by Maureen Lee
With a feeling of alarm she went into the hall and opened the study door – and a great black hole seemed to open in front of her. Jack was lying on the settee, and she knew straight away that he was dead. His face was sickly pale, his lips curved in the slightest of smiles. He had rested his head on a green satin pillow, one hand cupping his chin, the other hanging limply. His body, from head to toe, seemed to be covered in a grey veil, like the finest of cobwebs. A half-empty bottle of whisky was on the desk.
‘Jack!’ She screamed, and the veil disappeared. Jack opened his eyes, and said blearily, ‘Hi, sweetheart. I must have dropped off. Hey, guess what, I’ve started a play.’
‘You bugger!’ She sank, shaking, into a chair, her hand pressed to her crazily beating heart. ‘I thought you were dead!’
‘I’m very much alive, Josie. Well, almost. I’ve got pins and needles in my legs.’ He tried to stand, laughed and fell back. ‘They’ll go in a minute.’
Perhaps it was because she had thought him dead, or that she had been away for ten whole days, but Josie was suddenly struck by how old he looked, and so very frail. She hadn’t realised that his hair had turned quite so grey, or that he had a slight stoop, or that the flesh on his neck was hanging loosely. Had his wrists always been so thin, with the bones protruding sharply, like little white doorknobs? His eyes, though, his eyes were just the same – warm, brown, smiling at her from the face more heavily lined than she remembered.
He made another attempt to get up, and Josie said, ‘Stay there, darling. The kettle’s just boiled. I’ll make some tea.’
She put milk in cups, two sugars for Jack, none for her, and spread a plate with chocolate biscuits. She’d make a proper meal in a minute, something quick from the freezer. In the lounge the bell mobile tinkled, and she thought again about the draught, but all the while there was a buzzing in her head, a feeling of dread in her bones, because she knew, somehow she just knew, that Jack was dying. She had seen it in his face, as if death were lurking somewhere near, waiting to pounce. There’d been a feeling in the air when she came in, a haunted quietness, like the calm before the storm. If she hadn’t arrived when she did, she felt convinced that death would have taken from her the man she loved.
He was passing blood. She found it on his clothes, but he flatly refused to see a doctor. ‘I don’t want to know what’s wrong,’ he said, so airily that she wanted to thump him.
‘You might only need a few tablets.’
He smiled sweetly. ‘I don’t think so, sweetheart.’
She stamped her foot. ‘Since when have you been such an expert on medical matters?’
‘I’m an expert when it comes to treatment for myself. No doctors, no tablets. And kindly don’t mention the words “hospital” or “operations” in my presence. I’m having no truck with either.’
Josie rang Dottie and told her about Jack’s intransigence.
‘I don’t blame him,’ Dottie said gruffly. ‘It’s his body. I said that to you once before. It’s up to him how it’s treated.’
‘That’s stupid,’ Josie wept. She told her about the blood on his clothes. ‘What can it mean?’
‘Do you want me to be brutally honest?’
Josie hesitated. ‘Yes, please.’
‘It might be something quite innocent, but Jack’s drunk so much for so long that his insides have probably rotted. It could be cancer.’
‘Oh, God, no!’
‘It’s probably why he won’t see a doctor. He doesn’t want all that radiotherapy rubbish. In fact,’ Dottie said thoughtfully, ‘we talked about it once. We both agreed we’d sooner die than have treatment that can drag on for years. Relatives suffer as much as the patient. I said I’d like to meet me maker with a fag in my hand, and Jack said he wanted to go holding a glass of Jack Daniels.’
He was visibly getting weaker and weaker, day by day. He ate scarcely anything. They didn’t go out much. Francie came round on Saturday afternoons with half a dozen cans of beer, and they watched football on television.
It had happened, like every major event in her life, in the twinkling of an eye. Josie had gone to London to see a new life being born, and returned to find another life being slowly snuffed out.
‘Make him go to the doctor, Mum,’ Dinah raged on the phone.
‘I can’t, luv. He refuses to budge.’
‘Then get the doctor to come to him.’
‘I did, and your dad refused to see him. He went into his study and played New Orleans jazz at top blast.’
‘Is he depressed?’ Dinah asked curiously.
‘No, he’s perfectly happy. There’s people dropping in to see him all day long. He’s busy writing his play, and drinking like a fish, which is probably why he doesn’t have any pain. It’s almost as if …’ Josie paused.
‘As if what, Mum?’
‘As if he doesn’t care.’ She suppressed a sob.
‘But, Mum,’ Dinah cried despairingly, ‘he’s always been so full of life. Why on earth should he not care?’
‘I don’t know, Dinah. I wish I did.’
They had begun to talk openly about death. ‘No Requiem Mass, no priests, no prayers, no hymns,’ he said lightly. ‘If there must be music, I want Louis Armstrong, Jerryroll Morton and Ella Fitzgerald singing “Every Time We Say Goodbye”.’
‘Fuck off,’ Josie said.
He looked at her, pretending to be shocked. ‘I’ve never heard you use that word before.’
‘I never have. How dare you sit there, dictating the music for your funeral? Have you got no thought for me?’ She burst into tears. ‘I haven’t the remotest idea how I’ll live without you.’
‘You’ll get over me in time, Jose,’ he said, so complacently that she nearly threw her book at him. ‘Everyone gets over everything in time.’
‘Have you got over Laura? I haven’t. A day never goes by when I don’t think about her.’
His thin face paled. ‘That day is indelibly etched in my mind. It will be a relief to escape. I don’t believe in an afterlife but, you never know, sweetheart, if there’s a heaven, I might meet our little girl.’
‘Oh, God, Jack. I don’t think I can take any more of this.’
By now, he was housebound. Every part of him was gradually breaking down. His legs wouldn’t carry him far, his hands could barely grasp a cup. He felt the cold acutely, even though it was a fine, warm summer. His study was a hothouse, where he worked feverishly on his play, still able to type. ‘It’s the best thing I’ve ever done,’ he gloated. You would never guess from his voice, from his laugh or the warm brown smiling eyes that he was a dying man.
‘Can I read it?’ Josie asked.
‘No, you cannot. I’ll not forget the way you treated my other plays. You kicked them, if I remember rightly.’
‘I won’t kick this one,’ she promised.
‘You’re not touching this play until it’s in a sealed envelope.’ He grinned. ‘Then you can post it. Now go away. I’m in a hurry to finish.’
His meaning was obvious. Josie went into the kitchen and threw a cup at the wall.
She had forgotten she was supposed to be running a busy publishing company, but Barefoot House seemed to be coping quite well without her. Dottie Venables produced a charming saga every year, and each one sold in its hundreds of thousands; William Friars’s Bootle thrillers continued to be hits, particularly in the States, where he had a large cult following. The anonymous young Irish writer who called herself Lesley O’Rourke never wrote another book, but My Favourite Murderer continued to sell well in the shops. There were other new writers that she’d never met. One of these days I must catch up on them, she thought, and remembered what would have to happen before she did.
The play was done. It was called The Last Post. ‘You called it after the house?’ Josie was startled. ‘What’s it about?’
‘Mind your own business.’
‘Am I allowed to know where you’re sending it?’
‘I can’t keep that a secret,
it’s on the envelope. It’s going to Max Stafford-Clark at the Royal Court. I met him once. Tomorrow I shall run off a copy and send it to another theatre, and another the day after, and the day after that. This play is going to every theatre in the country.’
Josie hurried to the post office with the large brown envelope under her arm. She would have given everything she possessed in return for Jack’s play being accepted before he died.
She rang Francie. ‘Can you do me a letterhead, just one sheet?’
‘It must be for a very important letter, Jose.’
‘It is.’ She explained what it was for. ‘I’ll send you the particulars – I got them from the London phone directory. I’ll type the letter meself.’
‘I’ll get it done today, Jose.’
‘There’s no need to rush.’ There had to be a decent interval between the play’s arrival and acceptance by the theatre. She prayed Jack would last that long.
Dinah rang. ‘Mum, I’m pregnant,’ she said in a small voice.
‘Good heavens, Dinah.’ Josie sat down quickly. ‘I’m thrilled to bits, but Christopher’s only four months old. You’re going to have two babies on your hands. I thought you didn’t want to over-populate the world?’
‘One of the reasons the world is over-populated is that some women think they can’t become pregnant if they’re breast-feeding and not having periods.’
‘You mean they can?’
‘I’m living proof. Not that I mind, but Peter’s a bit fed up. Anyroad, that’s only half me news. The other half is we’re getting married.’
Josie’s hand tightened on the receiver. If only they’d thought of it before, when Jack … ‘That’s marvellous, luv. I wish your dad was well enough to be there.’
‘I wouldn’t dream of getting married in London. We’ve booked the registry office in Brougham Terrace for half past two on the fourteenth of September, two weeks on Friday. Can you put us up? If Dad can give me away, it’ll be the best wedding ever!’
2
Only close friends and relatives had been invited to the actual ceremony – Ben, obviously, Colette, Jeremy, and the twins, Marigold and Jonathan, Dottie Venables, Richard White from Barefoot House who’d once worked with Dinah, Francie O’Leary and his sons, Lily’s two girls and Oliver, in new shorts and his first proper shirt. Josie would carry Christopher.
Every single person they knew was coming to the reception, which would be held in Mosely Drive – Josie’s staff, Jack’s friends and their neighbours either side so they wouldn’t complain about the noise. Josie didn’t bother to count the numbers. She ordered enough food and drink for a hundred and fifty, hoping there’d be enough and that the weather would be fine so people could go in the garden. If everyone had to stay inside, they wouldn’t be able to breathe.
The Irish group were coming, as were Greg and his jazz band. Francie was bringing his sixties records, and Josie made sure there was a spare stylus for the turntable on the music centre.
She had never known a week like it before in her life. The air tingled with bitter-sweet excitement. Her husband was dying, her daughter was getting married and she never seemed to be without a lump in her throat. The phone scarcely stopped ringing; people kept dropping in with wedding presents. She had Jack try on his suits and discovered they were all too big, so a tailor was persuaded to come round and measure for alterations. He took away the mid-grey flannel she liked best, and promised to have it ready by Friday morning. He was so nice and helpful that she invited him to the wedding.
There was a posy to order for Dinah, buttonholes for the guests, flowers for the house, bedrooms to get ready. She still hadn’t bought herself an outfit. A problem cropped up at Barefoot House and she told them she didn’t want to know. The firm could go bankrupt for all she cared. This coming Friday represented a full stop in her life, and she didn’t give a damn what happened afterwards.
Dinah arrived with Oliver and Christopher on Tuesday, Dottie on Wednesday to ‘give a hand’. Peter wasn’t coming till Thursday evening.
‘Did you give him that letter to post?’ Josie said to Dinah anxiously. ‘It’s got to have a London postmark.’
‘He’s posting it Thursday morning.’
Josie gazed out of the window, where Jack was sitting on a bench with Oliver. Her heart turned over. There was hardly anything left of him. His face was calm, as if he were at peace with himself. With each day that passed she sensed he was growing further and further away, from her, from everyone, that he was holding himself together until Friday.
She took Dinah and the children to the fairy glen. ‘I used to bring you in a great big pram when you were Christopher’s age,’ she told her daughter. The baby was fast asleep in his carrycot on wheels, which would have been dead useful when she’d lived in Princes Avenue. Oliver chased the ducks, and Josie showed Dinah the bench where she’d had the argument with Ben, and where Daisy Kavanagh had been sitting the morning she’d rescued her from a great dilemma.
‘What sort of dilemma?’ Dinah wanted to know.
‘I can’t remember now,’ her mother lied. It had been all to do with Uncle Vince, and Josie found it hard to believe she was still the same person who’d lived in Machin Street with the man who had been both her uncle and her father. Or the little girl from Huskisson Street whose mam was on the game. She hardly ever thought about Mam these days, yet there’d been a time when she’d thought of her every day.
‘Mum, what’s wrong? You look as if you’re going to cry.’
‘I dunno, luv. It’s the passing of time, growing old. It’s all so terribly sad. Oh,’ she cried angrily, ‘I wish people didn’t have to die!’
‘But then there’d be no space for babies to be born.’ Dinah sounded very practical. ‘One of these days Peter and I will die, by which time our children will have had children. Even this one in here.’ She patted her stomach. ‘It’s the way of the world, Mum.’
‘There’s still no reason why it has to be so bloody sad.’
She went shopping alone and bought a dress of ivory sculptured velvet, very fine. The material clung to her hips, swirling around her ankles in soft folds. Her own wedding outfit had been pink velvet, she remembered, and she’d got it in a thrift shop. When Dinah’s wedding was over, she would put this dress away and never wear it again, nor the delicate, high-heeled, strappy shoes and the hat that was like a large flower, the petals framing her face. She was buying everything especially for Jack.
‘You’ll look more like the bride than the real one,’ Dottie commented when Josie got home and showed her everything.
‘Dinah won’t mind.’ Dinah had decided on a plain blue suit that would ‘do again’. ‘What will you be wearing, Dottie?’ She was praying that one of the country’s bestselling novelists didn’t intend to turn up to the wedding in her customary leather jacket and jeans.
Dottie must have guessed her thoughts. She hooted raucously. ‘I won’t let you down, Jose. There’s a smart check suit hanging in the wardrobe.’ She winked. ‘I got it in Harrods. By the way, has Lynne told you not to expect a book from me next year?’
‘No, but I’ve deliberately cut meself off from Barefoot House all week.’ That could have been the problem they’d wanted to discuss the other day. Josie didn’t care if Dottie never wrote another book again.
‘Don’t you want to know why?’ Dottie pretended to look hurt.
‘Of course, Dottie. Why can’t I expect a book from you next year?’
‘Because I’m trekking round the world, that’s why.’ The small eyes twinkled wickedly.
‘Trekking!’ Josie giggled. ‘In a pith helmet and khaki shorts?’
‘Forget about the helmet, but I’ve already got the shorts. And, no, I’m not really trekking, but I’m going to visit the most out-of-the-way places where there’s no chance of being murdered or kidnapped, so Barefoot House doesn’t have to worry about paying a ransom.’ Dottie sighed rapturously. ‘I intend to cross America by Greyhound bus, travel through Can
ada by train, learn to play the didgeridoo in Australia. I’m fifty-five, Josie, same as you, and I’ve never seen an iceberg in the flesh, walked through a jungle, crossed a desert on a camel, sailed down the Nile. Before I get too old I want to do every single one of those things, and a few more I haven’t mentioned.’
Josie said it sounded marvellous, and she was looking forward to lots of postcards, though she was unable to imagine a time beyond Friday.
She woke at half six on the day Dinah was to marry Peter Kavanagh. The glimmer of light showing between the curtains looked ominously dull. When she got out of bed to look out of the window, her worst suspicious were confirmed. It was raining, not heavily but a steady drizzle, and dark clouds rolled across the leaden sky.
‘What’s it like?’ Jack was struggling to sit up.
‘Horrible!’
‘It’s only early. There’s plenty of time for it to improve.’
Josie got back into bed and curled up against him. ‘How do you feel?’
‘Great.’
‘Are you sure you’re up to going to the register office?’
He looked at her, amused. ‘I just said I felt great. I mean it, Jose. This is a day I never in my widest dreams thought would happen. My daughter is getting married and I’m giving her away.’ He kissed the top of her head. ‘Thank you for the last five years, sweetheart.’
‘Thank you, Jack. They’ve been wonderful.’
They stayed leaning against the pillows for quite a while, neither speaking. Questions chased each other through Josie’s head. How many more times will I do this? How many more times will I hear him call me ‘sweetheart’? They were questions to which she didn’t want an answer.
The post came. There was a letter for Jack with a London postmark. Josie had typed the envelope herself a few days before. He was in the bathroom, no doubt having the first drink of the day. For some reason he had always shut himself away for the early morning drinks. She knocked on the door and sang out, ‘Letter for you. I’ll put it on your desk.’
