Miss Carter's War (39 page)

‘You? Why on earth—?’

‘Because they knew Philby had worked with Guy Burgess, who’d scarpered to Russia in the ’50s. And I knew him. Oh don’t worry. I’m not a traitor. I was just a pretty boy who went to the same parties as Guy. Everyone was questioned. All the queers. We didn’t take it very seriously. We were used to be being blamed for everything. Then Philby turned up in Moscow and it all calmed down.’

‘Then why is it still troubling you?’

‘Then I met Donald, who has never been promiscuous like me. I was terrified of losing him. We agreed to forget about my past. Not even discuss it. Start afresh. We poofs became legal in 1967 and everything was hunky-dory. Till now.’

‘Why till now?’

‘Some of the parties I went to were given by Anthony Blunt.’

‘What? The Queen’s pictures bloke? Who’s been in the papers?’

‘Yes, I didn’t know he was a spy. I’ve only just read about it now. They kept it quiet all this time. Giving him a knighthood, letting him work for the Queen. Some kind of fucking gentlemen’s agreement, I suppose.’

‘And now Thatcher’s let the cat out of the bag.’

‘Yes. And now my fear has come flooding back. Like when I was young. I’m terrified the press will come nosing about. They’ve probably got all the names from his address book, the same as MI5. I’m frightened to death every time the phone rings or someone comes to the door.’

Marguerite put her arms round Tony.

‘Of course they won’t, my love. You’re getting it all out of proportion. They’re not going to be interested in a nice PT teacher.’

‘There’s something else, Mags.’ His voice broke. ‘I’m so worried about Donald.’

‘Don’t be silly. Donald wouldn’t care about your past.’

‘I meant his health. He keeps being ill.’

‘Well, he’s run down.’

‘Two of our friends died recently. They kept getting sick. Then they became riddled with disease. One went blind. They just wasted away and died. The doctors couldn’t explain it. They pumped them both full of antibiotics and other drugs but nothing worked. Someone told me that in America several gay men have died of a mysterious illness.’

‘But that’s nonsense, Tony. Just malign gossip. Why on earth would some illness be confined to gay men? You’ve got to get a grip. You keep looking on the black side. You’re depressed.’

‘Well, everything is bloody depressing. The country’s going to the dogs.’

Marguerite seized on an opportunity to change to a subject that always invigorated Tony.

‘Nonsense. I know she’s anathema to you, but I think Maggie’s doing a good job. You’ve got to admit she’s got guts.’

Tony rose to the bait.

‘I hate her. She’s caused mayhem. I’ll never get over that sick-making entry into No. 10. What a joke that turned out to be. Where there is discord let there be fucking harmony? Some hopes. The destruction of our industry. Race riots. The Troubles. It’s bloody civil war, I tell you.’

‘That’s my boy. Now stop worrying about nothing.’

Whereas in the past, with the Queen’s Coronation and Churchill’s funeral, they had felt part of the patriotic unity in the country, Marguerite and Tony did not join the rest of the confused British public as they went from cheering the meek girl submerged in billows of crumpled ivory silk, nervously eyeing her husband, the future King, to half-heartedly waving their flags in the victory parade, not attended by the royals, to celebrate the defence of some islands few even knew existed.

Apart from one visit to Greenham Common to support the removal of American missiles, Marguerite’s radicalism again faded. Tony did not actively support the miners either in their struggle for existence. Activity generally seemed to be too much of an effort for him. Sport at school was limited as they had no playing fields, since they were sold off by the government.

Tony was surprisingly pleased.

‘I can’t run up and down a football pitch any more. Blowing my whistle for a gentle game of girls’ netball in the playground is about my limit nowadays. Bugger the health of the nation’s youth. What about mine?’

Over the years Tony’s face had matured into craggy good looks but Marguerite had to reassure him.

‘You’re still devastatingly handsome. You look like Paul Scofield. Much more interesting than that Greek God blandness you used to have.’

But Tony was inconsolable. Being in his early sixties troubled him deeply.

‘I hate being old. My body doesn’t do what I want it to, and I don’t want an interesting face. I want to be young and beautiful again.’

‘I’m the one who should be saying that. I’m a woman. It’s supposed to be worse for us to lose our looks.’

‘Well, it’s not. I’m turning into a decaying old queen and it horrifies me. You’re an attractive mature woman. That’s much nicer.’

‘Well, I love you. And so does Donald. So shut up and count your blessings.’

Marguerite frequently found herself boosting Tony’s ebbing confidence and joking him out of depression. Usually these grey moods engulfed him for no apparent reason, but as time went on and Donald seemed often to be sick, Marguerite too began to be worried about his health.

After several years’ respite from the repeated illnesses that he had suffered at the end of the 1970s, he was ailing again. One of his feet had a painful spur, which made every leap torture, and there were signs of early arthritis in his overstressed knees. He missed several scheduled performances because of various maladies. Due to this unreliability in the age-averse world of ballet, at forty he was deemed too old for romantic leads. He was now less in demand, even for smaller character parts. There was talk of him becoming ballet master, which involved teaching the newcomers roles that he had danced.

Donald and Tony began to discuss their future. The talks included Marguerite as their lives were so entwined. Tony, frustrated as he was at teaching sport with no facilities and his reluctant physique, planned to retire in four or five years’ time and what with Donald being less involved with the ballet company, they looked forward to travelling and generally enjoying themselves. Marguerite was not so happy at the idea of retirement but considered leaving the grind of school to do more part-time tutoring with the Open University. The prospect of more travel, more fun, had great appeal. Having spent all her working life controlled by timetables, she felt cautiously excited about the idea of more freedom from responsibility. The three of them made lists of countries they wished to visit, journeys they would make. When Tony suggested they go to France and see her old haunts in Paris and the Vaucluse, she agreed to Paris but demurred at the Vaucluse.

‘I’m not ready.’

‘After forty-odd years?’

‘I don’t want to open old wounds.’

‘You’d prefer to cover them up and let them fester?’

‘Yes.’

Since his disenchantment with the cosy memories of his own past, Tony was understanding of Marguerite’s fear of revisiting hers.

‘OK, fair enough.’

‘He’s probably dead or married. I’d rather not know. I prefer to hang on to my memories, carpe the diem, and look forward to lovely new adventures with you two.’

Chapter 40

A few weeks after the night when they began planning their futures Tony and Marguerite were watching television in her flat, waiting for Donald to join them for supper after a performance. He was very late, and when he eventually arrived he looked wild-eyed and had obviously been drinking. Tony, ever worried that Donald would leave him for someone younger, upbraided him for being rude to Marguerite.

To their alarm Donald burst into tears.

‘I’ve been having a drink with Rudi and some of the boys. He was telling us how many people have died in America. There has been some research done and they have found this thing called GRID. Gay Related Immune Deficiency. There’s no cure. You can be tested to see if you’ve got it. Rudi said we should be. He has, but he wouldn’t tell us the result. I’m terrified. All those illnesses I’ve been having. I think I’ve got it.’

Tony was silent.

Marguerite said, ‘Why on earth do you think that? How do you get it? Is it infectious or contagious?’

‘They don’t know for sure. It seems to be through sex. Gay sex. No one seems to know anything for sure. But people are dying. More and more people. And nearly all gay.’

Tony was poleaxed by fear for Donald, but Marguerite decided to find out all she could about this secret scourge. Few seemed to either know or care about what was happening to the increasingly ostracised gay community. Soon the news began to filter into the papers, as deaths were reported in England. The tabloids made a meal of this ‘gay plague’. Little was done about it, whilst it was thought the illness only attacked homosexual men.

She didn’t want Donald to know that she was scrabbling around for help until she had some good news to report, so she only talked confidentially to his best friend in the company who recommended she talk to a ballerina, now retired, whom Donald had partnered in leading roles. Still exquisite, hair swept back in a bun, erect and graceful with her tortured, turned-out feet now in comfortable furry slippers, Isabella told Marguerite all she had found out in an effort to help her former colleagues.

‘It’s no longer called GRID because they realised it’s not just gays who get it. It’s now Human Immunodeficiency Virus. That’s the first stage, which can last for years. That develops into Acquired Immunodeficiency Syndrome. If you get that, you’ve had it.’

‘Surely not. There must be some cure?’

‘Nope. And what’s more, nobody’s really trying to find one. Did you hear what that charmer in Manchester said?’

‘Who?’

‘Oh the Chief Constable of Police, no less, James Anderton by name. He waxed poetic, saying homosexuals were swirling around in a cesspool of their own making. Nice, eh?’

Although Isabella gave Marguerite little hope for a good outcome, she recommended a visit to a doctor they all knew.

Dr Patrick Woodcock lived in Pimlico, where various actors, dancers and singers picked their way through the street market to his elegant house for supplies of purple hearts, pep-up Vitamin B12 injections, beta-blockers for stage fright and advice on plastic surgery. He understood and was deeply fond of his colourful talented patients and was distraught at this catastrophe that was engulfing them. He had known Donald since he was a pupil at the Royal Ballet School and had kept him dancing through injuries and the wear and tear on his body of the brutal regime of a dancer. When Marguerite took Donald to see him he gave Donald a physical examination, checking his glands and lingering over a raised black patch that had recently appeared on his back. His hand was trembling as he took a sample of blood. When Donald went behind the screen to put on his clothes Dr Woodcock looked at Marguerite and slowly shook his head. Then Donald reappeared and he assumed his usual jolly demeanour.

‘Well, lovey, I’ll let you have the results in a few days. In the meantime take it easy. No lifting those girlies. Take some time off. Let Tony and Marguerite here make a fuss of you.’

The results of the test confirmed their worst fears. Donald was HIV-positive and had already started the terrifying descent into full-blown AIDS.

Tony seemed unable to comprehend what was happening. He wandered around the flat in a state of shock, sometimes sitting by Donald’s bed or chair, holding his hand and muttering, ‘I love you. Please, please, get better.’

It was left to Marguerite to do what she could to nurse Donald through the horror of the illness. She was pleased to do it as it gave her no time to think.

Donald’s suffering was appalling. Over a few months his perfect body wasted away to a skeleton, and was further desecrated by the purplish black pustules. He could not swallow or talk properly, because a vile fungal infection blackened his mouth. His sight began to fail. He was dying before their eyes, and they were helpless.

She wants to go back. She doesn’t want him to die convulsing, bleeding on his own. He writhes in agony but she runs on. Jacob wants her to escape. That’s why he is dying. She has no choice but to run on.

As she sat with Tony by Donald’s bedside watching the sweet man they both loved trapped inside his rotting body, yet still struggling to comfort them with word or gesture, she could hardly bear her pain, but for Tony’s sake she had to simulate calm. The outside world was seething with hatred towards these grotesquely suffering men. More and more of their friends were dying and nothing was being done to help them. It was confirmed that drug addicts too were falling victim to the scourge and nobody cared about them either. Marguerite was terrified that wherever she was Elsie too might succumb.

Despite some drugs from Dr Woodcock it was obvious to Marguerite she lacked the expertise to ease what was clearly becoming the final stage of Donald’s life, so that he could die with the same grace with which he had lived. She tried desperately to get him into a hospice, but none would take patients with AIDS. He eventually died an appalling death on a trolley pushed into a corner of a hospital emergency ward, with one doctor, masked, gloved and gowned, looking nervously on. Marguerite and Tony each held one of his hands, as his cracked, bleeding lips tried to smile, before his lids at last, mercifully, closed over his gentle brown sightless eyes.