Читать книгу It Had to Be You - David Nobbs - Страница 8
ОглавлениеThe alarm woke James at half past seven, as usual. He woke slowly, and from a long way off. His head was heavy. His sleep had been deep but troubled.
He turned to face Deborah, reached out with his right hand to stroke the ample curve of her admired and envied buttocks, very very gently, so gently that he wouldn’t wake her if she was fast asleep, but would stimulate her to a faint moan of yawned pleasure if she was sleeping lightly, and, if she was already awake, would reassure her that he was still fond of her, even though he was no longer interested in the glories that had once banished all thoughts of early-morning tea from the first minutes of the day.
There were no curves. There were no buttocks. His arm felt only space, and suddenly all the events of the day before came flooding back. His head was heavy because he had drunk too much, and because he had taken a temazepam tablet when sleep wouldn’t come, when the empty bed that he had dreamt about had been more than he could bear.
Philip had said that he would ring at eight. He hoped he would. He would ask him to come and help. He couldn’t face everything that had to be done without some form of support. And Philip was easy, reliable, calm, methodical. In his adoration and admiration of Charles he sometimes forgot how much he liked Philip.
He took a shower, and washed his hair, removing any traces of tomato soup and sardine oil that he might have picked up when he’d fallen asleep on his list.
If only he could just leave, just pack a suitcase and go to Helen’s.
He looked out of the window. It was another stunning Wimbledon and barbecue day, so beautiful even in Islington, so inappropriate. A faint residue of mist softened the sunlight.
He shaved, cleaned his teeth; his gums were bleeding, it was the tension, but he must check to see if he’d remembered to make another appointment at the hygienist’s.
He dressed for work, remembered that he wasn’t going to work, took off his suit and put on jeans and a denim shirt, decided they weren’t respectable enough or sad enough, took them off and was naked except for his purple pants when Philip rang.
‘How are you?’
‘Fine. Well, you know.’
‘I can imagine. James, would you like me to come over?’
‘Do you know, Philip, I really would. Can you? Is it all right?’
‘No problem. My statistics will all still be there tomorrow, and I’m pretty much my own boss, you know.’
‘There’s such a lot to do and I think I’m still in shock.’
‘You will be. You must be.’
Yes, I must, thought James. Even if I’m not, and I’m not sure if I am, I must seem to be. God, this is going to be hard.
He selected a pair of black trousers and a dark blue shirt. With a black belt and black shoes he would look sad and dignified without actually looking as though he was in mourning.
It dawned on him that Helen might ring while Philip was there. For years she had been unable to ring him at his home. It had upset her occasionally, although most of the time she had accepted it as sensible and inevitable. Today she would feel that she could ring, and so she would. It would be a defining moment for her. How awful it would be if she did.
He started to put on his shirt and then stopped. He was almost naked, it was early morning, it wouldn’t be so terrible, this morning, to phone her in the altogether.
He took off his shirt and his purple pants, picked up the cordless phone, and went into the spare bedroom, far from prying photographs. He sat on the bed and dialled.
Her voice was sleepy.
‘You’ve woken me up.’
It was a rebuke.
‘You know I don’t work Thursday mornings.’
Helen and her friend Fiona ran a smart little dress shop in Chelsea. It was quiet enough for them to take it in turns to attend, except on Saturdays. James thought they were playing at it, and had been unwise enough to say so once. It was not a thing you would say twice.
‘Sorry, darling, but I needed to speak to you.’ He amended the sentence hurriedly. ‘I wanted to speak to you.’
‘That’s nice.’
She was mollified. He breathed a sigh of relief. He began to be glad that he had taken his pants off. Things would have been tight.
‘Are you naked?’ he asked.
‘Of course. Are you?’
‘Yes.’
‘Oh, James. Oh, James, my darling. Are you…?’
‘Very. Oh, Helen.’
Her pouty mouth. Her pert breasts. Her slim arms. Her disturbingly neat bottom. Her pale soft skin. Her wide green eyes.
‘Oh, Helen. Oh, my God.’
It was so quick. Absurdly quick. Fierce, painful, glorious, uncontrollable yet perfectly synchronised.
‘God, that was good. Oh, Helen darling, you are so unbelievably lovely, my darling. Um …’ The gear change was going to be difficult, very difficult. ‘Um … well, I’d better get dressed, I suppose. My brother Philip’s coming round to help. There’s such a lot to do.’
‘Poor you. I wish I could be with you.’
‘I know. So do I. Um … the … um … the thing is, Helen … oh, God, I wish you could be with me, but the thing is …’ Oh, Lord, this was difficult. ‘The thing is … I thought maybe you might phone me today, but Philip’s going to be here and … um … it could be awkward … a bit.’
There was a moment’s silence.
‘Is that why you rang?’
‘No. Well, I mean … no, I really wanted to … you know … what we did … but yes, I knew I had to talk to you about this. Obviously Philip doesn’t know anything about us, and it would be very hard to explain.’
‘I understand.’
‘But you’re not happy. I can tell you’re not happy.’
‘Well … I do understand, James. I can see the difficulties. It’s just … nothing’s changed.’
‘It’s early days. I want these next days to be dignified in memory of Deborah. She deserves that.’
‘I know. I agree. I never wanted to hurt her, James. You know that. That’s why I accepted … everything. But now … well, it’s a bit galling to find that nothing has changed.’
‘Everything’s changed. I want to marry you and live the rest of my life with you and soon I’ll be able to. We just have to be patient.’
‘I know. I know you’re right. I know how dreadfully difficult this is for you. I really do, darling. It’s just that I’ve been patient for so long. And now …’
‘We’ll talk about it tomorrow, over tea.’
‘Yes. We’ll talk about it tomorrow.’
From her repetition of his words he sensed how vulnerable she felt.
‘Bye, James.’
From the abrupt way she rang off he knew that she had been about to cry.
He couldn’t cry. He just felt … flat. Flat, in his situation? He shook his head in disbelief at himself.
His first phone call, and already he was exhausted.
He opened the window of the spare bedroom, for fear that Philip would detect a faint odour of semen. In came the smell of heat, grass and petrol.
He took another shower, then went back into the master bedroom, tried not to look at the smiling photo of Deborah on the dressing table, kissed the photo of a fourteen-year-old Charlotte, and dressed.
He made himself his usual breakfast: two slices of toast which he cut into halves and covered with spreadable butter on its own, or marmalade, or honey, in a different order every day, lest he should feel that he was becoming a creature of habit. The order this morning was marmalade (Seville orange), butter, honey, and marmalade again (three-fruit).
At ten past nine – give her time in case she was a few minutes late and punctuality wasn’t one of her virtues, but come to think of it, what were her virtues? – he phoned Marcia.
‘It’s me. Marcia, I’m not coming in today.’
‘Crikey. Are you ill?’
‘No. Marcia, you remember that police message.’
‘I remember. The one I almost forgot and then remembered.’
A feeling of dread shuddered through his body, dread of all the sympathy he was going to get, from Marcia, from everyone at Globpack UK, from his friends, from his fitness trainer, from his acupuncturist. Sympathy and pity.
‘It was to tell me … Deborah’s been killed.’
‘What??? Oh no!! James! Oh, James!! Oh, that’s … awful!! That’s … terrible!!!’
There were a lot of exclamation marks in Marcia’s young life.
‘How?’
‘Car crash. Head on.’
‘Oh, well, I suppose … Oh, God, though.’
‘Yes.’
Through it all he went. How many times was he going to have to go through all this today?
‘Oh, James, I am so very, very sorry. Is there anything I can do?’
‘Well, tell everybody who needs to know.’
‘I sort of meant … is there anything personal? I mean … this evening, for instance. I don’t like to think of you all alone.’
‘That’s very sweet of you, Marcia.’ Oh, give me strength. ‘But my brother’s going to be here.’ Philip would have long gone, no doubt, but there was no need to add that.
‘The concert pianist?’
‘The other one.’
‘Well, that’s all right, then. I … p’r’aps I shouldn’t say this but I … you’re more than a boss to me, Mr Hollinghurst, and I …’
Oh, no. Oh, suffering serpents and suppurating sores, this was terrible. Interrupt, quickly. No time to lose.
‘Thank you, Marcia. That’s very sweet of you.’
Thank God, the doorbell. His sweet sweet friend the doorbell.
‘Philip’s here. I’ve got to go.’
A gust of brotherly love disturbed the still, windless morning. ‘The other one.’ Poor Philip, clever scientist, esteemed statistician, conducting vital research into climate change, a nobody in celebrity Britain.
They hugged. James always hugged Charles, you had to, Charles was a hugger, but he didn’t remember Philip ever hugging him before.
James and Charles had broad, almost round faces from their mother. Philip had his father’s long, narrow, slightly beaky face. It was a face that suggested that he might also have his father’s caustic tongue. It was not a relaxing face. But Philip was kind and much more easy-going than he looked. James felt so very pleased that he was there. Philip met his eyes, shook his head as if to rid himself of the bad news, and looked away.
‘The accident’s made the nationals,’ he said, and he handed James a paper. ‘Page seven.’
‘Tragic death of joy-ride war hero,’ read James. What?
‘Craig Wilson came back to England from Afghanistan just three days ago, delighted to be alive after seeing two of his friends killed in Helmand Province.’ Oh, no. ‘Now he too is dead, killed in a head-on car crash in a borrowed Porsche on the A143 near Diss.
‘The driver of the other car, a 46-year-old woman, also died.
‘“I feel so guilty,” said Craig’s best friend, local skip magnate Ben Postgate (30) yesterday. “There hasn’t been much joy in his life recently, and I lent him my Porsche for a joy ride. He was all properly insured and stuff, and he was a very good driver, but I think the fun of it, after what he’d been through, must have gone to his head. I keep saying to myself, “Oh, if only I hadn’t.”
‘“Craig was a brave committed soldier and a thoroughly nice lad who had a great life in front of him,” commented his commanding officer, Colonel Brian McIntyre. “We’re all devastated.”’
James shared a grimace with Philip.
‘I know,’ said Philip. ‘All Deborah’s vitality, her beauty, her kindness, her energy, all described as “the driver of the other car”.’ He wasn’t aware that he was sometimes called ‘the other brother’. ‘Upstaged in death. Mind you, she had no shred of pomposity or self-importance. She wouldn’t have minded.’
‘No. A fitting obituary, then, perhaps.’
James didn’t tell Philip why he had been grimacing. He had lost his villain. He no longer had anybody to blame.
He gave Philip a list of tasks. Look on the web for information about funeral directors in Islington and how much they cost. Look for any comment pages, if there were such things. First-rate service. Will definitely use them next time. Snotty-nosed, supercilious and extortionate. Wouldn’t touch them with a barge pole. Find a vicar. How did you do that? Look up ‘Vicars’ in Yellow Pages? Use the web again. Vicars, Islington, search. Try to begin to fix the date of the funeral. Try to avoid Tuesday and Wednesday, Charles wouldn’t be able to make it. Make morning coffee. Make lunch. Answer phone and door as required.
‘I so appreciate this, Philip.’
‘No probs.’
He left Philip indoors with the land line, got his mobile, went out into the garden, sat on the white William Morris chair Deborah had picked up in a little shop in Winchcombe, placed his address book and a glass of chilled water on the cast-iron table she had spotted in Much Wenlock, wondered briefly if there was one single thing in the whole house and garden, except stains, for which he was responsible.
He looked round the garden, delaying the moment when he would have to begin. It was broken up into little gravelled areas and small, irregular flower beds, which cleverly hid its narrowness and its uninspiring rectangular shape. There were cyclamens and lilies and attractive green ferns whose names he couldn’t remember. The smell from the pots of lavender brought back memories of lunches taken outdoors in weather such as this. The passiflora growing up the back wall was in full flower. Giant grasses were used as windbreaks. And all this, the ingenuity, the elegance, the restraint, had all been created by Deborah.
He sat in the middle of this living memorial to her artistry, and he felt awkward and ashamed. He sensed that he was about to miss her deeply, and so, in the end, he picked up the telephone almost eagerly.
And began.
‘All right, all right, I’m coming as fast as I can.’
Stanley Hollinghurst, James’s uncle, his father’s brother, talked to himself quite a lot now. He didn’t care. Charles had once pointed it out, and that evening he had caught himself saying, ‘So, you’re talking to yourself, are you? Well, Charles, you’re wrong. It isn’t the first sign of madness. It’s the first sign that there are sod all other people to talk to. It’s all right for you, you’re surrounded by people, you complacent young fool, but I talk to myself because it’s someone to listen to, all right?’ And then the humour of his talking to himself about his habit of talking to himself had struck him, and he’d laughed till his teeth came out.
‘Don’t ring off. I’m on my way.’
He didn’t have an answer machine. He was a Luddite. Well, he was an anthropologist. The past was his business. Or had been. All that was in the past now. Ha ha! Ironic!
He got to the phone while it was still ringing. Must be somebody he knew, making allowances.
‘Stanley Hollinghurst, OBE.’
‘Stanley! You haven’t got an OBE.’
‘No, but very few people round here know that. How are you, James?’
‘Fine. Stanley, I—’
‘How are Charles and Philip?’
‘Fine. Charles is on a concert tour and Philip’s here.’
‘Is he? Well, tell him not to worry about all that global warming stuff. I think it’s great.’
‘Stanley, I’ve got—’
‘Human race deserves it. Can’t hurt me. I’ll be gone.’
‘Stanley, I’ve got some—’
‘Spaniards sizzling. French frying. What’s the problem?’
‘Stanley, I’ve got some bad—’
‘Brighton under six feet of water. All those homos and lesbians shitting themselves.’
‘Stanley! That’s terrible.’
‘I know. I do so enjoy saying things like that, though. People are so bloody self-righteous, James.’
‘Stanley, has it occurred to you that I might have rung you because I have something to tell you?’
‘Ah. Yes. Sorry. Like the sound of my voice. You will when you live alone.’
‘Stanley, I do live alone.’
‘What? What are you on about?’
‘Stanley, Deborah’s dead.’
Stanley remained silent throughout the whole sad story, and when James had finished, he said, in the soft, sincere, real voice he hadn’t used since Mollie died thirty-three years ago, ‘James, I’m so sorry. I really am. Deborah, of all people. She was the best of the whole bunch, James.’
Mike next. No, difficult. Gordon Tollington first. Easier. Gordon and he went right back to the Dorking days. He was the only man who liked food even more than James did. Fifty-three years old, sold out for millions. Rich, idle and fat. Good company, though. Haven’t seen them for far too long.
Gordon Tollington listened in almost total silence, only interrupting, as it seemed most people did, to say, ‘Diss?’, as if Diss was just outside Timbuktu. When he rang off, Gordon’s face was grim.
He went out into the spacious garden, with its long sloping lawns.
Stephanie was sliding broad beans out of their pods in the shade.
He slumped down beside her and told her the bad news. They sat in silent shock.
‘Oh, my God,’ he said suddenly.
‘I know. It’s just sunk in, hasn’t it? It’s so awful.’
‘Not that. Well, that too, of course. But … I bet the funeral will be next Wednesday. It’ll take that long to organise.’
‘So?’
‘That’s the day we’re going to the Fat Duck.’
‘For shame, Gordon. Is a meal more important than Deborah’s death?’
‘It isn’t a meal. It’s the meal. We booked months ago.’
‘Gordon, I don’t believe what I’m hearing.’
‘I know, but … I loved Deborah, Steph … loved her, wonderful woman, I’m very sad. But we can’t bring her back, and you have to book months in advance.’
‘I think we have to go.’
‘Well, I don’t know that it’s that cut and dried. I think they’ll be used to people cancelling. They’ll have a cancellation list.’
‘I meant, “We have to go to the funeral…”’
‘Yes. Yes, of course we do. No, I really want to. Of course I do. What do you think I am?’
‘It may not be next Wednesday.’
‘It will be. Death is never convenient. Do you know, I think I’m fated to die without ever having tasted snail porridge.’
Edward and Jane Winterburn. He’d been quite close to them once. Well, very close to Jane, for a while. Well, she’d been his very first proper girlfriend. She had legs that went on for ever. He’d thought he loved her. He’d thought she loved him. Definitely wrong on the second count, she went off with Ed the day after James had taken her to his college’s May Ball. Probably wrong on the first count too, because he got over it pretty quickly. They had stayed friends at first. Then Ed did something he really didn’t approve of. Twice, to his knowledge. Went bankrupt, opened up under a new name, owing vast sums that nobody would ever receive. Mocked James for his disapproval, called him naive and stuffy and unrealistically idealistic. After that it had been Christmas cards only. But they had both liked Deborah. Yes, he decided that he’d let them know.
Jane answered. He was pleased about that.
‘Bad news, I’m afraid, Jane.’
‘Yes. How did you know?’
‘What?’
‘Has it been on the news?’
‘What are you talking about?’
‘Ed.’
‘Ed?’
‘His disappearance. Isn’t that what you’re ringing about?’
‘Ed’s disappeared?’
‘Yes. Into thin air. I haven’t seen him since Tuesday.’
‘I don’t believe this.’
‘He went off to a party in some pub somewhere, round Chelsea, well, it was Roger Dodds’s actually, you remember him? I didn’t go. He never came back, hasn’t been seen since.’
‘Good God.’
‘I thought that’s what you were ringing about.’
‘No. I had no idea. I’m so sorry.’
‘Thanks. So what are you ringing up about, James?’
‘Um … I’ve got some news too.’
‘Well, I hope yours is a bit more cheerful. I need cheering up.’
‘A light went out of the world yesterday morning, James.’
Yes, yes, Tom, but don’t overdo it.
He had been surprised to find Tom at home, but Tom had explained that he worked from home two days a week now. All right for some.
‘James, I think I’m probably your oldest friend.’
‘Undoubtedly. I don’t have any other friends from that dreadful prep school.’
‘So please, please, feel you can rely on Jen and me for support twenty-four seven.’
‘Thank you.’
‘Um … about the funeral. About the date. Is it decided?’
‘Not yet. These things are complicated.’
‘The fact is …’
‘I can only just hear you, Tom.’
‘I don’t want Jen to hear. She’d be livid if she knew I was asking this. Livid.’
‘What are you asking, Tom?’
‘The fact is … I have two tickets for the Centre Court at Wimbledon for next Thursday. I mean, don’t get me wrong, James, that isn’t important, isn’t remotely important, compared to … your tragedy. However … James, I’ve never told another human being this, except the doctors, but I have … um … a bit of a problem. I … not to put too fine a point on it … I suffer from premature … um …’
James knew he shouldn’t interrupt but really there had been no scope for fun all morning.
‘Ejaculation?’
‘No!’
‘Baldness?’
‘No. Well, yes, but … um … that’s not the … and that annoys Jen, actually. The way baldness is said to be a sign of … um … virility in male mythology. Nonsense, of course.’
James ran his fingers through his thick, riotous hair.
‘Absolute nonsense, Tom.’
‘Everybody comments on my baldness. “Jen’s a lucky woman.” “Jen’s obviously getting plenty.” People can be surprisingly coarse in Godalming.’
‘So what you suffer from is …’
‘Yes. Impotence at an unusually young age. I mean, I was never a several-times-a-night man, if you know what I mean.’
Too much information, Tom.
‘Not by a long chalk. I mean, Jen’s very sympathetic. She’s behind me all the way. As it were. Anyway, the point is …’
Ah! At last.
‘… The point is, I’ve tried for Centre Court tickets for eighteen years at the tennis club draw. Never got them. Every year Margaret Insole gets two, and she prefers golf. Goes, though, and don’t we hear about it? Every sodding serve. Over these last few years as my … my problem … has got worse, the tickets have become a kind of symbol of my impotence, my general uselessness, James. And this year, bingo, two tickets, ladies’ semi-final day. I’d rather a men’s day, I find women’s tennis boring, but Jen doesn’t, of course, and that’s what it’s all about. So, all I’m saying is, if there is any scope for choice, I’d be enormously grateful if you could avoid today week.’
‘I’ll do my best, Tom.’
Oh, give me strength, he thought. And he couldn’t continue delaying the call to Mike.
Mike was feeling quite depressed and wondered whether to answer the phone. Just before it went onto the answer machine, he found himself picking it up.
‘Mike, it’s James.’
The contradictory feelings surged. Well, they would have done if he’d had enough energy for surging.
Affection. Only James of the old mob kept in touch. Only James ever took him out and bought him food and drink. The others had smelt his failure, called him less and less often, eventually dropped out of his orbit altogether. His orbit! He didn’t have a house any more. He didn’t have a wife any more. He didn’t have an orbit any more.
Irritation. James never invited him to his home any more, never invited him to meet any of his friends, never wanted to spend more than two minutes in his horrid little pad, always took him to a pub or restaurant. So kind. So demeaning.
Anger. It was never far from the surface. It wasn’t so much anger at James himself as at his situation and the way James reminded him of his situation. By phoning him James reminded him of all those people who never phoned. By being kind to him, even in the limited manner of his kindness, James brought home to him that the rest of the world was not kind.
‘Well, hello, James. Long time no hear.’
‘I know. I’m sorry. You know how things are.’
Only too well.
Mike was shocked at James’s news.
‘I’m really sorry, James.’
‘Thanks. Maybe we could have a drink this weekend.’
‘I’m not going anywhere.’
‘I’ll be glad to get out of the house, to be honest. Mike, I’ve rung you first of all my friends because I know I’ve rather let you down. Anyway, mate, how about Saturday evening? Hang a few on. Sup some lotion, as your dad used to say.’
That’s right. Remind me I’m working class.
‘Fine. Great.’
‘I’ll need it by then. And by then I’ll know the funeral date. Mike, I hope you can come. And for drinks afterwards. At the house.’
When James had rung off, Mike looked at himself in the mirror. His stained T-shirt was a map of his recent pauper’s meals. He was unwashed and unshaven. His hair was a tangled jungle. He shuddered.
At the house! It was years since he’d been invited to the house. Maybe it was Deborah who hadn’t wanted him anywhere near her. He looked at himself again. Nothing a haircut and a good shave and a clean shirt wouldn’t cure. But perhaps he wouldn’t bother. Perhaps he’d go like this and embarrass the bastard.
Not a bad bastard, though. He wondered whether to ring his ex-wife and suggest that she came too. Melanie had always liked Deborah. If he could see her again, just once, who knew? He looked in the mirror again. No. No chance. Be good to see her, though. Perhaps. Or awful. Oh, hell.
Fuck them all.
He felt a rivulet of sweat running down his back. There were spreading dark stains under his arms. The sun had moved round, and he’d no longer been sitting in the shade, and he hadn’t even noticed. His face was burning, and he had no protection on it. How angry Deborah would have been. ‘Do you want skin cancer?’
He tried to stand up. The chair came with him. He was stuck to the chair. He had to prise it off.
And even then it was agonising to stand up straight. His back was so stiff.
He went, very cautiously, through one or two of the stretching exercises that Gareth had prescribed. Gareth. Should he cancel him on Saturday? And the acupuncturist? No. If they were any use, if they weren’t a waste of money, it was at times like this that they’d be needed. He’d stick to his routine.
He walked slowly into the blessed darkness of the house, the wonderful coolness of the kitchen, then went into the utility room and drank two glasses of chilled water from the fridge-freezer.
He entered the sitting room just as Philip was saying, ‘Thank you. Thank you very much for your help,’ and putting the phone down.
‘I’ve had enough for one morning,’ said James. He couldn’t believe that it was only two minutes to twelve. He seemed to have been talking for hours. ‘Still a few people to ring, but I can’t take any more. Um … I never drink before twelve, it’s one of my rules, but it’ll take two minutes to pour. Would you like something, Philip?’
‘Actually a G and T would go down quite well.’
‘Fine. I won’t drink. I’ll only start falling asleep this afternoon if I do.’
‘Well, no, if you’re not having one …’
‘No, no. You want one. You must. I’m very grateful.’
He poured Philip’s G and T and opened a bottle of German beer for himself.
‘I thought you weren’t drinking.’
‘I don’t count beer.’
Philip raised his eyebrows, which were scanty affairs compared to James’s.
‘No need to give me a look. I usually drink too much and in the days to come I’m probably going to drink much too much. Cheers. Thanks for coming.’
‘Cheers. Really glad to help.’
‘How’s it gone?’
‘Not bad. I don’t think there’ll be any real problems. The Hutchinsons were perfectly satisfied with Ferris’s. Well, “efficient and only slightly greasily subservient” were the actual words. It looks as if it’ll have to be Thursday. The vicar can’t do Friday. We could have twelve-thirty or three-thirty. Ferris’s recommend that we get back to them pretty quickly. “Experience shows, Mr Hollinghurst, that we do tend to have a bit of a rush in heatwaves.”’
‘Oh, grab twelve-thirty. The sooner the better, on the day. You said “the vicar”. You’ve found one, then.’
‘Your local man is the Reverend Martin Vigar. I told him you weren’t religious and he said, “I’m a pretty flexible sort of chap. I was actually thirty-two years with Allied Dunbar before I took up this lark.” I didn’t quite see that that followed, but I didn’t press the point.’
‘This “lark”!’
‘I know. Not sure I’d want him if I was a fervent believer but he sounds pretty convenient for our job. He asked if you wanted burial or cremation and I had to say I didn’t know. He pushed me very strongly towards cremation – apparently graveyards are bursting at the seams in London. I mean, what do you feel?’
‘Oh, Lord. Let me think. I need to think about that. Could you … um … start getting a bit of lunch, anything, just ferret around and see what you can find, and I’ll take my beer and … think. I’m also going to have a shower. I’ve sweated rather.’
Upstairs, the house was like a furnace. James had his third shower of the day, the nearest thing to a cold shower that was possible without feeling shock, then sat in the shade in the marital bedroom looking at the photo of Deborah on the dressing table. What would she want? Cremation, surely, her ashes strewn over a field on the family farm, an end to it all. To be somewhere for ever, as bones, that wouldn’t be her style at all.
He put on a pair of mauve pants and matching socks. It was so hot in the bedroom. If he wasn’t careful he’d need a fourth shower, so he carried his shoes, a pair of grey flannel trousers and a dark green shirt downstairs, where he dressed in the dark cool of the kitchen. Philip gave him quite a long look, and he realised that there was admiration in it. With his hairy chest, his flat (ish) stomach and his muscular legs, he achieved something quite rare in an Englishman in his forties. He didn’t look obscene with no clothes on.
‘I’m making a Spanish omelette,’ said Philip.
‘Perfect. I’ve decided on cremation.’
‘Good. That makes it easier. Now, the thing is, it’s normal when there isn’t what the vicar called “a specific congregational element” – in other words, in English, you didn’t attend a particular church – to use the nearest crematorium chapel.’
‘Oh, I hate those. The mechanism starting up, the coffin sliding away. If you’ve watched too much television you expect three pathologists to rush in and shout, “Stop!”’
‘I know, but you’ve never been to any church in Islington, you’re not in a strong position.’
‘No, you’re right. Oh, Lord. Oh, Philip, I dread the day.’
‘As of now the vicar can do both of Ferris’s times, but he also would like a swift decision. “It’s strange,” he said, “but deaths tend to come in batches, rather like London buses.”’
‘Do we really want this man?’
‘He’ll be perfect for our purposes. I’ll book him for the twelve-thirty slot. Oh, and he’s booked himself in provisionally to come round at four-thirty on Tuesday for a chat with you about Deborah. “So that I can introduce that personal element that I think is so all-important.”’
‘I dread it more and more, Philip.’
He whipped the top off another bottle of beer.
Max rang at ten past one, just as James was eating the very last mouthful of the Spanish omelette that Philip had cooked, delicious, the egg with just a faint moistness still, the onions as sweet as blossom, the tiny pieces of potato soft but with just a touch of crispness.
‘Hello, Dad. It’s ten past seven here but I thought I’d better catch you.’
‘Thanks. How are you, Max?’
‘I cried myself to sleep.’
James wanted to say, ‘So did I,’ but he found it hard to lie to Max.
‘How are you, Dad?’
‘I’m all right. Keeping busy. Philip’s here helping. He’s just made the most marvellous Spanish omelette. I felt guilty about enjoying it, but the body’s a funny thing. My heart’s aching, but my taste buds are unmoved. So, what’s happening? When are you coming?’
‘Well, I’ve booked my flight provisionally for Tuesday. I’d have liked to have come sooner, but the thing is, Dad …’ Max hesitated. He sounded embarrassed. ‘Dad, something very important is happening here on Monday. Well, it may not seem important to you, but it is to my work and I’d just like to be here. I hope you don’t think that sounds awful. Obviously if you really need me before Tuesday I can cancel.’
‘No, no, it looks as though the funeral’s going to be on Thursday. Tuesday’s fine.’
‘Are you sure, Dad?’
‘Absolutely sure. So … what’s happening on Monday?’
‘It may not seem much to you, Dad, and I mean, Mum’s death, I’ve hardly slept a wink, I’m devastated, but I can’t bring her back, and this is … well … to me it’s important, but I don’t want not to be with you if you need me …’
‘I’m all right, Max. Don’t tear yourself apart. Come on. Tell me. What’s happening on Monday?’
‘It probably won’t seem important.’
‘Tell me.’
James wished he hadn’t sounded so abrupt. Max was clearly finding this very difficult.
‘It’s a big planning meeting about some very important woodland that I care about very much. I’ve grown to love the Canadian woodlands and I want to be there to support our case.’
It’s a relief when your children care about anything, but to care that much about woodlands. And a planning meeting. At twenty-two. Emotion flooded through James.
‘I think that’s wonderful,’ he said, and his voice cracked and at last he felt that he might be able to cry. Philip slipped out of the kitchen so tactfully that it almost seemed tactless. ‘Your mum would too.’
‘Well, that’s what I hope. Anyway, I can stay on afterwards, as I said. I think actually I can stay till Tuesday fortnight.’
A whole fortnight when he’d still have to be secretive about seeing Helen. Stop it.
‘Great. That’s terrific. I’m delighted you can stay so long.’
And he was. He really was.
‘Dad, you mentioned about Charlotte. Be fantastic to see her.’
‘Yes, well. Let’s hope.’
‘Got to rush, Dad. Work.’
‘Course. Can’t …’ James’s voice began to crack again, ‘… wait to see you.’
At last the tears came. He could cry with pride for his son, but not for the death of his wife.
Philip went off to work after lunch, but offered to come back at half past seven to take James out for a meal. James accepted, and Philip looked pleased.
He was surprised to find how much he wanted Philip to stay all afternoon. He went upstairs and watched him walk down the street to his car. Philip must have sensed that he had done this, because he turned, looked up and gave a short but affectionate, almost emotional wave. This surprised James. Philip was the scientist, the reserved one, the cool one, intelligent rather than intuitive. He found himself waving back as if Philip was emigrating to New Zealand, not popping up to Cambridge for a few hours.
He went out into the airless garden, careful to be well in the shade this time, just in front of the jacuzzi, which had been cleverly squeezed into a corner right at the back of the garden. Those lovely moments in the jacuzzi, over the years, each with a G and T if it was before supper, a brandy if it was after, and, just occasionally, without any alcohol at all, it was known.
He carried the chair and table over, settled himself, opened the address book, stiffened his resolve, reached for the telephone, and dialled.
‘Yep?’
‘It’s me, Chuck. The despised dad.’
‘Oh, hi there.’
‘Is Charlotte there?’
‘Yep, she’s here.’
James’s desire to hear her voice was almost irresistible. She was probably only a few feet from the phone. It was awful not to know how she looked now, how she would sound now. But he didn’t ask to speak to her. She had to be the one to make the move.
‘I won’t ask to speak to her, but I have a message. The funeral’s at twelve-thirty next Thursday.’
James shuddered as he said those words for the first of many times. It brought home to him how final death was.
‘A week today.’
‘Yep.’
‘Got it.’
‘Listen to me, Chuck. I love my daughter very very much.’
‘I believe that, Mr Hollinghurst.’
‘Thank you. And please call me James. I feel I know you.’
‘OK. Cool.’
‘Chuck, her brother Max is coming back from Canada. They used to get on so well. The thing is, Max would just love to see Charlotte again. And so would I. And so would everyone in the family. She was a lovely girl.’
‘She still is, James.’
‘Yes, sorry.’
A pigeon, plumped up with pride and passion, was stalking a female very warily.
‘I’m so glad that she … that you think that she’s … anyway, all of us would love her to come to the funeral … We won’t be upset if she doesn’t, but we’d be so pleased if she did. She loved her mother once.’
‘She still does, Mr … James.’
‘Oh, Lord, that past tense again. Sorry.’
The pigeon made his move. The object of his desire flew away at top speed. He looked comically deflated.
‘Oh, and Chuck, you’ll be very welcome too.’
‘Thank you, James. That’s real neat of you.’
‘And at the house afterwards, for the wake.’
‘OK. Thanks. Cool.’
‘Oh, and Chuck?’
‘Yep?’
‘There’ll be no recriminations. What I mean is, she will be accepted for what she is and the past will not be dragged in.’
‘I know what recriminations mean, James.’
‘I’m so sorry, Chuck. Of course you do. And if she can’t face the house, just the crematorium would be fine.’
‘Cool.’
‘And vice versa. If she can’t face—’
‘I know what vice versa means, James.’
‘Sorry. Oh, dear, I seem to be having to say sorry a lot, don’t I?’
‘You sure do, yep.’
‘Sorry.’
‘I think that could be one of the problems, James.’
‘Sorry?’
‘All that bourgeois politeness thing. I think that’s one of the things Charlie could have been running away from.’
Gordon Tollington walked slowly across the lawn. The air was shimmering with heat. The afternoon was still, but not silent. A woodpecker was drumming nearby, there was the calm, soft drone of a light aircraft, and the reassuring sound of a lawnmower manicuring this safe suburb. The hot weather had brought out the butterflies. Gordon Tollington was a relieved man. And a shamed one.
Steph was half asleep over a John Grisham. She looked up as he approached. His was not a light tread. Unbeknown to them, well beneath the surface of the lawn, moles were panicking.
‘Good book?’
‘Riveting.’
‘That was James.’
‘Oh.’
‘Funeral’s a week today.’
He watched her working it out. He hadn’t married her for her brains.
‘Thursday,’ she said.
‘Yes. We don’t need to cancel the Fat Duck.’
‘You look so pleased,’ she said. ‘I’m ashamed of you, Gordon.’
‘I’m ashamed of myself, Steph,’ he said, ‘but I can’t help it.’
He tried Callum, the son of an old school friend who lived in Argentina. He liked Callum, in fact he had sponsored him to help him through art college, and not just so that he could slip a reference to it into a conversation with Charles. He had just graduated, and had been tipped, in one national newspaper, as the one to watch this year. They had been to supper with him and his much tattooed girlfriend Erica. Erica had been so beautiful that he had almost overcome his revulsion to tattoos. The vegetarian moussaka had been a revelation. Callum took his art seriously. Their crazy single-roomed beanbag-bursting sex-smelling apartment had been overflowing with avant-garde pictures and sculptures and posters, but in the surprisingly modern loo there had been just two pictures, exquisite, nicely framed still lifes, each picture consisting of just one fig, so realistic and ripe that you wanted to pluck it out and eat it. Under the pictures were the words Fig 1 and Fig 2. James had loved that.
‘Callum. Hello. It’s James.’
The story again. The shock again. Oh, God.
‘I’m devastated. I cannot believe it,’ said Callum. ‘She was so lovely, James. I shouldn’t say this, but Erica knows it. She was the only woman over thirty I’ve ever fancied. I’ve dreamt about her several times.’
