William Trevor - Two Lives

I imagine Otmar nodded. The General said:

‘Heaven knows what grows best in such dry conditions. Precious little, probably. We’d have to read all that up.’

‘I do not know seeds.’

Fuchsias grew in the garden of his parents, Otmar went on. He was not good about the names of plants, but he remembered fuchsias in pots – double headed, scarlet and cream. The geranium family should do well, the General said, and brooms. To my delight he mentioned azaleas. Shade would be important, and would somehow have to be supplied. The azaleas would have to be grown in urns, and moved inside in winter.

‘With one arm,’ Otmar reminded him, ‘I could not dig.’ ‘It is remarkable what can be done, you know. Once you settle to it.’

I moved away because I heard them get to their feet. A few minutes later I saw them at the back of my house, gesturing to one another beside the ruined out-buildings. Their voices drifted to where I watched from; the old man pointed. Here there’d be a flight of steps, leading to a lower level, here four flowerbeds formally in a semi-circle, here a marble figure perhaps. A few days later, when they revealed their secret to me, they showed me the plans they had drawn on several sheets of paper in the meantime. The General promised a herb bed, with thyme and basil and tarragon and rosemary. There would be solitary yew trees or local pines, whichever were advised. They’d try for box hedges and cotoneaster and oleander. There’d be a smoke tree and a handkerchief tree, and roses and peach trees, whatever they could induce to thrive.

‘When I’m grown up I’d like to tell stories too.’

Aimée had Flight to Enchantment in her hand. She had asked me and I had related its contents, while effortlessly she listened.

‘I like being here in the hills,’ she said.

8

On 14 July Thomas Riversmith arrived. Telephoning a few evenings before, he insisted that he did not wish to be met; that he wished to cause the minimum of inconvenience. So he took a taxi from Pisa, which is an extremely long journey, and then there was difficulty finding my house. From an upstairs window I watched him paying his driver in one-hundred-thousand-lire notes. He had black Mandarina Duck bags. I went downstairs, to welcome him in the inner hall.

He was a tall, thickset man, rather heavy about the face, not at all like the young woman on the train. His eyes, between beetle-black brows, were opaque – green or blue, it wasn’t apparent which; his crinkly hair was greyish. Mr Riversmith was indeed as serious and as solemn as he had seemed on the telephone: the surprise was that, in his way, he was a handsome man. He wore a dark suit, which had become creased on his air flight and creased again due to his sitting in a hired car for so long. His wife would have bought him the Mandarina luggage; it didn’t match the rest of him in any way whatsoever.

‘I’m Mrs Delahunty.’

He nodded, not saying who he was because no doubt he assumed that no one else was expected just then. He stood there, not seeming interested in anything, waiting for me to say something else. It was a little after six in the evening; the cocktail hour, as the Americans call it. A certain weariness about his features intimated that Mr Riversmith could do with a drink.

‘Drink?’ he repeated when I suggested this. He shook his head. He had better wash, he said. He had a way of looking at you intently when he spoke, while giving the impression that he didn’t see you. Beneath the scrutiny I felt foolish, the way you do with some people.

‘Quinty’ll take you up, Mr Riversmith.’

‘After that I should see my niece.’

‘Of course. Simply when you’re ready, Mr Riversmith, please join us in the salotto .’

He followed Quinty upstairs. I made my way to my private room. Earlier in the day an accumulation of fan mail had come, forwarded from the publisher’s offices in London. After that brief encounter with Mr Riversmith I found it something of an antidote. People endeavour to explain how much a story means to them, or how they identify. I quite felt I was Rosalind. Years ago, of course. I’m in my eighties now . Occasionally a small gift is enclosed, a papier mâché puzzle from Japan, a pressed flower, inexpensive jewellery. Was Lucinda really furious or just pretending? Will Mark forgive her, utterly and completely? Oh, I do so hope he can! Little adhesive labels come, for autographs. I have all your stories, but dare not trust them to the post. Return postage enclosed . I do my best to reply, aptly, but sometimes become exhausted, faced with so much. What a lovely birthday party Ms Penny Court had! It reminded me so much of my own when I was twenty-one and Dad made a key out of plaster of Paris and silver paint! I’m forty now, with kiddies of my own and Alec (husband) is no longer here so I do my best on my own. I always think of her as Ms Penny Court, I don’t know why. I envy her her independence. Dad and I were close, that’s why he made the key for my twenty-first, you remember things like that. I’m fond of the kiddies of course, it goes without saying, and they wouldn’t be here if I hadn’t married Alec. He went off two years ago, a woman security officer . Often the letters go on for many pages, the ink changing colour more than once, the writing-paper acquiring stains. When gifts of food are sent I am naturally touched, but I throw the food away, having been warned that this is advisable.

Dear Ron , I wrote on the evening of Thomas Riversmith’s arrival, addressing my correspondent so familiarly because I’d been supplied with that name only. Thank you for your nice letter. I am glad you enjoyed ‘More than the Brave.’ It is interesting what you say about Annabella and Roger being acquainted in a previous life. I quite accept this may be so, and I am interested in what you tell me about your pets. I do not believe your wife would be in the least aggrieved to know you find Fred a comfort. In fact, I’m sure she’s delighted . I added another sentence about the ferret, Fred, then placed the letter in an envelope and sealed it. I never supply strangers with my address, having been warned that this is inadvisable also. And some correspondents I really do have to ignore. Correspondence with the disturbed is not a good idea.

Mr Riversmith was standing in silence in the salotto when I entered.

‘Would I mix you a drink, sir?’ Quinty offered.

‘A drink?’

‘Would you care for a refreshment after your journey, sir?’

Mr Riversmith requested an Old Fashioned, then noticed my presence and addressed me. He remarked that his niece was pretty.

‘Yes, indeed.’ But I added that Aimée was still mentally fragile. I said that Dr Innocenti would visit us in the morning. He would explain about that.

‘I greatly appreciate what Dr Innocenti has done for my niece.’ Mr Riversmith paused. ‘And I appreciate your looking after her in her convalescence, Mrs Delahunty.’

I explained about the tourists who stayed in my house when the hotels were full. It was no trouble was how I put it; we were used to visitors.

‘You’ll let me have an account?’ Mr Riversmith went on, as if anxious to deal with all the formalities at once. ‘I would wish to have that in order before we leave.’

I said that was Quinty’s department, and Quinty nodded as he handed Mr Riversmith his glass. ‘G and t would it be tonight?’ he murmured. He rolls that ‘g and t’ off his tongue in a twinkling manner, appearing to take pleasure in the sound, heaven knows why.

‘Thank you, Quinty,’ I said, and as I spoke the General entered the room.

I introduced the two men, revealing in lowered tones that the General had been only a couple of seats away from Aimée on the train. I mentioned Otmar in case Mr Riversmith had forgotten what I’d said on the telephone. Lowering my voice further, I mentioned the old man’s daughter and son-in-law, and Madeleine. In the circumstances I considered that necessary.