Barbara Taylor Bradford - Everything to Gain

On the spur of the moment, I reached for the phone, wanting to get it over with, and then almost instantly my hand fell away. There was no point dialling his apartment in Manhattan, since I was not sure how to couch the words I knew must be said. I didn’t want to hurt him unduly; I must be diplomatic.

Suddenly irritated with myself, I sighed under my breath, impatiently pushed back my chair and went to turn on the air-conditioner. It was unusually humid this morning, the air heavy and oppressive in my office here at the back of the house. My skin was clammy and I felt stifled, claustrophobic all of a sudden.

Returning to my desk, I sat down and stared into space, my thoughts continuing to focus on Richard. Last night he’d said I was too young to lead such a solitary existence. There’s truth in this, I suppose. After all, I am only thirty-eight years old. Still, there are days when I feel like an old woman of eighty, older than that even. I realize this is because of the things which have happened to me, plus my new-found knowledge about life and people. Certainly I’ve learned a lot about their insensitivity and selfishness, their callousness and indifference. I’ve learned about evil too, first-hand; yes, and even about good. There are some good people in this world, those who are kind and concerned and compassionate, but not many, not really. I have come to understand only too well that, for the most part, we are entirely alone with our troubles and pain. I suspect I’ve become something of a cynic these days, as well as much wiser, more self-protective and self-reliant than I ever was before.

A few weeks ago, I railed on about the doers of evil who inhabit this planet, and Richard listened attentively, as he always does. When I finished, and discovered I was on the verge of unexpected tears, he joined me on the sofa, simply took my hand in his and held it tightly. We sat together like that for a long time surrounded by the silence, until he said finally, ever so quietly, ‘Don’t try to understand the nature of evil, or analyse it, Mal. It’s a mystery, one nobody has ever been able to fathom. Evil has touched your life, more so than it’s touched most people’s. You’ve been through hell, and I certainly have no proper words with which to console you. Anyway, words are empty, cold comfort at best. I just want you to know that I’m always there for you whenever you need me. I’m your friend, Mal.’

I know I will always be grateful to him, not only for expressing those lovely sentiments that particular day, but because he did not attempt to placate me with platitudes, those meaningless words the well-meaning tend to offer when confronted with another person’s pain or anger or despair. Also, I must admit, I admire Richard Markson. He is a decent human being, a man of integrity and compassion, qualities that mean a great deal to me. Although he has never been married, he has not passed through this life totally unscathed, that I know. He is thirty-nine, a year older than I, and now it strikes me, and quite forcibly, how ready he is to make a commitment, to embark on a long-term relationship, is willing to accept everything this means. But am I? Ambivalent, uncertain, wary, scared, caught on an eddying tide of fears and deep-rooted problems, I feel completely helpless this morning, unable to think with clarity.

I snapped my eyes shut, leaned forward and dropped my head on the desk, realizing, as I did, that I was spiralling down into a cold funk. There was no way I could make that call to Richard, as I had promised I would. Very simply, I had nothing to say to him, no answer to give him.

The shrill ring of the telephone a few moments later brought me upright in my chair with a start, and I reached for the receiver and said, ‘Hello?’

‘Mallory?’

‘Yes.’

‘It’s me. Richard.’

‘I know.’

‘Mal, I have to go out of town. On an assignment.’

‘Oh,’ I said, surprised by his announcement. ‘This is very sudden, isn’t it?’

‘Yes. It just came up a short while ago. The magazine’s sending me to Bosnia. I’m leaving immediately. This United Nations–NATO situation is turning out to be something of a fiasco. So off I’m going to —’

‘But you don’t usually cover things like this, do you?’ I cut in, ‘I mean, you don’t cover war s .’

‘Nor am I doing so now. Not really. I’m going to be writing one of my special “think” pieces, based on the kind of things we’ve all been saying about the wholesale carnage going on over there, the dithering of the Western leaders and the terrible indifference the world is showing to such human suffering.’ He paused, then murmured, ‘It’s a replay of everything that happened in Nazi Germany sixty years ago …’ His quiet, concerned voice trailed off into silence.

‘It’s the most hideous situation!’ I exclaimed, my voice rising. ‘We’re no more civilized now than we were in the tenth century! Nothing’s changed, we’ve learned nothing. Man is rotten. Evil. ’

‘I know that, Mal,’ he answered, sighing imperceptibly.

Striving to adopt a more normal tone, I said, ‘And so you’re leaving today?’

‘I’ll be heading for Kennedy in a couple of hours.’ There was a little pause, and then he said, ‘Mal?’

‘Yes, Richard?’

‘Do you have an answer for me?’

I was silent for a moment or two. Eventually, clearing my throat, I said, ‘No, I’m afraid I don’t. I’m sorry, Richard, I need time. I told you that …’ Now it was my turn to let my voice fade away.

Richard did not say a word.

I held the phone tightly, waiting, wondering how he was going to take my negative attitude.

Suddenly, he spoke. ‘Perhaps when I get back from Bosnia,’ he said in a firm, strong voice, ‘you’ll have good news for me, tell me what I want to hear. You will, won’t you?’

‘When will you be back?’ I asked, not rising to the bait.

‘In a week to ten days.’

‘Be careful, Richard. It’s dangerous where you’re going.’

That light careless laugh I had grown to know echoed down the wire. ‘I don’t aim to die, if that’s what you’re getting at. That’s not part of my destiny.’

‘Nevertheless, just be careful.’

‘I will. And take care of yourself, Mal. So long.’

He hung up before I could say goodbye.

After a moment or two I walked out of my office, across the back hall and out into the garden.

I took the stone-paved path that led across the vast lawns at the back of the house, walking rapidly until I came to the ridge overlooking part of my property and the valley far beyond. Hills darkly green with lush and splendid trees soared high above this valley, giving it some shelter from the elements in the harsh winter months. The two small houses nestling in the bed of the valley, always so forlorn in bad weather, now looked cool and inviting with their white-painted shingles and dark rooftops, their gardens bright with vivid colour.

Presently I shifted my gaze, let it rest just below me. Here, at the bottom of verdant lawns sloping away from the ridge where I stood, the horses grazed contentedly in the long meadow. To the left of them, and adding to this bucolic scene, were the old barns, freshly painted dark red with white trim. To the right of the long meadow, the pond, calm and glassy as a mirror, shimmered in the sun; a family of Canada geese swam, one after the other, in a straight line across its dark surface, where water lilies, waxy and pale pink, floated in profusion.

After a short while my eyes wandered, my glance sweeping over the resplendent rose bushes, luxuriant and in full flower, then moved on to survey my vegetable garden behind its white picket fence, the cutting garden bursting with perennials in a galaxy of the gayest hues. Everything blooms so well here; how beautiful the land is, so rich, so ripe with life.