Chasing the Sun with Henry

by Gary Brockwell

  Ahead of the funeral, I explained to Mary, as she scanned the room, that Sally was absent due to illness. It wasn’t the time or the place to reveal the true reason, nor was it the correct setting for me to confront Gus. Although, the fact he was there should have alerted me that my suspicion that he was with Sally in Italy was incorrect – no one could be that brazen, to turn up to a funeral, could they? He arrived back only this morning and came straight from the airport to Mary’s, via his wardrobe for a suit, white shirt and black tie. I hadn’t contacted him; I presumed Mary must have done.

  The look on his face on entering was one of simple shock. Mary acknowledged him and asked brightly if his ‘team’ had won the horse race. He shook his head and admitted they hadn’t even come close, and I sensed he was struggling with the normality Mary’s questions invited. I took Gus to one side and asked quickly if he would be a pallbearer, and he readily agreed. After fulfilling Mary’s request, I retreated to the other side of the room, turned my back and looked out of the window toward the hill, where the sheep grazed contentedly. In my mind’s eye, I saw Clifford striding purposely through the heather toward them, with Ben, his Border collie, faithfully by his side. I wanted distance between Gus and myself, not only to confront my own personal grief, but equally to ensure I didn’t say anything out of turn to him, not here, not at this occasion.

  Through the window I watched as a hearse silently glided to a stop in the yard, followed by a gleaming charcoal-grey limousine. The hearse’s glassed flanks were bursting with bouquets of colour, to such an extent that it was impossible to be certain Clifford’s coffin was actually inside.

  ‘Flowers,’ I said to myself with shame.

  The passenger door of the hearse opened and a figure got out; his suit was immaculate and his black shoes gleamed, similar to the shine from the limousine. He walked with purpose toward the farmhouse, resting a top hat in the crook of his right arm. He was in through the front door and I turned away from the window as, quietly and with considerable respect, the funeral director entered the room. He made no eye contact with any of the mourners, but merely wandered over to Mary and touched her gently and with dignity on the forearm. Mary looked at him, sensing what he was about to announce.

  ‘It’s time, Mary,’ he said simply, and Mary nodded, bit her lip and followed him out of the living room.

  Once she left the room, the rest of us departed too. Outside, in the yard, the funeral director placed his hat on his head with a fluid motion and took a walking cane handed to him by the driver of the hearse, who now stood solemnly by the side of the vehicle. He took his position at the front of the hearse, ready to lead the procession as tradition dictates.

  Clifford’s funeral was a private affair; I do not wish to discuss it further.

  Later I sat alone at the bar in Malacy’s, nursing a pint, the other mourners quietly engaged in conversation in small groups, their voices murmurs, hushed tones continuing the sobriety of the day.

  ‘Can I join you?’ a voice asked me softly.

  I nodded as Gus took the stool to my left. My heart raced.

  ‘Give us Clifford’s usual, Malacy.’ Gus gestured toward the optics.

  Malacy smiled, reached for two glasses and readily filled them with Clifford’s choice of spirit – Morgan’s Spiced, enjoyed when his body could not hold any more bitter and he felt the urge to sing. He placed the drinks in front of us, as Gus took out his wallet.

  ‘No, they are on me, boys.’ Malacy waved in Gus’ direction.

  We thanked the barman as he sought the attention of the next customer.

  ‘Clifford,’ said Gus simply, raising his glass upwards.

  I repeated the toast as we downed the amber liquid in unison. As the raw burn hit our throats, a wince appeared simultaneously across our faces.

  ‘Bit of an acquired taste, isn’t it?’ rasped Gus.

  I coughed and nodded in agreement.

  We sat in silence, our thoughts our own. It was obvious, sitting there, that Sally hadn’t left me for Gus; that seed of malice planted in my mind by Greg Dixon had no right to exist, and yet it seemed to grow stronger. I was sure I would be able to tell. There would be signs – a scratch of the nose, avoidance of eye contact – in fact, there was no way he could sit with me, toasting our deceased mutual friend, if my wife had met him in Italy, flown back and was now waiting for him to finish paying his respects.

  And then, after looking around the bar, he asked me the question in an innocent tone.

  ‘I didn’t see Sally at the funeral, is she here?’

  I didn’t answer, but merely stared ahead and the seconds ticked by.

  ‘Eddie, is everything okay?’ he asked, rolling the empty glass in his hands.

  ‘She’s gone,’ I eventually answered flatly.

  Gus stopped turning the glass and looked at me. ‘Sorry?’ he said.

  ‘She’s gone, left a note; said she doesn’t want to be found.’

  I stared deliberately into his eyes to gauge any reaction to my words, words that sounded as raw as they had done when I first digested the note.

  ‘You must find her, Eddie, I will help you,’ he insisted, moving from his stool.

  He seemed panicked, agitated on hearing my words. It was first time I remembered seeing Gus Eastley flustered.

  ‘No, she was very clear, it’s over, for lots of reasons, reasons I cannot go into. Said she will come back for her things,’ I confessed.

  ‘Oh, right,’ he replied, looking relieved as he sat back down.

  ‘What does that mean?’

  ‘I mean, I thought you were telling me she had…’ He trailed off.

  ‘She had what?’ I asked, my fear taking control of my suspicions. I wanted to ask him outright, there and then, what he knew about Sally leaving.

  ‘It’s okay, Eddie, it doesn’t matter.’

  ‘You don’t know who he is, do you? Everybody else does,’ I blurted out suddenly.

  ‘Who who is?’

  ‘The person Sally has left me for.’

  ‘Why would I know that?’ Gus replied, somewhat unconvincingly in my eyes.

  ‘Because her brother knew all about it, along with her friend Jennifer – thought you might too.’

  ‘I don’t really like where this is going,’ Gus confessed.

  ‘Do you not?’ I asked, knowing I was losing control, directing my frustrations at the wrong target.

  ‘No, or your tone,’ Gus answered, rising from his seat.

  ‘Well, her brother said there had been many, how can I put it, “liaisons” over the years, you included, apparently.’

  Gus stood up to leave as I looked straight on. He leaned in towards me.

  ‘It’s been a difficult day and you are stressed; let’s just leave it there.’

  ‘Don’t patronise me, Gus,’ I breathed at him through gritted teeth.

  He looked shaken, wounded by my words.

  ‘Come on, Eddie; we go back years, don’t we?’ he said, just trying a reasonable approach.

  But I ignored him and instead allowed the seed to push its roots further into me, to take full control.

  ‘Actually,’ I continued, ‘it was in this very bar, wasn’t it, when I first met you, cosying up with my wife? All makes sense now.’

  His face changed in an instant, and a dark frown I had never seen before formed rigidly across his brow.

  ‘Who was it telling me at the Whispering Rocks a few weeks ago that they had met somebody? Somebody that made you feel, I believe your phrase was “alive”?’ he hissed into the side of my face, his voice still controlled, but the anger he felt now visible in his eyes.

  I went to reply, to tell him of my decision to make the marriage work, but he continued.

  ‘You both were unhappy, unhappy for years; the whole
thing was a lie, a farce – one of you had to make the move to leave,’ he said, echoing Jennifer’s words to me. ‘Perhaps you are just sore, your stupid pride is dented because Sally dared to go first. You are nothing but a sad, pathetic hypocrite,’ he spat at me.

  ‘Gus–’

  He put his hand up to stop me speaking. ‘I don’t know what her brother said, or anyone else, but for what it’s worth, I have never been close to Sally in that way. She and you were my friends.’

  ‘Were your friends?’ I questioned.

  ‘I am going to say bye to Mary. I’ll see you around, Eddie,’ he said, his voice revealing the hurt he held inside.

  And he turned and walked away.

  I contemplated calling after him, to tell him I was sorry, but in a split second the protocol of the occasion took control and instead I just felt my face burn. I wasn’t sure if it was the after-effects of Clifford’s toast or the anger and embarrassment I now felt toward myself.

  The burning slowly subsided, replaced by the acute anxiety which can only be driven by loss. I sat and looked at my reflection in the mirror behind the bar. In the space of a week, I had chosen to end something before it had begun, lost my wife, a good friend and now another.

  I smiled at my mirror image – I thought things were supposed to happen in threes, I thought. I sat on and on, feeling guilty that my own predicament was taking precedence over supporting Mary, but I didn’t dare to move, I couldn’t face having to explain, now the day was drawing to a close, the absence of Sally.

  People were starting to leave. It is always the same: a trickle soon becomes a flood, all looking to not be the last person to depart; the last person, guilt-ridden, knowing they are the one leaving the grieving spouse to face the first night alone with the empty ache, now that the corpse is at restlife.

  I contemplated finding Mary to offer my final condolences, but she found me.

  ‘Thanks for coming, Eddie,’ she said behind me, and squeezed my arm. ‘And thanks for organising the others to…’ She trailed off, remembering, I sensed, the image of her husband’s body carried aloft.

  I placed my hand on top of hers in response – words were not necessary, were not needed.

  Mary smiled to herself and went to speak to me, but stopped herself. I guessed at this, the tail end of the day, she knew Sally’s absence wasn’t due to illness, but didn’t know how to broach it.

  I waited, ready to craft a response.

  ‘I’ve been very naughty,’ she said finally, taking me completely by surprise.

  ‘Naughty?’

  Mary nodded and smiled. ‘Since Clifford’s been gone, I’ve let Ben and Alfie into the house.’

  ‘I don’t follow, Mary,’ I stated, but feeling content with the subject matter.

  ‘You know he had a thing about animals being in the house, he said it spoilt them, but I always felt sorry for them, outside in the barn on a filthy winter’s night.’

  I laughed as I remembered his thoughts on Henry being inside. ‘He has a fur coat for a reason,’ he would argue to me.

  ‘At first, just during the day, they seemed restless,’ Mary continued. ‘I let them come and go, but now they are sleeping in the kitchen all night. He’d have a fit if he knew!’

  ‘Yes, he would,’ I laughed.

  ‘They have taken to it straight away, not a peep out of either of them.’

  ‘What about the others, the Jack Russells?’ I asked.

  Mary shook her head at the suggestion. ‘No, they are happy in the barn and the yard, they do their own thing. And besides, they weren’t that close to Clifford. But the other two followed him everywhere – up onto the hills, when he tinkered in the yard, or headed into town for anything. Having them inside is like he is still…’ She trailed off again, and again she didn’t need to finish the sentence. Her light-hearted approach was to no avail; it had still been hunted down by her grief.

  ‘Thanks for the flowers, too,’ she said quickly, changing the subject.

  I felt my face flush as I recalled that moment of gazing at the hearse earlier that day. In my self-absorbed state, I had not even considered purchasing a bouquet, a fact Mary would discover when she sought comfort from the array of flowers at the grave in the days to come.

  ‘Although, I know Sally bought them!’ she stated.

  I gave a guilty smile as I waited for Mary to ask the question. But instead she drifted off into her own space, her own world, and as the time dragged slowly by, only our eyes making contact, the emphasis for me to continue the interaction became intolerable. Ignatius McKenzie jumped into my mind, and the revelation he had shared with me. It appeared the perfect time to pass the message on to Mary that Clifford was fine; was back to his old self, not the dissolving shell we had recently witnessed. But my mind would not allow the words to form, to burden Mary with a cruel image she had not been privy to herself. Evidently, my subconscious mind had decided that four departures in a week were enough; a fifth would be positively careless.

  ‘I will give you a ring tonight and see you tomorrow, Mary,’ I said, giving her a hug.

  ‘Thanks again for organising what you did, Eddie. No need for the call though, I’ll be fine,’ she replied over my shoulder, and then broke away.

  She held my face in her hands and looked at me intently.

  ‘Life goes on and life is good,’ she whispered.

  I held her gaze, not blinking. She didn’t seem to be trying to convince herself with these words.

  ‘Shouldn’t I be the one saying this to you?’ I eventually replied.

  ‘Perhaps.’ She smiled, lowering her hands slowly from my cheeks.

  I smiled back.

  ‘I just think you need to hear it more than I do, Eddie,’ she reasoned.

  Chapter 19

  After the Storm

  Life did go on, but it was not good, far from it. I merely blundered through a void. Each day seemed unrewarding, indistinguishable from the next.

  I did try to get on; I headed into the mountains on three separate occasions over the past eight weeks. Their beauty remained, as did the glorious silence held within. But I found as I climbed that I had to stop regularly to draw breath and to answer the screaming from my lower legs. I couldn’t believe my fitness levels had deteriorated so rapidly in just over two months; it must be the lack of conversation, limited though it used to be, that left my brain bored and susceptible to discomfort.

  Even when the summit was reached, the usual sense of achievement deserted me. When I was with Gus we would spot distant landmarks far below, or just sit and talk, or watch for hares and buzzards, and all the while feel a degree of accomplishment at sitting as high as it was possible to go. But on my own, I stood and watched for mere minutes before a voice reasoned with me that it was time to head home, though for what purpose was never made clear to me.

  Over the past few weeks I have improved my culinary skills. I have had to. There are only so many ready meals we should have to eat in our lifetime; not only for the health of our bodies, but for the well-being of our bank balances too. My repertoire is mostly made up of basic, one-pot dishes, but is tasty and hearty in delivery.

  Henry approves of them too; in fact, he eats more than I do at present, as after cooking I do not really relish the prospect of eating alone. As I sit down, he moves next to my breakfast stool and looks up at me, licking his lips expectantly.

  I usually make enough food for two or three days; I follow recipes for four people and am not as yet confident enough to reduce the quantities for a single portion. This means the second and third days’ meals are reheated in the microwave. Perhaps I am not free of ready meals just yet.

  Henry had all of the meal yesterday, as instead, I digested the contents of the letter that greeted me from the doormat when I arrived back at the house. I read the letter as the m
icrowave whirred into life and stopped rereading as it gave notice of its completed task with a resounding ‘ping’. The page revealed that Sally wanted to divorce me, or rather, she had instructed a firm of efficient-sounding solicitors to tell me her wishes. They informed me that if I was in agreement, ‘proceedings’, whatever they entailed, could be over in a matter of weeks. However, if I contested, they had more than enough evidence of unreasonable behaviour against me dating from throughout the marriage, which would be cited in court. They urged me to seek legal advice and trusted I would decide to take the easy option for all concerned and not contest the petition at this difficult time. The letter concluded with a notification that Sally planned to move her personal possessions out of the property in a week’s time and that it would be appreciated if I was not at the house at this time.

  After reading that, I lost my appetite. It made sense, but it seemed sudden and rushed; the countless years of unhappiness did not now seem enough to justify this outcome. I had no control, and what was ‘unreasonable behaviour’? I felt I had failed.

  We could have talked, but we had had years to do that. Besides, the drift had occurred slowly, like someone ageing or gaining or losing weight – you do not notice the change while living with them until the person you once knew is all gone.

  I wouldn’t contest, why should I? As Gus had told me, we all deserve to be happy. But was my life happy, standing again in the kitchen, ready to prepare food once more for myself? I had answers, but no plan for where I went to next.