The Fleeting Years Read online

  ‘… gone. They’ve taken her. I tried to stop them, but there was no way. He’s her father.’

  ‘Taken her? Fiona’s little girl?’ He whispered, barely audibly. Releasing his hold on her he turned away and when he spoke again he’d lost control of his voice, it was loud and harsh. ‘Bloody man … Fiona’s baby … all we have of her.’ As if all power had deserted him he flopped onto the settee. He turned towards Zina, seeing her expression and in it reading her misery and helplessness. ‘You drove all this way to tell me.’

  She nodded, using all her willpower to keep her voice firm. ‘… wanted to. Wanted to be with you, just us.’

  He nodded, taking her hand and drawing her down to his side. But instead of sitting, she sank to her knees burying her face against him.

  ‘… wouldn’t take her things. Not clothes, not toys. They said they have everything ready for her.’ Zina didn’t cry easily but now she was at rock bottom, and it took all her determination to form the words.

  ‘Fiona’s baby … all we had left of her …’ What he heard had brought back all the anguish of losing the daughter who’d been so precious to him. Perhaps even he hadn’t realized how he had clung to the love he had for Ruth feeling it gave him a link with Fiona, a future with something of her still with them. Silently he wept, she knew it from the jerky, trembling of his body as kneeling in front of him she drew him close. ‘… all we had of her … gone … all we had of her …’

  ‘No darling,’ Zina answered, doubting if he even heard her, ‘we have memories, memories we can never lose.’ It took every bit of her willpower to speak gently and calmly while inside she was as torn as he. ‘Ruth’ll be loved and cared for – and I believe she’s being taken to where Fiona would want her to be brought up.’ Was that the truth? Did she really believe it? All she cared about was helping Peter get through the shock and hurt of losing his beloved Fiona’s legacy. From his misery she had to find her own strength.

  ‘Fiona … now her baby … how much more are we supposed to bear?’ His words were disjointed and barely audible. ‘Like seeing her all over again … Fiona …’ Uninvited the thought came to Zina that all this time he must have carried this misery in his heart, the wound of losing Fiona still as open and raw as in the first weeks.

  With her face pressed against his she gave up her own battle for control. Perhaps he loved Ruth because she was a legacy from Fiona; Zina loved her simply for herself. But on that night neither of them looked beyond the emptiness left by her going.

  Eleven

  Zina took the pile of envelopes the postman passed to her and walked across the grass to the seat under the horse chestnut tree which, at this hour of the morning, was in sunshine. She haggled open the top one without so much as glancing at any of the others. Her face wore a half-smile of anticipation. To read one of Clara’s letters was like hearing her voice. ‘Wholesome’ had been Peter’s description of her when they’d first learned that she was to be Tom’s wife and after all this time nothing changed her, the description was still as apt. With the folded sheets half in and half out of the envelope it was temptingly easy for Zina to let her mind drift back down the years. The junior Marchands hadn’t been altered by time or success, perhaps a character trait Tom had inherited from his father. These days Tom and Clara were not so junior; but despite his rise to become one of the country’s – and much further afield – foremost violinists, their feet stayed firmly on the ground. It was some twenty years since they had left Newton House, at that time taking their nine-month-old son Christo (or Christopher to give him his full name, which nobody ever had) and moving to a house with a garden sloping down to the river near Henley-on-Thames. Deirdre, their next child, was three years behind Christo and then after another three years had come Kate. All three grandchildren were very dear to Zina and Peter and through the years, if Peter had been at home between commitments during school holidays they always enjoyed ‘borrowing’ them to stay at Newton House. Just as long ago Tom and Fiona had when they were young, so the next generation loved to go adventuring with Peter. Then, last year, when Clara had already passed her fortieth birthday, the forth member of the Marchand Junior family had arrived and now at six months old baby Stephen was the delight of the whole family. Looking forward to the chatty letter that Zina knew it would be, she took it out of the envelope and started to read.

  ‘Anything worth reading in the post? Who’s that one from?’ Peter’s voice surprised her. So deep in memories had she been that she hadn’t noticed him crossing the grass towards her.

  ‘I haven’t looked at the others. This one’s from Clara,’ she answered as he picked up the envelopes on the seat by her side and lowered himself to sit down. His sigh didn’t go unnoticed and, making no comment, she cast a quick and worried look in his direction, changing it to a smile when he turned towards her. ‘You check through the others,’ she said, then as she returned to her reading, she exclaimed, ‘Peter, listen to this! She suggests that they should all come here for your birthday. I suppose they see seventy-five as a milestone.’ The letter seemed temporarily forgotten as she imagined them all and from there let her mind go to herself and Peter. ‘The years go by so fast – but do you feel different? Do you think of yourself as old? I expect that’s how they see us, they must do, especially the grandchildren. But I don’t, do you? We must have changed – oh I don’t mean things like hair going white – or in my case a sort of messy-looking grey – I mean the essential us.’

  He looked at her with a tolerant smile, the envelopes in his hand forgotten as he weighed up her question which, in truth, hadn’t been a question as much as a comment on the passage of time.

  ‘Does it feel like almost fifty years that we’ve been married?’ He asked the question of himself. ‘In some ways it has gone so fast, frighteningly fast; and yet it’s as if there was nothing before, nothing that has left an indelible memory. Remember when they were children …’ With his head back he gazed unseeingly at the blue summer sky. He too was lost in memories. ‘Remember how you used to insist when I was home that I took them out without you?’ He smiled as he closed his eyes, seeming to see the picture his words created. ‘We used to go adventuring.’ Then, not needing to spell out where his thoughts had taken him, he added, ‘Her life’s adventure was so short.’ He fell silent, remembering the child who had held a special place in his heart.

  ‘Joy, sadness, excitement, tragedy, it all gets carried along on the tide of time,’ Zina mused. ‘You know what I think, what I really believe? There’s a purpose behind everything that happens. We may not see it at the time but, if we learn to trust, then later on we see the purpose. Think of little Ruth, what a dreadful time that was when Ivor and Isabel took her away from us. But, from this distance in time, imagine if she’d stayed. What would she have been doing now? She was just a baby, and we had no means of knowing where her dreams would be. With us would she have wanted a career in films like Fiona did? Out there she grew up in the industry. Our life has been so different here; you’ve never let your career colour our home and the life of the family. What would have happened if you’d signed that contract and we’d all moved over there? Would it have changed us?’

  ‘Thank God we didn’t take the chance. Yet would Fiona still have been here if we’d always been with her through her developing years?’

  She took his hand in hers, struck by how cold it was despite the sunshine. Again his eyes were closed as he held his face towards the sun, so she was able to look at him without his knowing. Still a handsome man, but youth was behind him, of course it was, he was approaching his seventy-fifth birthday. She was barely six years behind him, but she still felt energetic, interested in life. The thought of retirement had never entered his head as the film idol of his youthful years had been overtaken by his love of stage with no more than the occasional film, sometimes only a cameo role with a character that interested him. Such was the advantage of success and longevity in the industry; he could play just the parts he chose to play
. But lately something had altered him, something more than the natural passage of time. It was as if some of the joy of living had gone out of him. Even after so long did it have roots in that dreadful time when they had lost Fiona? No, they had faced that together, a time she tried not to dwell on. Perhaps it was the inescapable fact that soon he must give up the work he so loved; was that what had taken hope – and, she believed, confidence too – away from him? She linked her fingers through his and felt his grip tighten.

  ‘Perhaps you’re right,’ he said, ‘about Ruth, I mean. Right there in the heart of the film world it must have seemed a natural progression for her to move into the business. And if Fiona knows, she must be so proud of what the girl has achieved. Yet, had she stayed here, who knows.’

  ‘That, my darling Peter, is because, thank God, you never let yourself become anything but the real person you are. I bet not many in the profession stay as untouched by celebrity.’

  ‘There are plenty,’ he answered. ‘And now, for me, that word celebrity is hardly applicable. Thinking of Ruth, or Rebecca as she so quickly became when she left here, do you think it would have made it any easier when they took her away from us if we’d been able to see into the future and know that she would have filled the role Fiona had made her own?’

  ‘Of course it wouldn’t, not for us. But she has been remarkable. She has captivated hearts right from her first film when she was only six through to today and, no doubt, beyond. That’s a clever transition. Ivor and Isabel guided her well. I hate to remember the day they took her – and knowing how well it has worked out for her has never made it any easier.’ Then, changing the subject, she asked, ‘Is there anything else interesting in the post?’

  ‘Business envelopes, nothing pers …’ His voice sounded strange, and faded into silence before he finished the word.

  ‘Peter! Peter! What’s the matter? Wake up, Peter.’

  His head had flopped forward but he couldn’t be asleep, for when she raised it she saw that his eyes were open. His breathing was shallow and he seemed to be staring straight ahead and yet when she moved her hand in front of his eyes he wasn’t aware. She kept talking to him, chaffing his cold hands, silently pleading that he would properly wake and be normal even while reason told her that there was nothing normal in what had happened. A minute or two ago they had been talking quite naturally, he had been well. Or had he? Had that been just the impression he had meant to give.

  Please, please, she silently begged. And then, speaking her thoughts aloud as, just as suddenly as he had drifted away, so now he appeared once more to be aware. ‘Thank God. Peter, what happened to you? Do you feel ill? Why couldn’t you have told me?’

  ‘What?’ He sounded puzzled. ‘Ill? No, of course I’m not ill.’ He sounded completely mystified by her concern. It was as if the minute or so he’s stared so vacantly at nothing had never happened.

  He seemed perfectly normal after that one episode, so much so that she almost persuaded herself it had never happened. In the afternoon they donned anoraks and drove the few miles to the coast where they walked for an hour or so. Life was good.

  When they reached home they found a note by the telephone, a message Anna (the live-in maid who had come to them after Mrs Cripps had succumbed to pneumonia about ten years previously) had left on the hall table. There had been a call from Isaac Roache the film producer and friend of Peter’s for many years. He had left no message but asked that Peter ring him back. While he made the call, Zina went to the kitchen to make some tea and, in her natural way, have a chat with Anna.

  ‘I can do that, Mrs Marchand. You go and sit in the sunshine, I’ll bring the tray out when Mr Marchand finishes his telephoning. I just made a few little almond biscuits. The recipe was in a programme on the TV yesterday evening. I had a try to taste them and they’re pretty good even if I say so myself. I thought the master would like something a bit different and I remember he always likes almonds. He’s all right, is he?’

  Fear stabbed at Zina again but she made herself keep her voice bright as she answered, ‘He says he is. I thought he looked tired, but I guess, Anna, we can’t expect always to have the energy we had years ago.’

  ‘Ah. I hear his step. He must have finished the call. Yes, he’s outside, looking for you, I expect. You hop off and see him, I’ll bring the tray out in just a jiff.’

  So, sitting on the terrace and pouring their tea, Zina was told the reason Isaac had wanted to talk to him.

  ‘It seems I’m not on the scrap heap after all,’ he said, trying without success to talk seriously and not let his smile tell her the excitement he felt.

  ‘You’ll never be on the scrap heap. But tell me, what did Isaac want?’

  ‘He was sounding me out about a film.’

  Before she could hold it back, she frowned. Film work was so demanding. Early mornings on the set, long days of work, probably hours of standing around. Even a stage performance would have been better.

  ‘And are you interested?’ Silly question, she told herself. Just look at him!

  ‘It may be my swan song, but yes, I want to do it. Maybe there will be more after this, but for me this is special, important. There’s to be a film of King Lear. Now you can see why I mean to do it.’

  ‘Are you sure, Peter? Sure you want it, I mean? It won’t be like acting it on the stage. While you’re filming you’ll have time for nothing else, desperately early mornings—’

  ‘Zee.’ He reached across the garden table and took both her hands in his. ‘Zee, Lear saw my return to the stage. You know how I felt about playing him then. Then or now, in my heart no character has lived as he has. Yes, I want to do it. On the stage perhaps I was able to put flesh and blood into the king for theatregoers in the capital. Think of the people who might be moved by him if we can put that same emotion on the screen, if he can be made to live for the audience.’ As if he pulled a curtain down on his inner feelings he dropped her hands and stirred his tea despite the fact the cup was half empty and in any case he never used sugar. So seldom did he let his driving passion for what he did find expression even to Zina.

  ‘OK,’ she agreed, ‘I can understand how you feel. King Lear has always been very special. So, Peter my sweet, what we shall do is rent a cottage, house, flat, anything, near the studio and I shall come with you.’

  They looked at each other very directly, saying nothing. Zina was filled with purpose, she would see he was cared for, make sure if he had to have early mornings then he would have early nights. She wasn’t happy about it, but it meant so much to him and perhaps what she saw as tiredness came from frustration because he wanted to work.

  ‘You’ll come with me?’ he repeated and she looked down rather than let him suspect she had seen his eyes fill with tears.

  ‘Next week the youngsters come, neither of us can go anywhere until after your birthday.’

  ‘No. Shooting won’t start yet. But tomorrow I shall drive up to talk about it, possibly to sign the contract.’ Then it was he who changed the subject. ‘While I’m gone you ought to take Mother-in-law out while this weather holds. Has she phoned today?’

  ‘Yes, she checked in this morning. She really is amazing. Sounded as bright as a button. May we be as good when we get to be ninety-three. Even so I’m glad she agreed to have someone living in the house with her seeing that she was so pig-headed about not selling up and coming here.’

  Peter half-smiled remembering Jenny and what Zina saw as her pig-headed refusal to give up her own home when Derek had died. ‘She’s a great lady is Mother-in-law, made of stout stuff. For all that, I’m glad she at least liked the idea of having a live-in companion to help her. Given a free rein even at ninety-three she’d still be mowing her own grass.’

  Jenny looked at him with affection. ‘You know something, Peter Marchand? You’re a hundred per cent nice guy. She’s ridden rough shod over you many a time and you never hold it against her.’

  ‘You know why? Because I know exactly why she resen
ts me: because she’s more sensitive than you give her credit for and, right from the early days, she has known that you and I are – are – how can I say it? Some couples, even married happily, remain two separate characters. We don’t. You and I are “us”. Come what may, happiness, sadness …’ He paused, reaching again to take her hand. ‘No earthly separation can ever divide us.’ This time it was Zina who felt the sting of tears. ‘Now then, enough of all that. What did you say Anna had put in the biscuits because she knew I like it?’

  ‘Almonds. You might guess, she’s put one on the top of each.’

  ‘Ah! So she has. Indeed I’m a lucky chap,’ he said, in a tone that mocked himself. ‘Women just fall at my feet, you know.’ Then chewing on the biscuit, he said, ‘I say, Zee, these are seriously good.’

  Peter’s birthday was more than just the evening party where friends of many years from stage, screen, production and management attended. The celebration lasted from breakfast until they staggered off to bed. Newton House was bulging at the seams with Tom and his family home and Jenny with her companion there all day and then staying the night. Celia had been on her own for more than ten years, the inevitable result of loving a man so many years her senior, so alone she came to the party. Still as eccentric in her dress, she was just as dear to all of them as she had been for years and, rather than drive home, she too was staying the night after the party ended and the hotels in Deremouth filled up.

  ‘Quite a day, wasn’t it, Zee,’ Peter said as they finally lay down in bed.

  ‘Lovely, every minute of it. The caterers did well, didn’t they? I drank so much champagne I ought to fizz.’

  ‘I want to make you fizz. Oh God but I want it.’ For a few seconds they were silent, then moving his fingers around her hardened nipples and hearing that small sound he loved in her throat, he whispered, ‘Zee, Zee, help me. In my mind I want to love you, sometimes I can think of nothing else. Help me. Tonight it’s got to be good. Such a bloody failure.’