IN MARGOT'S SHADOW
Margot Allerton was an opinionated, forthright, woman of slender build and stately grace. She was socially gifted and never lost for words, either of a kindly or fiercely critical nature, often uncompromising if circumstances demanded it of her. She did not suffer fools gladly. Those she befriended were kept for life, and Margot's had been a fulfilled and happy one; a life of one marriage and three children; grandchildren, and a double-fronted Georgian house, with its portico entrance, the property set in a small park that lent it, and its occupiers, some distinction but few natural graces. She had been brought up to learn and perfect them.
Margot minded herself, and only prevailed upon others when she thought it necessary; deployed her gifts of persuasion, and ire, to get her way or to have her opinions become known. She just 'cut them', those that she did not take to and who were then put out of her life for good.
She was musical, played the piano, and was known to sing for the church choir at Christmas. She attended church, somewhat infrequently, and she played her part in the community, in the village set close to Salisbury, and as often as her age and somewhat enfeebled limbs still allowed.
Margot was happy with her lot and it showed, her vibrant personality and soft laugh engaging all whom she met. She was devoted to her husband, John, and they pursued an active and full social life. They holidayed and attended concerts in Birmingham and London and were often studiously engaged in a conversation whenever an art gallery was visited. John and Margot had each other, their family, and their home, and they also declared their love for each other in frequently physical and active ways.
The Allerton's star remained bright in the firmament until John was discovered, dead, slumped in his chair by the fire, in his study, one late morning in autumn and the crossword only half finished.
The vital woman that was Margot - she also died that day, if only in mind and rousing spirit; the latter buried deep in her soul along with her cherished memories of John. It was said that the first signs of dementia set in shortly after John's funeral; Margot's faculties seemed to dim even if her haughty, slender-faced beauty was there for all to see and by those who still came to see her.
'Allerton House' became too large, its gatehouse perfectly placed for a woman in her circumstances and she moved there. The main house was let out on lease, and as a self-contained, distinct, family home that it had always been, but that Margot's family could not part with.
They thought of the long-term. Margot lived in the present, and the closed-in world that her condition now brought upon her, memories of her other life seen as if through a net curtain; a life seen through a haze that she was never quite sure of, but a life that she believed had once existed and where she had thrived.. The vibrant beauty was sustained by her memories, so many thought; they kept her life from collapsing in, upon itself.
By some, it was said, the lights were still on but nobody was seen to be at home.
'Here you are, Margot. I've brought your lunch. Mind you don't spoil your dress so keep your napkin fastened.'
The day centre care worker fussed over her, but Margot pulled the napkin away from her throat, revealing a jewelled clasp.
'That man over there,' she sniffed haughtily, 'he keeps looking at me. Who...who is he? Do I know him that he should be looking at me the way that he does?'
'You're imagining it, dear. He's a guest of Alastair's and, yes, you do know him.'
'Do I?' Margot really couldn't recall him at all. 'I hope the car will soon be here to take me home.' Her thoughts had already drifted on
'Have your lunch, Margot. Don't let it get cold.'
♥
Paul had listened absentmindedly as his old school friend, Alastair Beasley, told him of the strikingly attractive woman seated not so far from them. Her long, slender face was studiously made up, her lips a flash of crimson red; her luxuriant white hair brushed up, then drawn back into a long plaited ponytail that must have taken a considerable effort, on her part, to achieve.
He had taken in her bottle green chiffon dress that was worn with a mauve jacket cast casually around her shoulders, as well as the woman's slender legs and small feet. Above all, he had suppressed a gasp of admiration as she passed their table, the walking frame pushed somewhat jerkily over the floor, as she went to the lady's cloakroom. She had chosen to wear a jewelled 'choker', the gold band studded with fake jewels of every hue. Its shape was that of some reptile, a crocodile, perhaps. On anyone else, it would have aroused derision. On the woman, it was entirely in keeping and she seemed of another time and she appeared lost in that place.
The day centre with its treatment rooms, meeting spaces, and the small cafeteria and restaurant where they sat, had been fashioned within a redundant, but ornate and splendid church, the churchyard's paths lined with studiously clipped yew trees and shrubs. It was peaceful and it would take some effort to reach on foot. He had seen a few cars parked in the narrow lanes close by, in the heart of the small town.
She was seen sitting at a table with two women and eating her lunch, falteringly but with determination. She brushed away any offers of help as if she were, again, a child. He saw her as proud and beautiful; not of an age to have been struck down by a condition that he knew would see men, and women, drift in and out of a known world, and the comfort that it offered.
Paul met her glances upon him. He would smile in response, but there would not be the slightest twitch of her lips or a smile in acknowledgment of him having seen her.
Margot, for Alastair, had told him her name was lost in what seemed to be her bounded world. He was taken back to his younger years and could remember some of those formative times only too well. Being an art dealer, with an encyclopaedic knowledge, had brought him into a very different world from what had been known of at home; the influence of an extended family and the maelstrom of relationships that were formed and could so easily fracture, along with the ensuing acrimony.
'It really wouldn't do for me to reminisce, Alastair. What I got up to in those days.'
'Because of what I've told you about Margot?'
'Yes,' he sighed, 'it goes something like that. The lady brings back too many memories for me and I've got to take them all in, again.'
♥
'Paul Tamblin -- Art Dealer & Fine Art Appraiser'
That was what his card had said about him in the early years of his career.
Working in London dealerships, and galleries, straight after university, had brought him into the company of many rich, well-connected, women; his tall lanky frame, studious looks, and black hair swept back from his, then, lean face, easy wit, and ready charm a cover for his eye for a deal or the value of a cherished painting, a family treasure, that would not be parted with, even in a divorce settlement.
Favours were often exchanged, and his earliest sexual experiences were pursued with mature women he was only too eager to take him to bed and thus to be flattered. It was such a demeaning description, but only too appropriate to describe the accomplished pleasures to be found in their beds. His wife was some years younger than he was, but her claims did not deny to him the pleasure of the continued company of older women that he so often met. They always had their uncomplicated ways of it and saw life so very differently, and that changing social attitudes permitted in these times.
Now, as he met the glances of Margot, he felt discomfited to be reminded of events in his thirties, when he had established his reputation and made something of a fortune and at a time that saw him happily married but not cured of a habit pursued in his younger days.
One former lover had found her way into his thoughts and confirmed what he had heard someone say on the radio:
'a determined force is soon found to be unstoppable'.
Isla had been that woman. After the premature death of her husband, she lived alone for some years until the family persuaded her to move into a smaller place close to them. It was not done so that she would be an interfering soul, but so that they could be on hand whenever the need arose.
She was a flaxen-haired woman who seemed to have a permanent tan, an engaging smile, a wondering look in her muted green eyes, and a delightfully firm and shapely body, that he would often take to wondering about when Isla was seen in her garden. She was a woman whose age it was difficult to place, even by him who had not been a casual observer of Isla when he was at home and he caught sight of her. Then, he thought that she was in her fifties, but hearing from his wife that she was well into her sixties. The giveaway was that her 'flaxen' hair was, in fact, a luxuriant grey.
He walked a great deal in local parks, deciding long ago that he wasn't into that self-obsessed pursuit of jogging as Isla was. She would do so at a sedate pace, but keeping her heart beat up and his interest keen. She jogged regularly and he would enjoy catching sight of her body, clad in shorts and a jogging top, her legs firm for a woman of her age; her breasts not quite still.
On first meeting her, some months after she had moved in, and a period of mourning at an end, he and his wife had engaged Isla in conversation and he had done a few simple chores for her as an act of good neighbourliness and she had learned, in passing, what he did in his work. Sets of prints from the late eighteenth century were shown and his opinion was sought.
Isla had stood close by his side and she had even touched his arm as if to steady the picture that he held. It was then that he had become acutely aware of her simmering sexuality, an engagement with him that she seemed to be struggling to control. Isla was unaware of his interest, nor the effect that she had upon him. The pleasant, good-natured, and engaging woman, with her wonderful smile, had taken him back to his pubescent days and the discovery of that feeling for the woman shaming him.
In the year that followed, he had become aware that she was subtly flirting with him whenever they met and had an opportunity to talk. He took perverse pleasure from such moments and enjoyed them. They were prolonged, but not with any intention of pursuing or quelling his feelings for her. Susie, his wife at the time, met his needs regularly and passionately.
He indulged Isla and brought her past editions of art magazines, or antique journals. He engaged in the to-and-fro of repartee that skirted lewdness. They simply conversed over the garden fence or in the front garden whenever they met, or caught sight of each other attending to only too mundane chores. They would often discuss a piece of art that he brought home from the gallery where he worked, intending to clean the painting before its sale and having taken it from the car that he could usually park near his house and in front of Isla's.
'If I'd known you had that specialist skill, and worked from home on occasion, I would have asked you to clean a gilded frame I have to a landscape painting that once hung in the hall of the family home.'
He had seen tears well up in her eyes as Isla spoke of it. 'Ask for my help, any time you wish. You know that you can do that now.'
