Golden Hour (19 page)

So what have I got to lose?

“My proposal is that I present it myself, Justin. For the no-doubt unheard-of reason that all the ideas are in fact mine.”

“You want your moment in the sun, Henry. Don't we all? But you know that's not how it works.”

Henry shakes his head and says no more.

“I like your idea, Henry.”

“But you're not buying it.”

“Bring me the right face and I'll offer it. Hey, you're a pro. You've made more hours of heritage television than anyone still in the business.”

“Heritage television.”

“I'm not the enemy, Henry. I'm not a jerk. Do you have any idea how hard it is to get anything funded these days? You've lived through the golden age. You know that. What's the biggest audience you ever got?”

“Just over five million. For the first episode of
The Victorians
.”

“Five million! We'd die for that now!
Come Dine With Me
sometimes gets close to two, and that's one of our bankers. You've lived in heroic times, Henry. When gods walked the earth. We who come after have to make do with crawling through shit.”

So that's it. Not a yes and not a no. Except if it smells like a no and stings like a no and fills you with a no-like despair, then it's most likely a no.

Going back down in the lift, gazing at his own reflection in the bronze-tinted mirror, Henry sees an old man who's too tired to fight it any more.

I'm fifty-four. I'm having the best ideas I've ever had. After thirty years of letting others take the credit, I'm ready for my close-up. The Norma Desmond of heritage television.

He sees his own bitter smile in the mirror. Then the doors open and he's out into the glare of the glass and aluminum lobby. It's alive with the chatter of children, except they're not children. They're boys and girls barely older than Jack and Carrie. As he passes between them they don't even register his existence. This is who works in television now.

He pushes through the glass doors and crosses the glass bridge onto the street. Why are modern buildings made of so much glass? The message is one of transparency and openness. And it's true, you can see all the way in. But that doesn't mean there's anything worth seeing. This is a classic category error, surely. To make something visible is not to make it significant.

He stands on Horseferry Road, briefly unsure which way to turn. Not so far here from Buckingham Palace, where he'll be with Laura on Thursday. An honor, apparently, but for what? For his contribution to heritage television.

He turns right and makes his unhurried way toward Victoria. No rush, after all. The future stretches empty before him. Maybe find a café to stop for a coffee and a pastry. A pain-au-raisin or a maple pecan plait. Of all the pastries ever made, how is it that these two alone are to be found everywhere? Why not palmiers, millefeuilles, macaroons? Why is everything becoming the same? Why in an age of unfettered capitalism is there so little choice?

Suddenly he recalls how he told Justin that Alain de Botton approved his idea, and he feels a cold dread. The simple truth is that Henry only met Alain de Botton when he queued up to get his book signed at the Charleston Literary Festival. In the very short time he felt able to hold up the others behind him in the queue he tried out a truncated version of his idea. Alain de Botton listened politely and said, “That's rather interesting.” Then there was another book to sign.

Justin's bound to meet Alain at some launch party or première. Those sorts of people are always meeting each other. Justin will say he's been hearing Henry Broad's new idea, as endorsed by Alain, and Alain will say, “Henry who?”

Walking down Artillery Row he sees at the far end of the glass-fronted buildings of Howick Place, above a brown-glass raised walkway, the pink-and-white striped Italianate tower of
Westminster Cathedral. It looks lost, out of time, bewildered by the world in which it finds itself.

The darkness comes rolling down the London street toward him, a slow billowing cloud that he can no longer escape. The dread is upon him, and he sees it now, and knows its name. It is regret. He breathes its poison now, and feels it entering his body and taking possession of him. So many missed opportunities, so many wrong choices. His life lies behind him like a lost battle, hummocked with the bodies of the dead. So much hope, so much effort, so much illusion, and all amounting to nothing much. While the passion still burns bright you can look forward, you can say, The best is still to come. But when the light dies you turn and look back and you say, Is this all? Then the dark cloud closes about you, and you surrender. You lay down your arms. You are the prisoner of regret.

There's no escape, and no remedy. The clock won't turn back. Nobody gets their time again. This is the cruelty of regret, it lives in the past, but it corrodes the present and makes a mockery of the future.

A little hysterical, perhaps? An over-reaction?

But the plain truth is you can't fight it forever. You get tired. You get old. You want to go home, sit in an armchair with a glass of wine, read the paper. You want to slip into a waking sleep, and not have to care about any of it any more.

As Liz Dickinson parks outside her mother's house she feels her whole body tense up. Passing between the stone gateposts, with the bank of hydrangeas to her right and the brick path beneath her feet, she is seven years old again, returning from school. This is the house in which she lived as a child. Inside, beyond the gray-painted front door, her mother waits for her, unhappy and alone. Familiar sensations of pity and guilt bear down upon her as she turns her key in the lock, and enters the dark hall. As a child she would know from her mother's first words of greeting, from the tone more than the content, if this was a good day or a bad day. When it was a bad day, nothing was right. Tea would be dominated by tales of injustices done to her, respect not given, outrages left unpunished. Whatever the detail of the moment, each petty insult received was only a surrogate, as Liz well knew, for the original wound, her father's abandonment of them. In truth Liz had hardly known her father, and all her feelings about this abandonment came from her mother, who had enough feelings on the subject for both of them. To Liz it was simply the way things were. To her mother it was the core betrayal that had poisoned the world. It was the fall of man.

Nothing has changed in forty years. Liz still braces herself as
she enters the silent house to withstand the downward drag of her mother's unhappiness.

Today there is no voice calling from the kitchen. No doubt she is out in the garden, in the July sunshine. But there she is, sitting in her chair by the unlit fire, asleep.

Liz feels a wave of relief. Treading softly, not wanting to wake her, she crosses to the sink and fills the electric kettle. She will wake her mother with a cup of tea, as she sometimes did when still a child. Most times the tea remained undrunk, but the gesture was always appreciated. Liz has tricky matters to discuss with her mother and wishes this to be a good day.

She watches her as she sleeps, and to her surprise she feels a sudden wave of love. Beneath that thinning hair, that deeply lined face, she sees quite clearly the powerful, capricious, magnificent woman who was everything to her for so many years. Her provider, her guide, her homemaker, her comforter, her friend. Liz has never for one moment doubted that her mother loves her, and will always love her. For that alone she owes her everything. And so long as she sleeps so peacefully in her chair, the debt does not feel so burdensome.

Mrs. Dickinson wakes as Liz makes the tea.

“Is that you, darling?” she says.

“Yes, it's me, Mum.”

The same old exchange rings down the years. Always her mother asks, as if there might be someone else in possession of a key, letting themselves unannounced into the house. Always she answers, completing the ritual of reassurance.

Only nowadays someone else has a key. Bridget makes a point of ringing the bell as she arrives, but then she lets herself in. No fond greeting for her.

Liz brings the mug of tea to the shelf beside her mother's chair. She takes her own usual place in the chair on the other
side of the fireplace. She watches as her mother raises the mug in frail hands and tips it a little, so that the tea trickles to the floor. Liz has taught herself not to intervene at such times. The floor is tiled and will not suffer.

“So how are you, darling? Busy?”

“Yes. Like always.”

“Have you started on the building work?”

Mrs. Dickinson knows all about the plans for the new house, and takes a keen interest.

“No, Mum. We can't start for ages. We have to get planning permission first.”

“Such a nuisance. I really don't see what it's got to do with them.”

She manages to get her mug of tea to her lips, but she barely drinks.

“How's Alice?” she says. “How's my little grandson?”

“Alice is away. Caspar says he'd like to come and see you.”

“I'd like that.”

“We're out on Saturday evening. Maybe he could come then. I thought I could ask Bridget to help out.”

“I don't need Bridget's help to see my own grandson.”

“No, Mum. But someone has to get Caspar back.”

“I can't imagine why you called him by that silly name. You know I was hoping you'd call him John, after my father. I think John Dickinson is a fine name.”

“He's Strachan, Mum. Alan's name.”

“Oh, yes. I keep forgetting.”

Mrs. Dickinson has never believed in Alan. His continuing existence always comes as a surprise to her.

“Are you all right after your fall?”

“What fall?”

“On Sunday night.”

“Oh, yes.” She remembers, with a gust of indignation. “She walked out. She did, you know, Elizabeth. I know you think she can do no wrong, but she left me in the garden, in the dark.”

“You wouldn't go to bed, Mum. You refused.”

“Of course I didn't refuse. Is that what she told you? And did you believe her? Really, Elizabeth, you do let that woman take you in. She changes my pills round, you know? I watch her whenever I can, but I can't see everything. She's very sly. She gives me the wrong pills so I get confused. They do things to my brain. You're not to let her have the house, Elizabeth. Promise me.”

“Don't be ridiculous, Mum.”

“Why is that ridiculous? She's a scheming woman. She's after something. Why else does she keep coming back?”

“She's your carer. It's her job.”

“You always were too trusting, Elizabeth. You never could see through people.”

Liz draws a long breath, tells herself not to take the bait.

“Bridget is doing her best, Mum. She's the best we've had so far. She always shows up on time. She never lets us down.”

“Oh, she's keen enough. I wonder why.”

“And you know you do need someone to help you.” Liz knows she must say more. She's promised Bridget. “I do wish you'd make more effort to get on with her.”

“Me make the effort? What about her?”

“You know you can be very short sometimes.”

“Short? What does that mean? Is that what she tells you? That I'm short with her?”

“Sometimes, Mum.”

“And you believe her rather than me?”

“It's not about believing, Mum. I've seen you with her. I don't think you mean to be, but your manner really can be quite rude.”

Mrs. Dickinson's hand trembles, holding the mug of tea.

“Rude? I am not rude. I am never rude.”

“It's all a matter of how you say things. You have to consider other people's feelings.”

“Really, Elizabeth, I have no notion at all what you're talking about. What other people? What feelings?”

“I'm talking about Bridget, Mum.”

The old lady closes her eyes, the mug of tea still in her hand.

“I don't want that woman coming any more.”

“Please, Mum—”

“Running to you with her lies, telling you I'm rude. She can go away. I don't want her coming here any more.”

Liz struggles to hold down the anger that pushes up from within. No use turning this into a row. Long experience has taught her that her mother only becomes more intransigent under pressure.

“It's nothing important, Mum. It's just a matter of tone of voice, that's all. Bridget knows you don't mean it.”

“I don't care what Bridget knows. She is a scheming, interfering woman and she can think what she likes of me.”

“No, you're wrong—”

“And she tells tales about me to you, saying I'm rude, when the last thing I ever am to anybody is rude.”

“That's not true, Mum.” Liz can't help herself. The willful lack of self-knowledge angers her, and the anger has to come out. All she can do is force her voice to sound calm. “You can be rude. I've heard you.”

“When? To who?”

“To Bridget. To me.”

Mrs. Dickinson's eyes pop open, staring, defiant.

“When have I been rude to you?”

“You've told me to go away.”

“That's not rude.”

“Actually it is, Mum. People don't usually talk to each other like that. If you go on being rude to Bridget she'll leave.”

“Let her leave!” Her voice becomes shrill. “I want her to leave!”

“Then who'll look after you?”

“No one. I'm not a baby. I'll look after myself.”

“If Bridget leaves I'll have to find someone else, and then you'll be rude to them and they'll leave—”

“I am not rude!”

She's shouting now, as much as she can. Shouting and trembling in her chair, spilling her tea.

“You are rude, Mum.” Liz, by contrast, fiercely soft-voiced. “You have to see it the way other people see it. You have to wake up to what you're doing.”