Dead Ernest

by Frances Garrood

  “I gather you two might be going abroad,” Andrew finally said. “It sounds quite exciting.”

  “To scatter Ernest,” Annie said. She looked down into her wine glass. Bits of cork were floating in it. They were uncomfortably reminiscent of the fragments of Ernest floating in her teacup. She fished them out with her finger.

  “It’s probably time,” Andrew said.

  ‘That’s what we thought.”

  “When are you thinking of going?”

  “As soon as possible,” Ophelia said.

  “Are we?” Annie asked, surprised.

  “It might be best,” Ophelia said, “though I’m not sure about the weather. Austria in November doesn’t sound very inviting.”

  “Unless you ski,” Andrew said.

  Annie had a brief, terrifying image of herself and Ophelia tearing down a snowy mountainside, with little clouds of Ernest billowing in their wake. “Perhaps we should wait until spring,” she said. “Your whatsits will probably be out in the spring.”

  “Edelweiss and gentians,” Ophelia said forlornly.

  “Yes, those.”

  “But what shall I do until spring?” Tears began to spill down Ophelia’s cheeks once more. “Oh, what shall I do?”

  “I’ll look after you,” Annie said.

  “Will you?”

  “Of course I will. And you’ll sell lots of those posh frocks and we’ll have a nice Christmas.”

  “Mum and Dad will expect me,” Ophelia said.

  “Then we’ll go together,” said Annie rashly. After all, Billy and Sheila could hardly expect her to spend a solitary Christmas in her newly-bereaved state.

  “You don’t know what you’d be letting yourself in for,” Ophelia said. “Mum always gets in a state, and then there’s an atmosphere. It’s awful.”

  Annie remembered both the state and the atmosphere from the last time she had spent Christmas with the family, but reckoned she could cope pretty well with both. Right now, she felt she could cope with anything if it would help Ophelia.

  “I’d better be going,” Andrew said, getting to his feet.

  “Oh!” Ophelia gave a little cry.

  “I’ve got to go some time, sweetheart.” He put a hand on her shoulder. “Better get it over with.”

  “But — won’t I see you again?”

  “No. We agreed, didn’t we? And I’d rather we parted here, with Annie to look after you.”

  “But you’ll be seeing Gran again, won’t you? She needs you. It’s not fair on her if you don’t come back. And I could keep out of the way, couldn’t I?”

  “Could you?” Andrew asked.

  Ophelia shook her head helplessly. “I suppose not. But what about Gran?”

  “I’m all right,” Annie said. “I think I’ll be all right now.”

  “Are you sure? Are you quite sure?” Andrew asked.

  “Yes. I’m sure,” Annie said, surprising herself.

  For now she had a job to do. She had someone to look after; someone who loved and needed her; someone to whom she could make a real difference. For the first time in years, Annie had a purpose. She would see Ophelia through the weeks and months to come, and she would help to make her whole again. Of course, eventually, she would have to let her go, but she knew that from now on she would always play a part in the life of her granddaughter.

  Long after Andrew had gone, Annie lay in bed unable to sleep for the thoughts tumbling around in her head. It was a cold, clear night, and a pale fuzz of moonlight glimmered through the thin material of the curtains, outlining the heavy oak wardrobe and dressing table. A car sped past, its tyres swishing in the puddles left by the last of the day’s rain, and somewhere a dog barked.

  Annie wondered whether she should get a dog. She’d always wanted one, but Ernest had been against the idea. A dog might be just the thing to cheer Ophelia up.

  She heard Ophelia’s bedroom door open, and there was a soft tap at her door.

  “Can I come in, Gran?”

  “Yes. Of course.”

  Ophelia came in and sat down on the bed.

  “You weren’t asleep, were you?”

  “No. I was just thinking, we could get a dog.”

  “A dog?’

  “Yes. Why not?”

  “A dog would be rather nice,” Ophelia mused, pulling the corner of the eiderdown round her shoulders. “I always wanted a dog, but Mum said it would leave hairs all over the place.”

  “So did your grandad.”

  “You’re going to miss Andrew too, aren’t you?” Ophelia said after a moment.

  “Yes. Of course.”

  “Did you — have you told him everything you wanted to tell him?”

  “Almost,” Annie said. “I think I’ve told him all I needed to tell him.”

  For she had told him the worst; she had broken the seal of the pain and the secrecy of the past sixty years, and it was as though she had gradually drained her mind of the poison which had filled it for so long. That she hadn’t actually brought her story up to date didn’t seem to matter very much, for the years which followed Billy’s infancy had been little different from the early years. Ernest had continued to be ill-tempered and abusive, and she had continued to fear him, but as she grew older she had become more resigned, and eventually she had ceased to hope for anything more. In fact, it wasn’t until that first occasion when Andrew had asked her if she was happy that she had fully realised how miserable much of her life had been.

  “Andrew told me about it,” Ophelia said now.

  “Yes. You said.” Annie hoped Andrew had omitted some of the more intimate parts of her narrative.

  “You had a pretty dreadful time, didn’t you?”

  “Yes and no,” Annie said carefully. “I think I sort of got used to it. You can get used to most things if you have to.”

  “Was Grandad very violent?”

  “Yes. Sometimes. I suppose he got a bit mellower as he grew older, but he still used to hit me. He used to lash out with that walking stick of his.”

  “Goodness!”

  “I got quite good at dodging, though.”

  They both laughed. It was good to hear Ophelia laugh again. “What happened to your dreams?” Ophelia asked. “Andrew said you had this dream world to escape into. Do you still go there?”

  “Not any more. Not since your grandad died. And the dreams were becoming vaguer; not so real. Just little bits of dreams really. And the little girl —”

  “Amelia?”

  “Yes. Amelia. She faded away over the years. I suppose I couldn’t imagine her growing older, and I grew out of having a little girl.”

  “Do you think Grandad was unhappy too?”

  “I’m sure he was. But he got his promotion in the end, and he had his allotment and his committees. Your grandad loved committees. I think they made him feel important.”

  Over the years, Ernest had been on so many committees that Annie had lost count. The allotment committee, the village hall committee, the bowls club committee (Annie suspected that Ernest had only taken up bowls because it offered the possibility of another committee for him to sit on) — the list had been various and at times astonishing. But she had never raised any objections because the more Ernest had to do, the less time he spent at home.

  “Why did you stay with him, Gran?” Ophelia asked.

  “I didn’t have any choice. I had no money, and no way of earning any. And in those days people did stay together. They just got on with it. I wasn’t the only one. And I had a child to bring up.”

  “You and Dad aren’t — close, are you?”

  “Not really. I’m proud of him. Of course I am. He’s done very well for himself.” That could hardly be denied, although privately Annie attached more importance to kindness and patience than she did to posh houses and shiny cars. “He was very close to your grandad, but I think I’ve always irritated him. I expect I can be pretty annoying. Your grandad certainly thought so.”

  “Dad finds me irrita
ting too. I can’t seem to please him, whatever I do.”

  “Do you want to please him?”

  “I used to. But I suppose I’ve got used to things the way they are.” Ophelia paused, winding a loose thread from the eiderdown round her finger. “You and I — we’re quite alike, aren’t we, Gran?”

  “Yes. I suppose we are. Sometimes I like to think that Amelia would have grown into a girl like you.”

  “Do you really? I think that’s one of the nicest things anyone’s ever said to me.”

  “Well, it’s true.”

  “Gran?” Ophelia said, after a pause.

  “Yes?”

  “Will I — will I get over this one day?”

  “Yes. I think so.”

  “But not yet.”

  “No. Not quite yet.”

  “I can’t imagine never seeing him again.” Ophelia wiped her eyes on the hem of her nightdress, and pulled the eiderdown more closely round her. “But we did do the right thing, didn’t we, Gran? Andrew and I?”

  “Yes. I think you did. The right thing and the brave thing.”

  “Like you staying with Grandad.”

  “I told you. I didn’t have much choice. It’s much braver if you have a choice.”

  “I don’t feel very brave.” There was a catch in Ophelia’s voice, and Annie, who hadn’t embraced anyone in years, sat up and took her granddaughter in her arms and rocked her like a baby.

  “You’ll be all right, my love. You’ll be all right. You’ve got me to look after you now.”

  “And in the spring, we’ll go to Austria and scatter Grandad?” Ophelia’s voice was muffled by Annie’s shoulder.

  “In the spring, we’ll go to Austria and scatter Ernest.”

  To her surprise, Annie found that she was already looking forward to the spring.

  CHAPTER FORTY-SIX

  Andrew

  It was typical funeral weather. A raw December day with penetrating drizzle and an angry little wind tugging at the coats and scarves of the mourners as they gathered at the graveside.

  It was a long time since Andrew had attended a funeral at which he was not officiating, and he felt ill at ease, although he would hardly have been the right person to conduct the funeral service of his mother-in-law. He and she had had a civilised if chilly relationship, and while he had respected her for her undoubted courage in the face of what had been more than her fair share of adversity, he would have been hard pressed to find any of the heart-warming little anecdotes usually favoured on these occasions. As it was, this role had been admirably filled by a distinguished archdeacon, a friend of the family, who had taken a most fitting service and who had deviated from the truth just enough to make everyone feel comfortable about the life and death of the deceased.

  The service had been traditional and, as befitted the widow of a bishop, suitably splendid and well-attended. Janet’s sister had read a poem and Janet herself a passage from Corinthians, and a small grandson had sung a solo. Everyone said it had been a beautiful service.

  Now, chilled and shivering after the comparative warmth of the church, the family watched as the coffin was lowered into the grave. Janet, looking small and vulnerable in her red coat (“Mother disliked black”), stood beside Andrew, and although she made no sound, Andrew knew that she was crying. When the undertaker handed her a small clod of earth, she looked for a moment as though she wasn’t sure what to do with it.

  “Just throw it in,” Andrew whispered. “Drop it onto the coffin.”

  The earth landed with a soft thud, fragments of soil and tiny pebbles slithering over the polished lid of the coffin and obscuring the shiny brass plaque. Janet’s sister added her own contribution, and a granddaughter threw a single stem of freesias as the wind whipped the final words of the burial service from the frozen lips of the archdeacon.

  Gradually, the atmosphere was broken and people began to drift away from the graveside, no doubt with thoughts of a warm room and tea and perhaps a glass of wine. In the end, Janet and Andrew were left on their own.

  “I’ll miss her,” Janet said.

  “I know you will.”

  “She wasn’t easy. I know she wasn’t easy. But she was brave, and she was — she was my mother.”

  “Of course.”

  “I know you and she never really got on.”

  “I had a lot of respect for her.”

  “Did you really?”

  “You know I did.”

  Janet took her hand out of her pocket and seemed to hesitate, then she slid it into Andrew’s. The hand felt small and cold, like a tiny frightened animal. It was a very long time since Andrew had held Janet’s hand. He gave it a squeeze.

  “Shall we go back, now? You’re frozen.”

  “Yes. Yes, we’d better go. People will wonder where we’ve got to.”

  Back at the hotel, where a room had been booked for refreshments, people milled around holding glasses and teacups, suddenly cheerful and talkative, relieved that the serious business of the day was over. Someone lit a cigarette, attracting disapproving glances, and Andrew wondered whether there was ever an occasion too solemn for the self-righteous to manifest their displeasure. He himself had never been a smoker, but tended to take a tolerant stand where others were concerned.

  “I think I’d like a cigarette,” Janet said. She hadn’t smoked for years.

  “Then you shall have one.” Andrew silently applauded her, and went in search of one. “There,” he said, when he returned a moment later. He handed Janet the cigarette and a borrowed lighter. She nodded her thanks and lit the cigarette gratefully.

  “I shan’t make a habit of this,” she said. “I just needed one today.”

  “I understand.”

  Andrew himself had managed to obtain a glass of quite respectable claret, and a sausage roll. He had never much liked sausage rolls, and wondered why they always seemed to play such an important part in these occasions, but it had been a long day and he was hungry. He might even have another.

  They were booked into a bed and breakfast for the night so as to avoid the long journey home, and as soon as they decently could, they made their excuses and left.

  “I’m afraid I couldn’t get separate rooms,” Andrew said, as they pulled up in the driveway. A sign outside the house pronounced the accommodation to have NO VACANCIES. “There’s a conference or something, and everywhere else was booked up.”

  “That’s all right.”

  “But we’ve got twin beds.”

  Janet nodded. It was difficult to know what she was thinking. Andrew himself felt uneasy about their spending a night in the same room; after all, it had been a long time. He thought of the night he had spent with Ophelia — the last time he had slept in the same room with another person — and felt the familiar ache of her loss. It was now nearly three weeks since he had last seen her, and his thoughts and dreams were still haunted by her smile, her voice, her bare freckled arms, the smell of her hair. He wondered what she was doing; how she was coping. Ophelia was resilient. She would be all right eventually. One day, there would be another man who would love her as she deserved to be loved, and while the thought inevitably caused him pain, Andrew loved Ophelia well enough to hope that she would not have too long to wait.

  “Here we are,” he said, as he carried their cases upstairs into their small but adequate bedroom. “It seems all right.”

  “It’s fine,” Janet said.

  “Which bed would you like?” Andrew asked, remembering Ophelia asking a similar question.

  “I don’t mind. You have the one by the window.” Janet sat down on the other bed and took off her shoes. “Shall we have some tea?”

  The room was equipped with a tray with cups and a kettle and an array of little packets: tea, coffee, hot chocolate. Convenient, if somewhat clinical. Andrew switched on the kettle.

  “The service went well, didn’t it?” Janet said.

  “Very well. She would have been happy with it.”

  “It mak
es me feel older. Not having a mother anymore.”

  “Yes. I think a lot of people feel like that.”

  “My turn next. An uncomfortable thought.”

  “Yes. But not for some time, I hope.” Andrew handed Janet a cup of tea.

  They sat in silence for a while.

  “I nearly lost you, too, didn’t I?” Janet said at last.

  “What do you mean?”

  “You know what I mean.” Janet sighed. “There was someone else for a while, wasn’t there?”

  “Well —”

  “You don’t have to say anything. Just please don’t lie to me, Andrew. I don’t know who she is. Or was. I don’t think I even want to know. I’m not blaming you. I’m not even angry. In fact, I’m not surprised it happened. I haven’t really been the wife you wanted. I suppose you were bound to fall for someone else sooner or later.”

  “I don’t know what to say.”

  “There’s nothing to say, is there? You fell for someone else, and I believe it’s over. Thank you for — for not leaving me.” Her tone was flat, but underneath there was a bleakness which touched Andrew.

  “I’m sorry,” he said. “I never — never looked for anything like that. It, well, it —”

  “Just happened?”

  “I suppose so. That’s such a cliché, isn’t it, but yes. It just happened.”

  “Did you sleep with her?”

  Andrew hesitated.

  “Please, Andrew. That’s something I do want to know.”

  “Then no. Not in the accepted sense. We did spend one night together, but nothing happened. You must believe me.”

  “I do believe you.” Janet put down her teacup, and Andrew noticed that her hand was shaking. “Why did you stay? Why didn’t you leave me?” she asked.

  “I’m not entirely sure,” Andrew said. “You asked me to be honest, and that’s the truth.”

  “Was it the Church?”

  “Partly the Church, yes. But you too.”