Chapter 8

Act 3: Re-connecting

Scene 1: Pastoral interlude

The atmosphere in the car on the journey to Aldershot was tense. I did not want to be involved in a serious discussion, so I exaggerated my tiredness and grumpiness. Morag covered what I am sure was a similar wish by chattering continuously about inconsequential matters. I really was tired, letting the flow of words engulf me with no more than the occasional grunt to show I was still awake. We had stopped in the drive before I began to wonder what Morag was so nervous about.

It is true that we had parted on a somewhat sour note, but she routinely deals with awkward situations; at my very worst I am much easier to handle than some of her clients. I have witnessed her calming down a reality star, as they call the people with little ability who thrust themselves into our lives. We admire them because they, like us, have no discernible talent, except self-admiration. Morag has a way of convincing them that a display of modesty will be more effective in keeping them at or close to the top of the pyramid of adulation.

Even before the engine was switched off, I was out of my seat, waiting at the trunk to collect my case. Morag pressed the button to release the lid but continued to sit in the driver’s seat. I pulled my case round to her door where she had lowered her window. She handed me the house key although she did not meet my eye.

“You know where the guest room is, Mark dear. You go in and have a snooze. Hector’s refereeing an inter-divisional match and there should be some fun because the teams hate each other. He says their regiments have been quarreling since Waterloo. I’ll go along to see the fun. You don’t mind, do you? It will give you peace.”

The brief sentences were uttered staccato; even through my tiredness I could see that Morag was not her usual self. I put a hand through the open window to squeeze her shoulder and I sensed that she was relieved that I had not offered to kiss her cheek. As I opened the door, I was weighing the option of handing back the key and getting a taxi to a hotel. That would have meant having a confrontation and I was in no condition to go to war with the wife of my best friend. An hour of sleep while the soldiers kicked lumps off each other in the name of sport would help me prepare for the battles that seemed to be inevitable.

It was only when I closed the door behind me that I wondered if I had walked into a trap. Perhaps Samantha was sprawled, naked across the bed in the guest room, seeking to employ the well-known fact that men think with their dicks. Who was I kidding? She is gorgeous and very well connected; it is totally ridiculous to imagine that she would be interested in my less than beautiful body. Nevertheless, I held my breath as I opened the door of the guest room.

The bed was empty of human life although it contained ample evidence of Morag’s thoughtfulness as a host. There was a bath towel, a hand towel, a sponge bag containing razor and shaving cream, and a set of Hector’s pajamas, ironed and neatly folded. I smiled for the first time in, it seemed, days. Instead of the voluptuous, desirable woman I dreaded, I was offered the loan of my mate’s sleepwear. Without bothering to remove the gifts, I pulled back the covers and lay on the bed, stripped to my socks and underwear.

Sleep should have followed swiftly, but it eluded me. My mind wanted to consider the journey with Morag, seeking clues on what was making her so nervous in my presence, but I could not make it focus on one thing at a time. Thoughts were flashing like images in a kaleidoscope without stopping for long enough to make sense. I pride myself on the control I exert over my thoughts, directing them where they can do the most good.

After ten minutes or so of tossing and turning, I got up and headed for the shower. I stood under the water as hot as I could tolerate before discovering that I had left my towel on the bed. I wiped off as much water with my hands as I could before scuttling across the hall, dripping on the hardwood floor, to my room. My mind was still racing, but a fog rose obscuring my scurrying thoughts and I fell asleep on top of the covers under a damp towel. My last thought, I remember, was that I would be helpless if Samantha found me in this state.

I could tell from the light in the room that it was much later when I woke to the sound of Hector quietly cursing. He had tripped over some of my clothing scattered broadcast on the floor.

“Oh good,” he smiled, unapologetic for disturbing my slumbers. “We’ve got a table booked in half an hour and I thought we were going to have to throw cold water on you to bring you round.”

“It didn’t cross your tiny mind that I might need sleep more than food?”

“Nah,” he grinned, after giving the idea a moment’s thought. “You need proper British food after all that rubbish they give you in the States.”

“I didn’t know you could reserve tables in McDonald’s.”

He chuckled and went back to rifling through my suitcase. Someone had removed the wet towel and covered me with a duvet while I slept. Hector offered me a pair of underpants which led to an important discussion. I keep clean pants at one end of my case and dirty ones at the other, so Hector and I had a bizarre conversation about whether the pair he was offering me were clean enough for purpose. In the end he held them under my nose and told me to sniff.

“If you can’t smell anything there’s a good chance no one else will.”

In the end I was ready to leave a good ten minutes before Morag emerged from their room in a cloud of perfume. It was worth the wait. She had gone all-out to make a stunning impression with complete success. Both Hector and I stood, open-mouthed and speechless, as she approached with a satisfied smile on her face.

“We can’t stand around here boys, or we’ll be late.”

Morag was almost back to normal in the early part of the evening although I sensed that her mood was brittle. She was certainly drinking rather more than usual, and, to my surprise, Hector seemed to be encouraging her. Her descriptions of some of her encounters with her clients had us laughing, but the sparkle was dying by the time we sat over a second pot of coffee. There were only half a dozen other diners scattered throughout the room by then, none of them close to us. One group was rather loud, and I almost missed the quiet interchange between Hector and his wife.

“No more booze, lass. It’s time – speak now or forever hold your peace.”

Morag was staring at him, with such a look of love as I had never before seen. She took a deep breath, exhaled it as a sigh and turned to me, her face flushing.

“You saved my marriage, Mark.”

I stared at her, hardly able to process what she had just said. She had tears in her eyes and a worried look, but then I watched her features relax. Turning to Hector, she said: “There, I did it.”

I looked at Hector who shrugged. “She was thinking of playing away – but it’s Morag’s story so I’ll let her tell it.”

She took one hand of each of us, squeezing my fingers.

“Sam seemed to have it all and I thought I could get in on the fun. A husband who adored her and a succession of men who flattered her. Then you turned her down, and I began to see another side to the story that she wasn’t telling.”

That was all that was said in the restaurant. We paid, gathered our belongings, and returned to their home. It was a silent journey but there no longer was the air of tension between Morag and I that had marred the journey from the airport. I had often teased Hector that he was not good enough to have a gorgeous wife like Morag, but that was only because she so obviously loved him. She had told us often enough about the infidelities of her clients, but we had laughed indulgently at their folly in thinking the grass was actually greener on the other side of the fence.

When we settled in their lounge, it was as if Morag had been reading my thoughts.

“We always joked about the illusions of others who made no effort to solve the problems in their present relationship, simply abandoning it for another. I thought at first that Sam was just another idiot but, as I got to know her better, I realized that her motives were quite different. She wasn’t trying to jump from the frying pan into the fire like all the others. According to her, her relationship was stable, based on mutual regard. Her husband recognized her need for adoration and was happy for her to have affairs so long as she came back to him.”

“Did you ever actually talk to him?”

“Of course, I did! We all got on very well – we were at their table at a charity dinner, weren’t we Hector?” He shrugged.

“That’s not what I meant, Morag.”

“Ok so I didn’t actually ask him outright, but I watched them when they were together. When she started flirting, he would turn away and get himself another drink. I truly think he was more interested in booze than in Sam.”

The sleep in the afternoon had done me good but I was still suffering from jet lag. The story smelled a lot worse than my dirty underpants and I was suddenly angry.

“This is all bullshit, Morag,” I snapped at her. “You’ve heard of someone being driven to drink, I suppose?”

She looked at her husband, who was inspecting his fingernails, and then she turned back to me.

“Cut to the chase!” I continued. “Did you imagine that Hector would turn away and have a little drink when you began your career as an ageing siren. Because that’s what this is all about isn’t it. Two gorgeous women becoming conscious that time is beginning to take its toll and deciding to cram in all the admiration they can get before everything sags and withers.”

“That’s enough, Mark.” Hector spoke quietly, but there was no mistaking the authority in his voice. “The bottom line is that Morag did not go through with her plan. You turned down Sam and you reminded my wife that wedding vows are promises just like any others. She saw the light and she thanked you for the part you played in reminding her who she really is.

“This is the only time the subject will be mentioned. Now, it’s late and we should all go to bed.”

It was not simply the fact that I had slept earlier that kept me awake into the early hours of the Sunday morning. Morag had looked stricken when I offered my explanation for her lapse; whether it was true or not, she will never forgive me for publicly voicing the opinion. I am neither as handsome as Ray, the plastic surgeon, nor as attractively ugly as Mike but I can understand that someone as beautiful as Morag would place a high value on appearance. Only in herself, however, since Hector, like me, has distinctly average looks and, despite her lapse, she clearly adores him still.

I resolved to ask Morag for more advice that would use her other abilities. I will convince her that she is a great deal more than a pretty face who will still be valued and loved when she is old and ugly. I knew so little of women that I thought that approach would work. For me, the more serious problem was that a chasm had opened between Hector and me and I could think of no way to bridge it; I was in danger of losing my best friend because of the stupidity of his wife.

The next morning, I woke at seven, my body clock not having properly adjusted to a Sunday lie-in. There was not even a snore from the master bedroom, so I took the key Morag had given me the day before and quietly went out for a run. An hour later, when I let myself into the back garden, there was still no sign of my hosts; I sat on the patio with my phone, organizing the next few days of my life.

I first called Corporal Riley who now managed a car hire company locally. It was his oppo I had fallen on when I was hit by the Taliban bullets. He agreed to bring me a car within half an hour, promising to supply a BMW for the price of a Fiesta.

“I thought you’d have given up fiddling now you’re back on civvie street.”

“I wouldn’t do it for anyone but the Apostle,” he laughed.

It was Riley’s oppo that had been hit when I stepped into the firing line, taking three bullets. He could be forgiven for exaggerating the part I played. I suppose he sees me as the Apostle Mark, one of the good guys. While I waited for the car to arrive, I called dad, who was just about to set off for the golf course. He promised to set up a gentle ramble through the Peak District starting as early on Monday as I could get there. Finally, I called mum, who was about to go to bed after a night shift at the hospital. She insisted that I join her for breakfast, claiming that she could not shut an eye until she had seen me.

Perhaps it is genetics rather than jet lag that got me up so early this morning, I thought, smiling to myself. The door behind me slid open and Morag appeared with two mugs of coffee. She was wrapped in Hector’s gown, with no make-up and her hair in knots, but she looked beautiful in the demanding light of this summer morning. I was sitting with my shirt off and she strolled around me inspecting the fresh scars from my recent operation.

“I made a stupid mistake,” she began, smiling tentatively.

“Not the first person to do that,” I replied, pointing to my wound. “Some of us are lucky enough to have most of the scars on the outside. Don’t let your mistake fester. I’m there for you if you need to unload.”

“I didn’t even think how it would affect your friendship with Hector until last night.”

“He’s been badly hurt. I know you never intended to leave him, but he feels inadequate, less than a man. His faith has been shaken and it’s going to take time to build again.”

“I’ll never keep anything from him in future, if he still wants me, that is.”

“You’ll have to do better than that. He’ll worry whenever you’re out of his sight, but his pride won’t allow him to ask. You’ll have to make a point of telling him every little, boring, inconsequential detail.”

“But you’ll help, won’t you Mark?”

“The best help I can give you at present is to leave the pair of you to find each other again. Hector’s my best friend; we’ll sort ourselves out once the dust settles.”

“But you’re staying for the rest of the week, aren’t you?”

“I’m waiting for Corporal Riley to bring a hire car and then I’m off to spend a few days with my dad – after breakfast with mum.”

Hector staggered out the door dressed only in his sleep-shorts, till rubbing the sleep from his eyes.

“Does that mean you’ve made it up with your dad?” I nodded. “That’s great news mate, isn’t it sweetheart?”

A horn sounded, so we went to the front of the house to meet Paddy Riley. While I packed my case, he explained to Hector that it was company policy to upgrade if the car, a humble Fiesta in this case, was not immediately available. They had two in the garage, he admitted, but they were being valeted so he was forced to supply the Beamer, at no extra charge, it went without saying.

I was giving Riley a lift back to the garage, so my farewells were muted, although Morag did give me a rib-breaking hug. Mum at sixty and after a long shift in the hospital, looked a great deal better than Hector.

“Will you go to Chatsworth with your dad? That was one of the last trips we took as a family, you know. You loved all the watery things. I hadn’t given it a thought, but your dad brought along dry clothes for you. He always was a better mother than me.”

“When you retire you could run MI5 as a hobby. I only arranged the holiday with dad half an hour ago.”

“He and I talk all the time. We always have done it since the day I left. I suppose we should have told you, but you were such a little shit in those days. You were always taking a high moral tone, looking down your nose at all us sinners wallowing in real life.”

“Are you telling me that for thirty years you and dad have had a clandestine relationship behind my back?”

“That just about sums it up,” she giggled. My mum never giggles, but she was giggling and blushing now, like a schoolgirl. “Don’t be so stuffy, Mark. I’m sure it’s not that unusual. I love your dad, but I can’t live with him. He’s my best friend and I can’t live without him – just so long as we don’t have to share a house.”

“And where does that leave stepdad?”

“Oh, I love Quentin too, in a way. I have no trouble sharing a house with him but it’s your dad I turn to when I need love. I suppose you think I’m even more awful than you realized?”

Mum had, as she usually did, laid out the ingredients for breakfast as if she was preparing an operating theatre. The bacon, sausage and eggs were lined up in front of her as she stood at the preparation counter. Once the grill was turned on, everything would be to hand, ensuring swift completion.

“Why are you telling me all this now?” I asked, from my perch at the kitchen table, about two paces behind her.

For the first time in my life, I saw her shoulders slump. I had closed the gap, so I heard her whisper:

“At 0417 I certified a child dead.” I already had my arms round her when she turned and hugged me, laying her head on my chest. “Her mother thought MMR was some sort of medical conspiracy and now her daughter has died of a disease we have already conquered.”

I have no idea how long we stood there wrapped in each other’s arms. Mum sobbed to begin with but then she relaxed into the embrace. It was the most astonishing first: my mother had never needed me before. Indeed, I had not known until half an hour before that she needed anyone. I am thirty-five years old but, standing in my mother’s kitchen, that was the moment I became a man. The needless death of a nameless child had unlocked emotions I did not know existed in both mum and me.

It was only when Doris touched my arm that I became aware that she had let herself into the house. Another doctor, and mum’s best pal for twenty years, she is a petite lady who came from India with her husband, also a doctor. She took charge now, ordering me to make coffee while she led mum away to her bedroom. I put the breakfast food back in the fridge and set the machine to percolate.

“She would normally still be with the parents after the death of a child, but she is angry and despondent at the stupidity of the mother. She wants to see you – she’ll be a bit woozy since I gave her a pill.”

Mum was lying on her back with the covers up to her chin when I went into her bedroom. She was struggling to keep her eyes open, but she smiled at me.

“I thought I’d lost you when they brought you in that day.” She sounded drunk, her voice slightly slurred and her speech slow. “That would have been another unnecessary death.”

“My wound was self-inflicted,” I told her, but I think she was asleep before I finished. I bent to kiss her forehead with real affection, realizing as I did that it was for perhaps the first time in my life.

Doris had found a mop and was filling a bucket when I got back to the kitchen, but she stopped to pour two cups of coffee which we drank sitting at the kitchen table. I mentioned that I should call dad to cancel our trip.

“Don’t do that, Mark.” Doris reached out and put her hand on mine. “I’ll tidy up a bit and then cook one of my mother’s curries. Selma is home from uni and she’ll bring the others round at four for family dinner. Your mum will enjoy the company and she’ll be ready for work this evening. I’ve seen her like this before. She won’t want to talk about it, so she’ll probably be rude to you.”

“You’re a most surprising woman, Doris.”

“I’m not even Doris,” she laughed. “That was the name your mum gave me the first time we met, and it stuck. I had just started and was receiving doctor in A&E, my second week in England.”

Mum had stopped at a motorbike accident where a young soldier had badly broken his leg. She took charge at the scene, travelling in the ambulance and calling ahead to prepare for their reception. Doris had heard about mum, the dragon lady, but did not realize at first who was escorting the gurney that brought in the injured man. It was only after he had been taken straight through to surgery that the two women introduced themselves. Mum decided that since her Indian name was such a mouthful, she would be ‘Doris’ from then on.

“But that’s totally racist!”

“From anyone else it would be,” she laughed again. “There are less than twenty people in the hospital who have been nicknamed by your mum: it’s the ultimate mark of her regard. We speak Hindi in our house because my husband is so keen to keep our culture alive for our children, but even he calls me Doris.”

We looked in on mum peacefully sleeping, then Doris walked me to the car.

“I know she has a strange way of showing it, but she loves you and your dad more than anyone else in the world. I’m glad you’ve found each other again.”

“What kind of relationship can we have after thirty years apart?”

I refrained from asking that question of Doris, but I puzzled over it on the drive north to the Peak District. I was more than half-way there before I began to think of all the questions I had for dad. I remembered in the first years after mum left that she visited fairly frequently. Had they tried to renew the relationship during these visits? Mum said they were in constant touch. Did they talk on the phone, or did they have clandestine meetings? Mum had made it sound as if they were still physically attracted to each other. Were they having an ongoing affair?