you want your husband back. Here, he’s all yours but don’t believe a word he says; he’s a cad!” She pushed him towards Liz, whom he literally swept off her feet, lifting her into his arms. Liz threw her head back and laughed as he kissed her greedily, stealing the remains of the sandwich in the process.
“Hey, you, that’s my supper. You are disgusting. You’re a disgusting….” Between choking and laughing Liz found the right word: “A disgusting husband!” she exclaimed. “But you are my disgusting husband and I love you, Mr Edward Anthony Jessop.”
“And I love you, Mrs Edward Anthony Jessop.” Now he was waltzing her around and around. “I love you. I love you. I love you. I love the twins, I love my friends. I love this house. My God, tonight I even love the fucking dog!” Edward threw back his head and let loose his infectious, natural laugh, which tonight came from the core of his being.
Edward stopped spinning and placed Liz gently onto her stocking feet; holding her close until her balance returned. For a moment she was spinning alone in an empty room, the piano just a shadow and the grandeur still a dream with the lake and the boathouse waiting for her… and that boat. The drawing-room was filled with candles, their scented heat mingling with the delicious smoke from the apple logs. This was how it had been that first time she saw it. The house was perfect as she had known it would be. Everything she had wanted to do she had done. She opened her eyes and remembered they still had a lot of work to do before the restoration was complete. But this was definitely the home they were meant to find and now it was extending hospitality to their closest friends. What more could she possibly want? She shut her eyes tight so that she might burn the image on her mind. She wanted to hold on to it forever.
As the night drew on, the group grew quiet. They stood by the open windows and watched the millennium dawn. From somewhere in the distance came the sound of a woman singing in French, her contralto voice trained and mature. In that moment Liz was at peace. Subliminally she understood that we never know the true reason for our existence, our reason for being. And for that brief moment she was content to remain in a state of ignorance. She was on the brink. The future called to her and she was excited, keen even, to visit it, but not if it meant leaving this present time. It should be possible to bottle moments of your life like rare perfume, so that you could relive them by the simple unscrewing of a cork, she thought. Imagine all those bottles lined up each one filled with a fabulous memory, their magic contents as fresh as new, just waiting to be released. Better than photographs or souvenirs, the essence of a moment waiting to emerge like a genie to transport you back to the past, to brighten up dark future days. Like this haunting song. I’ll never hear it again in such a perfect setting, at such a magic time. If only I could capture it and hear it again whenever my soul wants to fly? She did not realize she was the only one who had heard it.
C HAPTER 3
G eorge Alfred Marchant had been wounded during the First World War; he was hit by the door of a moving train while standing on the platform at Tonbridge station on his way to join his regiment. He never fully recovered from the ignominy of these injuries, which were severe enough to prevent him ever reaching the front. His shame grew with each published list of the fallen and honourably wounded. By way of atonement, he threw himself into his work at the Foreign Office with every fibre of his being. As a result of this diligence, when war ended he was still a young man of twenty-three but with considerable standing in the department.
A pipe-smoking, slow-thinking man, George was quiet by nature, old before his time in some ways, much of which was due to his disability. He lived his life through others, never begrudgingly, because he chose to
“Hey, you, that’s my supper. You are disgusting. You’re a disgusting….” Between choking and laughing Liz found the right word: “A disgusting husband!” she exclaimed. “But you are my disgusting husband and I love you, Mr Edward Anthony Jessop.”
“And I love you, Mrs Edward Anthony Jessop.” Now he was waltzing her around and around. “I love you. I love you. I love you. I love the twins, I love my friends. I love this house. My God, tonight I even love the fucking dog!” Edward threw back his head and let loose his infectious, natural laugh, which tonight came from the core of his being.
Edward stopped spinning and placed Liz gently onto her stocking feet; holding her close until her balance returned. For a moment she was spinning alone in an empty room, the piano just a shadow and the grandeur still a dream with the lake and the boathouse waiting for her… and that boat. The drawing-room was filled with candles, their scented heat mingling with the delicious smoke from the apple logs. This was how it had been that first time she saw it. The house was perfect as she had known it would be. Everything she had wanted to do she had done. She opened her eyes and remembered they still had a lot of work to do before the restoration was complete. But this was definitely the home they were meant to find and now it was extending hospitality to their closest friends. What more could she possibly want? She shut her eyes tight so that she might burn the image on her mind. She wanted to hold on to it forever.
As the night drew on, the group grew quiet. They stood by the open windows and watched the millennium dawn. From somewhere in the distance came the sound of a woman singing in French, her contralto voice trained and mature. In that moment Liz was at peace. Subliminally she understood that we never know the true reason for our existence, our reason for being. And for that brief moment she was content to remain in a state of ignorance. She was on the brink. The future called to her and she was excited, keen even, to visit it, but not if it meant leaving this present time. It should be possible to bottle moments of your life like rare perfume, so that you could relive them by the simple unscrewing of a cork, she thought. Imagine all those bottles lined up each one filled with a fabulous memory, their magic contents as fresh as new, just waiting to be released. Better than photographs or souvenirs, the essence of a moment waiting to emerge like a genie to transport you back to the past, to brighten up dark future days. Like this haunting song. I’ll never hear it again in such a perfect setting, at such a magic time. If only I could capture it and hear it again whenever my soul wants to fly? She did not realize she was the only one who had heard it.
C HAPTER 3
G eorge Alfred Marchant had been wounded during the First World War; he was hit by the door of a moving train while standing on the platform at Tonbridge station on his way to join his regiment. He never fully recovered from the ignominy of these injuries, which were severe enough to prevent him ever reaching the front. His shame grew with each published list of the fallen and honourably wounded. By way of atonement, he threw himself into his work at the Foreign Office with every fibre of his being. As a result of this diligence, when war ended he was still a young man of twenty-three but with considerable standing in the department.
A pipe-smoking, slow-thinking man, George was quiet by nature, old before his time in some ways, much of which was due to his disability. He lived his life through others, never begrudgingly, because he chose to
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