Bedtime Reads Page 3
Letters abroad
Mijas, Spain
12th October 2002
Dear Mr Stevens,
Please find the enclosed photograph that I came upon by chance. It was wedged in the drawer where I keep the playing cards and games. I assume that by some oversight it was popped away by mistake and I thought you would like me to return it.
I would also like to take this opportunity to thank you for the work that you and your brother did on my villa. It was such a pleasant surprise to return and find that the gutter of the villa is now fixed and that you took such wonderful care of my garden. I was very nervous renting out my house for two months to two complete strangers whilst I was visiting my daughter in Australia but I can happily say that now, I have no regrets whatsoever.
I do hope that you enjoyed the summer and that your brother is fully recovered.
Regards,
Susan Loftborough
P.S. I hope you don’t mind me mentioning that the lady in the photograph looks remarkably like a woman I often see in the village. She has coffee alone most days on the terrace of a little Spanish bar overlooking the bay of Fuengirola.
London, England
6th November 2002
Dear Mrs Loftborough,
Thank you very much for your recent letter and the photograph. We thoroughly enjoyed our stay on the Coast. I miss Peter enormously. He felt so happy and well in the last few months that he had with me. He loved your beautiful garden and sat happily for hours under the shade of a tree reading which gave him great pleasure. As both of us were recently divorced we enjoyed the solitude and, may I say, took refuge in your wonderful home.
I still remember the intoxicating smells from your garden on a warm summer evening as we sipped wine and played cards on the terrace. I do hope that the pink bougainvillea that we planted beside the front door is flourishing and that you didn’t think it a liberty that we felt so at home.
Thank you again.
Yours,
John Stevens
P.S. The lady in the photograph often sat in the small bar. We formed a brief friendship with her during our stay.
Mijas, Spain
12th December, 2002
Dear John Stevens,
I was so terribly sorry when I received your letter with the sad news about Peter. I hardly know what to write but I can only say I understand your pain having lost my husband three years ago. I am still unsure of my plans but do hope to return to Australia soon - perhaps at Easter. I would think of renting my villa – should you feel like returning here.
The bougainvillea that you planted is such a vivid and pretty colour. I sometimes want to touch it to reassure myself that it is real. It is such a welcoming sight and although we never met, I often think of you and Peter when I come home.
I hope you don’t think it inappropriate that I enclose a Christmas card and wish you much happiness for 2003.
Kind Regards,
Susan
P.S. Several weeks ago I saw the lady from your photograph and I plucked up the courage to speak to her. We have met several times since then. For some unknown reason, I didn’t mention Peter. I didn’t want to intrude.
Cayman Islands
3rd January 2003
Dear Susan
I hope it is not too late to wish you the very best of luck and health for this year. I decided at the last minute to spend Christmas and New Year in the Caribbean with my two children even though they are teenagers and I don’t see much of them! When I took early retirement to care for Peter I never imagined I would be so lucky as to be able to jet away at the last minute. I return to London next week.
With regard to your offer of the villa I would be very interested in returning to the Costa del Sol. Please let me know if you are going to Australia so that I may check on the flights and leave my flat in London in order. I would hate to return after a few months and find the bills haven’t been paid!
Yours, Steven
P.S. I am pleased that you have spoken to Joyce. Peter didn’t want to tell her that he was ill.
Mijas, Spain
31st January, 2003
Dear John
I can barely contain my excitement. My daughter Sally has invited me over to Sydney again – for SIX months! I am so thrilled and can hardly think what to pack, even though I am not leaving until 30th March. I can’t wait to see my grandchildren; Joshua and Kelly. They are now six and eight. Sally and Jonathan both work too hard and at least if I am there with them, I feel I can help!
The villa will be free for six months. I can leave the key with the neighbours as I did the last time. It might sound sentimental but I would be so happy if you could look after my home. Would it sound silly to think of you as a good friend even though we have never met?
Love, Susan
P.S. I haven’t mentioned to Joyce about your visit. But she did mention that you and Peter look so much alike. I didn’t realise you were identical twins – she said she could barely tell the two of you apart!
London, England
28th February 2003
Dear Susan
I think your excitement must be contagious. When I received your letter I could barely contain my delight at the thought of returning to somewhere so lovely. I should certainly like to take the villa from the beginning of April and stay as long as possible.
It is such a task wondering what to bring for so long so I can understand how difficult it must be for you, going all that way!
I’ll arrange payment for the villa as I did last year – I have added a further ten percent on the rent – I hope you find that fair for both of us.
Love John
P.S. Perhaps it would be better if you say nothing to Joyce about my visit. I will tell Joyce in person about Peter. They became very close.
Sydney, Australia.
10th May 2003
My Dear John
I hope you found my note about the tomato plants. I left the canes and larger pots for you to transfer them into when they get a bit bigger. They’re in the shed - if you haven’t found them already.
I cannot begin to tell you how different life is here. It’s amazing how quickly you can slip so easily into other people’s countries and lives!
Sally is working part-time now which means she has more time with the children after school. Jonathan continues to work hard at the bank but seems happy doing so. And I have taken up painting! Would you believe that the teacher in my art class says I have a natural talent for it – so funny to think that this flair has lain buried for these past 68 years! Anyway I am discovering my new self and meeting lots of people.
I hope you are happy in the villa again. I often like to picture you pottering in the garden. Perhaps I might sketch a portrait of how I think you might look – or would that be terribly rude of me?
Lots of love, Susan
P.S. Say hello to Joyce. We became quite good friends during the past few months even though she must be nearly twenty years younger than me.
Mijas, Spain
12th July 2003
Dear Susan
It seems so strange for me to be sitting at your table, drinking a glass of chilled wine and smelling the beautiful jasmine. It is so pleasant here. Your peaceful home is like a quiet sanctuary amid the noise and haste of the rest of the world.
The tomato plants have just produced their first ‘offspring’ - I will share them with Joyce at dinner tonight.
I feel now that I must tell you what happened last summer. I will be brief but please don’t think me of cold heart or devoid of emotion.
During our visit last year both Peter and I fell in love with Joyce and to say that I wasn’t upset when they formed a relationship would be a lie. I was embarrassed and distraught that the jealousy from our youth had re-emerged in our adult life and I became upset and angry with Peter. I felt he held no regard for Joyce and her emotions. And I told him so. But, he only wanted to live life at the end and to feel loved once more.
I wonder now, if Peter hid the photograph surreptitiously in the drawer or if it was a coincidence. But when you wrote to me, I knew then that I must return. I can only say now that I haven’t felt this happy for a very long time and am trying to persuade Joyce to return with me to England.
With love, John
P.S. Joyce sends you much love.
Sydney, Australia
15th September 2003
My Dear John,
Sally has asked me to move here! I cannot tell you how happy I am to be with my only daughter. I will be selling the villa. Please write and say that you will buy it.
Must dash to my art class. Will forward the portrait of you soon – which should hopefully, make you and Joyce both laugh!
Much love as always, Susan x
Cayman Islands
3rd January 2004
Dear Susan
Thank you for the painting. Fortunately I am only the shadow in the background and you have captured your garden perfectly. We hope you like the enclosed photograph. It was a small wedding and I was pleased my children were with me but we missed you.
We look forward to meeting up in Mijas at Easter to sign the documents on the villa. We will have much to celebrate.
All our love, Joyce and John xx
Aqua Tofana
Michael looks over the the balcony of the dress circle and sees them instantly. They’re mingling with the crowd, finding their seats; third row from the front. The tall man has hunched shoulders and short white hair. His wife is lithe, blonde and glamorous. They make a gracious couple as they stand and smile to let another couple pass.
The orchestra begins tuning, thumping out of sync, horns and trumpets, timpani and strings. A cacophony of random notes like Michael’s heartbeat.
Gradually the audience settles and the orchestra is silent, lights are dimmed and someone coughs. Then curtains part to reveal the garden of the Commendatore, and a figure on the stage appears to be watching a house. Don Giovanni appears and Mozart’s music fills the auditorium.
Michael bites his top lip and his hands begin to shake. He strains his neck to get a better view of the couple in the audience. Her blond hair catches the lights. She is engrossed in the performance.
It would be their last opera together.
It is her curtain call. Her finale. Her last night.
The first few minutes of the opera absorbs all Michael’s concentration even though he’s not thinking about the performance on stage. He breathes using his diaphragm, controlling his nerves and shaking hands. His heart rate decreases and eventually his breathing returns to normal. He’s always loved the stage; theatre and opera. Music carries him into a dreamless time and to a world where he can escape, where he can be anyone.
He blinks. He mustn’t lose himself tonight. He must maintain his fake identity. At least until the end of his performance. He smooths his black skirt against his thighs and crosses his legs. The unfamiliar breasts push against his satin blouse and he touches the back of his head reassuringly and the unfamiliar dark wig.
Don Attavio’s tenor voice and Donna Anna’s soprano fills the Gaiety. Michael knows the theatre well. It was built in 1871. It’s one of Dublin’s most prestigious venues with a beautiful Venetian façade. Where he sits in the dress circle, there are sixteen private boxes and tiers. Above him are the Grand and Upper Circles. The Baroque style appears exotic and rich and he’d read that the last refurbishment had cost nine and a half million euros.
He fingers the small vial in his skirt pocket. Four to six drops is enough to deliver a painless death in a few hours. At least his victim will die in elegant surrounds.
‘Fuggi, crudele fuggi.’ Flee, cruel one, flee, they sing, and Michael is filled with courage. It’s too late for his target. It’s too late for her to flee.
Her fate is sealed.
Along with his younger sister Anna, Michael was ten-years-old when he dressed up for the first time. They giggled excitedly, raiding their mother’s clothes; high-heeled shoes, scarves and blouses. They scattered colourful satins, crepes and cottons around the bedroom before finally adding make-up to their baby faces.
They were discovered by his mother and her friend. They laughed indulgently and admired their naughty creativity but after the friend had gone his mother’s smile had frozen. She had slapped him repeatedly, calling him a poof and a faggot. Finally she whipped him into the corner of the bedroom where he cowered away from her beating. His skin turning brownish shades of purple.
It wasn’t until years later that Michael realised his mother had married above herself. She had seduced his father, a well-to-do bank manager and merged into the upper classes hiding her accent as carefully as she accentuated her beauty but she was unable to suppress her abusive nature and violent roots.
To the outside world they were a happy couple. His mother was funny, tolerant and kind but at home she was a bully and a tyrant.
When Michael was fourteen he wanted to take the part of Prospero in the school play but his mother had been furious.
‘I don’t care if you want to be Macbeth, Shylock or even Jesus Christ – you’re not feckin’ dressing up. It’s time you behaved like a man. Get yourself a girlfriend. Get laid for heaven’s sake.’
Michael’s father, who adored the opera, remained silent as he did with most things in his life. While opera was his passion and drinking was his refuge his wife found other outlets for her ardour. She had various affairs and regularly took out her frustration by tormenting her children.
Over the years Michael recognised his father’s meekness and one night it dawned on him that his children meant little to him. When Anna was thirteen she came home from the cinema with a friend but she’d stumbled in the street and broken the heel of her plastic shoe. Their mother had dragged her into the kitchen saying she would glue it together but as the door slammed closed he heard her raised voice.
Fear turned Michael rigid.
‘You’re a slut! You’ve been taking your clothes off. Who is he?’ his mother shouted. ‘You’re a feckin’ tramp. A tart.’
Michael heard the first slap of skin then the heavy wallop of his mother’s hand and Anna screamed. She tried to deny the accusations and was sobbing hysterically but this only enraged their mother. Michael turned to his father and pulled on his arm.
‘You’ve got to help,’ he cried. But his father pushed him away and went into the lounge where he poured whisky into a Waterford crystal glass and turned up the volume of Verdi’s, Hebrew Slave Chorus.
In the Gaiety, Giovanni's baritone voice rings out with the champagne aria, ‘Fin ch'han dal vin’ and Michael catches his breath at the richness of Don Giovanni’s tone.
When Anna was fifteen she stopped eating. She was malnourished and had a sickly pallor. Her arms and legs were like sticks so Michael developed an interest in cooking. He thought that if he could tempt her to eat then she would get better so he began cooking, making succulent fish dishes, experimenting with vegetarian recipes and perfecting his presentation so the food was tempting and irresistible.
One day he baked sultana scones, caramel and chocolate tray bakes and skinny cheese straws but then his mother arrived home.
‘Get out of my kitchen,’ she shouted. ‘I’m not having a bloody fairy baking in my kitchen. Out you feckin’ faggot!’ she screamed, and catching him a surprise blow to the side of his head he had fallen back against the door frame. His nose bleeding Michael went to retaliate and he lifted his fist but his father pulled his arm away.
‘You’re better than her,’ he whispered.
‘Why don’t you ever do something?’ he hissed.
But his father’s eyes glazed over and without saying another word he left the room.
Now the actors are in the ballroom. Don Giovanni leads Zerlina off stage to rape her while Leporello distracts her boyfriend Masetto. When Zerlina cries for help Don Giovanni tries to fool the onlookers by dragging Leporello into the room and accuses him of seducing Zerlina.
&nbs
p; The audience are silent. Not a cough or sweet wrapper is unfurled.
A few months ago when his father was working in London, Michael returned home unexpectedly. He opened the front door and Bobby, Anna’s new boyfriend, was standing in the hallway. He was tucking his shirt hurriedly into his jeans. His eyes were dark and wild.
‘You’re mother’s a slapper.’ He pushed past Michael and ran out of the house laughing.
Michael found his mother in the lounge buttoning her blouse, looking dishevelled, red-faced and slightly drunk.
‘What happened?’ he asked and when she didn’t reply, he asked. ‘Where’s Anna?’
With an unsteady hand his mother poured red wine into a dirty glass, spilling blood-red drops onto the carpet. ‘She’s asleep,’ she slurred.
‘What happened with Bobby?’
‘What dutink?’ his mother leered.
‘He’s Anna’s boyfriend.’
‘He’s a real man,’ she taunted. ‘He’s a proper Don Juan. Not like you or your father. He wanted me.’ She stabbed her chest with her thumb and shouted. ‘And I wanted sex – and God it was good!’