and Sassy, me and Jill, my mother, me and Lorna. I remembered it and added Joan to the list.

  She came back with two mugs and an expression of increased gloom.

  I put down my polishing cloth.

  'This time,' she began, 'it's worse because I really do love him.'

  'Yes, of course ...' I nodded. She had loved the others too. 'And everything was so good. The sex was still brilliant -even after a year.'

  I raised my eyebrows. 'Does it go off after a year, then?' She nodded.

  Curiosity overcame the mysterious bond of womanness for a moment. 'If the sex was so good with you, why did he do it with someone else?'

  'I asked him that.' She blinked out a tear. 'And he said because he just got bored. But he says he still loves me.'

  I kept my mouth very firmly closed.

  'And I love him.'

  'Well, if that's the case,' I said, with a fatalism born from long experience with her, 'forgive and forget.'

  'I'm trying to,' she said miserably. 'Only it hurts.'

  'Yes,' I said, touching her hair, which felt like oiled rope, 'I should imagine it does.'

  And fortunately, I thought to myself, imagine is all I can do, though I wished I felt more smug about my detachment.

  Reg appeared from the workroom. He took one look at Joan and me, his eyes swivelling confusingly, and departed again at some speed. I followed him and told him to be especially nice to Joan today. He said, very dourly, that he always was nice.

  'How old are you, Reg?' I asked.

  'Thirty-four,' he said. 'Why?'

  'Why don't you ask Joan out?'

  I immediately regretted the intrusion. His eyes moved around dangerously and he changed colour - paled rather than reddened.

  'Yes, well,' I said briskly. 'Give me the Adamsons' map and I'll deliver it. I'm going out.'

  'Oh,' was all he said.

  Was I so uninteresting? Joan hadn't asked where I was going, either.

  After I had delivered the map to the Adamsons, I bought a card showing a clump of very pretty pansies, painted with that interesting nineteenth-century combination of botanical exactitude and decoratively romantic form. Jill would love it.

  I wrote, 'Get well soon. I’m longing to come up and stay. Maybe next month? S sailed happy. We all missed you all. Now watch this space. Much love, Margaret.' And I posted it off.

  Then, feeling curiously fluttery, I set off for that familiar big old house in Parson's Green, almost certainly for the last time. The drizzly damp April weather had given way to a little pale sunshine and everything had that new, washed look about it. I was dreading going back to the street and stopped for a few minutes to look in the window of the Doll's House Shop, a place Saskia used to delight in when she came with me on my visits. There they all were, those miniature little people in their miniature little world, all sitting up neatly or going about their chores in the house. I realized it was exactly the same display of a week or two ago. Nothing had changed nor moved in all that time. They were stuck, immobilized, until someone came along to buy them, rescue them, and move them about. I shivered. The thought was too sombre by half.

  In the event, returning to the Mortimer house was not so bad. Julius opened the door to me before I rang the bell, and his two sons, both in their teens, very gravely offered me sherry and cake and showed me into the small sitting-room downstairs. I was glad he had chosen it in preference to the imposing front salon, which his mother used only for formal gatherings and the occasional little exhibition of works in her collection.

  The two boys alleviated some of the quiet sobriety of the occasion by just being boyish - trying out the Stanna lift, wandering around with feet still too big for their bodies, giggling nervously when the other sneezed. I was glad of it. Their mother, Linda, having acknowledged me with a half-smile and a nod across the room, turned her back. Secretaries

  should never marry their bosses, they never feel relaxed about anything. Linda had always been cautious and distant with me. Now she was probably wondering if I would be running off with the family jewels.

  About fourteen of us thus assembled, all family save for me, we waited for the Mortimer solicitor to be seated. He made one or two fairly light ice-breaking remarks before he began to read from the will. Pushed to one side in a corner of the room was the electric wheelchair. It did not look entirely empty to me. Full of memories, I suppose. I felt that its owner was still within it somehow, waiting for this last act to be executed in her name before finally going to that great art gallery in the sky.

  Chapter Seven

  I laughed and laughed. I winked at the wheelchair and fancied that its very emptiness was a smile. I did this despite the likelihood of it being considered in bad taste or mad. It was a friendly piece of revenge, my legacy, a nice joke, and -let us not mince our words - a fairly valuable one. It was this last quality that set the not altogether approving whispers going, I think, rather than its intrinsic worth. I doubted if any of those assembled had ever seen it: they could not judge if it were fine
or poor, nor its size, nor its style, nor its imagery. But they knew the name spelled money and the whispers were perfectly audible.

  To my dear friend and framer Margaret Percy, for her integrity on that night and for her being absolutely right, as well as irritatingly pompous, I bequeath the portfolio set of Picasso etchings entitled Les Danses de Feu, in its entirety and absolutely. They are in their original box, in their original wrapping, in the third drawer down of the yellow plan chest. Rhys Fisher has valued them recently and I attach his valuation sheet. I hope, Margaret, that you will sell them and have a great deal of fun with the proceeds for it is about time and long overdue. You might consider a toy boy. I wanted very much also to leave you the wheelchair as a memento mori, or should it be memento torpidus, but realize that it would be pure indulgence since someone with a real need must benefit from it. You will never need such a thing.

  There was a codicil, apparently written very shortly before her death.

  Also attached in an envelope is a small and instant gift which I want you to spend straight away on something silly to wear. Not leggings, a jumper or anything that covers the knees. I am a connoisseur of legs and you have exceptionally nice ones. Goodbye my dear and Bless you.

  The poor solicitor, looking anywhere but at my legs which were in any case covered by a decent pleated skirt, handed me the envelope with an embarrassed grimace - a smile, I think it was supposed to be. I had begun to laugh at the bit about 'pomposity', reached a peak of amusement at 'toy boy' - where did she get such phrases? - and had calmed a little by the time she complimented my legs. Around me I could hear the whispers, sense the disapproval. Picasso. I looked up at the Matisse head which still hung in its familiar place and which would be Julius's now. Ah well, Mrs Mortimer was probably right. As I opened the envelope, I could feel necks craning, lips pursing and eager disapproval in the air. I was glad and relieved to take out four fifty-pound notes. A clever sum. Not enough to make me tremble at the spending of it, not too little to oblige me to buy something tacky. It was a nice in-between amount and I could feel, by the sighs of relief around me, that my audience thought so too. They all smiled politely and the reading went on.

  Although there was more sherry and cake afterwards, I stayed only as long as was absolutely necessary to be polite. Just before I left, I went over to the wheelchair and patted its shoulder. I urged it also to have fun.

  'She's left it to the Artists' Benevolent Fund to dispose of. Very fitting,' said Linda rather sourly.

  'She was full of good ideas,' I said. 'I shall miss her very much.'

  'How much do you think the Picasso is worth?' she asked bluntly.

  I had the valuation in my bag but did not take it out. 'Oh, quite a lot. More than I or it merit.' I felt my throat constrict, suddenly feeling the loss of my friend and patroness.

  Linda was clearly on the warpath. Her eyes widened. 'We were very fond of each other,' I said. 'Evidently,' she replied, and turned swiftly away. I went to say goodbye to Julius.

  'Picasso, eh?' he said, shaking my hand. 'Never could stand the fellow. Mother liked you very much. I think she wished I was a daughter, actually.' He said this wistfully and I realized he was probably right.

  'What will you do with the rest of the collection?'

  'Oh, speak to Rhys Fisher first. We'll probably sell the best pieces and keep the rest for the boys, naturally.' We both looked across at 'the boys' who were quietly fighting in the corner, the one putting cake down the other's neck. 'I expect they'll appreciate that sort of thing in due course,' said Julius with a sigh.

  'I always loved that,' I said, pointing to the Matisse.

  'Yes,' said Julius. 'It's rather nice. At least you can see it's a perfectly normal face and the artist ...' - he peered at the picture - 'Matisse ... hasn't gone and stuck the eyes somewhere else or given it three noses.'

  'It's lovely,' I said, and now I did feel close to tears.

  'She was eighty-three, you know. Lasted much longer than the doctors ever said she would.'

  'It was the art that did it,' I said, remembering Emerson. 'Passion keeps you alive.'

  Julius gave me a sad little smile. 'I expect I shall go very early, then.' His eyes gleamed suddenly. 'What are you going to buy? With the cash?' He looked down towards my knees and then back up at me. The gleam grew stronger. 'Something short?'

  It was definitely time to depart.

  I walked along Strand on the Green. It was a cool evening now, slightly blustery with rain just holding off. There were few people about - the days of warmth and pub-going had not yet begun. It suited me. I was crying silently as I walked, the best kind of crying, with large, welling tears, utterly resigned to the cause, totally indulging the sadness. By the time I reached Kew Bridge the tears had stopped and left me with that emptied-out feeling, as if there were space to put in new things, a room without furniture, no longer the static doll's house. I turned around and let my thoughts skim to the rhythm of walking back. Beneath Mrs Mortimer's funny prose lay a sensible message. I stopped walking and bent to raise the hem of my skirt a little, checking the validity of her statement. I suppose they were all right, really, my legs. A man and woman were passing by with their dog. I looked up. My eyes met hers, cool. My eyes met his, appraising. I walked on, thinking harder.

  What was my life nowadays? It was the shop, the business my life's blood. I realized, quite suddenly, that it was running very thin. It was Saskia, but she was, quite literally, launched - piloting herself - and would no longer need intensive care. It was a few friends. Jill and David, Verity, Colin were close intimates. But they all had partnerships of one kind or another. Jill and David of course. Verity had met her New Man who brought her flowers and cooked for her and knew how to mend fuses. Colin had yards of young women hanging off him. He said he came to me for a rest. The others were good friends at a distance - theatre, dinner, lunch . . . Mrs Mortimer was gone. Saskia was gone. I was here. I was here, with a good pair of legs, almost no grey in my hair and - I stood still, heart pounding - and money. A bloody great chunk of potential security was, quite suddenly, mine, whenever I wanted to cash it in. Enough to make my little nest egg look as tiny as a quail's. Now I could do something radical. I could kick up my heels a little if I chose. And then I remembered. There was also Roger.

  There was also, I realized quite suddenly, no excitement. Nothing to make the heart flip, the bone tingle, the mascara go on extra thick. In short, I decided, there by the river, with the seagulls wheeling, the scullers sculling, the flotsam jetsamming at my feet, I wanted some action. Ovid says that rivers do this to the soul because they know all about love themselves, and since his definition of love is generally looser than most, I took it as a sign. That's what I would do, the best thing to do in the rather empty circumstances: I would take a lover. A lover. Not a life companion, not a pair of socks required at seven a.m., not a shin-up this ladder to fix my curtains, but a real lover. Orchids and all. And bearing in mind the apparent inevitability of disappointment - what had Greasy Joan said, for example, about sex? - to take a lover for one year would be sustainable, one year would be fine.

  It would have been an impossible notion without the security of the Picasso portfolio behind me. Because of that I could take a year's unpaid leave and squander my savings on reckless abandonment - or at any rate, as far as I cared to go in it. Mr Spiteri could trust Joan and Reg and put in his horrible wastrel of a son for a while, something he had always wanted to do. I had no doubt the job would still be there in a year's time. And if not? Why, thanks to Picasso having a creative blip, I would survive. Let others worry for a while. I could just do with a little grape-peeling and satin knickers. And who would it harm? Who would it affect but myself? I didn't even need to tell Sassy - indeed I would not tell Sassy. Given her remarks about those other lovers, she would only worry that we might fall over our zimmer frames while attempting physical union.

  At Zoffany's house I had quite made up my mind. The early April light had almost gone
now, ducks were tottering around on the pebbly, muddy strand below me, and the cottages across the river glowed in little multi-paned windows. All very familiar. What it needed was something extraordinary, like a huge Oldenberg soft sculpture to come gliding down and land – pouf! - in the middle of it all. A hamburger of velvet with red-satin ketchup perhaps, or a towering pair of latex knees. Jumble everything up, stop the smugness, make the ducks jump, the curtains twitch - something to make me twitch. Very well, I was resolved. And it was there by that shifting, oily water that I promised not to renege on the undertaking, for I knew it would be very easy to feel positive, go home, and forget all about it by morning. But not this time. This time I knew what I must do. And the first thing was to