Andrew Taylor - Bleeding Heart Square

You want to tap her on the shoulder and say it’s always wiser to be cowardly than heroic. Not that she would have listened if anyone had. But let’s not anticipate.

‘Good morning!’ Mrs Alforde said when Lydia came to the door, already drawing on her gloves. ‘Glad you’re punctual. I can’t bear unpunctuality.’

Once they were in the little car, a grey Morris Minor with scratched and dented wings, Mrs Alforde nosed her way up to the Clerkenwell Road and then turned east towards Shoreditch and Hackney. She drove badly but with the sort of panache Lydia associated with the hunting field. She kept up a running commentary which needed no response from Lydia and was actually rather restful, unlike the driving itself.

‘The blithering idiot, can’t he see it’s my right of way? Are you deaf or something? Look at those houses over there, aren’t they dreary? They get worse and worse. Really, how the government can look itself in the eye I just do not know. Ha! That will teach you!’

Lydia luxuriated in the absence of responsibility. From Dalston they went to Leyton. From Leyton they went to Walthamstow. Now they were on the A1 and almost in real country. She stared hungrily at trees and grass. Even Mrs Alforde seemed to feel their soothing effect because she settled down to drive far more calmly and now seemed disposed for conversation.

‘Now what would you like to do? Poor Mr Narton’s funeral’s at a quarter to twelve. I can drop you off at Bishop’s Stortford if you like — I can show you where to get quite reasonable coffee and a bite to eat — or if you want to see Rawling itself you could come with me. You needn’t feel you have to come to the funeral, of course, but the Vicar will give us lunch. I should warn you, though, there’s not much one can do in Rawling.’

‘I think I’d like to come with you,’ Lydia said.

‘It’s entirely up to you. You could always have a walk, I suppose — at least it’s not raining and I see you’re wearing sensible shoes.’ While speaking, Mrs Alforde glanced down at the shoes, causing the car to swerve and almost collide with an oncoming lorry. ‘Blast the man — you’d think he’d realize that he’s not the only person on this road. Yes, or you could wait at the Vicarage if you prefer — I’m sure Mr Gladwyn wouldn’t mind. I imagine the funeral itself wouldn’t be your cup of tea.’

‘I’m not really dressed for it.’

‘Don’t let that put you off, my dear. I doubt there will be many people there so there won’t be anyone to notice. Anyway, you’d be with me.’

‘That would make it all right?’ Lydia asked, amused.

‘Well, yes — I’m sure it would. Old habits die hard, especially among the older villagers. I remember when I was first married, going for a drive with my father-in-law, and the women would come out of the cottages and curtsy as the carriage went by. It was really rather touching.’

Lydia laughed.

Mrs Alforde glanced again at Lydia, and the car gave another reciprocal swerve in the other direction. ‘You’re looking much better than you were on Saturday, if you don’t mind my saying so.’

‘It must be the country air,’ Lydia said.

They drove on for another mile in silence. With a grating of gears, Mrs Alforde pulled out to pass a cyclist who was wobbling in the middle of the road.

‘Silly ass,’ Mrs Alforde said. ‘He’ll get himself killed if he’s not careful.’ She added, without any change of tone, ‘Sorry about the other day.’

‘That’s all right.’

‘I’m afraid I rather got the wrong end of the stick. Your mother can be very persuasive.’

‘I know,’ Lydia said. After a pause she went on, ‘I think Mother tried to warn me. She said something about men having their needs. She plays fair after her own fashion.’

‘There’s no malice in her,’ Mrs Alforde said. ‘I give her that.’

‘But she thinks rules are for other people,’ Lydia burst out, the anger unexpectedly erupting.

‘She was always like that. She was an only child and your grandfather spoiled her. And remember, in those days the only thing that really mattered was appearances. You could do whatever you liked as long as you knew the right form. Though I must admit the business with your father took everyone by surprise. They had been very discreet about it. And she was so very young — a schoolgirl. Even so, she was enchanting. Men liked her.’

‘They still do,’ Lydia said. ‘What actually happened when my parents met? Nobody would ever tell me. Only bits and pieces. Did they know each other before?’

‘No — your mother wasn’t even out. She had just left school and she was there for Christmas with her friend Mary, who was a god-daughter or something of Aunt Connie’s. That was why your mother had been invited — to keep Mary company, and then Mary spent most of her time in bed, laid up with a feverish cold. It was obvious that some of the young men were eyeing her over but I didn’t realize your father was interested. He seemed much older, and of course he had that cloud hanging over him.’ Mrs Alforde smiled fondly. ‘Poor Willy. He was rather dashing in those days, despite everything. He didn’t shoot, and nor did your mother of course, so perhaps that’s what threw them together.’

‘Long country walks when everyone else was busy?’

‘Very likely. It would have been noticed if they had spent much time together in the house. Anyway, the party broke up and we thought no more about it until the following Easter. That was when it all came out. Your grandfather wrote to Gerry’s Uncle Henry — a real stinker of a letter, it was — and more or less accused him of letting his only daughter get pregnant while she was under his roof. He knew your father was responsible — your mother must have told him. Unfortunately he also knew your father by reputation, so he wasn’t pleased about that, either. Still, after a lot of discussion, everyone decided that the only thing to do was make the best of it. Your parents were married very quietly in some provincial register office where no one knew them. And a few months later you were born. Then one didn’t hear very much.’

‘Where did they live?’ Lydia asked.

‘I don’t think they lived together after the wedding — your grandfather saw to that. Your mother must have stayed at home, and I believe your father was abroad for a lot of the time. Then your grandfather died and your parents divorced. And Fin Cassington was already on the horizon.’

They drove in silence for another few minutes. Lydia stared at the twisted grey ribbon of the road. She wasn’t sure what she had hoped to hear — perhaps that, against all the odds, she had been the child of a grand passion, at least conceived in love. That her parents had been happy in the early days of their marriage. That they had wanted her. Instead, the only emotions that seemed to come out of their story were lust and greed, regulated only by a desire to observe the proprieties.

Mrs Alforde cleared her throat. ‘I’m sure they’re both fond of you. In their way. Nothing turns out quite as we’d like, after all. Gerry and I would have liked children, for example, but it wasn’t to be. Would you light me a cigarette, dear? You’ll find some in the glove compartment. Have one yourself.’

‘I’m sorry,’ Lydia said, alerted not by Mrs Alforde’s words but by an infinitesimal alteration in her tone.

‘Why?’

‘Because I’ve been feeling so sorry for myself I’ve not been thinking of anyone else.’ She lit two cigarettes and passed one to Mrs Alforde. ‘You must think I’m a selfish little beast.’

‘Not at all. We all have a right to feel miserable sometimes.’

‘It must have been perfectly foul for you. The war and everything.’