Dark Undertakings

by Rebecca Tope

  Philip raised his head and sighed. ‘Poor Mum,’ he murmured. ‘It’s going to take time to get over it. You can come and stay with us for a bit. Nerina won’t mind.’

  ‘No, no. I’m all right here. For today, anyway. There’s lots to do.’

  David uncurled his leg, and stretched his arms over his head. ‘You’ve certainly put us in the picture,’ he said, with a jarring grin. ‘Told us a bit more than we wanted to hear, to be honest. Now do I get a go?’

  His mother and brother gave identical wary nods, but he needed no encouragement. ‘I just thought you might wonder how it was for me, things being as they are. In case you’ve forgotten, the last time I saw Dad was on Friday. I’m sure he told you about it?’ he demanded of Monica. She shook her head wordlessly.

  ‘Then I’d better tell you, before Jodie does. I went to the printworks, to ask him one last time if he’d give me a job there. I’m sick of greasy car engines and their stupid owners. I told him he owed it to me. I pleaded with him. And you know what he did? He laughed at me. Told me, in front of everybody, that I’d make a useless printer. Told me to stick with cars and think myself lucky.’

  ‘Oh, Davy,’ Monica moaned. ‘He didn’t mean it. He couldn’t have given you a job, just like that, anyway. He doesn’t own the place.’

  ‘Don’t give me that,’ he snarled. ‘They’d have taken me on, if he said so. That’s not the point, though, is it? The point is, how do you think I feel after that?’

  ‘But you didn’t kill him, did you?’ said Philip, calmly. ‘You’ve got nothing to feel guilty about.’

  David stared wildly at his brother, running his fingers through his tangled hair. ‘You’re a fool, aren’t you,’ he said, in some surprise. ‘You don’t understand anything. Well, stick around, brother, because there’s a lot more of this to come.’

  ‘Stop it, David,’ Monica said sharply. ‘That’s enough.’

  A silence fell, broken only by the rustling of David’s jerky fidgetings on the pouffe. Finally Monica spoke. ‘There isn’t anything we can do now. I have to collect the medical certificate from the doctor, and go to the Town Hall tomorrow morning to register the death. It’s all settled. It was a heart attack. It couldn’t have been anything else. The death certificate will say that, and that’s what we’ll tell everyone.’

  Philip was suddenly unsure. ‘You sound as if we’re keeping something secret.’

  Monica banged the flat of her hand down firmly on the seat beside her. ‘It’s the truth.’

  Philip sat forward again. ‘I should come with you. Only—’

  ‘Oh, no, that’s all right,’ she reassured him. ‘I know how busy you are. I might ask Pauline to come with me, if I feel like taking someone. There’ll be plenty of other things for you two to do.’

  Philip stood up again. ‘I was only talking to him on Sunday,’ he said wonderingly. ‘He had all sorts of plans for the garden, once he’d got the new trellis the way he wanted it.’

  ‘He was always the same in September,’ said Monica. ‘As if he had to have something to look forward to next spring. Every year we’ve been here, he’s started something new in the autumn.’

  David snorted, and Monica watched him carefully as he stumbled to his feet. Knowing already that the coming days would be shot through with David’s tangled needs and emotions, she wondered how she would ever manage. But she forced herself to reassure them both as best she could, addressing the space between them, from age-old habit.

  ‘Darlings, these things happen. You know they do. And nobody ever thinks it’s going to be them. I like to think he enjoyed his last day. Things were going well at work, and he saw his friends last night. At least, I suppose he did. I can’t be completely sure where he went – you know how it was with us—’ Delicately, she stopped. It had been an iron rule with her and Jim not to allow any of their marital idiosyncrasies to impinge on their sons. ‘I think he went to see Jack – you know, from the works. He’s got a new computer game, and Jim’s got hooked on it. Something about mist. They play it together. Sounds childish to me, but then men often are.’ She was prattling, trying to obliterate David’s obvious suffering, trying to make the whole event ordinary and understandable.

  Philip was more than happy to take her lead. ‘There is a game called Myst, with a y. I can just see Dad getting into something like that.’

  ‘They surf the Internet, too. He comes home with all sorts of things printed out. Houses for sale in Italy, the diseases that West Highland terriers are most prone to, obscure American politics. He loved all that.’

  ‘I suppose it shows an enquiring mind,’ Philip acknowledged. ‘No harm in it, at least.’

  ‘Don’t say that!’ David stood up, and went to the door. Then he swung round and went to the door. ‘Dad’s dead and we sit round talking platitudes. Pretending we’re an ordinary, normal family. At least now some of the secrets can come out. At least with him dead, we might get to some of the truth at last.’

  Monica’s pale face turned almost green. Philip’s jaw sagged in bewilderment. When the doorbell rang, all three were relieved.

  Drew had gradually worked out the hierarchy, the jostling for position, the jobs that nobody liked. The jobs that everybody liked. Driving the lims was popular. ‘You get to hear amazing stuff,’ Vince told him. ‘Like a taxi driver. There’s always some joker trying to keep things cheerful. Good jokes, usually, too. The times I’ve wished I had a tape recorder! And they say terrible things about the person that’s died. Sometimes I think God’ll send a thunderbolt down, right onto the back seat. Serve them right if he did.’

  Pat, as Conductor, had special status. He struck Drew as something of a prima donna, forever brushing imaginary specks from his black coat, and obsessed with timings. Many a morning he would arrive, saying, ‘Traffic’s bad on the dual carriage this morning. They’ve closed a lane to lay the new gas pipes. Better leave a good five minutes early.’ Or ‘The twelve-thirty’s going to be a big one. They’ll hang about afterwards. That means Little George’ll be late getting back with the lim, and it’ll be a rush to get down to St Joseph’s for the Catholic one this afternoon. Vince – you’ll have to help me get them moving. Don’t let them spend for ever admiring the flowers.’ Behind his back, Vince and the two Georges would raise their eyes to the ceiling and grin silently. Daphne, the boss, arranged the timings with extreme care, knowing exactly what was possible, and to be late was virtually unheard of.

  ‘You know the Lapsford chap?’ Drew said to Vince, over the sandwiches and coffee which comprised their lunch. They were treating themselves to a full hour’s break for once, in preparation for a busy afternoon. Vince nodded and Drew went on, ‘Well, I know what Sid said, and he’s probably right – but do you think anybody’d mind if I had a shufty at the body? Just as a sort of exercise? A bit of practice for when I’m covering for Sid’s holidays, if you like.’

  Vince shrugged. ‘Can’t do any harm. Just be sure not to find any knives sticking out of his back. That would only cause embarrassment all round. And … well, maybe leave it until tomorrow, when Sid’s out doing that ashes interment. You know what he’s like about his precious mortuary. He’d think you were interfering. You’re not going to leave any marks on him, are you? Not going to do your own amateur post-mortem?’

  Drew forced a grin. ‘I was only a nurse, you know. I realise it sounds weird,’ he held his hands up in surrender. ‘It’s just curiosity, I suppose. I’ve never seen anyone after dying as suddenly as this. I thought maybe it affects muscle tone and coagulation – something like that.’ He hoped he sounded convincing.

  Vince grimaced. ‘Morbid bugger. Never had any interest in that side of it, myself. Still, takes all sorts, as I have to keep telling people when they want to know why I do this job.’

  ‘Right,’ agreed Drew vaguely. He was struggling to conceal his feelings, which were causing considerable inner turmoil. The chance to examine Lapsford’s body for himself was suddenly of immense importance. Not again
would he let pass something that his gut told him was wrong. Never again, in his life, if he could help it, would that be allowed to happen.

  Dr Julian Lloyd had finished his lunch – a scotch egg, Mars bar and apple – while idly flicking through the Independent and ignoring the telephone which rang several times in the adjacent office. Despite its late start, his morning surgery was long since over. He had gone home again after confirming that Jim Lapsford was indeed dead, and treated himself to a breakfast of cereal and toast; he hadn’t turned up at the surgery until twenty past nine, regardless of his first appointment being at nine o’clock. The patients had waited for him restlessly, but without overt complaint. Now he had little to do until the afternoon stint at five, apart from a handful of home visits and a brief attendance at a nursing home to administer flu vaccine.

  Susie, his young receptionist, was taking the phone calls, and dealing with anyone who came in for prescriptions or to make appointments. She seemed to be in the grips of some sort of crisis, which he had been trying not to notice. Her eyes were red and she kept dropping things. There was to be a baby clinic shortly and Dr Lloyd planned to be out of the way for that. Strictly an all-female affair, it made him feel decidedly surplus to requirements.

  ‘Many takers for this evening?’ he asked Susie, having folded away his paper and disposed of his apple core. ‘Doesn’t seem to be much going around at the moment, praise the Lord.’

  ‘Let’s see,’ she ran her eye down the computer screen. ‘Five, so far.’ She spoke in a flat tone, completely unlike her usual chirpy self.

  ‘That’s good,’ he said lightly. ‘I like it quiet.’

  ‘Don’t speak too soon,’ she said, grimly. ‘Things happen.’

  ‘Now what might that mean?’ he twinkled at her, in a desperate attempt to lift her mood. If he’d had the energy or the courage, he might have been tempted to start something with Susie. In the gloomy dash towards forty, the appeal of a girl in her early twenties was increasingly powerful, and he suspected that there would have been some serious satisfaction in a sexual liaison. Time enough yet, he told himself. That spotty boyfriend of hers could surely be readily ousted. And Susie’s normal smiling manner was very appealing. Today, though, he wasn’t so sure. Moodiness was unattractive, and if she couldn’t leave her messy personal life at home, he was much less interested.

  ‘It’s something my dad often says,’ she answered him, making an effort to be conversational. ‘Like poor Jim Lapsford this morning – that was a thing that happened, sure enough.’

  ‘Ah yes. Poor fellow.’ The doctor’s collar began to tighten and he could feel the label on his shirt chafing the back of his neck. He wriggled his shoulders uneasily.

  ‘Poor wife, more like,’ Susie corrected him. ‘What a shock for her. And how funny, you seeing him only last week, about his leg. After all those years!’

  ‘Pardon?’

  ‘I told you at the time, don’t you remember? He hadn’t seen a doctor since nineteen eighty-six, when he had his vasectomy. Must be close to a record – at least amongst our patients.’

  ‘Well, I hope nobody thinks it had anything to do with me. I didn’t prescribe anything for him, did I? You know the chaos my prescriptions get into. I seem to have mislaid yet another pad, God help me.’

  Susie hesitated long enough to cause him to glance up at her face. She was sitting very still, apparently debating with herself. ‘Did I?’ he repeated.

  She shook herself, and flicked at the computer keyboard, lips pursed. ‘Ummm – nope. Not according to this.’ Still watching her, he observed a flush on her cheeks. An inner voice reminded him that he should at least ask her if she was all right. He was her employer, her friend, and she was quite obviously in distress. But he spent all day being kind and sympathetic, against his real nature. Doing the same for his receptionist was just too much.

  He turned away with a fleeting laugh. ‘As it happens,’ he said, ‘it’s rather lucky. From the paperwork point of view, at least. His wife’ll probably be in tomorrow for the certificate. Can you ask her if it’s a cremation, and if so, I’ll do the papers.’

  ‘Even luckier, if it is,’ Susie added sharply. ‘You’ll get your forty-one quid. A few more like this and you’ll be getting that ride-on lawnmower in time for next summer after all.’

  Dr Lloyd frowned. ‘Shush, Susie. You know I’m as embarrassed as anyone at the way we get that money for doing virtually nothing. But the rules are the rules and who am I to complain?’

  Roxanne Gibson heard the news about Jim from her sister, Pauline, who’d been one of the irritable patients at Dr Lloyd’s morning surgery that morning. Pauline had overheard Susie talking to the District Nurse. She phoned Roxanne as soon as she got home.

  ‘Are you sitting down, pet?’ she asked.

  ‘No,’ Roxanne was made instantly suspicious by the pet. That wasn’t a usual way for Pauline to address her. ‘Why? I’m stirring soup, if you must know.’

  ‘Put the spoon down, then. This’ll come as a bit of a shock. Unless you’ve heard already.’

  ‘Heard what?’

  ‘Jim. He’s had a heart attack. Went in the night; out like a light, apparently.’

  ‘You’re kidding me. Jim wouldn’t go like that.’ She spoke with confidence. Her sister’s words hadn’t even scratched the surface of her attention yet. They bounced off her and floated around the caravan for a moment or two before hitting her a second time.

  ‘You mean he never said goodbye?’ Pauline spluttered a little at her own flippancy. ‘Sorry. It’s true, though. Jim Lapsford’s dead. Everyone’ll be talking about it by this evening. I’ll have to phone Monica. She is my friend, after all. It’s a wonder she hasn’t been onto me already.’

  Roxanne’s heart was doing something strange, like trying to climb out of her mouth. ‘Christ,’ she gasped. ‘How do you know? Doesn’t sound as if you had it from your friend.’

  Pauline explained. ‘It’s going to be a shock all round,’ she added superfluously.

  ‘But – he was here only yesterday. We – er – had a rather good time.’ She glanced at the bed, which occupied a good quarter of the available caravan space. A rumpled quilt still carried the smell and memory of Jim. ‘Shit, Pauline, I don’t want to hear this.’

  ‘Yeah, well, that’s life, I guess. Kicks you when you’re down. Or something.’

  ‘I’m not down. What are you talking about? I’d got everything exactly as I wanted it for once. Look, I don’t want to talk any more, okay? Come and see me tomorrow, will you?’

  She heard Pauline sigh. ‘I’ll see. I’ll probably have to go and sit with Monica. It’s going to be awkward, Rox. You know how things always come out when somebody dies. Why am I always caught up in the middle? My sister sleeping with my best friend’s husband. She’s going to kill me when she finds out.’

  ‘I thought Maisie was your best friend.’

  ‘Well, what does it matter. I can’t believe you’re arguing even now. Don’t you ever give it a rest?’

  ‘Habit,’ Roxanne offered. ‘Try and come, okay? Who else am I going to talk to?’

  ‘I will if I can. Sorry it was me that told you.’

  ‘Better you than reading it in the paper. Bye now.’

  Roxanne pressed the ‘off’ button on the phone and threw it onto the seat running down one side of her caravan. Then she went to the open door and looked out across the fields. Dusty September hedges ringed them round, protective and concealing. Blackberries grew luscious on the brambles, hazelnuts ripened and red haws clustered. Roxanne, latterday gypsy, had turned to the rural lifestyle with enthusiasm. The soup she’d been stirring comprised wild mushroom and common sorrel, an experimental mix, which she’d grown to enjoy inordinately.

  She stretched her bare arms out in front of her, as if blind, and then looked down at her own skin. Jim had loved her dark colouring, the all-over swarthiness of her. Her black hair was always glossy, like an Arab’s, but curly, with threads of white in it. Maki
ng love with Jim had been quite something, despite their ages. His unconcealed enjoyment had been a real turn-on. She believed herself to be like most women – happier to arouse passion than to have it aroused in herself. For three years, she had taken delight in Jim Lapsford’s uncontrolled appetite for her. Three years ago, she had walked out on Martin, her insurance salesman husband, and decamped to the caravan. For her, life had changed from monochrome to technicolour on that day.

  ‘I knew it couldn’t last,’ she said to herself, now, as the view blurred and her nose began to run. Then a thought hit her, and she pushed a knuckle between her teeth in sudden horror. ‘No,’ she insisted to herself. ‘No – it can’t have been.’ She got up and went back into the caravan, bending to a low shelf beside the little stove. A jam jar of brownish fluid met her hand and she lifted it out. ‘Just to be on the safe side,’ she muttered, and took it outside, unscrewing the lid as she went. At a point in the hedge, some yards away, she poured the contents over a patch of thistles, murmuring, ‘Enjoy!’ to them.

  Drew wheeled his bike from behind the hearse, and called a goodnight to Sid and Big George, who were walking around the corner to the car park. Five o’clock, on the dot, they all downed tools for home, unless there was a rare late-afternoon cremation, which could delay them by fifteen minutes or so. The office staff were more dilatory, which made Drew uneasy. He didn’t see himself as a clock-watcher, a mere time-server. Once, he’d stayed to finish a coffin, but the firmly critical reaction from the other men had convinced him that this was not a good idea.