Seize The Day

© Annette De Burgh 2013

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TABLE OF CONTENTS

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

CHAPTER ONE

It was Christmas Eve. Professor Fiona Reid left her flat in Bristol at 5-00 on a cold dark morning and drove her four-year-old blue Fiesta car down the quiet streets to join the M5 and then finally onto the M6 for the long haul to Scotland.

At 2-30 in the afternoon, after two necessary motorway stops, Fiona drove off the M8 motorway skirting Glasgow to approach the Clydeside expressway. This was not the time of year for sightseeing; this was a return to home territory, so many familiar landmarks of her youth. The traffic was heavy, the spray from passing vehicles putting more pressure on the already overworked windscreen wipers. She glanced surreptitiously at her wristwatch, knowing there was a good forty-minute drive ahead before she reached the Clyde town of Helensburgh.

The polished rain-wet streets reflecting the lamp post strewed Christmas lights, and then she was onto the quieter, darker Loch Lomond road. The towns giving way to what Scotland was all about, the mountains enshrouded in a drizzle of mist and then to the right, the dark mysterious waters of Loch Lomond, the skeletal bleak leaf-bare stripped trees surrounding grey water. Fiona always managed a wry smile when each year, on this homeward visit, she saw the familiar, now white-topped mountain standing guard over the loch. Ben Lomond, that semester lecture tour four summers ago in America when she'd discussed the British education system. Atlanta and her off-the-cuff talk about Scotland as a favour to her America host to a group of wives of the buffaloes, or something with an equally incongruous title. The questions from an elderly woman called Regina who pronounced her name with short clipped hard consonants. Honey, where does that Ben Lomond live, and is the guy married? Fiona thinking it was a joke and then realising Regina did not have a sense of humour. Without wishing to make it sound like a put-down, she'd explained Ben Lomond was a mountain. Regina was unfazed and followed with, I guess the Dook of Edinburgh is the next king of Scotland!

Fiona intended on returning to the States, but somehow the time moved on and she just stagnated. So many unfulfilled ambitions to reiterate for the coming year: returning for another lecture tour and to write her book … a serious textbook on a woman's role in education. Sounded grand, but in fact she had never really collated the material. Next year…

She sighed and wondered again why she bothered to make this yearly pilgrimage home. It wasn't as if she really enjoyed the week of so-called family holiday. Her parents were proud of her achievement, but there was also the disguised family inquisition, a verbal sparring match of ritualised questioning. Why aren't you married? You'll be fifty soon. Her unconvincing reply – I prefer to further my career – was not strictly true, but any other explanation would have involved delving into her own true reasons. Sometimes, it was hard to believe she was approaching fifty, a decided benchmark – too late for the Catholic family her mother wished for her, with no relationship and no memories of love, just work and self-imposed loneliness.

The town lay below, ablaze with light as she drove slowly down the hill towards the shimmering waters of the River Clyde: tail of the bank and more dancing lights from the town across the water, Gourock and Port Glasgow; in the daytime, cranes from the once thriving ship building yards could still be seen on the horizon. Changing times and progress put men out of work and proud industries lay in ruins.

This was a commuter town, planned with meticulous detail on a grid system that was probably exported to America by migrant Scots. A town of substantial sandstone mansions built by the once wealthy tobacco merchants high on the hill. Such a manor house had been extended and converted to become the town's prestigious independent school with boarding houses and a reputation for excellence.

Once, Fiona had been head girl, following in the footsteps of her sister, Theresa. It was all a cocooned existence living in a town where everyone knew your business, a goldfish bowl as you swam round and round. You were cloned to become the person everyone expected you to become; there was no breakout point. Fiona conformed to being the daughter of an eye specialist who had rooms in the prestigious Sauchiehall Street of Glasgow. A mother who had been chairman of the school governors, a Justice of the Peace and latterly had received an MBE for charitable work.

Further down the hill was the Church, where the family attended with ritualistic adherence. Her first dance at the local tennis club, her first kiss, she couldn't even remember his name. She could still hear her parents' pride as they'd say, Fiona, she is going to Oxford. Sometimes, being the clever one of the family was a curse rather than a blessing. It imposed constriction, restrictions and expectations, and a responsibility.

She'd chosen Oxford as a door through which she then thought she could escape and become her own person. Oxford, a new life, a new freedom; she'd been too serious to take full advantage of all that was offered. Intent on studying – a mask to hide her inability to socialise, and her inability to admit she was not sexually interested in the men who found her withdrawal a challenge.

Her socialising was a small tight circle of women friends. They remained friends and yet, Fiona admitted she knew little about them and they certainly knew little about her. They all taught – a gaggle of teachers – but she had achieved the pinnacle … headmistress of an independent boarding school. Such an accolade, education her horizon and the prize a professorship. Her parents so proud and her secret buried deep. But then – and she turned the Fiesta into the wide tree-lined street – she knew little about herself. Perhaps that was the problem – failure to admit the inadmissible.

She reduced her speed to a near crawl to manoeuvre the car through the two stone-built pillars now lichen-covered on which two rusting iron gates hung – they had remained open for as long as she could remember. She heard the crunch of tyres on the worn shale driveway that led to the solid square stone mansion now discoloured by time. This was Fiona's parents' house, the place where she, her elder sister Theresa and her brother Matthew had been born.

The small front garden looked winter weary, with the sombre thick surrounding holly tree hedge and wet grass. The house too looked tired, the casement windows in need of replacing as they rattled when the wind swept over the hills and down the Clyde Valley. Now the house that lay silent during the year was alive with lights in every window, and a cluster of fairy lights decorating the imposing outside porch.

Fiona remembered a home alive with people, a happy family house where visitors were made to feel the warmth of a genuine welcome. Parties and laughter; her sister Theresa's wedding day – they'd stood on the stone steps on a rare but beautiful day in June when the garden had been a mass of flowers.

You'll be next, Fiona, someone had said to her, and she'd smiled, knowing there was no truth in the statement.

Oh, Fiona's going to be a professor, her father said. So handsome in his morning suit, he beamed at her and then added, Then she'll marry!

But she hadn't married, and the reason for that lay buried deep within her psyche.

Fiona knew how important this Christmas family time was to her parents. She gave a faint smile as she saw the new silver BMW parked and knew her sister and her husband John had already arrived. Fiona saw the new Jaguar parked alongside and knew this was her sister-in-law Irene's influence on her brother Matthew. She parked her Fiesta beside her parents' old Volvo estate and switched off the engine. Suddenly, she wished that this year there was some change in the monotony and felt an inner surge of resentment against herself for letting the years slip so carelessly through her fingers. One day life stretched ahead, the next it vanished.

The family would all be assembled in the sitting room, and she surreptitiously glanced into the car’s rear-view mirror. She looked the same as she'd looked for the past ten years. Her dark hair, shoulder length, neither straight nor curly, just sort of wavy, showing the glint of silver strands. Not beautiful, never that, her forehead tramlines over dark brows and deep-set Celtic blue eyes, a mouth that needed to smile more often to show perfect teeth. An interesting face that needed the lightness of laughter and the warmth of inner love.

As Fiona got out of the car, she felt the cold damp Scottish air greeting her. She wrapped her coat tighter around her thin body, walked to the boot and opened it to take out a plastic carrier bag of Christmas paper gift-wrapped presents and her small suitcase. There was no difficulty packing; she did not possess an elaborate wardrobe – there were no social occasions that merited dressing up, and her life was that of an academic. No, it wasn't that, academics had fun. She was almost a social recluse; it was an unconscious act, just moving out of the circle. Once, she'd been witty and good company, but now she was dull, she knew it – intelligent yes, a vast knowledge of unrelated subjects, but dull: having fun was not a priority.

She walked up the two stone steps to the inner porch, and before she could insert her house key into the solid storm-proofed door it was opened immediately by her parents, William and Jessica, who stood smiling at her as they manoeuvred her into the hall. Her father's small dapper figure, dressed with impeccable care, his speciality being bow ties which he wore with a great flourish. Since his retirement four years ago, Fiona noted, he'd grown shorter and rounder, his hair once coal black now snow white, but he looked well and happy. Jessica, her mother – small and thin, artistic and sharply dressed in a tartan skirt of dark green and red, with a dark green sweater and the inevitable string of pearls, but not looking her seventy-three years – joined William in murmuring how well Fiona looked in a voice that sounded surprised.

Fiona nodded and kissed them, and deposited her bags on the hall box. She felt the warmth of the house invade her cold body, she saw the Christmas tree standing in the well of the stairs, the lights making a glow on the wood-panelled hall. How many Christmases had they all stood round the tree depositing their presents, and Christmas Eve singing carols? This was home, the family, and a safe haven in which to relax. She looked round and saw her mother's eyes on her, and gave a self-deprecatory shrug, reading the unasked question in the pale blue eyes. They worried about her; Fiona knew they wanted her married. Oh, she wished sometimes she belonged to someone; deeply buried under the layers of life, disappointment and fear lurked a romantic. She could only imagine meaningful glances across a room, the brief touch of hands, that special smile – the unspoken language of love.

She gave an inner shudder as she followed her parents into the drawing room. It was like the set of a JB Priestly play. The room with its high ceilings, ornate cornices and the wooden picture rail with the gilt-framed painting hanging on hooks held up by worn cord. The wallpaper in need of renewing faded patterns barely discernible, the two chintzy-covered settees that had once been motor cars or ships or places to rest and recover from an illness. The assortment of chairs and scattered side tables piled with Country Life magazines, The Messenger and The Catholic Times, which nobody ever seemed to read, and the huge log-burning fire and the brass fender and brass tongues and poker and little brass shovel and a brush for the ash. The flower arrangement her mother would take hours to get perfect, the small cabinet which housed the equally small television, set on top of which were silver-framed photographs of the family and latterly the grandchildren. On the rug in front of the fire was Beau, the black and white mongrel that had come into their garden four Christmases ago and remained.

Fiona glanced down, seeing for the first time how threadbare the carpet was and how in need of replacement the two settees. It was all getting old, like her parents, like herself, and the moment of realisation shocked her. How many more Christmases will we all have together?

The family was grouped around the log-burning fire. Although her brother and his family and her sister and family all lived within travelling distance of the family home, it was the custom for them to stay over for Christmas. Fiona listened as she heard Theresa, her sister – who at fifty-two was attractive in a positive way, a history teacher at the local independent school, now cup and saucer in hand – holding forth about the world situation. John, her husband – a teacher of maths – sat quietly on the settee, dressed in his traditional corduroy trousers and thick polo-necked sweater. His hair, Fiona noted, had receded and he looked older as he nodded at every word his wife uttered. Only one of their three children had joined them. Diane, the eighteen-year-old daughter and the youngest of their children, was, Fiona saw, now an attractive young woman with long blonde hair, a carefully made-up face, wearing hipster jeans and a sleeveless T-shirt that showed a small tattoo on her shoulder as she lounged on an easy chair fiddling with texting on her mobile phone. Fiona felt a moment of sympathy, realising her niece disliked the family Christmas gatherings as much as she did. It was so ritualistic over the years, a timetable of predictability. Oberon, Matthew and Irene's only son, was, according to Irene, away with friends: Titled friends, of course!

Fiona took off her coat and threw it over the back of the settee, gratefully accepting the cup of tea her mother held out to her, and sat down on the arm of the chair.

Theresa, who was forcefully opinionating on a pilgrimage a friend had taken to Charters, suddenly stopped and turned, and saw Fiona.

Oh, Fay… She moved swiftly across the room, depositing her cup on the coffee table, and opened her arms. It's good to see you…

She stood back and surveyed her sister with critical eyes, seeing the strands of silver in the hair, the worry lines round the eyes and the mouth that needed to smile and relax. She wanted to say, Oh, Fay, is being a headmistress all you really want? Fiona never brought anyone home at Christmas, and now, well, Theresa admitted it seemed too late. Her sister, her brilliant, intelligent, with a dry wit, and a sharp but seldom appreciated sense of humour, who seemed destined to remain alone. Oh they talked, in an evasive fashion … never with probing depths.

Fiona felt the warmth of the embrace before she was released, and as she found herself drawn into the family circle, she heard the ritualistic questions: Had a good journey? but no one expected her to reply. Then slowly Fiona felt herself melting into the background.

Matthew glanced up, giving her a warm smile.

Fay, just the person. Here, look at this. He took the Times crossword he had been poring over and handed it to her.

She grimaced. This could have been the previous year, caught in a time warp, but then perhaps that was families – everyone knew everyone, no surprises, just familiarity.

For goodness sake, give the girl time to unpack, William, her father, said humorously as he gave a benevolent smile at his daughter, who unwittingly took the newspaper from Matthew and stared at the clues.

Oh, Matthew! Fiona said reproachfully. You really should know the answer to five down.

Diane glanced up curiously. She would not admit it, but her aunt inhibited her. She tried to reason why as she glanced up, seeing the outline of Fiona's sharp features – she was no beauty and was just Aunt Fay; there was no contact from one Christmas to another except for a birthday card. Diane gave a faint sniff as she took in Fiona's lack of fashion: the flat shoes, the skirt and sweater.

It is labyrinth, Fiona replied, and smiled.

Diane saw the window of change and realised with surprise that Fiona smiled very little.

Theresa resumed her diatribe and Fiona saw the frown of discontent sweep over Diane's face as she listened to her mother berating the idea of her plans for a gap year before taking up her university place.

Persuade her, Fay, that she is making a mistake, Theresa entreated as she turned to Fiona. You went straight on to Oxford, you've not regretted that? Talk to her, she'll listen to you.

I doubt it my students barely listen to me at times. Fiona met the challenge in Diane's eyes.

She was about to agree with her sister; she usually found it easier to do so, for that was what they anticipated from her. Now, feeling the unexpected restlessness in her own life, remembering her years of studying, the restrictions she had placed on herself resulting in the person she'd become.

I'm sorry, Theresa. Fiona looked across at Diane and gave a half smile. I wish I'd taken a year travelling before I went to university … it changes your perceptions. I encourage my girls to travel, to learn their limitations and to know their strengths … and more so, to know themselves. I never had that time and my life has been so predictable…

You're a highly respected professor, her father cut in.

I have sacrificed a great deal to achieve it.

You don't think the sacrifice has been worth it? There was interest and curiosity in Diane's question.

Not totally. Fiona frowned and then added, You can't live your life on other people's expectations of what they wish you to be, so they live vicariously through you. The choice should always be yours, Diane.

She saw her niece blink back her surprise and murmur, Thanks.

Well thank you, Fay. There was sarcasm laced in Theresa's voice. I would have expected more from you.

Oh, it's approaching age. What Fay needs is a man in her life.

Fiona gritted her teeth, hearing the high-pitched drawl of her sister-in-law Irene's voice breaking through. Fiona swallowed an angry retort; she did not get along with Irene and wondered time after time why Matthew had married this small, insecure, brittle blonde who had the ability to rub them all up the wrong way.

That is not the answer to life's problems, Fiona said her tone remonstrating.

I think there are alternatives in life to catching a man, Diane cut in as she stood up and sighed. I'll take Aunt Fay's bag upstairs so she can unpack before the ritual of women in the kitchen.

Fiona walked back into the hallway, mellowed and dim with pictures and furniture that had seen so much of their lives. Births and weddings and funerals. Fiona picked up her coat and trudged up the stairs. Nothing changed; they were all time-locked.

Don't you get tired of the Christmas routine? Diane asked as she waited until Fiona pushed open the door of the bedroom she once shared with Theresa, where so many years ago they had talked about hopes and their secret dreams.

Yes, but I realise we have to make our own changes, Fiona said as she took the bag from Diane's hands.

Not always easy, sometimes not possible. I wish… Diane leaned against the lintel of the door. I'd… She stopped and Fiona saw the misery in her niece's eyes that almost reflected her own thoughts.

Diane, come down and help.

The voice of Theresa cut through the moment and Diane shrugged and murmured, There's never time…

Fiona nodded and softly quoted, What is this life if full of care, we have no time to stand and stare, No time to stand beneath the boughs, And stare as long as sheep or cows.

Diane stared at her. You surprise me!

I wish I could surprise myself, Fiona murmured.

Perhaps you've never tried! Diane added. I didn't expect your support … thanks!

Fiona closed the bedroom door. The bedroom was full of nebulous ghosts of yesterday, unfulfilled shadows that sometimes haunted her, demanding she accept and admit their existence. The room remained in a state of suspended animation. The wood-chipped wallpaper, once a light bright cream, was now outdated and showing signs of age. Remnants of Blu-Tack where once posters had been displayed. A bookcase of old schoolbooks, school reports. A wall of old school photographs, school friends she no longer kept in touch with, the hockey team, a shelf of school trophies in need of a clean. Her past … time for it to be cleared away. The room preserved by her parents for their visits home when they were away at university. A long time ago. Now, as Fiona looked at the twin beds with their rustic candlewick covers, she knew the holiday period was going to be as difficult as ever, and she wished she'd stayed in her small flat in Bristol and spent Christmas alone.

Fiona placed her small bag on the Lloyd-loom linen chest at the base of her bed and unpacked her few belongings. She hung them up in the small wobbly wardrobe and then turned and stood in front of the full-length mirror. Her reflection, as for so many years, unchanged. I'm forty-nine and feel ancient, and I am mentally, spiritually and physically unfulfilled.

Dear God, surely she had the capacity to love and be loved, surely she could evoke passion and be passionate. With whom? Sexual experience was thin on the ground … she was celibate, by choice, chance never came, and chance would be to admit. I want more, she thought. I want so much more than this dusty book jacket I've allowed myself to become. Dear God, where have the years gone? She shivered as the horror of her life exposed itself.

A week tonight would be the start of another year, another open page in a blank chapter; she would pray the year would be different.

Fiona brushed her hair back from her face and then made her way down the creaking staircase, seeing the well-worn carpet and knowing the time was approaching when the house would be sold. She moved into the large rambling farmhouse-type kitchen and heard the general chatter as the women’s age-old ritual started: to prepare the dinner while the men reclined in front of the television watching sport.

There was a murmur as she entered, but no one even noticed her and she took her appointed place alongside the scrubbed wooden kitchen table, accepted the mug of tea and saw the dish of unpeeled potatoes.

My God, Fay, don't you think it's time you wore something a little more … well, modern, or is this how headmistresses dress? Irene, her critical sister-in-law, looked at Fiona with veiled contempt; her thinly arched eyebrow rose as she gave a sniff of disapproval and ran a carefully manicured hand down her immaculate skirt.

There was laughter and chatter. Fiona picked up the potato peeler and felt the unexpected surge of resentment, and the emotion took her by surprise.

So, Fay, how did you enjoy your holiday? Spain, wasn't it? There was the usual tinge of veiled sarcasm in Irene's voice.

Fiona gave a faint self-deprecatory shrug in admittance. Not Spain, Greece, Fiona hedged.

It sounded uninteresting and it had been uninteresting. Not the sites or the culture, but that inevitable regiment of women. Joan, the leader of the group, her supposed friend; but they had nothing in common except they were both in the teaching profession, both single.

So, what did you do then, on this tour? Irene smothered a yawn. Look at the Greek Gods?

Well, we did a seven-hour trek to Mount Olympus, the magnificent throne of Zeus. The views … well worth the blistered heels. Fiona wondered as she spoke why her family inhibited her, why she couldn't talk to them with ease, amuse them with light-hearted anecdotes, but she couldn't, and as she talked she was conscious of their boredom, their polite pasted-on smiles. We then travelled and saw the Mount of the Muses…

Mount of the Muses? Diane looked up.

What on earth is a Muse? Irene asked in a bored tone.

If you listen, Theresa cut in, you'll learn.

"The Muses are the Greek goddesses, daughters of Zeus, king of the gods, and Mnemosyne.