Silver Wedding (9 page)

'Aw hell, I've not had lunch out for years.'

'I never had,' Helen said simply.

That did it.

They went to an Italian restaurant which was almost dark like night and there were candles on the table.

Every time Helen tried to bring up the subject of her father he skirted around it. She knew that in those television series about big business they always came to the point at the coffee stage.

There was no coffee. There was a Zambucca. A liquorice tasting liqueur. With a little coffee bean in it and the waiter set it alight. Helen had never seen anything so marvellous.

'It's like a grown-up's birthday cake,' she said delightedly.

'You're fairly grown up for seventeen,' Frank said. 'Or is it older?'

This was to her advantage, if he thought she was older than sixteen he would listen better. Take her more seriously.

'Almost eighteen,' she lied.

'You've been around, despite the schoolgirl get-up,' he said.

'I've been around,' Helen said.

The more travelled he thought she was, the more he would listen when the time came to talk.

The time didn't come to talk.

He had been affectionate and admiring and had patted her cheek and even held her face up to the candlelight to see if there was any telltale ring of red wine around her mouth before she went back to school.

'I'm not going back to school,' Helen said very definitely. She looked Frank Quigley straight in the eye. 'You know that, and I know that.'

'I certainly hoped it,' he said, and his voice sounded a bit throaty. Something about the way he stroked her cheek and lifted her hair made it difficult to talk about her father's job, Helen had felt it would somehow be wrong to bring the subject up when he was being so attentive. She was relieved when he suggested they go back to his place so that they could talk properly.

'Do you mean the office?' She was doubtful. The dragon would keep interrupting.

'I don't mean the office,' he said very steadily, looking at her.

'You know that and I

know that.'

'I certainly hoped it,' she said, echoing his words.

The apartment block was very luxurious. Mother had always said she could not understand why Frank Quigley hadn't bought himself a proper house now that he was a married man. But then he probably had expectations of the big white house with the wrought-iron gates and the large well-kept gardens. The house of the Palazzos.

But Mother couldn't have known how splendid the flat was. Flat wasn't the word for it, really. It was on two floors, there was a lovely staircase leading up to a floor which had a big balcony with chairs and a table outside, the balcony ran along the whole length of the place, past the sitting room and the bedroom.

They went out the sitting room door to look at the view from the balcony. And Helen's heart lurched with a sudden realization as they left the balcony to return indoors through the bedroom.

Her hand went to her throat in an automatic gesture of fright.

'Your wife ... ?' she said.

Long long afterwards when she played it back in her mind, she thought of all the things she could have said, should have said, might have said. How had it been that the only thing which did come to her to say was something that could obviously be taken to mean that she was willing and enthusiastic, but just afraid of discovery?

'Renata isn't here, Helen,' Frank Quigley said softly. 'You know that and I know that, just as we both knew you weren't going back to school.'

She had heard that it wasn't healthy to try to blot something out of your memory, to try to pretend that it had never happened.

Helen didn't care whether it was healthy or not, for a long time she tried to forget that afternoon.

The moment of no return, the look of bewilderment and anger when she had shied away from him first.

The urgency, and the pain, the sheer hurt and stabbing and fear that he was so out of control that he might do literally

'Lunch?' He laughed in a short bark. 'Lord, Helen, I don't know what kind of lifestyles you think we live down here ..." He broke off, looking at her disappointed face.

'Aw hell, I've not had lunch out for years.'

'I never had,' Helen said simply.

That did it.

They went to an Italian restaurant which was almost dark like night and there were candles on the table.

Every time Helen tried to bring up the subject of her father he skirted around it. She knew that in those television series about big business they always came to the point at the coffee stage.

There was no coffee. There was a Zambucca. A liquorice tasting liqueur. With a little coffee bean in it and the waiter set it alight. Helen had never seen anything so marvellous.

'It's like a grown-up's birthday cake,' she said delightedly.

'You're fairly grown up for seventeen,' Frank said. 'Or is it older?'

This was to her advantage, if he thought she was older than

sixteen he would listen better. Take her more seriously.

'Almost eighteen,' she lied.

'You've been around, despite the schoolgirl get-up,' he said.

'I've been around,' Helen said.

The more travelled he thought she was, the more he would listen when the time came to talk.

The time didn't come to talk.

He had been affectionate and admiring and had patted her cheek and even held her face up to the candlelight to see if there was any telltale ring of red wine around her mouth before she went back to school.

'I'm not going back to school,' Helen said very definitely. She looked Frank Quigley straight in the eye. 'You know that, and I know that.'

'I certainly hoped it,' he said, and his voice sounded a bit throaty. Something about the way he stroked her cheek and lifted her hair made it difficult to talk about her father's job, Helen had felt it would somehow be wrong to bring the subject up when he was being so attentive. She was relieved when he suggested they go back to his place so that they could talk properly.

'Do you mean the office?' She was doubtful. The dragon would keep interrupting.

'I don't mean the office,' he said very steadily, looking at her.

'You know that and I know that.'

'I certainly hoped it,' she said, echoing his words.

The apartment block was very luxurious. Mother had always said she could not understand why Frank Quigley hadn't bought himself a proper house now that he was a married man. But then he probably had expectations of the big white house with the wrought-iron gates and the large well-kept gardens. The house of the Palazzos.

But Mother couldn't have known how splendid the flat was. Flat wasn't the word for it, really. It was on two floors, there was a lovely staircase leading up to a floor which had a big balcony with chairs and a table outside, the balcony ran along the whole length of the place, past the sitting room and the bedroom.

They went out the sitting room door to look at the view from the balcony. And Helen's heart lurched with a sudden realization as they left the balcony to return indoors through the bedroom.

Her hand went to her throat in an automatic gesture of fright.

r'Your wife . . . ?' she said.

Long long afterwards when she played it back in her mind, she thought of all the things she could have said, should have said, might have said. How had it been that the only thing which did come to her to say was something that could obviously be taken to mean that she was willing and enthusiastic, but just afraid of discovery?

'Renata isn't here, Helen,' Frank Quigley said softly. 'You

know that and I know that, just as we both knew you weren't going back to school.'

She had heard that it wasn't healthy to try to blot something out of your memory, to try to pretend that it had never happened. Helen didn't care whether it was healthy or not, for a long time she tried to forget that afternoon.

The moment of no return, the look of bewilderment and anger when she had shied away from him first.

The urgency, and the pain, the sheer hurt and stabbing and fear that he was so out of control that he might do literally anything and kill her. The way he rolled away and groaned, not like that first groan but with shame and then with fury.

'You told me, you said you'd been around,' he said with his head in his hands as he sat on one side of the bed, white, naked and ridiculous-looking.

She lay on the other beside the silver-framed photograph of the lean olive-faced Renata. Silent and disapproving-looking beside her marriage bed. As if she had always known what might happen there one day.

Helen had lain there and looked at the picture of Our Lady, it was the one you saw everywhere called Madonna of the Wayside. At least Our Lady hadn't had to go through all this to get our Lord. It had been done miraculously. Helen looked at the picture because that meant she didn't have to look at her father's friend Frank Quigley who was crying into his hands. And it meant she didn't have to look at the white sheets which were stained with blood and she didn't have to think about how badly he had injured her and if she would have to go to a doctor. Or if she might be pregnant.

She didn't know how long it was before she made a move to the bathroom and cleaned herself up. She didn't seem to have been very badly injured, the bleeding had stopped.

She dressed herself carefully and dusted herself with Renata's talcum powder which wasn't in a tin like ordinary powder, it was in a big glass bowl with a pink swansdown puff.

When she came out, Frank was dressed. And white-faced.

'The bed . . . ?' she began.

'Forget the bloody bed . . .'

'I could . . .'

'You've done enough,' he snapped.

Helen's eyes filled with tears. 'I've done enough? What did I do, I came to talk to you about my father and why he'd been sacked, it was you, you who did all this . . .' With her hand she waved in the direction of the bed.

His face was contrite. 'Your father. You did this to try and get Desmond back his piffling little job. Jesus Christ, you'd whore around to get your father a penny-farthing nothing place in a supermarket.'

'It is not a nothing job.' Helen's face burned with anger. 'He was a very important person there, and now, now he's been sacked and Mother says we are not to tell anyone, neighbours, relatives, anyone, and he goes off each morning pretending he's going to work . . .'

Frank looked at her in disbelief.

'Yes he does, and I just wanted to have lunch with you and tell you straight out how bad it was and you'd understand because you were Dad's friend way back at school in the Brothers when you used to climb over stone walls ... he told me . . . and you're doing so well there and married to the boss's daughter and everything. . . And that's all I wanted, I didn't whore around, I've never slept with anyone in my life and I didn't mean to sleep with you, I wasn't to know you'd fall in love with me and all this would happen, and now you say it's all my fault.' She burst into tears.

,, He put his arms around her and held her close to him. f> 'Christ, you're only a child, what have I done? Christ Almighty what did I do?'

She sobbed against his jacket for a bit.

He held her away from him and his eyes were full of tears.

Til never be able to make amends. Laterally there's nothing I can do to tell you how sorry I am. I'd never. . . never if I hadn't thought... I was so sure that. . . but that doesn't matter now. What matters is you.'

Helen wondered had he always loved her or was it only now. People could fall in love so easily.

'We'll have to forget this,' she said. She knew that a woman had to take the lead in such matters. Men would dither and give in to temptation. Anyway there was no temptation for Helen, if this was what it was like then the rest of the world could have it as far as she was concerned.

'It happened, it can't be forgotten. I'll do anything to make it up to you.'

'Yes, but we can't keep on seeing each other, it wouldn't be fair.' She looked over at the picture of Renata.

She thought he looked puzzled. 'No, of course,' he said.

'And we won't tell anyone, either of us.' She was girlishly eager about this.

'Lord no, nobody at all,' he said, looking highly relieved.

'And my father?' She spoke without guile, she spoke as Helen always spoke, eager to get over the meaning and burden of what she wanted to say, heedless of timing or other people's feelings.

She saw a look of pain cross Frank Quigley's face.

'Your father will get a job. He told me that he didn't need one, that he was looking about, that he had plenty of offers.'

Frank's voice was cold. 'He will be reinstated in Palazzo. Not overnight, I have to talk to Carlo, these things have to be done tactfully. They can take a little time.'

Helen nodded vigorously.

'And you, Helen. Will you be all right, will you forgive me?'

'Of course. It was a misunderstanding.' Her voice sounded eager, as if she too wanted to be let off a hook.

'That's what it was, Helen, and Helen listen to me, please. The only thing I can tell you is that it won't always be like this ... it will be lovely and happy...' He was straining to try to tell her that this gross happening would not be the pattern for the rest of the lovemaking in her life.

He might as well have been talking to the wall.

'Are you sure I couldn't do anything about the sheets, like a launderette or anything?'

'No.'

'But what will you say?'

'Please, Helen, please.' His face was pained.

'Will I go now, Frank?'

He looked unable to cope.

Til drive you .. .' His voice trailed away. His face showed that he didn't know where he was to drive her.

'No, it's all right, I can get the bus. I know where I am, I'll just get the bus home and say. .. say I don't feel well.' Helen gave a little giggle. 'It's true in a way. But listen, Frank, I don't have the bus fare, could I ask you . ..'

She couldn't understand why Frank Quigley had tears pouring down his face when he handed her the coins and closed her hand over them.

'Will you be all right?' He was begging to be reassured. He was not ready for what she told him.

'Frank.' Helen gave a little laugh. 'I'm not a child, for heaven's sake, I was sixteen last week. I'm a grown-up. I'll find my way home on the bus.'

She left then because she couldn't bear the look on his face.

Of course he had to stay away from the house in case he wasn’t able to control himself when he saw her. .

She never remembered him coming to Rosemary Drive again after that. There had always been some excuse, he was at a conference, he was abroad, he and Renata were going to see some of her relations in Italy. He was terribly sorry, it was such bad timing. Mother said he was getting above himself, still was’nt it great that they never had to go to him cap in hand to ask to reinstate his old friend in Palazzo's? At least that idea had come straight from Mr Palazzo himself, who had realized this was no way to treat valued managerial staff.

Helen never knew whether her father realized that it '

Frank. It was hard to talk to her father, he had built a little s around himself almost for fear of being hurt, like Mother's s! for fear of letting themselves down somehow.

She had found those last school terms endless, the world c hanged since that strange afternoon. She was always frightened of being misunderstood. She had started to scream one day when the singing master at school asked her to come into the storeroom and help him carry down the sheet music to the school hall. 1 man hadn't touched her but she had this sudden claustrophobic fear that he would think she was encouraging him somehow, ; that he would begin this hurtful business and then blame her. things turned out he did blame her very much indeed and said that she was a neurotic hysterical fool, a troublemaker, ; if she were the last female on earth he wouldn't touch her with a very long barge-pole.

The Principal of the school seemed to agree with him ; asked Helen sharply why she had begun to scream if she agn that there had been no question of an attack or even an advance.

Helen had said glumly that she didn't know. She had felt that she was in some kind of situation she couldn't handle and that unless she did scream something else would happen and it we all be too late and too complicated.

'Has anything of this sort happened to you before?'

The Principal was not entirely sympathetic. Helen Doyle had always been a difficult pupil, gushy, anxious to please, always creating waves of trouble around her.

Helen had said no, unconvincingly.

The Principal had sighed. 'Well, you can be certain that it will keep happening to you, Helen. It's your personality. This sort of thing will turn up in your life over and over again, situations that you can't handle. That is unless you pull yourself together and take control of your own actions.'

She sounded so final it was as if she were passing a life sentence.

Helen had been dazed at the unfairness of it all.

It was then that she decided to be a nun.

And now, years later, she was almost a nun. Well, she would be a nun if Sister Brigid had not been so adamant about telling her that she was only using the convent as a crutch, that she was using it as a place to hide and that those days were over in religious life.

Helen felt safe in St Martin's. And even as she made a mug of coffee and sat down to join the beautiful Renata Palazzo Quigley whose face had looked at her from a silver frame on that frightening day. .. she felt safe. Safe from the memories and the fear of that time.

'Tell me what you want and I'll see if there's anything we can do,' she said with the big smile that made everyone love Helen. When they met her first.

'It's very simple,' Renata said. 'We want a baby.'

It was very simple. And very sad. Helen hugged her mug of coffee to her and listened. Frank was too old at forty-six. Too old. How ridiculous, but adoption societies wouldn't consider him. Also he had a poor medical history, some heart trouble, nothing very serious, due to stress at work, and all businessmen had this in today's world. Natural mothers and fathers were allowed to bring a child into the world into any kind of appalling conditions, tenements, places of vice, nobody stopped them and said that they couldn't have any children. But for adoption everything had to be over-perfect.

Renata had heard that sometimes, if she were only to meet the right person, there must be occasions where a child could be given to a good loving home, to a father and mother who would love the little boy or girl as their own. There surely were cases when this happened.

There was a look of longing in her eyes.