The hidden truth, p.9
The Hidden Truth, page 9
‘Hmm, I think it’s more to do with being here with you. Being able to tell you how I’m feeling … and you understanding.’ He stopped eating, his fork poised over his bowl. ‘You don’t think the things I say are weird?’
Not ‘weird’ exactly, she thought, with a private smile.
‘I told you the other night. I’m bad at filtering stuff.’
‘You’re just being honest. Nothing wrong with that.’
For a moment his face went still. He began to speak, then stopped. It was a habit of his, despite his insistence that he didn’t filter his words. ‘Not sure it’s honesty,’ he said.
She stared at him. He stared back. The breath she exhaled was light as air, floating from her body like a wraith. She put her fork down in the silent kitchen and was surprised by the sharp ting it made as it grazed the china bowl. Bernard was still watching her. She blushed but did not break his gaze.
After what seemed like an eternity, Bernard spoke, his tone almost regretful. ‘You’re able to be so … so relaxed, when you talk about your Pete. You must have had a really good marriage.’ When she didn’t immediately reply, he went on, ‘I suppose if it was that good, I’m worried you’ll compare me to him and find me wanting.’ He gave her a sheepish grin. ‘Not that it’s a competition, of course.’
Sara considered her reply. ‘You and Pete are so different, it would be impossible to compare you,’ she began. ‘He was uncomplicated, loved the outdoors, worked to live rather than the other way round. He made me laugh … and he was a great father.’ She stopped, catching a sudden vivid image of Pete’s open smile, aware of incipient tears. But, with Bernard so close, the memory didn’t seem to touch her as forcefully as usual. Pete’s face was like a small thumbnail image in the corner of a big screen containing Bernard’s. Still significant, but no longer present.
Bernard was eyeing her, a hint of amusement in his grey eyes. ‘You think I’m complicated?’
She smiled as she nodded. ‘Maybe “complex” is a better word. But, yes, I’d say so.’
‘Is that a bad thing?’ He reached for her hand. ‘God, Sara, it’s so good talking to you. I feel as if there’s this open channel between us … like I can be who I really am – complex or not. You …’ He stopped as if he were suddenly aware of the strength of his words.
The touch of his warm hand was the utmost pleasure to Sara. She swallowed nervously, waited. The air was humming. Food forgotten, both pushed back their chairs and rose simultaneously. Without another word, they moved into each other’s arms. Not kissing at first, they just held each other close. He smelt of pine and the sea, as if he’d become part of the natural world around him. She breathed him in, wanting to kiss him, but also just wanting to hold him, to feel him, to know him this way.
When she looked up, her eyes met his. Both hesitated, drawing the moment out, every second increasing the rate of her heart, the vibrations coursing through her body. She saw the faintest twitch of a muscle in his cheek, the flutter of his dark lashes, the small scar that broke his right eyebrow in two. She reached up as he leant down and their mouths touched. Hot, charged, yet soft and infinitely sensual, his kiss aroused her just as much as it had the first time.
Breathless, she pulled back, having an odd moment of realization: Me, in this room, kissing this man … wanting this man. Bernard was looking at her, his hands on her upper arms, holding her gently. She could tell from his eyes, dark with arousal, that he was as fired up as she.
‘Come,’ he said, taking her hand and leading her over to the sofa.
As her head fell back against the cushions, she felt her body letting go, taking over her thoughts and blocking all previous uncertainty. This was elemental. His mouth found hers again and she closed her eyes.
A while later, the time incalculable, irrelevant, they lay breathless in each other’s arms.
Bernard, stroking the back of her hand very gently with his thumb, gave her a questioning look. ‘You’re not thinking of going home tonight, are you?’
His question, even through the haze of sensuality they had created, caused Sara to hold her breath.
Bernard’s bedroom was warm, dimly lit, rain pattering on the skylight, the bed large and high, covered with soft white linen, a faded turquoise quilt folded tidily across the foot. She sat down; he sat beside her. And suddenly she felt self-conscious, the spell from earlier broken.
Turning to him, she swallowed nervously. ‘I haven’t done this.’
‘Nor have I, if it helps.’
He got up and eased her to her feet. Holding her face gently between his palms as he cast a long, searching look into her eyes, he pressed another kiss on her mouth. Then, tossing the duvet back, he held out his hand. Kicking off their shoes, they sank onto the mattress fully dressed and pulled the duvet over them. She laughed as he drew her close. ‘Better?’ he asked.
It took them a while to relax, to retrieve the same desire that had ignited their earlier kisses. Fumbling with each other’s clothes made them laugh. The bed was hot, but she needed the shelter of the duvet, suddenly aware of her age and her less-than-perfect nakedness. The sex, halting at first, gradually whispered to life, like a long-neglected motor. As with the kisses, neither was in a hurry. It felt fragile, almost tentative: the beginning of something, not an end goal. It had been so long. Just being in a man’s arms, feeling how much he wanted her, meant she came almost as soon as he pressed up inside her.
Both were smiling as they lay close, their bodies hot and sweating. Bernard turned to her, his finger drifting gently down her cheek. ‘The way you are, Sara … so real …’
The strength of feeling she heard in his words embarrassed her. She took his hand and kissed his fingers, holding them briefly against her lips. ‘You don’t know me,’ she said.
‘Ah, but I think I do.’ He turned on his side, propping himself up on his elbow. His almost white hair was sticking out at all angles, his tanned face still flushed, his eyes bright. ‘I think you’re someone who’s at ease with herself. You don’t posture or pretend. As I said before, that’s rare.’
‘You don’t posture or pretend either, as far as I can tell.’
But he moved his arm and fell onto his back again, not answering. He let out a careful breath. ‘It’s not as simple as that with me.’
She frowned. ‘Meaning?’
Again, he didn’t immediately reply. Then he laughed and rolled over, pulling her into his arms. ‘Nothing! Just being my usual crazy self.’ He dropped a kiss on her hair. ‘Do you want tea, more wine?’ He glanced past her at the bedside clock. ‘It’s late, nearly twelve. You will stay, won’t you?’
Sara hesitated. The rain had finally stopped, but the thought of driving over an hour back home in the damp, clammy summer night was not appealing. Still reeling, her body tingling gently from the unaccustomed sex, she didn’t feel she had the energy to move. But sleeping beside someone, she’d always thought, was almost more intimate than sex, especially here, in what must have been the bed Bernard shared with Ilsa. Will it be awkward in the morning?
When she did wake, disoriented for a moment until she remembered where she was, the space beside her was empty. She sat up and looked around. It was getting light outside, the fine August dawn creating a soft haze through the uncurtained windows.
‘Bernard?’ she called.
She got out of bed, glancing at the clock: 05:06. Needing to pee, she pushed open the door to the en-suite bathroom, flush with the wall to the right of the bed. A navy towelling dressing-gown hung from the hook behind the door, and she wrapped it round herself – her clothes were still scattered over the bedroom floor where they’d been kicked from under the duvet during their lovemaking.
The bathroom was like the kitchen. No shaving paraphernalia, no toothbrush or paste, only a thick, square bar of soap, studded with dark specks she found to be lavender when she lathered her hands.
Everything, as she noticed when she opened the mirrored cupboard above the basin, was stacked neatly on the shelves. Strange. She widened her eyes at herself in the mirror.
Downstairs, it was quiet and still. She went over to one of the windows. It was a gorgeous day, sparkling fresh from the dousing it had received last night, the early sun already hot on her face through the windowpane. As she stood watching the morning light gather strength, she saw a figure walking slowly towards the house from the east. Bernard had on a white T-shirt and navy shorts, but he hugged his arms to his chest as if he were cold. He seemed deep in thought and she wondered what was going through his mind.
Anxious not to be caught staring, she turned from the window and was aware again of the solid, watchful atmosphere of the room that greeted her. The quiet unsettled her, and she didn’t know what to do with herself as she waited for Bernard to return.
16
Bernard started when he saw her curled on the sofa and gave a small groan. ‘Oh, God, I disturbed you. I’m sorry, I tried to be so quiet.’
‘You didn’t. I just woke with the light and came to find you,’ she said. ‘I saw you outside.’
He came over and stood looking down at her. He’d brought with him the salty smell of the sea, the freshness of the morning air. The smile he gave her seemed relaxed, a far cry from the tense man who’d greeted her the previous evening.
‘Coffee?’
She nodded and stood, suddenly conscious of her nakedness beneath his dressing-gown, her bare feet.
‘Hmm, looks better on you,’ he said.
She laughed as he pulled her close.
When they made it back downstairs for the coffee Bernard had proposed earlier, it was nearly ten o’clock. They had slept after they made love, the sex like a gentle echo of the night before, reinforcing the pleasure they felt in each other’s arms.
After a shower and putting on yesterday’s rumpled summer dress, Sara sat at the table while Bernard made the coffee, put some croissants to warm in the oven, and set the table with jams and a bowl of blueberries. She felt lost in a haze of sensuality. Sex had been so absent from her life that it was almost like the first time, this recognition of herself as a sexual being, a woman who is desired. A gratified smile played around her mouth that she made no attempt to control. He looks so handsome in his clean blue shirt, she thought, and every time he came close, she caught a waft of his soapy freshness and wanted to make him stop so she could breathe him in.
‘Well,’ he said, as he put the pastries on the table and sat down, ‘I have to say … you’re something else.’ He sounded so serious it made her laugh through her blushes.
‘Don’t look so tragic,’ she said.
‘I just mean, being with you … it’s really blown me away.’
She nodded a silent agreement.
‘When I was walking on the cliffs this morning, I couldn’t stop smiling.’ He looked apologetic, as if he’d caught himself out in an embarrassing confession. There was silence as he took a gulp of coffee. ‘Is it our age, do you think?’ he asked. ‘Have we reached a time in our life when we’re more open, more aware of ourselves … less of the grab-and-go of our youth?’
It was impossible not to compare what she felt for Bernard with what she remembered feeling for Pete in those heady early days of falling in love for the first time. Back then, they’d slipped into their love affair with a naïve certainty she no longer felt about anything in her life. ‘I don’t think you can explain it,’ she said.
His face relaxed. ‘And better not, eh?’
Sara left Bernard late morning. She was due at Margaret’s for a sandwich lunch at one. Driving home, she wanted to sing. She set the radio to Gold at full volume, the windows wide, and accompanied Debbie Harry for the chorus of ‘One Way Or Another’ as she hit the A27, her lungs feeling as if they could project her voice all the way over the clifftops to France.
Heather’s eyes widened slightly in amusement as she greeted Sara, but she didn’t comment. Sara wondered if she had jam around her mouth, or toothpaste in her hair.
‘She’s a bit away with the fairies today,’ Heather said, in response to Sara’s query about her mother-in-law. ‘She’ll be glad to see you.’
Sara checked the hall mirror before she went in to see Margaret. She instantly understood what Heather had spotted. The face that looked back at her was lit up like a chandelier, eyes glittering, the dark circles beneath offset by a glow on her skin she had never seen before. She pulled a face, tried, unsuccessfully, to make herself look respectable, vaguely normal. Then gave in to her joy and laughed at her reflection, sweeping her hair back and shaking it out, running her finger over her lips in imitation of Bernard’s earlier.
Margaret was dozing when she went in. But when she woke to Sara’s presence, her face broke into a gentle smile. Sara bent to kiss her cheek. Her kiss was especially tender today, her love for this woman magnified by the fear that she might not be with them much longer.
‘Shall we get the albums out?’ Sara asked, when both had helped themselves to a couple of Heather’s unique tomato sandwiches – bread cut wafer thin, just the right amount of butter and salt, crusts off for Margaret’s teeth and cut into titchy squares. Sara adored them.
The old lady stared at her for a moment. ‘Do we need to? He’s right here.’
Sara didn’t need to ask who Margaret was talking about this time.
Margaret nodded slowly, as if she were listening to someone Sara couldn’t see. When she spoke, her voice was oddly mechanical. ‘He says not to worry, dear.’ She smiled to herself. ‘He says … he says you don’t need to wait any more. Everything’s fine.’
A shiver went down Sara’s spine. She reached out and laid her hand over her mother-in-law’s. ‘Is Pete …’ she began, tears springing to her eyes.
Margaret stared blankly at her. Then she focused again and gave Sara a radiant smile. ‘Oh, yes. He’s here. My son’s always here with me now.’ Then she closed her eyes, the hand that had held the sandwich dropping gently to her lap.
Sara took it from her and removed her plate. She wanted to cry. All the emotions of the past few days flooded in. Bernard had overwhelmed her. It was he who, every minute, filled her thoughts, these days. Not Pete any more. But the loosening of that solid, comforting, uncomplicated bond with her dead husband was like another bereavement. Is Margaret telling me this is OK? Does she know, without being told? she asked herself. Or was she really talking to Pete somehow, somewhere in the ether? Is he the one who’s telling me it’s all right?
Sara tiptoed out of the room. Heather was sitting at the kitchen table, reading the local paper. ‘She’s asleep.’
‘Fancy another cuppa?’ Heather enquired, closing the paper.
‘No … thanks. The sandwiches were lovely, as usual.’ She hovered as Heather eyed her closely.
‘You OK?’
Sara sighed and crossed her arms, feeling a tremor run through her and realizing she was incredibly tired. ‘She seems to feel she’s with Pete,’ she said quietly. ‘Talking to him, even.’
Heather raised her eyebrows. ‘It’s easy to say it’s just in her head but …’ she gave a small shrug ‘… who knows? Maybe she can hear him.’
Sara frowned. She was not given to fanciful notions about other worlds – although she found the idea comforting, in principle, and had especially after Pete’s death. ‘Margaret’s never shown any signs she believes in anything but a robust Christian afterlife,’ she said.
Heather hesitated. Then she said, ‘I’ve seen it before. Sometimes when people get very frail, it’s like the veil gets thinner between them and whatever’s going on out there.’ She gave a self-deprecating laugh. ‘I’m not saying there is anything, just that I’ve seen people affected by it.’
‘If it comforts her,’ Sara said, still touched by her mother-in-law’s pronouncement. ‘I get the feeling she’s slipping away, Heather.’
Bernard phoned around six that evening. Sara was making minestrone, the soothing task of slicing the onions and garlic, of chopping the carrots, celery and potato into small cubes, like a meditation. It was pretty much all she could manage. She’d spent the rest of the afternoon clearing weeds from the garden paving, putting a wash on, napping for half an hour in the navy velvet Edwardian armchair in the kitchen, wrapped in her large cardigan. She looked at his name on her phone screen for a second and smiled.
‘Hello,’ she said, putting the knife down and wiping her free hand on the teacloth hanging from her black joggers’ pocket.
‘Hello,’ Bernard said. She could almost hear him smiling. ‘What are you doing?’
‘Making soup. You?’
‘I tried to work. Then I went for a walk. Then I listened to some stirring Beethoven and read for a couple of paragraphs.’ He chuckled. ‘Nothing very useful. I can’t seem to concentrate.’
She laughed, knowing what he meant.
‘How was your mother-in-law?’
Sara wasn’t sure if she could share her experience, but she found herself telling him, anyway. ‘She was in quite a strange mood, actually. Hearing voices … Pete’s, specifically.’ She thought he would laugh, pooh-pooh the very suggestion, but he didn’t.
‘Lovely for her.’
She asked, ‘Do you think she can hear him?’
‘Just because we don’t know how doesn’t mean it can’t happen.’ He added, his voice pensive, ‘I can sometimes feel things … people.’
Sara frowned. Does he mean Ilsa? It was on the tip of her tongue to ask, but something in his tone stopped her. It seemed like a private moment, not one he would want to be quizzed about.
‘Makes sense,’ he went on. ‘We spend our whole life keeping our defences up in order to survive. It must be nice to let go and allow the voices in.’
Sara thought she agreed. There was always that layer of holding herself together, functioning, doing the proper thing. She’d often wondered what it would feel like to stop. ‘Pete …’ She was about to tell him the words Margaret had heard from her son. Bernard didn’t interrupt, and she took a breath. ‘Pete apparently told her he was OK,’ she went on, almost embarrassed.
