by Ruth Hogan
Who the hell was Evelyn?
Daniel and I are very close. Julietta, our dance teacher, has instructed the ten couples in front of her to stand sufficiently close to one another for it to feel ‘almost indecent in public’. Daniel and I are happy to comply. We are learning to rumba. It was Daniel’s idea. When he found out how much I loved dancing with Miss Cynthia, he surprised me. Of course, the ballroom and Miss Cynthia are long gone, and we are in a sparkling rectangular box of wooden floors and mirrored walls called The Rhythm Studio.
‘It’ll be much easier for you. You’ve done all this before,’ he declared. ‘So you’ll have to be patient with me.’
He was a natural from the start. But a dreadful pupil. He spends most of our lesson dancing beautifully, trying to make me giggle and usually succeeding, which plays havoc with my posture. Miss Cynthia would most certainly not have been amused.
Tonight, after the class, we walk back to the flat hand in hand, and almost as soon as we are through the door we behave utterly indecently in private. Rumba is clearly a euphemism for foreplay. I hope Eli isn’t listening.
Later, as we lie in comfortable and exhausted silence on the dishevelled duvet, my thoughts turn, rather annoyingly, to my mother. I try to distract myself by running my fingers through the fuzz of hair that covers Daniel’s soft, slightly rounded belly. It has been a long time since I traced by touch the topography of a man’s naked body. Daniel convulses at my tickling.
‘Hey! Get off my fat bits!’ he laughs, moving my hand higher onto his muscled chest.
But now my mother has entered the room, albeit only notionally, she is refusing to leave and I can’t settle. I get up to use the bathroom and return via the kitchen with an open bottle of wine and two glasses. Daniel throws back the duvet to let me back into the bed.
‘What’s up?’
How does he do that? I’m beginning to think that he can see inside my head. I smile at the thought.
‘What do you mean?’
He wags his finger at me and laughs.
‘Come on! I can hear the cogs whirring and clicking from here. And you’ve got your deep thinking face on.’
‘What’s my “deep thinking” face?’
‘The one that’ll stick if the wind changes and then you’ll be sorry. So, stop thinking and tell me.’
I pour wine into each of the glasses.
‘It’s that whole thing with my mother. After all these years, why can’t I just leave it alone? Why won’t it leave me alone?’
Daniel flings his arm around me and hugs me close.
‘My darling girl, I have no idea. Maybe just because it’s time – time for you to know. And maybe it will be a whole Pandora’s box of worms,’ he says, mixing his metaphors shamelessly, ‘but I’ll be here.’
He kisses the top of my head.
‘I’ll even pick the worms out of your hair.’
35
Tilly
The funeral was on a Thursday, so Tilly assumed that they would be burying Marlene. After much pleading on Tilly’s part, and persuasion on Queenie’s, her mother had agreed that Tilly would be allowed to go. She had never been to a funeral before and was very curious to see what would happen. They all gathered in the hallway waiting for the cars to arrive. Lil was carrying an enormous handbag that was full of tissues, judging by the endless stream she kept producing to mop up Cecily, who had already dissolved into tears. Reg was looking very smart in a black suit and Tilly’s mother looked pale and nervous. Queenie was beautiful in a plain tight black dress, several long pearl necklaces and a large-brimmed hat with a veil of black spotted net. Marlene’s coffin arrived in a big black shiny car and was covered in white lilies and red roses. Tilly had hoped that they would be getting in the car with the coffin, but the flowers took up so much room that the undertakers had had to send another car for them to ride in. They set off so slowly that Tilly thought the men driving the cars must be beginners. She noticed that people on the streets were watching them as they passed by and the men were taking off their hats. Tilly felt a bit like the queen. She waved at a couple of the people through the car window until her mother took her hand and placed it firmly in her lap. But Queenie smiled.
Tilly was expecting a church, but the building they drew up outside looked like no church she had ever seen. It looked like a village hall with its pebble-dashed walls and shallow pitched roof clad in corrugated iron. The building was in a garden surrounded by chicken-wire fencing attached to concrete posts, and fixed to one of them was a colourfully painted wooden sign that said ‘Welcome to the Church of Cheerful and Blessed Souls in Jesus’. Tilly was hugely relieved. It was a church after all. It was bad enough worrying about her daddy in Bermondsey, without Marlene having a funeral in a village hall and then ending up God only knows where. But if St Patrick’s was God’s house, this looked more like his holiday chalet at Hunstanton.
Waiting for them at the door was the biggest man Tilly had ever seen; at least as big as a polar bear, but the colour of Marmite. Marlene was lifted out of the car and, when everyone was ready, the man led their procession into the church. Inside, the place was as cheerful as its name implied. There were lots of wooden chairs facing a long table at one end of the room, which was covered in a brightly coloured embroidered cloth. The window ledges were filled with china vases of flowers, some fresh and some plastic, and lots of different china statues. There were Jesus, Mary and a few angels, but more unusually, a couple of horses, several swans, Laurel and Hardy and a St Bernard. Coloured fairy lights were woven through the statues and the vases on the ledges, and strung above the big table that Tilly supposed was the altar. In the middle of the table was a big statue of Jesus on the cross surrounded by more vases of flowers, candles, and all sorts of other sparkly bits and pieces, including a snow globe with an angel inside, a unicorn with a glittery horn and a doll dressed up as a bride. Tilly wondered if they were going to have a church bazaar after the funeral, and if she had enough pocket money left to buy the snow globe.
The wooden seats were all occupied by the most fascinating people that Tilly had ever seen all in one room in her short life. The ladies looked very glamorous, dressed in black, but with lots of jewellery and make-up and some spectacular hats. They were all different, but for some reason they all reminded her of Queenie. The men were smartly dressed in dark suits but with bright ties or scarves, and some had flowers in their buttonholes. Tilly wondered if the flowery ones were supposed to be at a wedding and had got the wrong church. She hoped not. One of them was wearing red lipstick and a red rose behind his ear. She knew that he was in the right place. As she gawped in delight and amazement at the dazzling congregation, more than one face seemed familiar. It wasn’t just that the ladies reminded her of Queenie. She knew some of these people. She just didn’t know how. It was like a tune that you could hum all the way through but couldn’t remember the name of. Her ponderings were interrupted by a real tune being bashed out enthusiastically by a lively little leprechaun of a man on an electric organ. He was accompanied by a pair of wizened old ladies with false-teeth smiles, in pink frocks and wrinkled stockings, who were banging and clattering tambourines; and by a plump young woman with pink cheeks and National Health glasses parping away on a trombone. Marlene’s coffin was placed centre stage in front of the big table, and once everyone had settled back down in their seats, the big man spoke. He stood next to Marlene and placed his hand on her coffin, just about where her left knee would be, Tilly thought.
‘Good afternoon, ladies and gentlemen,’ he began, in a voice deep and loud enough to rattle the windows.
‘My name is Pastor John-Winston Benjamin, and I should like to welcome you all to the funeral of our dear sister Ruby. Together we shall celebrate her life – a life that brought so much love, joy and excitement to so many. We shall thank our Lord for her light and laughter, which touched all our lives; and we shall say our final farewells before we send her off into the loving arms of Jesus.’
Til
ly was horrified. Either they were at the wrong funeral, someone had put the wrong person in the coffin, or Pastor John-Winston Benjamin didn’t know what he was talking about. She turned to Reg, who was standing beside her. He squeezed her hand and whispered, ‘It’s all right, love. Ruby was her real name.’
A warm wave of relief flooded through her. But she still wasn’t convinced that Pastor John-Winston Benjamin could really be Marlene’s brother. They didn’t look anything like each other. Still, he said some lovely things about Marlene, and how proud she had been of Queenie, and they said enough prayers to make Tilly’s knees itch from kneeling on the prickly red cushions that were provided for the purpose. They sang two hymns, accompanied by the musicians: ‘Abide with Me’, which she knew, and ‘The Old Rubber Cross’, which she didn’t. Tilly was amazed at how beautifully the congregation sang. In her experience, singing in church was usually a bit all over the place with the tune and the timing, unless it was the proper choir. But this lot sounded good enough to be singing on the stage at the end of pier. After the second hymn the man with the red lipstick came to the front to say a poem. He said that some of the happiest days of all their lives had been when Marlene was the owner of The Banana Blush and that the poem the name was taken from was one of her favourites. She had asked for it to be read at her funeral, but that it should be taken in the spirit in which she had intended it. Tilly had no idea what he was talking about, but thought that the spirit must be gin. She would ask Queenie about The Banana Blush later. The man didn’t need a piece of paper. He knew the words off by heart. The poem was called ‘Sun and Fun’ by a man called John Betterman and was about squashed tomato sandwiches and spiders.
After the poem, Pastor John-Winston Benjamin walked over to Queenie, took her by the hand and led her to the front of the church. He raised both his arms up, taking Queenie’s with him.
‘Dear Heavenly Father, and all your angels, bless us today and wrap your loving arms around us. Dry our tears and fill our hearts with peace as we say goodbye to our beloved sisters Ruby, Marlene, Anita, Ginger, Grace and Sophia. Welcome them into your heaven, and cherish her soul as one of your precious rainbow of treasures for evermore. Amen. And now Queenie will sing our final song.’
Pastor John-Winston Benjamin gave Queenie a hug and then stood to one side. Queenie leaned over her mother’s coffin and rested her cheek against the cool, dark wood between the red and white flowers. She turned her face, and with a final kiss stood up and took a deep breath. Her eyes were wet with unshed tears but her back was straight and her head held proudly. She started singing on her own in a soft, husky voice, but, much to Tilly’s relief, the musicians soon caught up. The song, called ‘Cabaret’, was about a lady called Elsie, and knitting. By the end, Queenie was belting it out better than Shirley Bassey, and the congregation was on its feet whistling, cheering and clapping. The old ladies were waving their tambourines in the air, the trombonist’s cheeks were the colour of cherry brandy and Pastor John-Winston Benjamin was dancing in the aisle with the man with red lipstick. There were lots of tears too, but all the faces were smiling. Even Cecily had stopped sobbing, but from the look on her face it might have been through shock. Tilly was in heaven. If all funerals were this good she couldn’t understand why people didn’t want to go to them.
‘I wish Daddy could have had a funeral like this,’ she said to her mother on the way back to Queenie’s in the car. Her mother squeezed her hand and said nothing but, for a moment, Tilly thought she looked almost afraid.
Back at The Paradise Hotel there was a party, which Tilly thought was a lovely idea. All the people from the church came, including Pastor John-Winston Benjamin. She even spotted the two old ladies in pink frocks eating sausage rolls and drinking sherry in the guests’ sitting room. Most of the others gathered in the guests’ dining room to eat the buffet that Lil and Cecily had spent the morning preparing, and drink funny-coloured drinks that Queenie said were ‘cocktails’. She let Tilly taste the one that she was drinking. It was the colour of bogeys and smelled of fruit.
‘It’s called a Banana Blush,’ Queenie told her as she took a tentative gulp, answering her question before she had a chance to ask it. It tasted lovely; like banana and ice lolly with a hint of medicine. But Tilly couldn’t see how it would have kept Marlene happy for days. It wouldn’t have lasted five minutes. She sat down next to Queenie.
‘Why did you stop going on the stage?’
Queenie shrugged her shoulders and then smiled.
‘It didn’t make me happy any more. It was just pretend. I needed a different kind of life.’
‘And why do daddies go away?’
Queenie took another sip of her drink before answering.
‘I wish I could tell you. People often do things that other people can’t understand. But sometimes they have a very good reason, even if you don’t know what it is.’
She gave Tilly another sip of her drink.
‘And if someone loves you like your daddy did, the love never goes away, even if the person does.’
‘You won’t go away, will you?’
‘No, Tilly love, I’ll never go away. I promise.’
Tilly got up and wandered round the room staring at all the people as though they were animals at the zoo. They were such exotic creatures that Tilly was spellbound, unlike Cecily, who was hiding in the kitchen. All at once, she realised how she knew them. She saw them every day. These were the glamorous show people in the photos with Queenie that hung on the wall. And now they were actually here. In her house. Tilly thought that she might actually explode with pride and excitement. The piano had been moved into the dining room and once the guests had eaten enough of the buffet and drunk enough cocktails, the music started. The man with the red lipstick (that had been refreshed after the buffet) took a seat at the piano and began to play. He was good. Tilly thought that he was even better than Liberace, who had been Mrs O’Flaherty’s favourite. The guests took it in turns to sing, some by themselves, others in groups. Even Queenie sang again. And people started dancing. Her mother went over to Queenie and took her hand.
‘Dance with me,’ she said. ‘It’ll be like old times.’
Tilly was surprised and a little jealous to see Lil dancing with Pastor John-Winston Benjamin. Her mother and Reg danced very close together, and her mother’s head was on his shoulder. Tilly thought it looked more like a walking cuddle than dancing. She danced with Queenie and several of the other ladies before Pastor John-Winston, to her great delight, swept her up into his arms and whirled her round the room until she was giddy and helpless with giggles. Once she had got her breath back and taken a few sneaky sips from all the drinks that looked like the one Queenie had let her try, Tilly danced on her own, weaving between the couples on the floor and making every move Miss Cynthia had taught her, as well as a good many of her own. She had never felt so fizzy and sparkly and twirly and fluffy. Eventually the dancers, even Tilly, grew tired, the music slowed and the party began to fade away like a sunset slipping into the sea. Queenie stood, a little unsteadily, by the piano and raised her half-full glass.
‘To all of you; my friends – no, my family. Thank you for coming. Thank you for loving her almost as much as I did, and for loving me as much as I love you. She would have adored this.’
Tilly looked at Marlene lolling happily on top of the piano, with a cigarette in one hand and a Banana Blush in the other.
‘She did,’ said Tilly to Eli, who was sitting next to her on the floor. And then she was sick on the carpet.
Part 3
The truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth
36
Tilda
19 November
Tilly will never forgive me.
When I got back to the flat this morning, Queenie was there and the little blue diary was open and perfectly placed in the middle of the kitchen table. She smiled at me and said she thought that now I was ready to read on. And then she left.
It’s Boxing Day and
Daniel has gone to visit his family. He asked me to go with him, but I’m not ready to meet them just yet. I’m a bit awkward with the whole family thing and Daniel’s is a big family. I need a while longer to work up to it. We spent Christmas Day at the café: me, Eli, Daniel, Joseph Geronimo and Miss Dane – Penelope. Daniel cooked, I waitressed, Joseph Geronimo entertained and Penelope sat back and thoroughly enjoyed herself. Penelope has taken quite a shine to Joseph Geronimo and was relieved to avoid spending Christmas with her niece, the inappropriate food shopper. Daniel thought she might like a Snowball to drink, but Penelope turned out to be more of a whisky mac kind of girl. We had crackers, wore paper hats, read out loud the dreadful jokes and listened to Christmas music on the jukebox. It was one of the best Christmas Days I can remember since I was a child. After tea, which was really just a continuation of lunch, Joseph Geronimo took Penelope home before heading out on a date with a new lady friend called Fatima-Jane. Daniel and I spent the evening in his chaotic but cosy living quarters above the café, doing all the proper things that make Christmas happy. We played Scrabble, making rude words and cheating. We watched some awful television, ate satsumas and roast chestnuts that were burnt on one side and raw on the other and fell asleep in front of the fire halfway through the Poirot Christmas special. It was like the second movement of Beethoven’s Emperor: quietly magnificent.
But now this. November the nineteenth is my birthday. What is it that I shall never forgive my mother for?
Once more I find myself alone on the pier, staring out to sea. The cold, grey waves are rising and roaring, flecked with rabid foam, and the bitter wind is shunting gunmetal clouds across a low sky that is full of menace. The noise of the sea and the wind is already deafening and the threatened rain soon joins the crescendo, beating furiously onto the wooden boards of the pier and drumming gunshot percussion on the metal roofs of the shelters and kiosks. But I am perfectly still in the eye of the storm. I can only stare out to sea, seeing nothing. Perhaps now she has finally killed something in me too.
