A shot of milky sunshine penetrated the clouds before a startlingly loud clap of thunder sounded and the sky turned graphite grey. It felt appropriate.
‘I think it often takes a long time for people to realise they’ve been abused,’ said Jane carefully. She’d been reading up and knew the terminology now. ‘It’s a process. And when you’ve been in denial, then it’s a different sort of trauma.’
Daphne’s eyes went distant with the vacancy of someone who’d witnessed a fatal accident and couldn’t accept what they’d seen. ‘You know that, for me, the time with Ralph was always like a romantic secret. Roses and moonlight stuff. It felt like love – first love. And now it’s something else. Something horrible, even though nothing has changed. So bizarre. Do you remember that Oscar Wilde thing Ed always said? “We are all in the gutter, but some of us are looking at the stars.” I think I’ve turned face down in the gutter.’
‘You’re not, Daphne. It was him in the gutter all the time, never you.’
‘Oh fuck it, Jane. When I think of all that emotion spilled out over him.’ It started raining. Large, isolated drops to begin with, but increasing so their clothes were quickly mottled with dark spots. There was no obvious cover in sight and they moved over to the nearest plane tree as lightning streaked across the sky.
‘We shouldn’t stop here,’ said Jane. ‘It’s dangerous.’
‘Yeah, what the hell. Let’s get soaked. I don’t care. We can change at home.’ They set off towards the park gate, grinning at the drama of the drenching, as rain coursed down their faces, half blinding them. When they got to the train-bridge, it was too tempting to resist the shelter offered underneath it on the road.
‘You know, it was hard for me then. All that emotion, and he was bloody married.’ Daphne wiped her wet face with her hands. There were beads of water on her eyelashes.
‘I got so worried about you when he went to America and you got terribly skinny and anaemic and had to have vitamin injections.’
‘Yes, that was really crap. I was heartbroken. After he left, I burned myself with matches. Look, I’ve still got the marks.’ Daphne pulled up her soaking sleeve and Jane saw a cluster of small white scars below the elbow.
‘He was ruthless,’ said Jane. ‘Ruthless about leaving you, and about being with you. You know, I think you should talk to someone – a specialist, a counsellor. It’s the right time now.’
Daphne shook her head and more drips fell from her hair. ‘But if I talked to a counsellor, won’t it get taken out of my hands? Wouldn’t they report him to the police? I think maybe I’ll write to Ralph and see how he responds. I’d like some answers. I don’t want him arrested.’
It mystified her that Daphne could be so short-sighted when it came to the man who trampled all over her childhood, but she replied cautiously, wringing out the lower sections of her jacket. ‘It’s your choice, but you know what I think. There are laws and what he did is illegal. You were a child.’
‘But he didn’t force me to do anything. Ever. I did love him.’
Jane couldn’t bear to hear Daphne mention love again. ‘That’s completely irrelevant.’ She didn’t want to sound severe, but it needed to be said. ‘I think you’re missing something, Daphne. What he did is called grooming. That’s illegal – you can go to prison for it. You can’t ever say an adult having sex with a child is OK. So it’s pointless to talk about the emotions. “Love” makes no difference.’
The rain stopped and a raw, burning sun lit up the wet pavements of Barnabas Road. They walked slowly back across the bridge, not saying much, their damp clothes almost steaming. At her flat, Daphne lent Jane a dry top and skirt.
‘I’m there with you, Daphne. Anything you need. I know of someone you can talk to. Can I put you in touch?’
She nodded and held on to Jane’s arm. ‘Thank you, Janey. You’re such a darling. I don’t know what I’d do if you weren’t helping me through this. I’d be so alone.’
10
RALPH
He enjoyed arriving home in a taxi with the chuckling luxury of the diesel engine singing a song of comfort, abundance and tradition. The driver rushed them up the side of Primrose Hill and then stopped before his house – brightly painted like its neighbours and sporting window boxes planted with red geraniums. The warm summer morning made him feel that the entire street was smiling and he tipped the driver generously. The magnolia he and Nina had planted on moving there over twenty years earlier now reached the first-floor windows.
He was relieved to be back after the five days in Berlin, though the trip had gone far better than anticipated. The invitation was to conduct a performance of Songs of Innocence and Experience and he was worried he wouldn’t be strong enough after his gruelling treatments. In the event, he amazed himself with a surge of strength. He was feted as never before in Germany. Parties were held in his honour, he gave television and press interviews, and they put him up in a magnificent suite at the Ritz Carlton in Potsdamer Platz. Fearing his vigour might not last, and with the air of a condemned man, he ordered outrageous breakfasts in bed. When tiring of eggs, ham and sausages after the first few days, he progressed to fish, cheeses, waffles and pastries. Best of all, he received a standing ovation at the concert and was laden with bouquets. Nothing like a bit of straightforward adulation for raising the spirits.
Nina had evidently heard the taxi stop, and opened the front door as he came up the steps. ‘The hero returns.’ Ralph wasn’t always sure when she meant things entirely genuinely and without guile and when there was a note of irony. Sometimes he wondered whether she herself was clear – English was still, after all these years, a foreign language.
‘Hello, my darling. How are you?’ He kissed her and again felt the satisfaction of when things came together in the right way – the warming sunshine, elegant home, devoted wife. Her hands were charmingly smudged with paint, her hair held up with a fetching headscarf, and she was wearing a turquoise linen kaftan of the sort she’d favoured when he first knew her.
On the hall table lay a modest pile of post, evidently already sorted by Nina, who dealt with bills, banks and anything boring. He picked up the letters and walked through into the kitchen – sunny marigolds on the table, something smelling of celery and herbs simmering on the stove. The first letter was in a shabby recycled envelope, and the writing on the label was familiar. Briefly, his breath jagged, somewhere between lung and windpipe. The messy cursive had changed since the days when it was a regular part of his life, when he’d smiled at the experiments with styles, the italic phase, the purple ink. But there was no doubt.
‘I’ll just take my bag up. There’s a little thing I got for you in Berlin.’ It was easy to saunter out of the kitchen, casually holding on to the mail, but he saw Nina understand what he was doing. She would have recognised the handwriting too. Upstairs, he dropped his bags in the bedroom and shut the door.
Dear Ralph,
I don’t think I ever had the words to describe or understand what happened between us all those years ago. It’s almost like another life. There’s been such a lot since then. But recently I’ve begun to see things differently. Libby is now around the age I was when we – you and me – became close. I see her vulnerability very clearly. She’s growing up, developing physically, but inside she is so young – a child. Then I started thinking, what if she was involved with a man of thirty. I’d go crazy. I’d know it was wrong.
Can you understand this? I suppose this is the thing. However willing and happy I was at the time, our relationship now looks wrong. I’m bewildered. I need answers. I wonder if you have any.