The Perfectly Imperfect Woman

by Milly Johnson

  ‘Marnie, dear, Marnie, come on in,’ yelled Lilian, sitting at the table by the conservatory window. ‘What an odd day, don’t you think? There’s quite a storm brewing and the view is spectacular when that happens. It’s better from the tower, of course. I always used to go up there when there was a thunderstorm. At least when Mother wasn’t fornicating with her doctor. The heavy air has given me quite a headache. I’ve had two of those little tablets shaped like bullets and it hasn’t made a scrap of difference. Now you are here, I bet it disappears in an instant. So, what have you been up to since, when did I see you last. Christmas?’

  ‘Tuesday,’ said Marnie, not sure if Lilian was joking or not.

  ‘Was it only Tuesday? It feels like much longer. Let’s have some lunch and then I think we’ll go boating on the lake before it freezes over. It once froze enough for us to skate on and we invited the children who were in the village to come and slide with us. One of the few happy memories I have of my childhood. Now, tell me what flavours you’re going to do next week for the place we cannot mention.’ She placed a shushing finger against her lips and Marnie sat and began to tell her about the next cheesecake order, but she noticed that Lilian was finding it hard to concentrate and kept asking her to repeat what she’d just said.

  She couldn’t eat anything either. Not even Cilla’s cheese pastries which were her absolute favourite. She kept pressing at her temple with her knuckle and despite saying she was all right, she obviously wasn’t.

  ‘Lilian, shall I go and get you some more tablets?’ Marnie asked.

  ‘Titus shouldn’t have mocked Margaret Kytson. I knew no good would come of it. It’s disturbed her spirit. She will be walking amongst us again and who can blame her.’

  Marnie didn’t mention that she’d seen the Pink Lady in the gallery last night, but she felt something unpleasant trip down her spine.

  ‘Don’t tell Father that we’re taking a boat out,’ Lilian looked over her shoulder. ‘He’s not in a good mood at all.’

  Marnie was worried now, plus she thought that Lilian’s colour had changed since she arrived. She looked so dreadfully pale. Lilian needed a doctor; no, an ambulance, her intuition said. She got up from the seat to ask Cilla to ring for one, on the quiet because she knew that Lilian would protest.

  ‘I’ll go and get you those tablets,’ she said, but before she took a step, Lilian made a grab for her hand.

  ‘I’m so glad I found you, Marnie.’ And then tears began to pour down Lilian’s face as if a pump was behind them. Marnie wrapped her arms around the old lady, who held on to her with the force of one afraid of falling.

  Cilla arrived with dessert and the smile she had been previously wearing dropped like a stone. Calmly, so as not to frighten Lilian, Marnie mouthed at her to get an ambulance and Cilla turned on her heel, the creaks on the floorboards telling of her haste.

  ‘Would you like to lie down, Lilian? Do you think that might help your headache?’ suggested Marnie, her voice low and gentle.

  ‘I wish I’d taken care of Wychwell more,’ said Lilian, sniffing hard. ‘There’s so much to do.’

  ‘I think Wychwell is perfect as it is,’ said Marnie, as Lilian increased her grip. ‘This damned headache,’ she said, knocking her temple hard with her knuckles. Marnie could feel tears soaking through her shirt.

  ‘Cilla’s gone to find something to help you get rid of it,’ said Marnie, holding her, trying not to let her worry show.

  ‘Marnie, don’t leave me.’

  ‘I’m not going anywhere. Shhh.’

  ‘Don’t let them take me there again.’ Lilian sounded frightened.

  ‘Where, darling?’

  ‘There.’

  ‘No one is taking you anywhere, I promise.’

  Lilian’s crying was that of someone in the grip of true panic. This really was something Marnie hadn’t seen in her before. Then she started to mutter gibberish, none of it making sense, words but not words. And all the while Marnie tried to soothe her, talk away whatever was troubling her and when Lilian’s crying stopped, Marnie thought she’d managed to finally calm her. Her breath against Marnie’s neck began easing. Then there was no breath at all.

  Marnie would always remember the last sigh of air against her skin, the moment when Lilian left them. Sense told her it was a mere exhalation; her heart told her it was Lilian’s spirit whispering away from her body. Marnie went into automatic pilot. She screamed for Herv, for Cilla. She put Lilian on the floor, tilted back her head, attempted to breathe her own life into her. Then everything became a speeded-up blur: Herv and Cilla and the paramedics pouring into the room. Herv’s arms peeling her gently away, holding her and Cilla as the medics went into action. But Lilian had gone, her eyes said she wouldn’t be brought back because she had moved on to somewhere else and the door had closed behind her. Marnie remembered the paramedics looking at each other, agreeing to stop, checking their watches, saying that the time was twelve forty-one. She remembered Lionel racing over the front lawn in the pouring rain just as Lilian was being placed in the ambulance. She remembered him taking off his glasses to wipe the tears streaming from his eyes.

  Chapter 20

  A post mortem revealed Lilian had died from a massive bleed on her brain. She couldn’t have been revived.

  The village seemed to divide into two camps: those whose heads took the lead and were more concerned with what would happen to the manor now that the last of the Dearmans had gone, and those who were led by their hearts and blundered through the week, business as normal because they didn’t know what else to do. Cilla and Zoe turned up to work every morning as usual, as did Herv. They all wanted the manor to look perfect for Lilian’s wake, their last duty to her. Kay and Una were in gossip heaven in Plum Corner. David at the Wych Arms shut up the pub for two days as a sign of respect. As for Marnie, she locked herself away in Little Raspberries, dragging her sadness around with her like Jacob Marley’s chain. She fulfilled the Tea Lady’s orders, but her heart wasn’t in it. For her, it was like losing Mrs McMaid for a second time and not only the woman herself, but everything she was to her: an anchor, a confidante, a friend. Like Mrs McMaid, she had barely got to know Lilian Dearman but at the same time felt as if she had known her for ever. She cried a lot.

  She needed to go to the supermarket in Skipperstone the following Tuesday and as she stepped out of her cottage, it was as if a cloud had descended upon the whole of Wychwell, as if something integral was gone. She didn’t want to see anyone or talk to anyone. Just as it was for Herv, Cilla, Emelie and Lionel and all people who loved Lilian, the period between her passing and the funeral was a bubble of time in which they existed alone, working out their grief.

  On the day of the funeral, Marnie made her cheesecake order then went to bed as usual, but couldn’t sleep. She got up, showered then put on her best black suit for the funeral and though she knew she looked smart in it, the mirror threw back a disappointing reflection. She was tired and it showed; and though make-up could give her cheeks colour they didn’t possess, it couldn’t cover the puffiness under her eyes. It didn’t matter, she wasn’t attending a fashion show; but she wanted to appear at her best to say goodbye to someone she truly loved, a woman so close she almost felt part of her. They would bury a piece of Marnie too when they buried Lilian today. Once again she felt like a balloon torn from someone’s warm safe hands and sent adrift to be buffeted by cold uncertain winds.

  The church bell was ringing a solemn single note, its peal sad and sombre, summoning the people of Wychwell and those beyond too – people of the Dales, old families who had tenuous connections to the Dearmans and the village. Outside the church, Marnie saw Herv looking strange but handsome in a black suit, black tie, his mane of hair tied behind him. He gave her a small wave just before Ruby stole his attention. She hugged him, put her arms around his waist and her head against his chest, claiming comfort for a level of sadness Marnie wondered if she really felt. What an opportunity to seek sympathy, she thought
and immediately rebuked herself for being mean. Her mother was right, she was no sweet and sensitive Gabrielle – Miss bloody Perfect Perfection herself. She was her anti-Christ equivalent: Miss Imperfectly Imperfect. The family misfit with her black hair and green eyes – Little Miss Trouble who grew up to be Miss Gullible, Miss Stupid, Miss Alone.

  Lilian had understood because she’d been the same. And now she was gone. Unwanted tears forced themselves out of Marnie’s eyes and she flicked them away with her fingertips, hoping that no one had seen them, unlike Ruby Sweetman who was dabbing her eyes with a lace handkerchief and all the fragility of a Jane Austen heroine. She’d probably have a fainting fit mid-ceremony from the vapours.

  ‘Are you all right, Marnie?’ a soft voice at her shoulder asked. She turned to find Derek Price the churchwarden there.

  ‘I’m okay,’ the words came out on a croak.

  ‘You should sit in the front row in the church,’ he said close to her ear. ‘You meant a lot to Lilian. More than most people here.’

  Marnie could imagine what his wife Una would say if she was so presumptuous to sit in the front row. It might have mattered to some where they were positioned, but not to Marnie.

  ‘Or you can sit with Una and me if you’d prefer,’ he smiled.

  ‘Thank you, that’s very kind,’ she said.

  ‘Derek.’ Una’s shrill voice summoned him to return to her immediately. Derek gave Marnie’s shoulder a squeeze and he walked back to his wife, no doubt to be told off for consorting with the enemy. Although the only thing she’d really done to have that label bestowed upon her – as far as Marnie knew – was to have been spotted with her friend’s daughter’s love interest standing on her doorstep.

  Lionel appeared at the church doors, dressed formally for the ceremony in cassock, surplice and stole. He invited everyone inside where Lilian’s coffin had lain overnight, as she’d wanted. The church was filled with flowers of all colours. Stargazer lilies scented the whole building. They’d all been cut from her garden, Marnie knew. Herv had done this for her.

  Titus Sutton had bagged himself the best seat in the house, obviously. His tall, thin, dour wife Hilary sat rigidly beside him. A heavy-set man in a business-like pinstripe suit with large facial features, whom Marnie didn’t recognise, sat at the front on the right-hand side. Herv, Marnie thought, might have sat with Cilla, Johnny and Zoe had Ruby not curled her arm around his like a hungry boa constrictor and pressured him to sit beside her and her mother. Griff was playing the organ and beautifully so. She saw Lionel beckon her to the front but she waved that she was fine a few rows back, behind the villagers. Emelie moved seats to join her.

  They sang before any words were spoken – Lilian’s favourite hymn: ‘Praise to the Lord, the Almighty’. Lionel’s voice rang out as clear and pure a sound as one of his church bells, his faith affirmed in the lyrics. There was a silence after the song had ended, one soaked in drama and emotion. Then Lionel began to speak.

  ‘We are gathered here to celebrate the life of our dear, dear Lilian,’ and his voice crumbled like an Oreo base with too little butter in it. There was an uncomfortable lapse whilst he struggled to regain his composure and when he did, he apologised, but throughout the whole sermon it became evident his strength was a big dog on a weak leash. It was clear his affection for Lilian ran deeper even than Marnie had thought.

  Marnie’s tissue was in shreds now. Emelie handed her another and when Marnie turned to her to mouth thank you, she found the old lady’s bright blue eyes cloudy with tears ready to fall down her powdered cheeks.

  ‘When Lilian asked me to sit down and discuss what should happen when this day came, I really didn’t really want to,’ said Lionel, after a fortifying breath. ‘The thought of saying goodbye to her wasn’t something I wanted even to contemplate, but she was most adamant that it would be played out to her script. She even ordered the sunshine.’ A slight ripple of laughter from the assembled mourners. ‘Lilian Dearman was the last of a noble line. And she was the greatest of that line. I think you all know the word she reserved for her antecedents.’

  ‘Bastards,’ mumbled someone and a flurry of loud shhhs ensued.

  ‘Lilian only gave of herself what she wanted others to have. Those who have known her longest, have not necessarily known her the best.’ Whether intentional or not, the vicar’s eyes drifted to Titus on the front row. ‘Lilian Dearman entered this world on January the first 1950, by caesarean section. She was a Dearman and as such was not destined to arrive without drama and ceremony.’ A trickle of affectionate laughter at that. ‘She was born into a life of privilege and yet it was the simple things that made Lilian tick, those that money cannot buy, which marked her as very different from the rest of her family. When she refused to take part in the Pickering Hunt because foxes deserved better, her father locked her in the tower of the manor for a week for that insubordination, but she never did go hunting.

  ‘Her father labelled her: imperfection personified. To that I say glorious imperfection –’ He shook his fist, his voice now strong as the gesture. ‘Lilian Dearman was the most perfectly imperfect woman I ever met. Generous, stupidly so, sweet, kind, principled . . . loving. Loving to the ex-racing greyhounds she adopted, loving to people, even loving to things: plants, her home, her books, her collection of mended treasures which she displayed so reverently and she was a faithful and loyal friend—’ he hiccupped, stalled, recalibrated, ‘and we shall all miss her in our different ways.

  ‘For instance, Cilla, her beloved housekeeper, will miss her insistence that on very hot days, she should abandon the cleaning and go and sit in the garden with Griff. I quote, “Life is too short to be changing beds when the sun makes a rare appearance in this bloody country”.’ In the front row, Cilla was nodding as if she was a toy full of fresh batteries. ‘Emelie will miss their deep and rewarding relationship, David will miss her over-zealous testing of his home-brewed beers, wines and spirits and I will miss the girl whom I’ve known all my life.’ Lionel’s voice cracked and he had to pull his handkerchief out of his pocket, taking a few moments both to blow his nose and to compose himself. Then he left the pulpit and approached the coffin, placing his hand gently on the top. ‘I invite you all, for a moment, to think of a precious memory of this . . . this lady who has been so wonderfully kind to all of us. Our lady of the manor. Lilian.’ He dropped his head, and everyone followed his lead and did the same.

  Marnie thought of meeting Lilian for the first time in Skipperstone and how the old lady’s face had lit up on seeing her. She thought of Lilian flipping the bird out of the window of her Rolls Royce before she zoomed away. She thought of sitting in Lilian’s conservatory and hearing stories of her family and thinking – at the essence of it all – how similarly the track of their lives had run. And how it had taken hardly any time at all to fall in love with Lilian Dearman.

  They sang the Lord’s Prayer, Derek, David and Lionel supplying a perfect bass descant they must have been used to. The echo from the last note hung like smoke in the air.

  ‘Please, friends, people of Wychwell and beyond. Would you follow Lilian into the churchyard where we will say our final goodbyes,’ said Lionel.

  The pall-bearers appeared and lifted Lilian’s coffin onto their shoulders. Griff began to play the jaunty ‘Bring Me Sunshine’ and people started to sing along with it as they stood up. Lionel followed the coffin out of his church, Titus making sure he was immediately behind him, heading up the temporal procession.

  ‘Lilian’s favourite song. She loved Morecambe and Wise,’ said Emelie with a smiling sigh and Marnie thought that it was fitting. Lilian Dearman was the sort of person who would bring the sunshine along with her if it wasn’t there.

  Herv smiled and nodded at her as he passed; Ruby gave her the evil eye. Marnie didn’t care, she was looking at the coffin and thinking how surreal it was that her friend lay lifeless within it.

  Emelie and Marnie were among the last out. ‘Can I hold onto you, dear?’ the
old lady asked.

  ‘Of course,’ said Marnie, crooking her arm and walking slowly in tune with Emelie’s pace.

  ‘She didn’t want to go in the family crypt underneath the church,’ said Emelie. ‘She wanted to be outside with the flowers.’

  ‘I can’t say I blame her,’ said Marnie. ‘From what she’s told me about them.’

  ‘Dear Lilian,’ said Emelie, dabbing at her eyes with her handkerchief. ‘I shall miss her so much. She was the best of people. The very very best.’

  The sky was blue and cloudless today: the sun had returned after a week of cloud and drizzle as if it had honoured a diary date to shine down on them all as Lilian’s body was lowered into the ground in a large plot near an ancient cherry tree. It had flowered late and when the breeze stirred, the blossom billowed in the air and fell upon the mourners like confetti.

  ‘Look, it’s like the wedding she never had,’ said Titus too loudly. Marnie noticed Lionel casting him a very unchristian look.

  With a voice strengthened now by duty, Lionel began the final goodbye.

  ‘We entrust our beloved Lilian Mathilda Dearman to your mercy, in the name of Jesus our Lord, who died and is alive and reigns with you, now and for ever, Amen.’

  ‘Amen,’ echoed the crowd.

  ‘Ladies and gentlemen of Wychwell only, if you would please make your way now up to the manor house for private refreshment and the other business in hand,’ Lionel then announced.