Ashford’s Version
I hear Lance knock on the door of my study.
“Your Grace, may I?”
“Come in, Lance,” and I beckon him to sit down without raising my eyes from the mail.
“It won’t be necessary. I just wanted to tell you that the duchess didn’t have breakfast this morning.”
“Mmm,” I mutter, caught in my business. “So?”
“She didn’t even ask for it to be served in her room.”
“She’s probably still asleep.” I assume. Jemma’s eating habits are near the top of my personal list of stuff I couldn’t care less about.
“Claire has already tidied up the rooms on that floor and she heard that Lady Jemma is awake.”
“Well, now that we know that the duchess is still alive, our day can start. Can’t it, Lance? Is there anything else I should know?” He’s starting to get on my nerves. Lance is one of the pillars of this house, but the way he sometimes beats about the bush is quite irritating. I know he has something to say, but every time, instead of going straight to the point, he goes back to the Punic Wars.
“Claire heard Lady Jemma crying quite desperately. I think that having someone to comfort her would do her good.”
With my head in my hands and my elbows on the desk, I massage my temples.
“You know what my mother’s answer would be? That you’re not paid to think.”
“Luckily, Your Grace the duke is not your mother.”
“No, I’m not.” So saying, I stand up quickly to leave the study.
“Pray that I never become like her,” I say to Lance before heading towards Jemma’s room.
I hesitate outside her door for a moment. In fact, I can hear muffled sobs coming from behind the door. I roll my eyes, hoping it’s not some sort of emotional breakdown due to the premenstrual syndrome.
Or Willoughby. Please don’t let this be about Willoughby.
“Jemma,” I say, using my most considerate tone. “Can I come in?”
Silence.
“Jemma?”
“Wait a second,” she finally answers, in a nasal voice. After several seconds, I’m already regretting being here to act as a Good Samaritan, or rather, I start regretting the loving husband act that I’m about to put on.
“Come in, Ashford.”
The room is a mess, as usual; Jemma is sitting as properly as I’ve ever seen her do so far, she’s as straight as a pillar, and she’s pretending to look out of the window, with her back almost totally to the door, in a strategic position.
“I couldn’t help noticing your absence this morning, so I came up to see if everything is all right.” Yes, it was Lance who noticed it, but it wouldn’t be nice to admit it, right?
“Yes, of course, everything is all right. Why shouldn’t it be?” She says, but her voice is broken, sounding an octave higher than her normal tone, which is quite high already.
“Sorry, but it doesn’t seem like that. Am I wrong?”
“Yes, you… wrong,” she says while she can’t help sobbing.
“Okay, you’re right,” I say, taking a box of Kleenex and giving it to her. “Nothing at all? You sure?”
Jemma gulps, but doesn’t say a word.
“Let’s face it: the whole house knows that you’re locked in here and you’re crying. There are two possibilities: it’s either something I can – and must – comfort you about, or it’s my fault. If I leave you here crying, everyone will start talking about what is wrong between us and, believe me, I’d rather keep that long list private.”
Jemma lets out a long sigh. “I called my mother because I’d like to go and visit my parents in London. I miss them and I’m feeling down these days, so I wanted to spend a few days at their place.”
“Well, if this is what you’re crying about, just know that you can do it whenever you want to. I hope you don’t think that I’m so mean as to keep you from seeing your family!”
“I can’t go anyway! Their landlord has sold the block of flats they live in to a construction company. My parents received an eviction notice yesterday. They are tearing everything down to build a shopping centre!”
I look at her, furrowing my brows. “I can’t see the problem, really. You have acquired a number of properties with your inheritance. They could settle in one of your grandmother’s houses…”
She looks at me, upset. “You don’t understand! They have no idea I inherited my grandmother’s properties, exactly as your mother doesn’t know that you were broke! They think she left everything to distant relatives. They aren’t stupid. If I told them: ‘Hey, you can move to one of grandma’s houses, you know, it’s all mine’ they would understand that there’s something strange. My grandmother disinherited my mother because she didn’t marry a nobleman, then I marry a duke and I inherit everything. They wouldn’t speak to me any more! Perhaps money means a lot to your family, but we give much more importance to feelings.” She sighs, then blows her red nose with the umpteenth Kleenex. “I would lose all their respect.”
“I’m sorry. It sounds strange to say, but I know how it feels when they’re about to take away your roof from over your head.”
“I want to help them. They’re my family and I can’t leave them out in the street.”
I have an idea. “What about buying a nice new house for them? You can tell them it’s my money, they will never know!”
Jemma raises her hands in surrender. “I have offered to buy a house for them, or pay for their rent, but they won’t accept. They are too proud to take any money from me. I’m still their child, and they feel they are the ones to come to my rescue, not the other way about.”
Jemma is desperate, she resumes sobbing and lets herself fall on the unmade bed, which is scattered with dvds of films based on the works of Shakespeare, the Brontë sisters, and even Dickens. I’m trying to comfort her by patting on her shoulder, when something lying under her pillow draws my attention. It looks like the corner of a leather bound book. I slide it out with two fingers: Pride and Prejudice.
Jemma reads. If I have to be honest, I can’t imagine Jemma as a reader, and yet she is.
She’s studying hard, and she’s doing it to live up to a life she doesn’t even want.
Perhaps, she has more self-discipline than I was able to expect from her and now, more than ever, I feel bad about my lack of interest in her.
“Everything will be okay, you’ll see,” I say, without too much enthusiasm, while leaving the room.
As I go down the stairs, I quicken my pace and some kind of awareness takes possession of my mind. I myself went from being a naive child to becoming my mother’s carer; I let her believe that she has everything under control, but I constantly keep an eye on her and take care of her as she gets older. I married a stranger so that she could keep living her life with her long-time certainties, and I let her believe in an imaginary and very unlikely royal visit to give her a reason to wake up in the morning. Let’s face it, it’s like when, as children, they make us believe in Santa Claus: it’s just a white lie, because you have to believe in something beautiful, you have to hope for something.
“Lance, I’m going to London, I’ll see you this afternoon.”
If Jemma has overcome her limits, so will I.
*
I could never have thought I would set foot in this place again, but finding myself in front of the decaying building where Jemma lived proves me wrong.
I ring the entry phone several times, but then I remember that the circuit is disconnected. Are the Pears at home, I wonder? God knows.
I don’t know if I have good or bad luck on my side, but as soon as I turn my back to the front door of the building, one of its bizarre tenants comes out. I put my foot in the doorway and then, climbing the steps three at a time, I finally arrive in front of Jemma’s parents’ flat.
The landing is saturated by a smell of incense (and something else) and the croaking sound of a record player comes from the inside.
I knock vigorously on the door. “Mr and Mrs Pears? It’s Ashford, Jemma’s husband.”
“I’ll be right there,” shouts a female voice from the inside. God, please, let them be dressed.
“Ashford! What a surprise! My Mayan horoscope hadn’t forecast any visit!” Says my mother-in-law while opening the door, and she’s dressed.
“They forecast the end of the world in 2012, and yet we are still waiting for it. I wouldn’t trust those Mayans,” I say.
“Don’t stay there on the threshold, come in. Take a seat.”
“I’d rather stand.”
“May I offer you a cup of chai?”
“I’m fine, thanks.”
“Come on, chai is good for you. It’s soul cleansing.”
I hope that is not a euphemism for ‘laxative’. “Just a sip.”
“Isn’t Jemma with you?”
“No, she was actually quite upset this morning. She told me about a problem that concerns you, and I came to talk about it. Isn’t your husband here?”
“He sure is! He came back from the radio a little while ago. He’s on the roof watering the ficus. I’ll call him.” Then Carly leans out of the window and shouts: “Vaaance! Come down! Ashford’s here!”
Vance comes back down with the watering can still dripping in his hand. “Ashford! It’s so nice to see you again, laddie! Are you staying for lunch?”
“I’m afraid I have business to do later. I came here to talk about an issue that upsets Jemma a lot,” I try to line up my speech but the music almost drowns my words. “Although All Along The Watchtower is one of my favourite songs and Jimi Hendrix is an immortal artist, I would be grateful if we could turn the volume down to a background accompaniment.”
Vance nods, lifting the needle from the turntable.
“Thank you. I’ll be brief: this morning, Jemma informed me that the landlord has sold this building, and that the buyer has sent you an eviction notice. As your daughter, she’s really worried about you, and she wants to know what your plans are and how she can help.”
For the first time, the Pears’ mood darkens.
Vance clears his throat, yet his voice is still unsteady.
“Well, we can’t say that it was a surprise, but deep in our hearts we hoped it that it would come to nothing. You often hear rumours that never come true.”
“The rent here was so affordable,” adds my mother-in-law.
“How long until you have to leave the flat?”
“A week.”
“A week? That’s ridiculous!” I protest.
“The contract expired a month ago, but the owner didn’t renew it. He always said he didn’t have any time, and that he would have us sign a new one. Instead, we received the eviction notice. Technically, we have lived here unlawfully for two weeks.”
“What are your plans?”
Vance and Carly exchange a look which is halfway between complicity and consolation, and it almost breaks my heart. I said almost.
“We’ll manage, somehow.”
“We’ve always made do, we have our van…”
“Excuse me, the van is not a plan!” I burst out, shocked by their statement. “Wandering in an old California is for twenty year olds. You’re sixty and you have needs, let’s not be silly. Jemma wants to know you’re safe, not lost on the moors in a 1972 van.”
“We’ll manage. Jemma doesn’t have to worry about us!”
Their statements sound irrational to me. “If not your daughter, who should worry? She wants to help you, and she can!”
“What kind of parents would we be? Asking our daughter for money because we no longer have a home? We should be the ones to take care of her, not the contrary!” Carly protests.
“Very well. I have the solution, and you won’t even have to ask Jemma for help: you will settle in Denby Hall. The manor is big enough to host a legion of people, and you will be close to your daughter.”
They look at me, puzzled. “Ashford, this is not necessary, really.”
“Yes, it is. I am the owner of the house and I’m married to Jemma, which makes this proposal more than legitimate. Jemma will be happier knowing that you’re safe and that you’re next door. I personally believe that no child should wake up every day without knowing where their parents are, or if they’re well. I won’t leave until you accept.”
“It’s not a simple decision to make,” Vance hesitates.
“Jemma won’t have to know that we met. You will stop by in Denby to greet her, as if you were just visiting. With the utmost spontaneity, I’ll invite you to settle in our private apartments, where you’ll have your privacy and tranquillity. And, between us, you will stay as long as you want,” I say, reaching out a hand towards them. “Do we have a deal?”
Vance lingers for a moment, then shakes my hand. “Cheers Ashford, we will never forget this.”
“Pack your bags. I’ll send someone to get your stuff.”
“Oh, we don’t have much left. We decided to give everything that wouldn’t fit in the van to charity.”
“Except for the records,” says Vance.
“Very well. I’ll be in Denby, waiting for you. And your records.”