Death be Not Proud (33 page)

“Yes, it must be confusing. I don't have an answer, not an easy one. I shouldn't ask you to accept the situation as it is, yet
I do. Were I not married, we wouldn't have this dilemma. But the fact is, I am, and only time, inevitably, will change that.”

Time.

Yes, in time Ellen would die, but how long did I have to wait until he was free? How many years would it leave me to spend with him? I tried not to resent this woman who, after all, had more claim to him than I ever could. I played the role of interloper, the gatecrasher on their marriage. It was no good; I had to say what dogged my mind.

“I'm jealous, Matthew; she had all those years with you, and was so much younger than I am now when you met. I won't have that, even if, even when…”

I felt my face screw up as I tackled the desire to give free rein to my resentment.

“Perhaps not, sweetheart, but, if it pleases God, we will have some.”

I turned my head away. “
Some
is not enough. How old was she when you married? Twenty?”

“Nineteen.”

“Cradle-snatcher. She had you for ten whole years more than I ever will.” I sniffed begrudgingly. “What was she like before the accident?”

“Would you like to see a photograph of her?”

“You have one?”

He disappeared into the porch and a moment later came back with a leather wallet and drew out a photograph. It was small – perhaps three by two inches – an odd size, and not an original, but a copy of a much older one.

“This was taken on our wedding day. The original had been damaged during the war and this is the best copy we could make at the time.”

An unremarkable face – pretty, but not outstanding –
smiled up at her new husband, who stood a foot taller than she did. Matthew looked exactly the same as he did now, only his clothes came from another era. Ellen looked young – little more than a girl – and her fair hair, paler than his, was pinned in unnatural wedding curls, 1930s style, around her oval face. My mother would have called her “well covered”, but attractively so, in a wholesome, comely way. Her eyes were set well apart, but quite narrow because she smiled – and they pointed down at the corners. Her small mouth was used to smiling and she had rounded cheeks. I found it hard to tell, but I thought she had dimples – one more pronounced than the other. Steady, dependable – she looked good-natured but determined – someone you would like as a friend, someone you would be happy your son brought home to Sunday lunch.

“She was lovely,” I found myself saying.

“She
is
lovely; it's only her body that's changed, Emma; she's still the same person beneath.”

“It's easy for you to say, but it's not how she – or I – would look at it.”

His voice betrayed his annoyance. “
Easy
for me? You think so? Watching those you love wither and die around you…”

I put my hand on his chest, as if that would still his rising temper; I didn't want to argue, not now.

“I'm sorry, I didn't mean to upset you. I know I haven't lived through what you've experienced, and I can only imagine what it's been like; but as someone who
is
ageing, I do know what it must be like getting older – becoming decrepit while the person you love remains unchanged, feeling that you are losing them, time eating away at you like maggots. I don't know who has the worse deal – you, or those of us who love you.”

It was his turn to apologize. “Sorry, I'm a bit touchy on that subject. It's bad enough knowing that at some point she will
die, but meeting you and loving you the way I do…
wanting
you…” He didn't finish, but briefly caressed my face.

“Makes you feel guilty?”

He dropped his hand. “As guilty as hell.”

I laid my head against his shoulder. “Me too,” I whispered.

 

We sat for some time and watched the sky redden, making the room turn gold, then pink, before it took on the grey cast of dusk and the sun sank below the mountains as night began its reign. As the room chilled, Matthew built up the fire so that the new fierce flames vied with the cold. He put his arm around me once again, but he wavered, which meant he wanted to say something he wasn't sure I would like.

“There's something I would like to ask you. Who's Guy?”

Bother!
I thought that he had forgotten about him since our brief conversation in Stamford, and I really didn't want to talk about him now, his memory a polluting pall of smoke on a spring day. But Matthew wouldn't let it rest this time.

“He was your boyfriend, yes? First, second, last – what?”

My face glowed hot even though, on the scale of what Matthew had confessed, Guy didn't rate.

“Why are you embarrassed about me knowing?”

I shifted obstinately in my seat, bumping his arm out of the way.

“He was nothing.”

“Yes, OK – then tell me. You
are
embarrassed, aren't you?”

“Not so much embarrassed…”

“Ashamed? Surely not!”

“It's something I would rather forget, Matthew. And he was my first and
last
boyfriend, by the way. I don't make a habit of sleeping around.”

He could see he had found a sensitive subject.

“Emma, I didn't think you did,” he said gently. “But he obviously did some damage along the way and I want to understand what.”

“It's not very interesting.”

“No, it might not be, but this isn't for my entertainment. Tell me, please; I have a vested interest in what's happened to you, after all.” The photograph of his wife – fresh-faced, innocent, married – rested in his hand. I scowled at a bit of fluff stuck on the toe of my sock, nipped it off, crushed it into a tiny ball and flicked it dismissively at the log burner.

“Sweetheart…”

“I met him,” I all but spat, “he
screwed
me – in several ways. End of story.”

He didn't react to my coarse use of the word.

“And that's not very enlightening. Where did you meet him – at Cambridge, wasn't it? And he was a student, lecturer…?”

“
Lech
, more like,” I muttered, begrudging the way he extracted information out of me as deftly as winkling a crustacean from its shell.

“A lecturer then; so, you were a student?”

Now only a shade off surly, I retorted, “Yes.”

“So, he was a lecturer, you a student, and he abused his position of trust.” He waited for confirmation as I removed a pine needle from the loose weave of my wool trousers and used it to jab at the soft skin of my hand, leaving tiny pockmarks on the back of it.

“Yes, he did, in more ways than one. I was naïve; I thought there must be more to it than there was. But there wasn't.”

“And…?”

“And he wasn't entirely honest with me.”

“Oh?”

I stabbed ferociously and broke the pine needle's back, releasing its sharp, resinous scent. I didn't want to say anything else; I didn't want him to know. Suddenly, tea and chocolate became very appealing; more than that, they were indispensable.

“I'm going to make a cup of tea,” I declared.

I almost managed to get up when his hand flashed out and caught me by my wrist. “Oh no you don't; finish what you were going to say first.”

He pulled me onto his knees and put both arms around me so I couldn't go anywhere.

“Emma…”

“He was married, Matthew, all right? That's what the real betrayal was about – his being married and me having to find out about it from a tutor. His being married and thinking he could get away with it and having no intention of leaving his wife – even if I wanted him to, which I
didn't
.” I shoved at his arms and he released me. I stood up, my back half-turned to him, but still wanting to know how he would react. “Well, you wanted to know and now you do; I didn't want to tell you.”

He surveyed me gravely. “Ah.”

“Yes.”

“I see.” He considered me for a moment. “I understand now.”

“Yes.”

“And you thought that I might come into the same category of ‘utter bastard', I think you called me?”

“Yes. No – NO! I don't think you're like him…”

“But you still thought that I had betrayed you.”

“Well, yes… oh,
don't
,” I squirmed. “It makes me feel guilty and that's not fair.”

“I wasn't trying to make you feel guilty, I'm just trying to see it from your perspective. So, you discovered, in a totally
degrading way, that your boyfriend – what a foul word – had abused your trust. And then, what?”

“I dumped him.”

“Just like that?”

“Oh,
yes
.” I glared ferociously at the burning logs, gnawing at my lip, remembering all too vividly the one, the only, the final confrontation we'd had.

“So,” he said softly, “I had it relatively easy in comparison.”

I flumped down on the sofa next to him. “There
is
no comparison.”

“And he survived your wrath?”

I bent my knees and wrapped my arms tightly about them. “Sort of. Well, no, not really; he tried to commit suicide – which was pretty ripe, since he'd played his Catholic conscience card with the ‘no divorce' thing, the two-timing…” I took a deep breath. “Anyway, his wife stuck by him, poor woman. It was embarrassing for me, not humiliating like it was for her; I've felt bad about that ever since.”

“Ah,” he said again. “Hence Ellen.”

“Yes, well, I wouldn't like to be at the receiving end; it's very much a case of ‘do as you would be done by'.”

“Very laudable.”

“I don't muck about with my conscience, not if I can help it; it's too closely bound up with my soul.”

“Quite right, too.” He heard me, he responded, but he had drifted to another place. “He deserved it,” he said, coming back to me. “But I would have to say that you are lethal at thirty paces. I count myself fortunate indeed, to have survived your spleen.”

I glowered at my toes. “As you say, he deserved it.”

I woke with a start; somewhere a phone rang and my heart thumped at the unexpected interruption. I listened, trying to place it. No, more like a chirruping –
chirrup, chirrup… chirrup, chirrup
– a mobile phone, answered almost immediately. Not far away, Matthew's voice – low, soft, urgent – replied, using the same hushed tones I had heard him use before: it must be a member of his family. He said nothing, and then a barely audible reply. I rubbed my eyes and sat up; it was still dark.

“I'm sorry, did I wake you?” He stood right behind me, the mobile still in his hand, the face lit. I jerked around, now fully awake. “Sorry,” he said again. “Do you feel better?”

At some point he had put a rug over me, its warmth enveloping.

“Yes I do, thanks. Is everything all right?”

“How quickly can you pack?”

Alert to the change in his voice, I said, “Now – minutes. Why, what's wrong?”

He looked at his watch, calculating. “Eat first, then pack; we have time.” Agitation broke through his usual composure. “That was Henry; I need to get back.” He looked over his shoulder, as twitchy as if being hunted. I swung my legs on to the floor.

“I can see that, but why?”

“It's Ellen, she's had a seizure of some kind; I won't know for sure until I get there. Emma, I'm really sorry…”

Already heading for the stairs, I said, “Don't be daft. I'll go and pack.”

I packed in under seven minutes. I ate what he cooked for me because he wanted me to, not because I had any appetite. I watched him nervously as he stalked the room, checking for forgotten items, and then upstairs, taking the steps three at a time before coming back down and scouring the room once more. I washed my things and put them away as the sun rose. He held out my coat but I wasn't fast enough and he was putting my arms in the sleeves before I had a chance to do it myself. Taking his scarf, he bound my face, leaving only my eyes, which he covered with goggles. I felt ridiculous but he stood back and checked me out, nodding to himself.

“Let's go,” he said grimly. I took a last, quick glance around, missing it already, and then we left.

 

He had the snowmobile ready and waiting. If I thought he had driven fast on the way there, it was the leisurely pace of a sightseeing tourist in comparison to the speed at which he now took the most direct route back. Even through the layers of winter clothing, the wind bit and nipped. I clung to his waist as the trees sped past, snow thrown in rainbow drifts by the rapid changes of direction, ice crystals catching the new sun as Matthew anticipated every hidden rock, every dip, every bump. The skin of my face burned and I hid behind his sheltering back, conscious of letting my body move with the machine so that I wouldn't get thrown off and waste valuable time.

We drew to a standstill in a controlled skid as Harry let down the tail of the trailer attached to the big off-roader
parked at the rendezvous point. Matthew leapt off the snowmobile, helping the boy almost before the engine died, speaking swiftly as they worked, and quietly – like a mime. I climbed into the car, removing the goggles with clumsy, frozen fingers and shedding the hood and scarf, rimed with ice where my breath had solidified in the folds. By the time I had shaken them out of the door, Matthew was in the driving seat next to me, the engine turning over. Harry climbed in behind and the wheels skidded slightly before Matthew slowed enough for them to find their grip, and the heavy snow tyres did the rest. Matthew glanced in the rear-view mirror.

“Any news, Harry?”

“None since Gramps spoke to you.”

I twisted in my seat to see him. “Hi, Harry,” I greeted him. The last time we spoke he had just collected my parents from the airport. That seemed an age ago – before I knew what I knew now, before he
knew
that I knew. Was he any more at ease with the situation than I?

“Dr D'Eresby, ma'am.”

Matthew shot him a look. “Harry…”

“Yeah, sorry.” He whipped the knitted ski hat off his head and removed his sunglasses. I had forgotten how similar to Matthew he looked, except at this proximity, he wasn't just similar but
exactly
the same – just a younger, more fashionable version and without Matthew's other-worldly quality. His
great
-grandson. Matthew watched me from the corner of his eye while maintaining a steady speed on the road. He caught my glance and the swiftest smile passed his lips.

“Harry, I want you to escort Dr D'Eresby to her apartment and then take the car back home. I'll go directly to Valmont.”

“Sure, no problem. Do you want me to tell Gramps you're on your way?”

“Has he already left?”

Behind him, Harry checked his watch. “He must've by now.”

Matthew gave a short nod. “If you would. Let me know once you've accompanied Dr D'Eresby safely, please.”

“Sure…” Harry was going to add something but decided against it and sat back in his seat, staring out of the window. We were passing through a section of forest. The road was clearer here where the densely growing trees had broken the voracious appetite of the storm, and Matthew sped up.

What a weird life it must have been, growing up with a great-grandfather who never aged, who – when you reached an age of cognition yourself – was just about old enough to be your father and whom you called “uncle”, but your grandfather called “dad”. More to the point, what did they call Matthew when they were at home? And – for that matter – what were they going to call me?

The sun had risen as high as it was going to by the time we reached the college. Reflected light dotted the windows of the façade as we swung around the side towards the medical centre. Only a scattering of cars remained in the car park, and the campus seemed almost devoid of life.

Matthew drew up by his own car, barely recognizable but for the distinctive shape under the covering of snow. He helped me out of the off-roader, holding both my hands in his.

“Emma…” his tone sounded strained, urgent.

“It's all right, Matthew, just go; you need to get there.”

He lifted my hands to his lips, then bent down and kissed me on my brow, a lingering touch that said everything he wanted to say, but couldn't. Behind him, I saw Harry stiffen and look away.

“I hope Ellen's OK,” I said softly.

“I'll be back when I can, I promise.”

“I know you will. Don't worry about me – I'll be here when you need me.”

 

I watched the red tail-lights of his car until they disappeared around the corner, where he would join the main drive and pick up speed – too fast, always too fast.

“Right then,” I said with more resolve than I felt, and turned around to find Harry watching me gravely. “It's OK if you want to go, Harry; it's not far to my apartment. I'm sure you'll want to get home.”

He swapped my bag to his other hand. “Thanks, Dr D'Eresby, but I'll see you back, if it's all right with you.”

We started to walk to the steps that led to my wing, my breath making little clouds of vapour in front of me.

“Yes, of course that's fine, but Harry…” I considered the wisdom of what I wanted to say, then decided I would ask anyway. “Do you always do what your… what Matthew asks you to do?”

He grinned unexpectedly. “Yes,
ma'am
!”

“And does that include calling me by my title, or can you call me by my name?”

His face straightened. “If you don't mind, Dr D'Eresby, I'd prefer not to be so familiar. I'll use your title for now.”

He had distanced himself since we last met, and I felt taken aback by the degree of formality he now adopted, making me feel as if I had somehow transgressed a social nicety, and should have known better. Despite the easy grin, Harry appeared to be reserving judgment. This hardly surprised me, given what I had put Matthew through over the past months, and I wondered what the family now thought of me, and
whether we could make this work.

We entered the covered pass which led to the quad, the gritty ice giving way to the dry herringbone brick path that linked the two areas. Seeing the campus eerily silent, I welcomed his company, and took the opportunity to attempt to build bridges.

“Are you at college, Harry?”

“I'm reckoning on starting college next fall; I've started applying for places.”

“To study what?” Dissected in places, the snow of the quad had been broken into shoe-shaped dishes, freezing now so that they crunched underfoot.

“I'm not sure, Philosophy of Science probably – but it'll depend on the courses I'm offered, and where.”

“Do you think you'll go into medicine as well, or get a more generalized degree in science first?” We reached the door to my building; Harry held it open for me.

“No, ma'am.”

I led the way towards the stairs to the first floor, unzipping my coat in the immediate warmth of the corridor.

“I'm sorry, Harry, I don't follow; ‘No' to what?”

“I mean ‘No', ma'am – I'm not going into medicine, and I already have a general degree in science, so I won't be doing that either.”

I stopped with my hand on the newel post of the stairs, my mouth open. He grinned, and took off his hat, riffling his spiked hair and looking like Bart Simpson.

“But you're nineteen!”

“Yeah, but I took it early.”

I'd had a similar conversation with his sister, Ellie, about qualifying as a doctor. That must have been less than two months ago, if I recalled correctly.

“It doesn't by any chance have anything to do with your…” I lowered my voice, just in case, “great-grandfather… Matthew… Oh, this is ridiculous, Harry – what
do
you call him in public?”

“‘Matthew' is just fine, though I call him ‘uncle' if I have to.”

I pulled a face unconsciously, masking it as soon as I realized what I'd done; but Harry's eyes had already narrowed.

“Sometimes it's necessary, Dr D'Eresby.”

I smiled apologetically. “Yes, of course, I'm sorry; I'll just have to get used to… to the…”

“Lies. Yes, ma'am – we all have to get used to the lies.”

We reached my door and I fished the key out of my pocket, but it slipped from my hand and fell with a clatter on the hard floor.

“Bother,” I muttered and started to bend to pick it up, but Harry beat me to it and held it out to me. “Thanks. So, did Matthew help you with your degree?” I asked, resuming the conversation and tucking my cross back into the neck of my shirt where it sat momentarily chill against my skin. Harry's eyes moved slowly from my neck to my face.

“He did; I couldn't have done it without him. He knows so much, you know? And not just the basic stuff, but the history, the philosophy, the ethics of science. He made it interesting, sure, but what I really liked was that he made it relevant to people as human beings, and not just machines.”

I heard real warmth in his voice born out of a deep regard. I smiled at him, understanding entirely how he felt, and he returned it, a little less reserved than before. “Anyway, I'll be off then, ma'am, if you don't mind.”

I stepped over the threshold. “Thanks for the company; can I ask just one thing of you?”

He put his head on one side, just like Matthew. “Ma'am?”

“If you could possibly not call me ‘ma'am' quite so much; it makes me feel dreadfully old and awfully… starchy, and I don't think I'm ready for the boneyard just yet.”

His broadening smile was totally infectious – open and engaging – before time and care might erode its innocence.

“Sure thing,” he said.

 

My cupboards were devoid of food, bar a dented tin of soup left behind from my first few days at the college in September. It looked as appetizing now as it had done then, and I fingered the crease, tossing up the chances of acquiring botulism if I ventured to eat it. I flipped the lid of the bin and chucked it in.

Elena must have left for the holiday with Matias. She had pushed a note under my door – an elongated bright yellow envelope lying on the floor. It was my first – and possibly last – Christmas card of the year. She had signed it from them both, finished with a little heart beneath their names. Alongside my name, she had also written “Matthew” in a slightly different style, as if she had asked Matias if she should include his name before adding it to mine a moment later.
Emma
and
Matthew
. Matthew
and
Emma. Names that belonged together; names that should never have been apart. Somewhere, in a place called Valmont, Matthew looked after his wife. The frantic rush to get back had made me all but forget the reason for it. Now, all alone with nothing but thoughts to occupy me, in my heart I was by his side as he tried to save her. Was this the end for her, but the beginning of something else for us? And could he even contemplate a new life when the old was just a heartbeat away? I felt callous even thinking about it.

Just a few days ago, I had stood at this same window with him looking beyond the cedar tree at the snow-covered landscape. Then, I had hoped that he would put his old life
behind him and propose a new life with me, justifying our love for each other in the perpetual bonds in which we both believed. But those ties were with another woman and, no matter how old or frail, the vows he took with her were as sacrosanct now as when he made them decades ago.

As if on cue, my mobile buzzed furiously from the pocket of my coat, draped where I'd left it over the armchair.

“What's happening?” I asked, as soon as I heard his voice. “How's Ellen? Are you OK?”

He sounded drained, his voice flat and without expression.

“She'll be all right. We managed to stabilize her. It's not the first time it's happened and the doctors here do a good job… but it's specialized work and we'd rather be on hand…”