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Another interchangeable night at the theatre with another interchangeable nice young lady. Clive sighed as he searched for his door key. He didn’t normally let it get him down, but this long posting in England had left him restless. He unlocked the door quietly, not wanting to disturb Pebble. He would just have a nightcap and then get himself to bed, and this silly mood would be forgotten in the morning. He hadn’t fancied the Club, somehow. Couldn’t be doing with the other fellows tonight.
He hung his coat and hat up and went into the den, where Pebble had left a lamp lit as she always did, ready for him whether he chose to stay or not. He poured himself a whisky and was just replacing the stopper when a voice startled him into fumbling it.
“I’ll have one while you’re there, Clive.”
“Aunt Margaret! I didn’t expect you to still be up. Lying doggo, eh?”
“So much for your soldier’s instincts! No - ” and her voice was amused “I couldn’t sleep. I thought I’d come and commune with your heads for a while. That usually does the trick. The rhinoceros and I are great friends. I have named him Horace.”
“Aunt M!” Clive chided, handing her a drink and settling himself down in the armchair across from her.
“Some of them” she said, turning a beady eye on him “are very wise.”
“No wiser than you, my dear, surely?” he said, lighting a cigarette and making himself comfortable. “Couldn’t sleep, eh? Something on your mind?”
“Oh, I couldn’t settle, for some reason. And then I started thinking about the poor King,” she sighed, sipping her drink. “Imagine waiting patiently for all those years just to have such a short time on the throne.”
“I suppose. But he had plenty of fun before he got there, didn’t he? I expect you’ve heard some stories in your time.”
“Well - ” she smiled, “I don’t wish to speak ill of the dead.”
“Very commendable. Though - ” Clive paused, taking a welcome sip of his drink, thinking for a moment, “ - he did get plenty done, you know, once he was King, especially for the army. And, well, he’d lived. He was rather old.”
“Rather old, Clive Candy! I remember him being born. He was sixty eight! One day you’ll be sixty eight and think you’re still a young man!”
“Sorry, Aunt M.” Clive said, falling silent, suitably contrite, though he rather doubted her words. Sixty eight! Nearly twice what he was now. He couldn’t imagine it.
“So who were you out with tonight, my boy?”
“Oh, Anne Cartwright.”
“Do I know her?”
“You know her mother. Elizabeth Bannister that was.”
“Oh, yes. Dreadful woman. Does her daughter favour her?”
“I suppose. Same colouring.”
“Oh dear. I bet she doesn’t suit black at all. Is she a nice girl? Pretty?”
“Nice enough.”
“Hmm.” Aunt Margaret looked shrewdly at him. “But not your Edith, eh?”
Clive blushed, feeling the whisky’s warmth hit him suddenly. “She was never my Edith, as you well know.”
“Well from what you’ve told me, she could have been until your friend elbowed you aside.”
Oh dear. Clive had known he would come to regret what little he had told her of his time in Berlin. But - who else was there to tell about such matters?
“You know full well that’s not what happened. You’re just making mischief. Theo was - ” Clive paused, trying to collect his thoughts. He got up and poured himself another drink, aware that he was stalling, and that she would soon see through it.
“Yes?” prompted Aunt Margaret. Clive turned to her and tilted his glass questioningly. “No, one’s enough for me.”
“Theo was my best friend. Is my best friend. You know that well. He did nothing - ” Clive faltered, sitting down again, momentarily thrown back into the past. He was always so careful to only let himself think of it when he was robust enough. He wasn’t sure he was, tonight.
“Yes?” prompted Aunt Margaret again. Oh she must think him a wool-gathering fool. More than usual. No, no, she was kinder than that. She had a dear heart. But her kindness might just make it harder to hold everything in.
“He did nothing ungentlemanly,” said Clive, because sticking to the facts was the best way to navigate such waters. “It was Edith’s choice anyway. And you know Edith was her own woman. I’ve told you that. Terrific spirit -” he broke off, grinning, suddenly remembering that evening in the café that had started it all. How she had taken him to task!
“You have, my dear. I’m sure Anne Cartwright can’t hold a candle to her. No wonder your Theo fell in love with her.”
His Theo. Oh! That sent a pang right through him. Of course Aunt Margaret couldn’t know what she was saying, but just to hear it. To hear what he kept locked in his secret heart spoken aloud by another. He put his hand to his brow, suddenly overcome.
“Oh my dear! But you still feel it, don’t you? You haven’t got over it!”
God, no, he hadn’t, he hadn’t. He had tried, how he had tried. But this was why he was so careful. It was destruction to let himself feel it at moments like this. Damn the world!
“No wonder you’ve never settled for any of these silly girls.” Aunt Margaret said, kindly. And suddenly Clive was laughing bitterly, close to tears. He felt - rather than saw - her take the glass gently from his hand and then there was the softness of her hands on his.
“Oh my boy, my boy.” she said, crouching at his knee.
“Oh don’t, don’t - ” he struggled “ - please get up. I’m alright, I’m alright. You mustn’t.” He pulled at her hands to make her stand. He could not have her kneeling on the floor because of him.
“Hush, Clive, here.” And she patted the floor before slowly getting to her feet. Oh! He gave the chair up to her willingly and folded himself up at her feet. As he had as a boy when she was his favourite of all the aunts, and he used to sit at her feet as she stroked his hair and secretly passed him sweets. No sweets now, but the feel of her hand on his hair was the same, and he rested his cheek against her knee. Oh. It was so very nice. He was very tired. It was exhausting, sometimes, keeping it all in.
“You know you can talk to me about anything, Clive, as you used to. I won’t judge you.” Her voice was kind, and quiet, as she stroked his hair. How he wished that were true. He really could not tell her everything, however tempting it was.
“Do you believe - ” he started, and then stopped, embarrassed.
“Go on.”
“Do you believe in love? I mean, you know, that true love that all the poets always go on about. An ever-fixéd mark, kind of thing?”
She was silent for a moment, and Clive thought he might crumble in embarrassment, for speaking such a thing so seriously.
“Yes.” Her voice was firm, but kind. “Yes I do, Clive.” She paused, her hand stilled, as if deep in thought. “I think for some people, that can happen. And it can last a lifetime. ‘Even until the edge of doom’.” There was a smile in her voice at that. “But I don’t think it happens to everyone. I think the modern world is more and more at odds with it. But for the lucky ones, yes. I think they find their - their heart, in another.”
Clive could not help himself. He felt the tears spill over before he could stop them. He covered his face, shamed, shoulders heaving.
“Hush, Clive. It’s alright. Let it out. It’s alright - ” and she was stroking his hair again. That she had used those words! His heart. As if she could see into his memory, his most precious moments. He wiped his eyes with his handkerchief, trying to compose himself.
“Did - ” he cleared his throat, and tried again. “Did you ever have someone like that, Aunt M? You - you never married.”
“Oh, yes. I did. For a short time. He was a darling man. He was a soldier, like you. We were engaged to be married. But was posted out in India and he died over there.”
“Oh, Aunt M!”
“It was a long time ago, Clive. I still think of him often, but I only have happy memories now. That happens, you know, over time. You forget the heartache, and remember the lovely times. I wouldn’t change it for the world.”
“‘Tis better to have loved and lost’, you mean?” Clive said, amazed at how steady his voice was.
“Yes, you know, I do truly believe that.”
“Surely, though, you must have had other suitors? Did you never find someone else?”
“Oh, I was alright, Clive. I had money, you see, after your grandfather died, which was a godsend, and the other fellows were so - so dull! Honestly, they made Hoppy look like a genius. Had some young man caught my imagination, who knows what might have happened?" She paused, as if thinking of the possibilities. "But I didn’t want to settle, and I was lucky because I didn't have to. Some people have to, you know.”
“I don’t really want to settle, Auntie.” Clive said in a small voice, after a moment.
“And you shouldn’t. There’s as many kinds of marriage as there are people. It can be a friendship as well. The best ones are. But there’s plenty of husbands who spend all week in the city and the weekend in the country, and barely speak to their wives at all, and they’re both happy.”
“I like the idea of it as a friendship. That’s - that’s what it would have been with Edith.” It could only have ever been friendship. Hopefully she would have understood. But he realised, suddenly, that without knowing it, over the years, he had been measuring all the girls he met against Edith, and they had fallen short of the mark.
“Yes, I thought it might be.” Aunt Margaret's voice brought him out of his thoughts.
“I think - ” he paused, composing himself “I think that’s the best I can hope for, really. I don’t think that - that - love - ” he stumbled over the word “ - will find me again.” Oh, to even speak it aloud! To even, in the vaguest of terms, say to another that love had once found him.
“Oh Clive!” she said, sadness apparent in her voice.
“No, no. It’s alright. I realised this a while ago, I know now.”
“In Berlin?” she asked, gently.
“Yes.” He paused again, wondering how much he could say. “I, well, when I realised that I couldn’t be with the - the person I wanted to be with - ” he paused again, taking a breath, trying to keep his voice steady “I thought that a sort of friendship would be the thing I could have.” He stopped, bowing his head.
“You should have someone, Clive” she said, patting his shoulder, “you aren’t made to be alone. You have a big heart, my dear. And any woman would be lucky to have you.”
Clive laughed humourlessly at that, at how she unerringly kept echoing the past.
“What is it? It’s true, my boy!”
“It’s not that. It’s just - that’s what Theo said to me, back in ’02”.
“Well he was right. He sounds like a very wise boy. Not like the usual galumphing idiots you call friends. I wish I could meet him.”
“Oh, so do I, Aunt M! Oh, you’d like him!” he said, turning to face her, enthused. “He’s the best of men.”
“That’s more like the Clive I know” she smiled at him fondly. “Tell me a little about him. You never really have, you know. Apart from that he’s responsible for your growing that moustache. I hope he’s more clever than Hoppy. Mind, that wouldn’t be difficult.”
“Aunt M! You know Hoppy’s my oldest friend. You mustn’t say such things,” but Clive was smiling. It was hard to deny that Hoppy was not the sharpest knife in the drawer. Theo though! “He is. He’s smart as paint. Clever, I mean. He picked up English a lot faster than I picked up German.” Clive smiled to himself, remembering those afternoons of card playing. “But his uniform too! I always suspected he spent more time polishing his buttons than was strictly necessary. Maybe that’s why I always beat him at cards. But, look here, I’ve a photograph, I can show you.” And he drew out his wallet, unerringly finding the picture kept safe there. It was still almost as good as new. The same quiet thrill as ever, looking at it. “Look, see - look at those buttons! He’s in his dress uniform, mind you; I think he was showing off, just to rile me - he always said their uniforms were better than ours. Rubbish, of course!”
He studied her face as she looked at the picture. She would see how handsome he was, of course. She would not notice all the little things that only Clive saw, but she would see the bright look in his eye, his intelligence.
“What d’ye think eh? Smart, yes?”
“I’m glad you didn’t decide to copy his moustache, Clive” she replied, with a smile.
“No fear! A bit too flash, that. But, it’s a good likeness.”
“Very smart. He’s a handsome boy” she said, handing the picture back to Clive. Clive ducked his head, concentrating on putting the picture back safely, so that she would not see his face.
“Yes, he is, rather.” Christ, perhaps it had been a mistake to show her. She was far too canny. “Oh, I must write to him again while I’m still here. I owe him a postcard. What?” he asked, realising that she was looking at him in amusement.
“Nothing, my dear. It’s just nice to see you like this. I like to see you happy, you know.”
“Aunt M.” Clive said, bashful.
“It’s true and you know it. I’m not going to get all melodramatic and say that it’s my only wish, but you know it’s all I want for you. Whatever the world has thrown at you, whatever you have had to leave behind, you’ve borne it well. You deserve to be happy, Clive. Everybody does.”
“Oh, tosh, Aunt M, I’m fine. Thanks to you.” He took her hands in his, suddenly terribly grateful for her steady presence.
“Be off with you, Clive Candy. I know you’re alright when you’re turning on the charm.” But she turned her hands in his and squeezed gently in acknowledgement.
“Well, I think we’ve communed with the animals for long enough, don’t you? And I was right, wasn’t I?” he said, letting go of her hands and getting to his feet.
“Right? You? About what?” she said, quirking an eyebrow at him.
“That you are wiser than the lot of them put together. Come on, before Pebble comes down thinking you’ve got burglars.” And he helped her to her feet and ushered her out of the room, waiting until she was on her way up the stairs before going back to turn out the lamp and close the door, quietly; leaving the heads to themselves again.