Accommodation at the Farringford comes in the shape of self-catering cottages in the grounds. I’ve booked one of the two-bedroom versions. Access to the house itself is restricted at this time of year, which is a shame, but that’s not why we’re here.
Malo has parked the car in front of our cottage. There’s still a blush of orange in the west but dusk is falling fast. Malo is looking back at the house. This once belonged to Alfred Lord Tennyson. To me it has perfect proportions, just two floors in soft grey stone. One end of the property is covered in ivy and a magnificent cedar tree frames the view towards Tennyson Down.
‘This is where you stayed, right?’
‘Yes. I had the bedroom at the top there, third window from the left. I got up early every morning to catch the sunrise. I’ll never forget it.’
We eat that night at a pub in the village. At H’s insistence, I’m spending Christmas down at Flixcombe Manor, but I want this evening to be our own special celebration, just Malo and myself. My son sorts out the drinks and takes our food order to the bar. There’s a comfortable buzz of conversation from the surrounding tables and locals attend to the wood-burning stove when it needs a new log or two. Perfect.
Over loin of pork and roast potatoes, Malo fills me in about his two weeks in West Africa. Only towards the end of the trip, he says, did his dad really get any kind of handle on the place. Until then, he’d been certain that they could find Mbaye’s family, pay their respects, bung them a quid or two, and offer to organize repatriation of the body. The latter gesture, I suspect, wouldn’t be cheap and when I ask Malo how much he says nearly £3,000. The body must be embalmed. It must also be free from infection and transported in a zinc-lined coffin to provide a hermetic seal. Lots of documentation includes a copy of the death certificate and the findings of the Coroner.
‘And you’ll be organizing all this?’
‘Yes. But that’s not the point. We looked high and low for the right village. There are loads of them, boats drawn up on the beach, everyone sitting on their arse, kids everywhere. In the end we gave up on finding the right one and just chose the prettiest.’
‘The prettiest?’
‘Dad’s idea. We tracked backwards. There was one beside an estuary, a bit nicer than the rest. Dad got me to go and find the priest. He turned out to be a really good guy, quite young. I explained about Mbaye, and not finding anyone who seemed to recognize him, and then I asked him whether it would be OK for him to do the honours.’
Honours? Once again I tell him I don’t understand. Malo grins.
‘Take care of him. Find a plot. Have a grave dug. Put a headstone in, something decent, something nice with just the name. Mbaye. Plus the date he left us.’
The date he left us. Monday 13 November. Written on my heart.
‘And?’
‘He was a bit doubtful at first but then Dad arrived and took him aside. You know the way he does that?’
I nodded. Oh, yes.
‘Dad said he’d pay for it all, the grave and everything, plus he’d give some money to the village for whatever they needed, maybe like a medical centre or something, I dunno.’
‘A medical centre? How much money are we talking here?’
‘That’s what I asked Dad. He said half a million.’
‘Half a million?’
Malo nods. Half a million pounds. Instead of UKIP, I think, a medical facility in a remote West African village. Instead of mischief-making in the UK, something truly worthwhile. And all in the memory of a boy we’d known for less than a day.
I resist the temptation to phone Mitch. He’d hate news like this.
‘So what happened?’
‘The priest said yes. Only too happy. That night he introduced us to the elders in the village. Weird. I thought we might be in for some kind of ceremony, some tribal thing, but all they did was sit round and talk about how poor they were. Dad was really disappointed.’
I’m smiling. I can imagine this scene, H feeling short-changed by a bunch of West African whingers. Then another thought occurs to me.
‘So we have no family for Mbaye?’
‘That’s right. None.’
‘Then how are you going to lay hands on the body? The Coroner won’t just give you the keys to the mortuary. It doesn’t work that way.’
‘I know. That’s what I told Dad. I took advice. Mbaye’s family have to come up with proof that he was their son.’
‘Is H aware of this?’
‘Of course. I told him. I got advice. I spelled it out before we went.’
‘And?’
‘He said it wouldn’t be a problem. We’d find the family and sort it.’
‘And now?’
‘I dunno. He never listens, Dad. Maybe he’ll just end up giving the priest the half million. Call it quits.’
‘Conscience money? For getting the boy killed?’
‘Maybe.’
We finish our main course and study the desserts board. Malo settles for treacle tart while I order a sorbet. When Malo returns from the bar he finds something waiting for him.
‘What’s this?’
‘Open it.’
‘But what is it, Mum?’
‘Call it an early Christmas present. Call it what you like. Just open it.’
He nods, reaches for a knife, folds back the wrapping paper. Inside is a box. He lifts it out and studies it. It’s American. I found it in a gift shop I especially like off the Cromwell Road.
Malo opens the box. Inside is a container the size of a dinner plate. It has two halves that fit together, both concave, both silvered on the inside. The top half has a circular hole cut in the top.
Malo is staring at it from every angle. He hasn’t a clue what he’s looking at. I delve in my bag for another present, much smaller this time.
‘This goes with it,’ I say. ‘I’ll show you how.’
Malo does some more unwrapping. This time it’s a soapstone figure, jet black, beautifully carved, a bird-like shape with a long curved neck.
‘It’s a loon,’ I tell him. ‘Made by Inuits.’
‘Is it precious?’
‘Very.’
‘So what do I do?’ He gestures at the first present. I position it in the middle of the table and lift the top lid. The carving sits snugly inside. I give the top lid to Malo and tell him to replace it.
He does what he’s told. The lighting, thank God, is perfect.
‘Now sit back. Any angle. It doesn’t matter.’
I hear the scrape of the chair. He’s looking hard at the container, at the hole on the top, at the loon magically hovering above. He reaches forward for it, tries to trap it in his fingers, but it’s made of nothing.
‘It’s an illusion,’ I tell him. ‘In French we’d call it a trompe-l’oeil. What you see isn’t what you get.’
He’s still staring at the loon, daring it to move, to disappear, but it’s still there, a beautiful black nothing. I love the expression on his face. He could be seven again.
‘Happy Christmas,’ I say.
Next morning I get up before sunrise, find something warm to wear, and tiptoe out of the cottage. My feet are bare and the dew is icy on the grass. I’ve been canny enough to pack a heavy sweater as well as my jeans and I wait beneath the cedar for the clouds to part. The forecast doesn’t let me down. The sky to the east is already on fire and I tilt my face to the sun as shadows slowly appear all round me. When I was on location here, so many years ago, it was high summer but the feeling of aloneness, of privilege, of somehow being the only human being on the face of the planet, is no less powerful. I linger for a while, enjoying the first hints of warmth, before returning to the cottage. My son, bless him, is still asleep and to my deep satisfaction he has the loon tucked beneath his pillow.
We set off for Tennyson Down an hour or so later. I lead Malo around the edge of two fields, exactly the path I took every morning all those years ago, and then I find the gap in the hedge that leads up on to the Down. Someone’s instal
led a new-looking stile but apart from that I’ve stepped into a time warp.
The springy turf seems to go on forever. The sun is behind us now and our long shadows sometimes seem to coalesce into one. Gulls are soaring and wheeling overhead, turning to ride the wind that blasts up the cliff face. There are rabbits everywhere, scuttling away for cover, and twice Malo swears he’s seen a stoat. These are magical moments, moments of pure bliss. Ahead of us lies the Tennyson Monument which marks the highest point of the Down.
We pause beside it. The briskness of the walk has brought colour to Malo’s cheeks. He looks alive. He looks so well.
‘So what do you think?’ I nod at the view west. The Needles are invisible from here but the bony whiteness of the sheer cliffs are promise enough.
‘Brilliant,’ he says. ‘No wonder you loved it so much.’
I nod. He’s understood. That’s all I wanted. And now he’s shared that feeling, that wild exaltation, and that’s even better.
‘Come with me.’
I take his hand. It feels very natural. We’re walking towards the cliff edge. He trusts me completely. I know he does. The wind is blowing in from the sea, hitting the cliff face, funnelling upwards. From maybe ten metres away, you can feel its force. Look up, and those same gulls are stationary above us, weightless, riding this invisible column of air.
I stop at the cliff edge and peer over. My son does the same. We can see the creamy swirl of breaking waves among the rocks at the bottom of the cliff. They look so small, so distant, so tempting. One step. Just one. Then oblivion. Cassini, I think. My batteries running out. Our final plunge. Then nothing but silence in the vastness of deep space.
Malo is shivering. I can feel it. He wants to know what happens next.
‘Good question.’
We step back and then head on west towards The Needles. I want to keep this matter-of-fact. No drama. No tears. No concessions to anyone else’s script. Just one promise from my lovely boy.
I motion for him to stop. The sun is on his face. I have some news, I tell him. I’ve been to see the consultant. I’ve had another scan and the results aren’t great. I feel fine in myself, no real symptoms, not like the last time, but there appears to be a chance the Grim Reaper might come calling.
‘The Grim what?’
‘Reaper. It’s code for death. If it does happen, if I die, I want my ashes thrown off that cliff edge.’
Malo follows my pointing finger. He frowns, and then shakes his head and puts his arms around me.
‘I love you, Mum,’ he says. ‘We’ll sort this out.’
Curtain Call Page 31
