Dead Ernest

by Frances Garrood

  “No, Dad. I’m staying here with Gran. I feel it’s the least I can do. You said so yourself.” Ophelia winked at Annie.

  There was more buzzing, punctuated with tinny growling noises.

  “Well, I’m sorry you feel like that, Dad. But it makes sense to stay on a bit longer now I’m here, and I’m sure Mum will understand about the car.”

  The buzzing reached fever pitch.

  “I’ve got to go, Dad. Gran needs me. Love to Mum.” Ophelia replaced the receiver. “Well, that’s that sorted.”

  “He was a bit cross, wasn’t he?” observed Annie, who was much impressed with the way Ophelia had stood up to her father. She herself would never have dared to speak to him like that.

  “He’ll get over it.” Ophelia sank into a chair and grinned at Annie. “Are you sure it’s all right?”

  “What’s all right?”

  “Me staying on. It was a bit of a cheek springing it on you like that, but I couldn’t resist it. Dad expects everyone to do things according to plan, preferably his plan, and I think it does him good to find that he can’t always have things his own way.”

  Annie thought it unlikely that Billy often had things his own way with his daughter, but refrained from saying so.

  “Of course you can stay,” she said, “if you really want to. It’s nice having the company.”

  “We’ve had a bit of fun, haven’t we?” Ophelia said.

  “Yes, we have. I wasn’t expecting it, though.”

  “Neither was I. That’s what’s so nice about it.”

  “You could — stay longer,” Annie ventured. “If you’ve nowhere else and you don’t want to go home. You could even get a job here. We could make the room nice, and you could come and go as you like.” She paused, thinking that perhaps she had spoken too soon. After all, Ophelia had only been with her for two days. They still had a lot to find out about each other. And Ophelia might start to find Annie’s habits irritating (Annie had forgotten what her irritating habits were, but Ernest was always complaining about them, and Ernest was usually right).

  “You know, that’s rather a good idea,” Ophelia said. “Thanks, Gran. Let’s see how the next week or so goes, and then we could think about it. It would certainly get me out from under Mum’s feet, though she’d want her car back.”

  “But there’s your grandad’s car!” Annie exclaimed. “You could have that!”

  She had entirely forgotten about Ernest’s car. In fact, she hadn’t been inside the garage since Ernest had died. It was one of a little row of garages round the corner from the house, and in addition to the car it housed Ernest’s tools which were neatly arranged on hooks and shelves at the back. Annie had never had any reason to go in there, and Ernest had discouraged it. She had never learnt to drive, either. Some people were natural drivers, Ernest had told her. Annie, it seemed, was not (although she had never so much as sat behind a steering wheel, so how could he tell?).

  “It probably won’t start,” she said now. “Ernest made sure to drive it at least once a week. To keep it ticking over, he said. He used to clean it on Sunday mornings, even when it wasn’t dirty. He was very particular like that, your grandad.”

  “Let’s go and have a look at it,” said Ophelia.

  The up-and-over door of the garage was reluctant to go either up or over, and Ophelia and Annie struggled with it for some time before they managed to get it to work. Once inside, they switched on the light and surveyed the garage’s dim interior.

  There was an air of dusty neglect probably unheard of in Ernest’s lifetime. Cobwebs festooned the walls and corners, and were draped over the wing mirrors and bumper of the car. They were the kind of cobwebs Annie always thought of as Halloween cobwebs; dense and blankety and unpleasant. Not at all like the pretty dew-spangled ones on the bushes outside. The car itself was thick with dust (“CLEAN ME” Ophelia wrote on the bonnet with her finger, and then, because the job would more than likely fall to her, added “PLEASE OPHELIA”).

  “And I shall,” she told Annie. “Tomorrow, I shall give it a proper makeover. Worthy of Grandad,” she added, because after all, in a way it was still his car. Annie didn’t drive, and much as Ophelia would love to own it herself, she had long since learned never to count her chickens.

  The following morning, they returned with the car keys.

  “I’m not insured,” Ophelia said. “Do you think it matters?”

  “You’re only driving it out into the road. That hardly counts,” said Annie, who knew nothing at all about car insurance, and cared even less.

  Gingerly, Ophelia opened the car door, and slid into the driving seat. It was odd to think that the last person to drive the car had been her grandfather (apart from whoever had driven it back from town after his death). His driving gloves were still tucked into the glove compartment (where else?), and there were also a tweed cap, a road map, a packet of Polos and a half-eaten bar of chocolate. How odd, she thought, that however old we are, we go through life behaving as though we have plenty of time. Does anyone, she wondered, end their life with all the chocolate eaten, the toothpaste used up, bills paid, letters answered and the dustbins outside the gate awaiting collection? Even people who know they’re going to die soon probably leave loose ends and unfinished business, just in case they’re granted a last-minute reprieve. Or maybe it’s just that when it comes to it, no one really believes they’re going to die. Her grandfather had expected to wear those gloves again and finish his bar of chocolate; he had anticipated journeys using his road map, and perhaps eating his Polos. He had expected to stay alive.

  “Are you all right?” Annie mouthed through the dusty window.

  “Fine. Just thinking,” Ophelia called back, and switched on the ignition.

  Amazingly, the engine coughed into action after only a few attempts on Ophelia’s part. She gave the thumbs up to Annie and very carefully inched the car out of the garage, parking it neatly by the kerb.

  “That tyre’s a bit flat,” observed Annie.

  “It’s completely flat,” Ophelia said, “and the others aren’t looking too good, either, but there was bound to be something wrong after all this time.”

  “Are you any good with tyres?” Annie asked. “I think there’s one of those jack things in the boot.”

  “All cars have a jack thing in the boot,” Ophelia told her, “but unfortunately I’ve never used one. If we can change that very flat tyre, it can be driven to a garage to have the rest pumped up. What we need is a man. The kind sort, who doesn’t mind helping out and getting his hands dirty. But I don’t suppose we’re likely to find one of those.”

  “There’s Andrew,” said Annie. “I’m sure he’d help. I’ll give him a ring, shall I?”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  Andrew

  “Annie Bentley’s been on the phone again,” Janet said, when Andrew came home at lunch time. “Something about a flat tyre. I asked her if she’d thought of ringing the garage, but she said she was sure you’d sort it out. She said could you ring her back. Really, Andrew, I do wish you wouldn’t keep running around after that woman. You’ve more important things to do with your time.” Andrew wondered why it was that whatever Janet said to him these days, she managed to make it sound like an accusation (he also wondered what Annie, who as far as he knew neither drove nor owned a car, was doing fussing about flat tyres).

  “I don’t, as you put it, run round after Annie Bentley, Janet. I visit her once a week, usually on my day off. As to the things I’ve got to do, I think I’ve a better idea of what those are than you have.”

  “Which means, I suppose, that you’ll go.”

  “Which means that I might,” Andrew said, making off in the direction of his study. “I’ll have to check my diary first and then find out exactly what it is that she wants doing.”

  Josephine had been at work that morning, and the usual chaos of papers which accumulated between her visits had been organised into tidy piles, together with a list of telephone me
ssages in her neat copperplate handwriting. She also appeared to have been doing a spot of dusting, and had brought him a new pot plant for his desk. Andrew noted with amusement that it was a cactus; unattractive, but indestructible (its predecessor, a wispy spider plant, had succumbed some time ago after two years of neglect).

  He glanced through the messages. An afternoon appointment had been cancelled, and Communion at the old people’s home had been postponed because of an outbreak of some bug. He could make it to Annie’s at a pinch, provided it was important enough.

  But, of course, Ophelia would still be there, and he had vowed that he wouldn’t see Ophelia again. Thinking about it now, perhaps he had over-reacted. It seemed a rather dramatic decision to have taken on such a brief acquaintance. Monday had been a bad day, and he had been feeling tired and vulnerable. Today might be different. It was true that he had thought about her a great deal since their brief meeting, but it was also possible that he had exaggerated whatever it was about her that he had found so attractive. If he saw her again it was more than likely that he would see her for the entirely ordinary girl she almost certainly was. In fact, it might be a good thing if he did see her, then he could put the whole silly business behind him.

  Andrew picked up the telephone.

  “What’s this about a flat tyre?”

  “Ernest’s car.” Annie sounded breathless and excited.

  “I didn’t know he had one.”

  “Neither did I. Well, anyway, I’d forgotten about it. But he has — had — and it’s a bit dusty and it’s got a flat tyre, and I want to give it to Ophelia.”

  “Goodness!”

  “Yes. Isn’t it a good idea?”

  Andrew agreed that it was.

  “And we — I — thought that you might come and have a look at it.” Annie paused. “Your wife didn’t sound very pleased.”

  “Well, she has a point,” Andrew said. “I’m not a mechanic, and I do have a job to do.”

  “It wouldn’t take long,” said Annie, who had no idea how long it might take to change a tyre. “And we can all have a nice a cup of tea together afterwards.”

  Andrew looked at his watch. “I’ll be round some time this afternoon. I can’t guarantee exactly when, and if there’s anything complicated wrong with the car, you’ll have to call the garage. But I think I can just about cope with a flat tyre.”

  I shall be businesslike, he told himself as he replaced the receiver. I shall go round, change the tyre and come straight home. I shall refuse the cup of tea, and I shall say as little as possible to Ophelia. What could be more straightforward?

  They were both outside the house when he arrived, Annie holding a bucket and Ophelia sloshing soapy water over an elderly but very respectable Mini. Annie’s hair appeared to have changed from grey to an interesting pinky-blonde, and had it not been for her familiar flowered pinafore he would hardly have recognised her. Ophelia was wearing jeans and a tee shirt and was very wet.

  “Here’s Andrew!” Annie cried, putting down her bucket. “I knew he’d come.”

  “I said I’d come,” Andrew said. “I — like the hair.”

  “Isn’t it lovely? Ophelia did it. I wasn’t sure at first, but I’m getting quite used to it now. It used to be this colour once, you know.”

  “Yes.” Andrew was very aware of Ophelia standing with her sponge, waiting for him to say something to her.

  “Hello again, Ophelia.”

  “Hello.”

  Ophelia pushed her hair out of her eyes with the back of her hand and smiled at him.

  “It’s really kind of you to come,” she said, and he noticed for the first time that her voice was very slightly husky. Her shirt clung damply to one breast and she had a streak of dirt across her cheek. “If we can just get this tyre changed, then I can take it to a garage to be checked over.”

  “Are you insured to drive it?” Andrew asked. She’s really quite plain, he thought. Almost dumpy. Whatever was I thinking of to get so worked up?

  “No, but I will be.”

  “That’s good. And the tax?”

  “Oh.” Ophelia looked crestfallen. She peered through the soapy windscreen. “It’s expired,” she said, disappointed. “But never mind. We can renew it, and then Gran says I can have it. Isn’t that great?”

  “Great,” Andrew agreed. It was no good. Ophelia was neither plain nor dumpy. She might be scruffy and wet, her hair might be all over the place and her face dirty, but she looked utterly enchanting. Andrew dragged his gaze away from her and turned his attention to the rogue tyre.

  Fifteen minutes later, the three of them were sitting in Annie’s kitchen and Ophelia was making tea (Andrew had decided that he couldn’t really refuse. It would have been churlish, and they were so grateful to him for changing the tyre).

  “How long are you staying?” Andrew asked Ophelia, aware that he had probably already been told, but hadn’t taken in the answer.

  “Thursday. Next Thursday.” Ophelia took milk from the fridge and poured it into a jug. “And I might stay longer, if I can find a job.”

  “You mean you might live here?”

  “Yes. Gran’s got the room and we seem to get on. And I can drive her about when she wants, once we’ve got the car sorted.”

  Andrew watched Ophelia as she brought the teapot to the table and poured tea into three cups. She was so close that he could breathe in the smell of her — oil from the car mingled with soap and freshly-washed hair — and could see the fair down on her upper lip and the pale curve of her throat. He could almost feel her breath on his cheek when she handed him the cup, and found himself unable to meet her eye.

  “That sounds like a really good idea,” he said, staring down into his teacup. The tea was still swirling from where Ophelia had stirred it, and he wondered how she had known that he took sugar.

  “She can paint the bedroom whatever colour she likes,” Annie said, dunking a biscuit in her tea.

  “I’ve never been allowed to choose my own colours,” Ophelia said. “Mum likes pale blues and pinks and yellows for bedrooms, with flowery curtains and matching duvet covers. All very pretty and frilly, but not really me. When I was fifteen, I wanted to paint my bedroom black, but she wouldn’t let me.”

  “Do you want black?” Annie sounded alarmed.

  “Of course not,” Ophelia laughed. “I’m not fifteen anymore. But something — exciting. Something different. I want a room that’s me, not Mum. Not that awful bed-sit, either. And posters. Can I have posters, Gran? Mum would never let me have them. She said they made marks on the walls.”

  Andrew felt dizzy and slightly sick. Ophelia wanted posters on her walls. He was lusting — when all was said and done, that was the word, wasn’t it? — after a girl still young enough to get excited about putting up posters on her walls. A kid, really. A child. He took a gulp of tea and replaced his cup carefully on its saucer. The patterned oilcloth of the kitchen table was marked with brown rings from previous teacups, and there were some stale-looking crumbs and a smear of something which looked like ketchup. Someone had placed a jam jar of wild flowers in the middle of the table, and Andrew watched as a tiny insect crawled along a stem. He was aware of Ophelia moving away towards the sink, running a tap, saying something to Annie, laughing. Out of the corner of his eye he could see her feet (rubber flip-flops) and the worn hem of her jeans.

  “What kinds of posters?” he asked, looking up at last. “What sorts of things are you interested in?”

  Ophelia met his gaze and held it for a moment, unsmiling, her grey eyes serious, and for just a moment, it was as though there were no one and nothing else in the room but the two of them.

  “Oh, birds, flowers, wild animals, anything really,” she said, moving back to the table. “Not popstars or football players, if that’s what you’re thinking.”

  “I wasn’t thinking anything of the kind.” Andrew laughed, but his laugh sounded hollow and artificial, and he immediately regretted it.

  “I don’t
really look the popstar type, do I?” Ophelia said.

  “Well —”

  “I think these popstars get paid far too much,” Annie said, unaware of any atmosphere. “I can’t see the point myself.”

  Whether she meant the point of popstars or of their pay was not clear, but Andrew was relieved that the conversation had taken a turn in what seemed to be an altogether safer direction.

  “They’re certainly a lot better paid than I am. Talking of which, I’d better be going,” he said, getting up from the table. “Paperwork and sermons call.”

  “I’ll see you out.” Ophelia took his cup and saucer and put them on the draining board. “Thanks so much,” she said as they made their way to the front door. “I really did suggest the garage for the tyre, but Gran seems to think you’re the answer to everything. She’s very fond of you, you know,” she added, as Andrew got into his car.

  “I’m fond of her,” Andrew said. “She’s a brave woman. You take good care of her.”

  “I intend to,” Ophelia said, and smiled, running her fingers through her tangle of hair and thrusting her hands into the pockets of her jeans. “See you soon, I expect.”

  “Yes. See you soon.”

  “I don’t know what you’re smiling about, I’m sure,” Janet said when Andrew returned home late for tea.

  “I wasn’t aware that I was.”

  “You’ve had that silly grin on your face ever since you got home.” She placed shepherd’s pie on the table in front of him.

  Andrew thought about it. It was true. He did feel ridiculously happy. But it was also true that it was a dangerous and fated happiness; a happiness which couldn’t possibly last; a happiness, furthermore, which could be bought only at the expense of other people’s. But I’ll make the most of it, he thought, helping himself to cabbage. Surely there can’t be any harm in simply feeling happy, even if — especially if — it never leads to anything more. And, of course, it can’t lead to anything more. It would be out of the question. But just for now, just for today, I shall enjoy being happy.