Caergollo
Love is most nearly itself
When here and now cease to matter
TS Eliot: East Coker
Isoldé opened the letter. It was Mark. She had known it would be as soon as she touched the envelope. He was inviting her to stay with him at Caergollo in two weeks’ time. He’d given her his private phone number and his personal mobile, even his personal email. He was allowing her right into his private world.
She sat down at her desk and tapped out an email to him straight away, giving him her private numbers in return. This was something she really wanted to happen.
Friday
Mark put warm honey-water into the vase of lilies and freesias, took them carefully up to the spare bedroom. He was fussing and he knew it. He really hoped the spare bedroom wouldn’t be used but he wasn’t making any premature assumptions. Anyway, it would be good to go slowly, take care. He wanted this to last, forever maybe, no more brief affairs. Something had turned over within him when he first saw her by the golden gate in the cathedral, looking as lost as the sparrow. He had gone to find her as well as to take the little bird out to safety, although he hadn’t known that at the time. When they had touched hands the electricity had shot through him. He knew it now. He’d known in that instant that this was it, if he wanted it. And he did want it. He would go slowly, make sure she wanted it too.
He turned back on his way out of the door to look back into the room, getting the same impression he hoped she would when she arrived. It was the bedroom he’d slept in as a boy when he’d stayed with Tristan. After Mark’s parents had died, Tristan had taken on the fathering role, although he was only about 15 yearsolder than Mark himself, but at ten that had seemed ancient. Now, at thirty-seven and looking back to himself at twenty-five, he realised how young Tristan had been when he’d adopted him, only half-grown himself. What had Tristan really thought, felt, with this ten-year-old boy trotting at his heels? It must have been a drag at times yet Tristan had never shown it. They’d had twenty-five years together, a generation, and known each other so well. Tristan had never acted in a way the child-Mark had understood as fatherly although now, looking back, Mark could see that he had been. It had always seemed as if they were brothers, and that’s what Tristan had always called him, brother.
It was odd, Tristan never seemed to have had any women in his life, never any that Mark had seen, although they flocked around him. ‘Handsome bastard!’ Mark was smiling. But never had Mark caught him with a woman, even when he’d turned up unexpectedly. And he wasn’t gay. And he didn’t act reclusive or celibate. ‘Just never seemed to have any interest in all that …’ Mark muttered again. Unlike himself. He had had many affairs, nearly got married once. ‘Thank the gods that misfired!’ he muttered, turning out of the room and shutting the door, but not on the past. That followed him back to the kitchen. He put on a CD, the Breton pipes and drums stirred his blood. He wondered if she would like it. Tristan had. It seemed Tristan’s ghost was sharing his evening.
‘Damn the man!’ Mark told the onions as he got them out for making the casserole, but it wasn’t any use. Tristan was here, prodding him, laughing out of corners just as he always had.
‘Look.’ Mark turned to the doorway back into the shadowy hall. ‘What is this? What do you want? Are you jealous?’
Nothing answered him.
Mark got on with the casserole, still turning over old memories. The no-women thing was odd. He realised he had never really considered it before. He put the casserole in the oven, poured himself a glass of wine and went to the librarywhere Embar climbed into his lap. He stroked the cat’s ears, Embar purred, gently bit a finger.
A book lay on the table beside him, TS Eliot’s Collected Poems. He picked it up, certain he hadn’t had the book off
Love is most nearly itself
When here and now cease to matter
TS Eliot: East Coker
Isoldé opened the letter. It was Mark. She had known it would be as soon as she touched the envelope. He was inviting her to stay with him at Caergollo in two weeks’ time. He’d given her his private phone number and his personal mobile, even his personal email. He was allowing her right into his private world.
She sat down at her desk and tapped out an email to him straight away, giving him her private numbers in return. This was something she really wanted to happen.
Friday
Mark put warm honey-water into the vase of lilies and freesias, took them carefully up to the spare bedroom. He was fussing and he knew it. He really hoped the spare bedroom wouldn’t be used but he wasn’t making any premature assumptions. Anyway, it would be good to go slowly, take care. He wanted this to last, forever maybe, no more brief affairs. Something had turned over within him when he first saw her by the golden gate in the cathedral, looking as lost as the sparrow. He had gone to find her as well as to take the little bird out to safety, although he hadn’t known that at the time. When they had touched hands the electricity had shot through him. He knew it now. He’d known in that instant that this was it, if he wanted it. And he did want it. He would go slowly, make sure she wanted it too.
He turned back on his way out of the door to look back into the room, getting the same impression he hoped she would when she arrived. It was the bedroom he’d slept in as a boy when he’d stayed with Tristan. After Mark’s parents had died, Tristan had taken on the fathering role, although he was only about 15 yearsolder than Mark himself, but at ten that had seemed ancient. Now, at thirty-seven and looking back to himself at twenty-five, he realised how young Tristan had been when he’d adopted him, only half-grown himself. What had Tristan really thought, felt, with this ten-year-old boy trotting at his heels? It must have been a drag at times yet Tristan had never shown it. They’d had twenty-five years together, a generation, and known each other so well. Tristan had never acted in a way the child-Mark had understood as fatherly although now, looking back, Mark could see that he had been. It had always seemed as if they were brothers, and that’s what Tristan had always called him, brother.
It was odd, Tristan never seemed to have had any women in his life, never any that Mark had seen, although they flocked around him. ‘Handsome bastard!’ Mark was smiling. But never had Mark caught him with a woman, even when he’d turned up unexpectedly. And he wasn’t gay. And he didn’t act reclusive or celibate. ‘Just never seemed to have any interest in all that …’ Mark muttered again. Unlike himself. He had had many affairs, nearly got married once. ‘Thank the gods that misfired!’ he muttered, turning out of the room and shutting the door, but not on the past. That followed him back to the kitchen. He put on a CD, the Breton pipes and drums stirred his blood. He wondered if she would like it. Tristan had. It seemed Tristan’s ghost was sharing his evening.
‘Damn the man!’ Mark told the onions as he got them out for making the casserole, but it wasn’t any use. Tristan was here, prodding him, laughing out of corners just as he always had.
‘Look.’ Mark turned to the doorway back into the shadowy hall. ‘What is this? What do you want? Are you jealous?’
Nothing answered him.
Mark got on with the casserole, still turning over old memories. The no-women thing was odd. He realised he had never really considered it before. He put the casserole in the oven, poured himself a glass of wine and went to the librarywhere Embar climbed into his lap. He stroked the cat’s ears, Embar purred, gently bit a finger.
A book lay on the table beside him, TS Eliot’s Collected Poems. He picked it up, certain he hadn’t had the book off
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