Dead Ernest

by Frances Garrood

  DEAD ERNEST

  Frances Garrood

  In memory of John Garrood, and for our four wonderful children, Toby, Daisy, Barney and Joe.

  And for John Stott, who rescued us.

  Table of Contents

  PROLOGUE

  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 SEVENTEEN

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

  CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

  CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

  CHAPTER FORTY

  CHAPTER FORTY-ONE

  CHAPTER FORTY-TWO

  CHAPTER FORTY-THREE

  CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER FORTY-SIX

  CHAPTER FORTY-SIX

  EPILOGUE

  A NOTE TO THE READER

  MORE BOOKS BY FRANCES GARROOD

  PROLOGUE

  BENTLEY Ernest. Husband of Annie and father of William (Billy) passed away suddenly on January 2nd 2004 aged 83.

  Funeral January 10th at 12.30 p.m. at Great Mindon Crematorium. Family flowers only.

  “What about beloved? Something like that?” Billy asked, scrutinising Annie’s crabbed handwriting.

  “Beloved? Beloved what?”

  “You know. Beloved husband, much-loved father. That sort of thing.”

  “Did you love your father, Billy?”

  “Of course. Well, I suppose so. Yes, of course I did.”

  “Well then. We can put much-loved father.”

  “And husband? What about husband?”

  “No,” said Annie. “Not beloved husband. Not any sort of husband.”

  “But Mum!” Billy looked hurt, as though even now he were taking his father’s part. “You must. What will people think?”

  “It doesn’t matter what people think,” said Annie firmly. “I know.”

  CHAPTER ONE

  Dead Ernest

  No one had expected Ernest to die, least of all Ernest. He prided himself on coming from tough, Yorkshire stock, and had often told Annie that he would easily outlive her. So, when he had his heart attack, Annie’s feelings were at first of surprise rather than anything else.

  “Are you sure?” she asked the policewoman, who was making tea in the kitchen. (How odd that it was always the police who were sent to break bad news; almost as though dying in the street were an offence against the law). “Are you sure he’s dead?”

  “Quite sure. I’m so sorry, dear.” The policewoman handed her the tea (much too sweet, and not hot enough) and put an arm around her shoulders. “It must be a terrible shock. Is there anyone you’d like us to contact?”

  “Billy. My son Billy. You’ll need to contact him.”

  Because, of course, Billy must be told. Strangely, Annie had rather wanted to keep the news to herself for a while; to taste it and think about it on her own before sharing it with anyone else. But Billy would think it odd if she didn’t tell him at once, and besides, there would be things that would need doing. Annie had only the vaguest idea of what those things were, but she was sure Billy would know how to deal with them. Billy was good at that sort of thing.

  “How do you know it was a heart attack?” Annie asked. “How can they tell?”

  “Well, they can’t tell. Not for certain. But that’s what it looks like. There’ll have to be a post-mortem, of course.”

  “Ernest wouldn’t like that,” Annie said, remembering Ernest’s dislike of being touched and even greater dislike of anyone seeing him in a position of disadvantage. A post-mortem, she could see, was going to place him in a position of considerable disadvantage.

  “It has to be done, dear. It’s the law. Because he didn’t die in hospital.” The policewoman poured herself a cup of tea, although Annie hadn’t invited her to have one. Death, it would seem, muddled up all the rules of normal behaviour.

  Ernest would have hated dying in the street like that, with everyone watching. Dying in hospital would have been acceptable, with dignity and nurses and clean sheets. But then Annie might have had to sit with him while he was doing it, and she wasn’t sure she could have managed that. Perhaps, after all, it was a blessing that he had died in the street.

  “Where was he?” she asked. “Where did Ernest die?”

  “Outside the fish and chip shop.”

  “Outside the fish and chip shop,” Annie repeated, surprised. It seemed such an odd place to die. She wondered what he had been doing there. The fish and chip shop was the wrong end of town for the barber’s, which was where Ernest was supposed to be, and he’d only just had his lunch, so he couldn’t have been hungry. But now she would never know. Nobody would ever know what Ernest was doing before he died outside the fish and chip shop.

  Annie was aware of the policewoman watching her, waiting to see how she would behave. “What do people usually do?” she asked, suddenly interested.

  “Do?” The policewoman looked bemused.

  “Yes. When someone dies. You must see a lot of them. When you tell them, what do they do?”

  “Everyone’s different of course,” said the policewoman carefully. “They cry, of course, and some people even scream. And sometimes they’re just shocked and quiet. Trying to understand what’s happened.”

  “And what am I?”

  “What are you?” The policewoman’s teacup paused, trembling, halfway to her lips.

  “Yes. How would you say I was taking it?”

  “I would say,” the teacup returned firmly to its saucer, “I would say that you were being very brave. Perhaps it hasn’t quite sunk in yet,” she added gently. “It’s a terrible shock for you.”

  Was it? Was it really a terrible shock? A surprise, certainly, but a shock? Annie wished the policewoman would go away and let her think. She needed time to sort herself out; to get to grips with what had happened. Ernest was dead, and she didn’t feel anything much at all. Not sad, not happy, not anything. Was she normal? Was it okay to feel like this?

  “Ernest is dead.” She tried the words to see what they felt like. “Ernest — is — dead. It sounds so strange.” She paused. “He had this little joke he used to tell: ‘Once upon a time there were two worms fighting in dead Ernest.’ I never thought it was funny, and Billy didn’t like it, but it always made Ernest laugh.”

  The policewoman smiled.

  “Did he have a sense of humour then, your Ernest?”

  “Oh, I wouldn’t say that. Ernest only had the two jokes, and I’ve forgotten the other one.”

  “Would you like another cup of tea?” the policewoman asked.

  “No thank you. I think I’d like you to go now,” Annie said.

  “But we can’t leave you here on your own. Not at a time like this. Is there a neighbour who migh
t sit with you? Just until your son gets here.”

  Annie thought of her neighbours. Of odd, secretive Mr Adams, a tiny man of indeterminate age who lived alone and who hoarded things. Annie had only once been inside his house and had been left with an impression of disturbing smells and what appeared to be wall-to-wall jumble and bric-a-brac. The piles were neat and appeared to be in some kind of order, but the impression was not welcoming. On the other side lived a young couple, with a frog-faced toddler who screamed a lot. Annie certainly didn’t want to involve them, and she quite definitely didn’t need the toddler.

  “I don’t really have much to do with the neighbours.” She stood up. “I want to be by myself now. I don’t need anyone else.”

  After the policewoman had gone, Annie locked and bolted the door. Then, because it was getting dark, she drew the curtains and turned on the gas fire. Ernest would be home any time now, and wanting his tea. Ernest was very particular about his tea. He always had it at six o’clock on the dot, the same time as he used to have his meal when he got home from work. Ernest liked routine and order, and because it was easier to do what Ernest wanted, Annie had always gone along with it. Yes. She must get Ernest’s tea ready. A nice piece of fish (it was Friday) and some mashed potatoes and cabbage. Annie thought it was odd to have cabbage with fish, but Ernest had read a book about green vegetables being particularly good for you, and recently he had insisted on having them with everything.

  But Ernest is dead, she realised again. Ernest is dead. He isn’t coming home for his tea. The green-vegetable book came too late to save him. He won’t be coming home at all; not ever. His heavy tread on the gravel (a slight limp because of his bad hip), his key in the door, his voice calling her name as he hung up his coat and cap. None of these things would ever happen again. The coat and the cap were — where? At the hospital, presumably. And Ernest himself; where exactly was he? Lying somewhere, cold, waiting for the post-mortem. Annie shivered. At least she wouldn’t have to go and identify him. Billy would see to that. She couldn’t understand why anyone had to go and identify Ernest, when he’d been carrying his pension book.

  CHAPTER TWO

  Annie

  Travelling in the black limousine, Annie felt an unaccustomed and not unpleasant sensation of importance. For only the third time in her life, she found herself the centre of attention (the first being her wedding day, and the second the day she gave birth to Billy), and it was with some difficulty that she managed not to look as though she were enjoying the ride. The mortal remains of Ernest were in the hearse in front, his coffin accompanied by a wreath from Annie and a bouquet from Billy and his wife.

  “He always did have to be first,” Annie said suddenly, remembering the way Ernest would precede her through doorways, or take the biggest slice of cake.

  “What was that, Mum?” Billy asked.

  “Your father. He was always in front.”

  “But of course he’s in front. It’s his funeral! What did you expect?”

  “Don’t upset her, Billy.” Billy’s wife Sheila leant across and put a hand on Annie’s arm. “This must be very difficult for her.”

  “I’m not upsetting her, am I Mum? You’re okay, aren’t you?”

  “Yes, thank you. I’m — coping.”

  Coping. Well, that was the word, wasn’t it? She’d heard it a lot in the past few days. How are you coping? (to her); how’s your mother coping? (to Billy). And she was coping. She was coping quite well.

  Outside, the familiar street looked much as usual, and Annie stifled an impulse to do a Queen Mother wave as people paused to watch the funeral cortege pass by. Dignified, she said to herself. That’s what this was. Dignified. This car (were the seats real leather? Annie sniffed, but couldn’t tell), the shiny black and chrome of the hearse, everyone looking so smart. Ernest would have approved. The thick red neck of the driver reminded her of Ernest’s, and for a fleeting second, she wondered what she would do if he were to turn round and actually prove to be Ernest. It was with a little shock that she realised that she wouldn’t be pleased. Not pleased at all. For the first time in over sixty years, Annie had nothing to fear from Ernest. She had forgotten what it was to feel safe.

  The service at the crematorium was short and business-like. There were prayers and a hymn (“The Lord’s My Shepherd”, accompanied by a blue-rinsed lady at the electronic organ); a priest Annie had never met said a few words which seemed to have very little to do with Ernest; then there was the bit about the Resurrection and the Life, and Ernest departed on cue in a swish of silk curtain. He would have liked that; the punctuality and the precision would have appealed to his sense of order. But then that was probably why he had chosen to be cremated.

  So that’s it, Annie thought, surprised. It’s all over. Eighty-three years of life swept neatly away, to be collected later in a small container. Ernest’s ashes. Annie contemplated the prospect with distaste.

  Afterwards, at the reception (“Not reception, Mother. This isn’t a wedding,” Billy had chided her), someone asked her what she was going to “do” with Ernest.

  “Do?” Annie was puzzled. “Do with Ernest?”

  “Yes. His ashes.” The woman smiled sympathetically. (Who was she? Annie wondered. There seemed to be so many people she didn’t recognise). “Did he want to be — scattered somewhere special?”

  Annie smiled at the bizarre idea of scattering Ernest somewhere special, and the woman frowned. Immediately, Annie erased her smile, and put on a more suitable expression. “Nowhere special,” she said, fingering her teacup. “There wasn’t anywhere — special.”

  “My husband wanted to be scattered in the Lake District.” The woman offered the information as though it were a small gift which might ease Annie’s pain.

  “Ernest hated water.”

  “Oh.” The woman looked disappointed.

  “We’ll find somewhere,” said Annie, taking pity on her. “We’ll find somewhere nice. Don’t you worry.”

  “You’ve got some lovely cards.” The woman tried again. “They must be a great comfort to you.”

  Annie considered the condolence cards festooning the mantelpiece and the sideboard: pictures of flowers and crosses and hymn-books, most of them from people she hardly knew, many of them assuring Annie of the sender’s “thoughts and prayers at this difficult time”. Annie was puzzled by the thoughts and prayers. She knew for a fact that some of the senders never darkened the door of a church and didn’t appear to believe in anything much. Did death make people more prayerful? Or was it merely an assumption that her loss would turn Annie to prayer?

  “It was nice to get the post,” she confessed. “I don’t usually get much post. I’ve enjoyed opening all the envelopes.”

  This was true enough. In the long interval between Ernest’s death and his funeral, opening the post had been an unexpected diversion. Some of the cards and letters were from people Annie hadn’t even heard of (Ernest’s colleagues from the bank, possibly, or those shadowy figures with whom he used to sit on his committees), and she had enjoyed arranging the cards in the living-room. It had made the house look almost festive.

  “I had a lot of cards when my Charlie died,” the woman said. “I’ve kept them all.”

  But Annie was losing interest. She had no wish to hear about this stranger’s bereavement, and she could see that very little encouragement would be needed to elicit a full account. However she might feel about Ernest’s death (and if she was honest, she still wasn’t at all sure), today was her day. She didn’t wish anyone to hijack or even share her new status of widow.

  “Excuse me,” she said, standing up. “I think I’d like a sausage roll.”

  Afterwards, when everyone had gone home, Billy persuaded Annie to take a large glass of sherry and go and have a lie down. Contemplating the big double bed (Ernest’s pyjamas — striped, Marks & Spencer’s, Large — were still neatly folded under his pillow, as though they alone expected him to return), Annie moved her pillows into the middle.
She had kept to her own side since Ernest’s death, but now she didn’t see why she shouldn’t take possession of the whole bed. After all, it wouldn’t do to let one side of the mattress wear out before the other, would it?

  Lying back against the pillows, Annie sipped her sherry and contemplated her new position. Yes. It felt quite comfortable. After a while, she pulled Ernest’s pyjamas out from under his pillow and dropped them onto the floor by the bed. She wished very much that she had brought the sherry bottle upstairs with her.

  CHAPTER THREE

  Andrew

  “I’m worried about my mother.” The man — big, florid, with the well-fed, upholstered look that goes with material success — stood on the vicarage doorstep. “I thought perhaps you might help.”

  Andrew surveyed him with mild surprise. He had never seen this man before, and had no idea who his mother was. It was supposed to be his day off and he had been about to have his lunch (cold ham and salad, for Janet was out at one of her meetings), and he was slightly irritated at the interruption. But he put on what Janet used to call his vicarage smile, and opened the door wider.

  “Perhaps you’d better come in and we can discuss ... your mother.” He led the way into his study and swept a pile of books off one of the chairs, releasing a cloud of dust. “Do take a seat.”

  The stranger took off his heavy tweed coat and settled himself in the chair. He looked as though he intended to stay for some time. Andrew thought wistfully of the ham and salad, and the peace of a solitary lunch in the kitchen with the newspaper and the crossword. Janet always talked at mealtimes, and disapproved of reading at the table.

  “Your mother,” he said now. “You wanted to talk about your mother.”

  “Yes.” With some difficulty Billy withdrew his gaze from the chaos of books and papers, the ancient tabby cat asleep on the desk (was the creature stuffed? It looked as though it had been there for years), the dying plant on the bookcase, the general air of decay.