And of course when Orson was back for a while one had to make it clear that one would be less available. He was liable to turn up without warning, straight off the plane, in the most awful clothes, having come from some underdeveloped jungle somewhere, and I might be in the middle of a dinner party, the house full of people, and there’s this tramplike figure: “May I introduce my husband.” Not that Orson would be at all put out, not he, he’d have everyone on the run within minutes. Orson is an assertive man.
A presence. Makes himself felt. And the gift of the gab, like no one else—could talk himself in or out of any situation. I suppose that was a professional advantage, the sort of people he had to deal with, around the world. Women noticed him—oh, yes indeed. Well, we know about that.
Clara dates from way back. Toby and Tam are the same age. Not that I knew about her until later. Some kind friend always tells you: “My dear, I feel you should know . . .” She was queening it on the Seychelles—holding court at this mansion and one wonders how she came by that—and Orson fetched up there with some colleagues, stopping off after one of those so-called fact-finding tours, and why one asks were they there in the first place, but it seems that they stayed on and on until their office started sending telegrams. The story was that the island was the site of an experimental pig-breeding scheme in which Orson and his team were interested, centered on Clara’s estate. The extended stay was essential for proper monitoring of the scheme. Ho, hum. Whether or not the relationship was sustained I do not know and have not inquired. Tam was sent to Bedales and has turned out a very charming young man, against all the odds.
She trapped him, of course. Women like that set their sights on a man and will stop at nothing. I don’t know what she did and I don’t want to but you hear a lot of rumors about black magic and voodoo and jiggery-pokery of one kind and another in places like that, don’t you? Suffice it that she got him and I dare say that Orson wasn’t by any means unwilling. I’ve been told she is remarkably seductive. Well, that’s as may be, but some men go as lambs to the slaughter and I’m afraid this is where Orson’s much-vaunted strength of personality seems to have failed.
I have never made an issue of it. Her name is not mentioned. Tam of course is the living testimony but I have never ever been anything but generous and fair-minded where the boy was concerned. He cannot be blamed for his mother’s practices and it is to his credit that he has emerged such a very engaging young man. Of course the funeral was agony for him. He was so devastated at what had happened. Distraught.
Toby got back just in time. It took me three days to get hold of him. He was in Australia. Frankly, it was not really necessary to go to the other side of the world after that family row. When Orson said that he thought it would be a good idea if Toby went away for a bit he just meant that a cooling-off period was needed. After Orson’s retirement he and Toby were never on good terms, to be honest they fought. Orson was too forceful and Toby had dropped out of college and he was into dope and he didn’t seem to have any particular career structure in mind. And he wasn’t used to having a father around as a permanent fixture. Toby has artistic tendencies though it’s not clear what form these will take and of course Orson is not that way inclined. I stood aside as far as possible though I must admit I was finding Toby’s lifestyle rather trying myself but basically it was a question of male egos and Orson’s was dominant. And he had the checkbook. So Toby went off on what was supposed to be a sort of postponed gap year and I won’t say I wasn’t a tiny bit relieved, I’m much too busy still to have to endure a stressful home life and anyway his room needed redecorating.
I love children. I love to have the young around me. But naturally there had to be nannies and suchlike for Toby because I was just not available and I will admit that I find infants and very small children somewhat wearing. A larger family would not have been a good idea which is the main reason I was so shattered when I found I was pregnant again. There was also the problem that it happened while Orson was away in Nigeria I think it was, which made things—well, a bit awkward. I suppose it was the silly fling with that photographer, he’d been knocking on the door for ages and I couldn’t go on saying no forever. Though actually there was someone else around then too, now I come to think of it. I didn’t realize about the pregnancy until it was rather too late to do anything so I just had to go through with it, said I was having a sabbatical and slipped off for a few months to a place Carlos had in Spain. An arrangement was made for the baby, some sweet nuns in a convent took care of everything, much the best thing for all concerned. It had something wrong with its feet, some sort of malformation. I hardly saw him so wisest not to think about it, just put it behind one.
I have needed to be resilient. Life has not been easy. An exacting occupation. A husband obsessed with earthquakes and famine relief; in my view humanitarian aid should start at home. A somewhat wayward son. And I have had to resist those whose demands became too pressing, a woman alone attracts attention, at least certain women do, and I have never been short of admirers, but people can become tiresome with their insistence on commitment. Isn’t it enough that we’re having such a lot of fun? I’d say. Don’t spoil things. And I must think of Orson. Wherever he may be. Yes, I know that I would have every justification in taking matters into my own hands, but I’m not like that, I respect my marriage vows. One day, perhaps, I may feel differently, but not just yet. So please, my dear, don’t insist. Let us just enjoy what we have.
While it lasts. Because of course love doesn’t, does it? One always knew that, but it’s cruel to make a point of it. To disillusion a person.
In any case, I’ve come to prefer rather younger men these days. Time’s up for dear old Carlos, I’m afraid. Along with one or two others. Of course I have not been entertaining on the scale that I used to, since Orson came back. He was never an enthusiast for parties, preferred an evening in a pub with a few cronies. Plus he complained of the expense. But my Saturday evenings were famous —people just came, invited or not. I never knew who would turn up and far be it from me to be inhospitable. If Orson had thought fit to tell me he was arriving back from his final assignment, if he’d avoided the weekend, he wouldn’t have found such a crowd that evening. Suddenly appearing like that, this bearded figure—for a few moments I couldn’t think who this was. Everybody was staring and people were muttering and exchanging looks and some of the young may have been a bit offhand, but the gracious host Orson was not, I’m sorry to say. The party just kind of melted away.
Tam turned up a few months later. Toby had gone to Australia by then and the first thing Tam did was set to and redecorate the room himself which was so thoughtful. And he was a delight to have around—well-behaved, charmingly attentive, in stark contrast I’m afraid to my son. Tam is interested in a career in investment management, and I have been able to put him in touch with a few people. He was sweet with Orson, too, going on trips with him, driving him around—Orson had a back problem, arthritis triggered by an old injury, some dust-up in the past about which I have not asked questions, Orson was always combative, to put it mildly. Tam made himself thoroughly useful and what happened was in no way his fault, absolutely not, no blame attaches whatsoever and I have told him this again and again but of course he is desolated.
The brakes failed. The car started careering down a hill and Tam steered for the side and the car tipped over. Tam had cuts and bruises but Orson . . . No, I can’t talk about it.
Orson would never have made old bones. I console myself with that thought. He had recurrent malaria and he had had every kind of tropical disease—there must have been any number of bugs rampaging around in his bloodstream. If it hadn’t been that, something else would have got him, sooner or later.
And now he is laid to rest . . .
. . . and we must all move on. I shall pick myself up, as I have done so many times before, put on a brave face, continue. Orson is in my heart, dear man, despite all, and there are others who need me. Tam is staying here, I hav
e said that he must feel that this is his home for as long as he likes, and he is the greatest support and comfort. Toby took himself off again immediately after the funeral, and now there is this postcard from Greece. It seems he is at this artists’ colony that Clara runs and I cannot feel that this is entirely appropriate but he is no longer a child and must make his own choices. Who am I to pass judgment?
I once had a letter from a reader saying that the surname of a character in one of my novels was that of an old acquaintance of hers from Chester; she wondered if my character had connections with that city, and, if so, could I please send her the character’s address. I sympathize with this view of fiction; I read in this way as a child and very satisfying it was. The cast of The Iliad and The Odyssey joined me under the eucalyptus trees and the casuarinas; together we defeated boredom. Everything that I read was woven into a fantasy world that merged with reality. My daily life was populated with figures from my own internal narratives, most of them lifted from my reading and tweaked about a bit to suit personal requirements: heroes, gods, mythic beasts, resourceful children messing about with boats in the Lake District—all coexisting reasonably enough with family, friends, and the teeming backdrop of the Middle East in 1942. Books were intimate and entirely relevant. Reading has never been quite the same since; it continues to fuel fiction, but differently. Penelope is no longer myself. This exercise in confabulation has been another kind of experiment, a different way of enlisting story to complement reality, at the opposite end of my life.
Penelope Lively, Making It Up
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