All Things Undying

by Marcia Talley

  The day had turned surreal. There I was, staring through the window of Mullin’s Bakery at a tray of plain, ordinary, everyday pork pasties while getting messages from my dead mother concerning my father’s sex life.

  ‘Yes,’ I admitted. ‘He’s got a steady girlfriend.’ Her name was Cornelia, but I decided to keep that fact to myself in case Susan was able to pluck her name, like a rabbit, out of her hat.

  ‘Look, Hannah, I really feel the need to talk to you privately. Today’s insane, but I’m wondering if you could come for a private reading, say eight o’clock tomorrow morning? My place?’

  ‘I appreciate the offer, Susan, but . . .’ I paused for a moment, trying to organize my thoughts. What did that guy say at the theater last night? No way I could afford two hundred dollars (or was it pounds?) for a private reading. As intrigued as I was with the idea of a private session with a world-famous medium who was calling me (little ole me!) on my mobile phone, talking to me like she was my new best friend, I knew that neither my American Express nor my Visa card could take such a hit. ‘Susan, I have to be up front with you. I really can’t afford a private session.’

  Susan laughed, sounding genuinely surprised. ‘Oh, Hannah! I didn’t invite you over to ask you for money! I just want to talk, I promise. Say you will.’

  I must have hesitated a moment too long because she quickly upped the ante. ‘I’ll brew up a pot of one-hundred per cent American coffee. And if that’s not incentive enough, I’ve got bagels. And cream cheese.’

  Then it was my turn to laugh. ‘Consider my arm twisted. Eight o’clock then?’

  ‘Eight o’clock. Janet will tell you how to get here.’

  As I slipped my cell phone back into my handbag, I found myself genuinely looking forward to the visit. The way I figured it, either Susan Parker was the real deal, or she wasn’t. If she was, she might open the door to communication with my late mother. If she wasn’t? Well, I hadn’t had a decent bagel in a long, long time.

  The next morning I was up, dressed and had eaten a small dish of fruit at the table by myself when my cell phone beeped. Susan was texting me. ‘Running L8. 8:30?’

  ‘OK,’ I texted back. A woman of many words, that’s me. My daughter, Emily, would have texted ‘K’, but I felt that as a celebrity, Susan deserved the bonus ‘O’.

  I was already halfway out the door, so I decided to kill some time by walking the long way around by Bayards Cove – where the Mayflower pilgrims first set off for America in 1620 – and watch the Lower Ferry come in. Afterwards, I wandered along the Embankment to the Station Cafe. From 1889 to 1972 or thereabouts, the cafe had actually served as Dartmouth’s train station, selling tickets, although there’d never been any platform, tracks or trains. Now it was a restaurant, primarily providing hot beverages and snacks to the tourists who lined up to catch buses or passenger ferries at various locations along the Embankment.

  With my hands wrapped around a cup of hot tea, warming them in the cool morning air, I leaned my arms against the railing and watched the passenger ferries come and go, carrying visitors up and down the River Dart to Totnes, Dittisham, Greenway and the Castle, reinforcing the fact that Dartmouth had always been a seafaring town.

  With ten minutes to spare and excitement growing, I tossed my empty cup into a rubbish bin, then headed north along the Embankment to keep my date with Susan.

  One might think that after watching Susan strike out completely with Alison’s dad, I’d not put much stock in my upcoming reading. Yet Susan had been the first to admit that she didn’t always get it right. And for me, it all came down to one word: refrigerator.

  At one of the many blue and white ticket kiosks that lined the Embankment, just opposite the public restrooms, I was amused to see a border terrier snuffling at the crumbs remaining in a Walkers roast chicken crisps packet, pushing the distinctive gold packet along the pavement with his nose, dragging his leash behind him. When he lost interest in the packet and made a move to lift his leg against the side of the kiosk, the ticket agent shook off his lethargy, stepped out of the kiosk and brandished a fist. ‘Here, you! Get along, then!’

  It was a busy summer day on the Embankment. Too many cars, buses and pedestrians made it a hazardous place for a little dog out on a stroll by itself. Even then, I was hearing honking horns and sirens. I knelt down, patted the ground in front of me. ‘Here, boy. C’mon.’

  The terrier cocked his head, considered my offer, then decided that a Cadbury Dairy Milk wrapper had a lot more going for it.

  ‘That your dog?’ the ticket agent wanted to know.

  ‘I don’t know who he belongs to.’ I stood up and moved in. ‘Hey, fella. You off on a little holiday?’

  The dog retreated a step, studying me suspiciously with liquid brown eyes. I took the opportunity to step on his leash, pinning the leather strap to the pavement. ‘OK, now. Let’s see who you belong to.’ I seized the leash and ran my hand cautiously along its length. When the animal didn’t seem of a mind to object, I grabbed his collar and turned it until I could reach the tags that hung around its neck. One tag certified that the dog had been vaccinated against rabies at a veterinary clinic in Hollywood, California. The other tag simply said ‘Bruce’, and listed a telephone with a 323 area code: Los Angeles.

  Susan Parker’s dog.

  ‘I know his owner,’ I told the ticket agent. I tugged on Bruce’s leash. ‘Come on, you little rascal. I’m taking you home.’

  With Bruce trotting along the Embankment beside me, tags jangling, I felt like a proper Brit, out for a morning stroll. I’d owned a cat once, but keeping a dog in downtown Annapolis, particularly when Paul and I were both working, always seemed like it would be too hard, particularly on the dog. But as the fresh air filled my lungs and Bruce’s little legs pumped to keep up, I thought maybe it was time to reconsider the No Dog Rule.

  As Bruce and I drew near the first bus stop, the crowd grew denser. I was beginning to wonder why everyone was facing in the same direction, actually moving away from the bus stop, when I noticed the flashing blue lights. I’m as curious as the next person, so I followed the crowd as it surged forward. Bruce began straining at the leash, urging me onward. I had thought the fresh air was making my mind sharp, but it took me a while to put it together. Runaway dog, sirens, flashing blue lights. I broke into a run, elbowing my way through the crowd, dragging poor, frantic Bruce, toenails scrabbling on the pavement, behind me.

  Through gaps in the crowd, I saw a man kneeling beside a bundle of lavender clothing that I had last seen Susan wearing. ‘Let me through!’ I screamed, shoving people out of my way. ‘She’s my friend!’

  I rushed to Susan’s side and knelt down. I didn’t like the way Susan lay, her body twisted at an unnatural angle, like a question mark. But her eyes were open. That was a good sign, wasn’t it? I grabbed her hand and rubbed it briskly. ‘Susan, Susan, can you hear me?’ I looked up, pleaded with the sea of faces. ‘Oh, God! Somebody call 999.’

  It took me a second to realize that that had already been done. I’d heard the sirens, saw the flashing blue lights. Even now, a PCSO wearing a bright green reflective vest over his uniform was running toward us on foot from the direction of the police station just a few hundred yards away.

  The man kneeling opposite me said, ‘I’m a doctor. But I’m afraid there’s not a lot I can do for her.’ He was dressed in a T-shirt tucked into a pair of loose jogging shorts. Ear buds dangled loosely from an iPod strapped to his upper arm. A small white towel was draped limply around his neck. ‘I suspect her neck is broken. If it’s any comfort to you, I think she was killed instantly. I don’t think she suffered.’

  I sat down, hard, on the cold stone pavement. How would he know whether or not Susan suffered? Nearby, flowers blazed red and orange and yellow in an immense stone planter; the fronds of a palm tree stirred in a gentle breeze against a clear, blue sky. Something was terribly wrong with this picture. Tears ran hotly down my cheeks. ‘What happened?’

  A
woman in a pink fleece warm-up suit materialized from the crowd. ‘A car came out of nowhere, like. Jumped the curb. Ran right into her, poor thing. Then drove off.’ She shook her head. ‘What sort of person would do that?’

  ‘What kind of car?’ the police officer asked as he waved the crowd aside, clearing a path for the paramedics who had just arrived with a gurney.

  ‘Dark blue,’ the woman said.

  ‘No, it was gray,’ someone else offered. ‘Black, maybe.’

  ‘Make?’

  ‘A Vauxhall?’

  ‘No, it was a Ford. Might have been one of those hybrid cars. Whatchacallum? Focus?’

  ‘No, you berk. It was a Fiat. My brother-in-law drives one just like it.’

  Forty witnesses and forty stories. Why the police officer even bothered to ask the next question, I couldn’t imagine. ‘Anyone see the number plate?’

  Blank looks and mumbling.

  ‘So, no one saw the registration number, then?’

  ‘Could have begun with a W, or maybe a V. It all happened so fast, you know.’

  Darth Vader could have run down my friend, and no one would have been able to describe the fricking Death Star.

  ‘Ma’am? Ma’am?’ One of the paramedics knelt beside me, speaking softly into my ear. ‘We need you to move so we can help your friend.’ I felt his hand, cool and slightly damp, ease Susan’s lifeless hand out of mine. He escorted me to a park bench, and waited until I sat down. ‘Are you going to be all right?’

  ‘Shit, no,’ my brain screamed, but my vocal chords had shut down. I nodded dumbly.

  What had my mother wanted to tell me? Had there been a message for my father, one of my sisters, or for me? With Susan gone, there was no way I’d ever know.

  As the paramedics worked to revive Susan, I squeezed my eyelids tightly closed and prayed – please, oh please, oh please – even though I knew, deep down where despair was turning my gut into a roiling bag of snakes, that their efforts would be fruitless.

  ‘Make way, make way.’ I recognized the voice of the PCSO and my eyelids flew open in time to see the gurney carrying Susan’s motionless body being wheeled along the pavement toward a waiting ambulance whose doors yawned wide to receive it.

  ‘Oooh,’ I moaned. Bruce climbed into my lap, tail wagging so hard that his whole body quivered. He rested his forepaws on my chest, nosed my chin, then began licking the tears from my face.

  I sat on the Embankment on a beautiful summer day clutching Bruce’s leash in my hand like a lifeline, and began to bawl.

  TEN

  ‘The Ford Fiesta is not just the best-selling car of December but of the whole year, selling a staggering 117,296 models by the end of 2009 [taking over] the top UK sales position from the Ford Focus. The pair retained first and second place in the sales charts through to the end of the year. After the Focus follows the Vauxhall Corsa, Vauxhall Astra, Volkswagen Golf, Peugeot 207, Mini, BMW 3-series, Vauxhall Insignia and Ford Mondeo.’

  Faye Sunderland, ‘Green Car Becomes Top-Selling Model of 2009,’ January 7, 2010, www.TheGreenCarWebsite.co.uk

  I don’t suppose anyone was happy about Susan’s death except Samantha and Victoria Brelsford who had inherited, at least for the time being, Susan’s dog, Bruce.

  After an early dinner, Janet’s daughters retreated to their bedroom in the owner’s apartment where they proceeded to dress him up in baby clothes and spoil ‘Brucie’ with Sizzlers bacon treats.

  I had no appetite for dinner. Claiming a headache – not so far from the truth – I’d gone up to my room early, changed into my Betty Boop pajamas, and was trying to read a Christopher Buckley novel, but even Buckley’s offbeat sense of humor wasn’t keeping my brain engaged. My thoughts kept wandering back to that morning, to Susan’s lifeless body, her vacant eyes, and I’d lose my place. I had read page twenty-three for perhaps the fifth time when there was a gentle knock on my door. ‘Hannah?’

  It was Janet.

  I checked my watch, surprised to discover that it was only eight o’clock. I padded to the door in my bare feet to see what she wanted.

  ‘The girls are settled, Alan’s down at the Cherub. Would you care to join me in the lounge for a glass of wine?’

  I managed to dredge up a smile. ‘Thanks for not asking me how I’m doing, Janet.’

  ‘I know how you’re feeling, Hannah. Gutted.’ She touched my arm lightly. ‘Come as you are. By the time you get downstairs, I’ll be in my pajamas, too.’

  After Janet left, I splashed some water on my face, then wandered over to the wardrobe where I found the fluffy terrycloth robe Janet provided for each of her guests, pulled it off the padded hanger and slipped into it gratefully. I spent several frustrating minutes looking for my slippers before remembering that I hadn’t packed any, then padded downstairs wearing a pair of the gray wool socks Paul never travelled anywhere without.

  The door to the lounge was propped open with an iron cat sculpture with marbles for eyes. Inside, I found Janet already sitting on the couch, legs stretched out, feet propped up on the coffee table next to a bottle of red wine and two balloon glasses. The television was on, its volume muted.

  Janet patted the sofa cushion next to her, indicating I should park myself there. ‘Red or red?’

  ‘After carefully considering the options, I’ll take red.’

  She poured, but when she passed the glass to me, it was so large I had to use both hands.

  We sat in companionable silence, slowly sipping, watching the screen numbly as a silent parade of policemen, some apparently wearing cameras affixed to their heads, brought petty criminals to justice on the highways, byways and back gardens of Britain.

  ‘We were just becoming good friends. And the girls adored her!’ Janet sobbed for the third or fourth time since I’d returned to Horn Hill House and delivered the bad news. She snatched a tissue from the box that sat on the sofa between us and blew her nose.

  I choked up, too, thinking of my mother and missing her terribly. With Susan gone, that door had slammed shut. It was as if Mother had died all over again. I reached for a fresh tissue.

  Janet had inverted the wine bottle over my glass, wringing out the last few drops, when the clock on the mantel chimed ten. Susan switched to the evening news on BBC One, and we sat through stories about the Iraq war, swine flu, rising university tuition fees and how eating fish might protect us from Alzheimers, but surprisingly, there was no mention of Susan Parker’s death.

  At 10:25, BBC One gave way to Spotlight BBC South-West. Janet aimed the remote, and turned up the sound.

  A news reader with perfectly styled, variegated blond hair fixed serious blue eyes on the camera lens and began:

  ‘A woman has been killed by a car in Dartmouth, Devon, following a hit and run, say police. They are keen to trace a dark-colored car with front near side damage and a missing wing mirror, possibly a Vauxhall, which failed to stop at the scene. The woman was treated at the roadside and pronounced dead at the scene. Police are appealing for anyone with information to call them on 0800-555-1111, or Crimestoppers, anonymously.’

  ‘That’s it? That’s all they’re going to say about it?’

  Janet flapped a hand. ‘Shhh. Look! That’s Royal Park Garden!’

  While I sputtered in outrage, the camera cut to a panorama of the historic park that stood opposite the Embankment near the spot where Susan had died. Viewers were treated to serene close-ups of the Victorian fountain, cheerfully splashing, flower beds in summer profusion, and tourists resting their weary bones on park benches, before coming to rest on a reporter standing in front of the bandstand, the midday sun highlighting his hair like a halo as the wind swirled it around his head.

  The woman in the pink warm-ups must have hung around the scene for some time after the ambulance took Susan away, because she loitered at the reporter’s right, shifting her weight nervously back and forth from one trainer-clad foot to another, almost as if she were jogging in place. ‘I saw the driver’s face!’ she
told the reporter. ‘Screwed up like this, it was.’ She furrowed her brow until her eyes became slits. Her lips formed a firm straight line. ‘Determined, I’d say. Drove that car deliberately over the curb and aimed it straight at that poor woman!’

  ‘Was the driver a man or a woman?’ the reporter asked, then thrust the microphone in the direction of her brightly painted mouth.

  ‘I think it was a woman, but it could have been a very short man. The driver was looking through the steering wheel, like this.’ She raised her hands to a ten and two o’clock position and scowled between them in the direction of the camera. ‘Whoever it was had white hair, I’m sure of that. Or maybe it was blond.’

  I sat up as straight as anyone could while cradling an oversize wine glass in both hands. ‘You didn’t mention that this morning, you stupid cow!’ I shouted at the florid face now filling Janet’s television screen. ‘Or maybe you did, and I wasn’t paying attention.’ I collapsed, melting back into the cushions. ‘They must still be trying to notify Susan’s next of kin, right? Otherwise they’d be reporting her name?’

  ‘That shouldn’t take long. Susan’s face will be all over the news by morning.’ Janet flicked the controls and the television screen went blank. ‘We’re out of wine,’ she announced after a moment in which the only sound was that of a toilet flushing somewhere in the house. ‘But the situation is easily remedied.’ She winked. ‘I know where Alan keeps the key. Back in a tick.’

  And she was, too, carrying two bottles of Cotes du Rhone Villages 1996 and a corkscrew. As she held one of the bottles between her knees and worked the cork out, she said, ‘I hope this isn’t something Alan’s saving for a special occasion.’

  ‘You’re a clever girl. You’ll think of something to tell him.’ I held my glass out for a refill.

  Janet poured herself a glass, took a sip, smacked her lips. ‘It’s not exactly cooking wine, is it?’

  ‘Not even close,’ I said, feeling mellower by the minute.