Dead Ernest

by Frances Garrood

  “Me too,” Janet repeated, turning her wedding ring round and round on her finger.

  “Yes. You. We made promises, you and I.”

  “A long time ago.”

  “Certainly, a long time ago. But still, promises.”

  “I’ve been wrong, too,” Janet said. “I’ve neglected you. I don’t think I ever really knew how to be a wife. I thought it was all about working hard and getting on with things. That’s what my mother always said. But there’s more to it than that, isn’t there?”

  “I think there should be.”

  “Do you think there’s any hope for us?” Janet asked, after a moment.

  “I don’t know. If we start talking to each other, maybe. But we have to talk, Janet.”

  “Yes.”

  It occurred to Andrew that already they had talked more than they had in months; years, even. With no other distractions, it was possible for them to talk.

  “Apart from anything else, I’m considering a move,” he continued. “To another parish. I can’t do that without talking to you; without your wanting it too.”

  “Another parish. To get away from — her?”

  “Partly, but also because I thought a new start might help us both. We’ve been where we are for too long. I’ve become too comfortable. A nice country parish, helpful parishioners, efficient lay-readers to assist with the workload.”

  “And Josephine.”

  “Yes. Josephine. But I suspect that most parishes have their quota of Josephines.”

  “I hope she’s not forgotten the kitten.” Josephine had been left on kitten-duty during their absence.

  “Josephine won’t forget the kitten,” Andrew reassured her. “She may not be fond of him, but she’s very conscientious.”

  “It’s true that I was jealous of Tobias, you know,” Janet said. “Poor Tobias. I really hated him.”

  “You needn’t have. He was pretty harmless. You might even have liked him if you’d got to know him.”

  “Possibly. But he seemed to be able to reach you in a way I couldn’t.”

  “Did you try?”

  “I suppose not. I don’t think I knew how to begin.”

  “Perhaps we should both start trying to reach each other. Before it really is too late.”

  Later on, after they had taken it in turns to wash and undress in the bathroom and had finally switched off the light, Andrew lay awake for some time. He wondered whether Janet was asleep. He could hear the sound of her breathing and the occasional rustle of the bedclothes, but didn’t like to risk disturbing her by speaking. Besides, conversations in the dark were somehow more intimate than those conducted in daylight, and he suspected that neither of them was ready for that yet.

  He tried to analyse how he was feeling. Tired, certainly. It had been a long day. Sad, of course. The grief which had become a part of him over the past weeks had to run its course, and he knew that would take time. How long, he wondered? For how long must he be haunted by the swirl of a gypsy skirt, a husky laugh, the warmth of a soft body pressed against his own? He had always known there would be a price to pay; he suspected that he had only just embarked on the first instalments of that debt.

  But he also felt an unexpected sense of peace. After a period when he had felt spiritually barren, when prayer had seemed impossible and his God so distant, Andrew found himself able to pray once more. Now, when he stood at the altar of his own church, he was able to face the God upon whom he had turned his back all those months ago, and find a degree of tranquillity and perhaps of forgiveness. Maybe Father Matthew had been right, and Andrew had underestimated God.

  Yet apart from the hurt caused to Janet, he had no regrets. How could he, when he and Ophelia had given each other so much? And perhaps the intensity of his feelings had been due in part to the fact that they had both known and accepted that the relationship couldn’t last. All the passion and the joy had been concentrated into the short time they had together, making it all the more precious for that, and all the more painful in its ending.

  There had been moments when Andrew had wondered whether perhaps he and Ophelia might have had a future together after all, but now he knew with absolute certainty that this could never have been the answer. It wouldn’t have been right for Ophelia, it would have caused incalculable hurt to Janet, and besides, if he had caused his marriage to founder without any proper attempt to salvage it, he would never have been able to live with himself. In the end, it is being able to live with yourself that counts. For if you cannot live with yourself, with whom can you live?

  As a nearby church clock struck two, Andrew’s last waking thoughts were of Ernest. Ernest, whom he had never known in life, had been the cause of his meeting Annie, and through her, Ophelia. Ernest had indirectly made a considerable impact on his life; an impact which might well change his life’s direction as well as its substance. On balance, Andrew felt that he had cause to be grateful to Ernest.

  Ernest. Dead Ernest. Andrew smiled to himself.

  The clock struck the half hour, but Andrew was asleep.

  CHAPTER FORTY-SIX

  April 2005

  “It seems such a funny place to have your photo taken, Woolworths. I hope no one sees me.”

  “No one will see you, Gran.”

  “That’s all right, then. What do I do now?”

  “Well, you draw the curtain, put your money in and sit down on that little stool, and when the light’s on, you know it’s about to take your picture, and then there’s a flash —”

  “Oh, I could never remember all that.”

  “Of course you can, Gran. It’s perfectly simple.”

  “Can’t you come in here with me?”

  “No. Because then there’d be a picture of both of us. This is your passport, so it has to be a photo of you.”

  “Do they want me to smile? I’ve never been much good at smiling. Not to order.”

  “You don’t have to smile. Just look straight ahead.”

  “My hair’s a bit messy. D’you think I should have had it done first?”

  “No one’s bothered about your hair, Gran. So long as it’s you. That’s all that matters.”

  “I never did take a good photo. Your grandad said —”

  “Just put your money in and sit down. Don’t worry, Gran. You’ll be fine. I’ll be right outside waiting for you.”

  “That suitcase looks as though it’s about to fall to bits, Gran. When did it last see the light of day?”

  “Oh, years ago. We didn’t do a lot of travelling, your grandad and me.”

  “I think you’ll have to get a new one.”

  “Won’t that be very expensive?”

  “Not necessarily. And you said you wanted to fritter Grandad’s money, so why not fritter it on a decent suitcase?”

  “I always fancied leather. Posh matching luggage, in leather.”

  “Matching luggage in leather sounds great. A big suitcase, and a little one for your hand luggage.”

  “Hand luggage?”

  “Things you might need on the plane. Something to read perhaps, a spare cardigan in case it’s chilly when we land. That sort of thing.”

  “We could pop in a little bottle of whisky, couldn’t we? To keep out the cold. I’ve always thought it must be very cold up there.”

  “The plane will be heated, Gran. And they sell drinks, anyway.”

  “Do they really?”

  “They certainly do.”

  “I think I’m quite looking forward to the aeroplane after all.”

  “Good for you, Gran. So am I.”

  “I’m not sure about this, Ophelia. I think I’d like to get out. It doesn’t feel safe.”

  “Too late to change your mind now, Gran. We’re about to take off.”

  “How does it stay up? I’ve always wondered how they stay up. All these people; all this luggage. It doesn’t seem natural.”

  “Something to do with lift and thrust, I think. I’m not sure what that means, though.”
/>
  “Lift and thrust! Fancy!”

  “We’re moving now, Gran. Isn’t it exciting? Gran? Gran? What’s the matter?”

  “I was holding my breath.”

  “Whatever for?”

  “I don’t know. I think I was helping the plane get off the ground. Sounds silly, doesn’t it?”

  “No. I understand. I used to do that when I started flying. Look! We’re up and away! Can you see all those houses and cars? Don’t they look tiny?”

  “I daren’t look.”

  “Open your eyes, Gran. Come on. You might even enjoy it.”

  “Oh yes! Gracious, these windows are grubby. Someone ought to give them a good clean.”

  “Ophelia?”

  “Yes?”

  “That wing’s moving. Do you think we ought to tell someone?”

  “No. They do that sometimes. It’ll be fine.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Quite sure.”

  “How does the pilot know how to get there? It’s all cloudy up here. Supposing he gets lost?”

  “He won’t get lost, Gran. He’s done it lots of times before. And he’s got instruments and things to help him.”

  “It’s all very clever, isn’t it?”

  “Yes, it is.”

  “I suppose they know what they’re doing. Your grandad wouldn’t have liked it, though. He was a bit of a backseat driver, your grandad. He’d have been up there telling them what to do.”

  “Then it’s probably a good thing that he stayed in England.”

  “That lifejacket thing they showed us.”

  “Yes?”

  “I can’t remember what you’re supposed to do with it. All I can remember is the bit about the whistle to attract attention. I think I could manage the whistle. But I’ll need the jacket. I can’t swim, you know.”

  “Don’t worry, Gran. If it comes to it — and it’s extremely unlikely ­— I’ll help you.”

  “That’s kind of you, love.”

  “Don’t mention it.”

  “Ooh, look, Ophelia! People are having drinks. Shall we have a whisky?”

  “Let’s have champagne! After all, this is a special occasion.”

  “Champagne! Fancy! And such dear little bottles. Can we take them home with us?”

  “Of course we can. Cheers!”

  “Cheers! I haven’t had champagne for years. Isn’t it funny how the bubbles all go up your nose? Do you know, I think your grandad might have enjoyed this after all.”

  “Well, he is on the plane.”

  “So he is. I’d completely forgotten.”

  “He’s why we’re here, remember?”

  “Of course. And we never toasted him. D’you think we ought to have another?”

  Annie settles into the corner of her seat, drowsy with champagne, thoughts drifting through her head like the clouds outside the window. There are suitcases and aeroplanes, Ernest and Ophelia, Billy’s latest shiny car and a small rescued dog (hers? Ophelia’s?). The clouds themselves take on different shapes and hues; the bearded face of a man, which lengthens and dissolves as she watches it, a lopsided castle, a bird, a pink-tinged fluffy pillow. In the distance, a tiny aeroplane catches the sun like a sliver of silver, and above, the sky is a light clear blue.

  As Annie’s eyes begin to close, part of the shifting cloudscape seems to form itself into a human shape, and she imagines that she can make out the figure of a little girl; a little girl in a gingham dress, her bright hair caught in two pigtails, who turns her head to smile at Annie. Annie makes as though to reach towards the child but the little girl shakes her head, laughing and blowing Annie a kiss. Not now, she seems to say. Not anymore. That was all a long time ago. A long, long time ago.

  Gradually, the figure begins to fade, until she is barely an outline; an outline of a little girl moving away, looking back over her shoulder, her hand raised in a gesture of farewell, before she melts away once more into the dissolving clouds.

  Annie smiles and her head falls forward, and she sleeps.

  EPILOGUE

  Austria,

  May 22nd

  Dear Billy,

  Everything in Austria is very clean, and the mountains are nice, but they don’t know how to make tea. There doesn’t seem to be any teapots in Austria. They don’t have proper bedclothes, either; but I am getting used to one of those quilt things. The room is cleaned every day, the food is interesting. The cows have bells round their necks, which make a pretty sound but must be very distracting for the cows. Ophelia says they’re probably used to it. There’s something delicious called gluwein, and we drink it every evening to keep out the cold.

  Today, we scattered your father. First, we lit candles in a church with lots of curly cherubs on the ceiling. I don’t think Ernest would have liked the cherubs very much, as he didn’t hold with Catholics, but Ophelia thought it would be a good idea. She said it would make it more of an occasion.

  There are lots of wild flowers, but we found a little patch of grass where there weren’t any (because of Ernest’s hay fever) with a nice view of the mountains, and we scattered him there. Scattering is a lot harder than you would think, as nothing lands quite where you want it to, but we did our best.

  It feels funny not to have Ernest around anymore, but I think it was time we let him out of his jar. Ophelia said that now that I’m free, it’s only right that Ernest should be free, too, and she’s probably right. That may sound odd to you, Billy, to think you know that your dad and I didn’t make each other very happy. Ophelia understands, and I hope you will one day, too.

  We might come here again next year; but Ophelia quite fancies Egypt. She wants to learn to dive in the Red Sea. It doesn’t sound very safe to me. I’m quite glad I can’t swim.

  Love from Mum

  PS. Ophelia sends her love and says to tell you she’s well and happy.

  PPS. I think I am happy too.

  ***

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  A NOTE TO THE READER

  Dear Reader,

  Thank you for taking the time to read DEAD ERNEST. I do hope you enjoyed reading it as much as I did writing it.

  The subject of the novel arose from my own widowhood (though unlike Annie, I was fortunate in being very happily married). I decided to write a book about three very different widows, but before long, Annie took over, and the others had to go. It was as though Annie had a story to tell, and it was my job to do it for her.

  If you have enjoyed reading DEAD ERNEST, I would be really grateful if you could write a review either on Amazon, or on Goodreads.

  In the meantime, I love hearing from readers, and your comments are always welcome. I can be contacted via my website at

  http://www.francesgarrood.com/contact-me/

  You can also follow me on Facebook at FrancesGarroodAuthor.

  MORE BOOKS BY FRANCES GARROOD

  Cassandra’s Secret

  AVAILABLE HERE!

  Women Behaving Badly

  AVAILABLE HERE!

  Ruth Robinson’s Year of Miracles

  AVAILABLE HERE!

  Published by Sapere Books.

  11 Bank Chambers, Hornsey, London, N8 7NN,

  United Kingdom

  saperebooks.com

  Copyright © Frances Garrood, 2007

  First published 2007 by Macmillan New Writing.

  Frances Garrood has asserted her right to be identified as the author of this work.

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in any retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the publishers.

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organisations, places and events, other than those clearly in the public domain, are either the product of t
he author’s imagination, or are used fictitiously.

  Any resemblances to actual persons, living or dead, events or locales are purely coincidental.

  eBook ISBN: 978-1-912546008