September (1990) Read Free Page B

penniless artists, and unemployed actors were drawn to her side as moths seek a candle flame. Her generosity to all and sundry he had considered both mindless and selfish, for there never seemed to be any money to spare for the things in life that Noel believed to be of primary importance.
    When she died, her will reflected this thoughtless bounty. A hefty bequest was left to a young man . . . nothing to do with the family . . . whom she had taken under her sheltering wing, and whom, for some reason, she wished to help.
    For Noel, it was a bitter blow. His feelings-and pocket-deeply hurt, he was consumed by a resentment that was totally impotent. It was no use raging, because she was gone. He could not have it out with Jier, accuse her of disloyalty and demand to know what the bloody hell she thought she was doing. His mother had moved beyond his reach. He imagined her, safe from his wrath, across some chasm or uncrossable river, surrounded by sunshine, fields, trees, whatever constituted her own personal conception of Heaven. She was probably, in her mild way, laughing at her son, her dark eyes bright with mischievous amusement, unperturbed as always by his demands and reproaches.
    With only his two sisters to make miserable, he turned his back on his family and concentrated instead on the only stable element left in his life-his job. Somewhat to his surprise, and to the astonishment of his superiors, he discovered, just in time, that he was not only interested in advertising but extremely good at it. By the time his mother's estate was cleared, and his share of the loot was safely deposited in the bank, youthful fantasies of enormous gambles and fast profits had faded forever. As well, Noel realized that making money with some other person's hypothetical fortune was actually very different from parting with your own. He felt protective about his bank balance, as though it were a child, and was not about to risk its safety. Instead, in modest fashion, he bought himself a new car and began, tentatively, to put out feelers for some place new to live. ...
    Life moved on. But youth was over, and it was a different life. Gradually Noel came to terms with this and, at the same time, discovered that he was incapable of sustaining his final grievance against his mother. Nourishing useless resentment was far too exhausting. And at the end of the day he had to admit that he hadn't come out of it all too badly. As well, he missed her. During the last years he had seen little of her, closeted as she was in the depths of Gloucestershire, but still she was always there-at the end of a telephone, or at the end of a long drive when you felt you couldn't stand the hot summer streets of London a moment longer. It didn't matter if you went alone or took half a dozen friends for the weekend. There was always space, a relaxed welcome, delicious food, everything or nothing to do. Fires flickering, fragrant flowers, hot baths; warm comfortable beds, fine wines, and easy conversation.
    All gone. The house and garden sold to strangers. The warm smell of her kitchen and the good feeling that somebody else was in charge and you didn't have to make a single decision. And gone was the only person in the world with whom you never had to put on an act or pretend. Life without her, maddening and capricious as she had been, was like living a life with a ragged hole in the middle of it, and had taken, he recalled wryly, some getting used to.
    He sighed. It all seemed a long time ago. Another world. He had finished his whisky and sat staring out into the darkness. He remembered being four years old and having measles, and how the nights of illness had seemed long as a lifetime, each minute lasting an hour, and the dawn an eternity away.
    Now, thirty years later, he watched the dawn. The sky lightened and the sun slid up from beneath the false horizon of cloud, and everything turned pink and the light was dazzling to the eye. He watched the dawn and was