by James Green
‘Why are you going to see Mr Amhurst, Jimmy?’
‘If the two killings are connected, his money is the only connection. If I can make that connection, I’ll know where you stand.’
Philomena thought for a moment then said, ‘You think I’m involved or I might be in danger?’
Jimmy nodded.
‘Not nice either way, is it?’
Jimmy shook his head.
‘Then I don’t think I can let you ask Mr Amhurst the kind of questions you want to ask.’
‘Then I’ll just listen. If he wants to talk, you let him. I’ll just listen.’
‘If he wants to, Jimmy, but he’s just lost his wife. It’s what he wants and feels that matters today, not what we want.’
They left the Tube and walked out of the station into a leafy suburb. Many of the houses were mock-Tudor, mock-Georgian, or just mock, but if the architecture was mock the air of money was real enough. To live in this part of London you had to be seriously well-off.
To Jimmy’s surprise, Philomena asked him to phone for a taxi. Jimmy went to the phone box outside the station. As he had expected, there were a couple of cards for taxi firms stuck above the phone. He made a call. About five minutes later a cab pulled up. Philomena gave the driver the address and they got in.
They arrived at a big detached house and walked up the long gravel drive. The front door was opened by an elderly man.
‘Welcome, Sister, please come in,’ Mr Amhurst looked at Jimmy, ‘both of you.’
‘This is Mr Costello,’ said Philomena, going into the hall, ‘he works with us. He knew Lucy.’
Mr Amhurst and Jimmy shook hands in that cold, formal manner which in England passes for a greeting. ‘Thank you, Mr Costello, and welcome.’ He stood for a second and then said, doubtfully, ‘Shall we go in the living room? Would you like tea … or something else? I’m afraid I’m not very …’
Philomena stepped forward and took the old man in her arms and gave him a long hug. She made it seem the perfectly natural thing to do. Mr Amhurst slowly put his arms round her and then rested his head on her shoulder and tears began to run from his eyes. They stood for a moment. Jimmy was the only one who was at all embarrassed. They parted and Mr Amhurst stood back, took out his handkerchief and wiped his eyes.
‘We’ll go to the kitchen then we can make whatever we want just the way we want it.’ He led the way, ‘Lucy would bring people to the kitchen and ask them to make their own tea or coffee. At first I thought it rude but then she pointed out how often one is ready for a really nice cup of tea or coffee and it is made too hot or weak or sweet and one drinks it more out of politeness than pleasure.’
They arrived in the kitchen. ‘Everything is there, as you see, please help yourselves.’
Philomena made a pot of strong tea for her and Jimmy.
‘Our taste for good tea has been destroyed by the urn at Bart’s. If it’s strong, dark, and hot then it’s tea, isn’t that right, Jimmy?’
Jimmy smiled and nodded. Mr Amhurst made himself a cafetière of coffee, then they all sat down at a big pine table. Mr Amhurst began to talk.
‘It is very good of you to come, Sister. I do call you Sister, that is correct? I’m afraid I’m not a Catholic. I’m not anything really, although I put C of E when required to do so. My wife’s faith was very important to her but it was not something we ever discussed. It is only now,’ he paused, ‘now that she is gone, I realise there was very little, perhaps nothing, we truly discussed.’
He looked around the kitchen.
‘This kitchen is bigger than the room we lived in when we first married. And it is all due to carrier bags. That’s what I manufacture, plastic bags.’
He took a sip of coffee, then resumed, talking more to himself than to his visitors.
‘I always thought of myself as a good provider. I thought that I gave Lucy security and comfort. When she died, it was as if somebody had removed the foundations of my whole life.’
The tears began again.
‘Now I realise it would all have come to nothing without Lucy. She was always there, she kept me going and kept me from going too far. She was the business, really. Looking back I see that all the real decisions were made with her. Perhaps it was her faith that caused her to be the way she was and yet I never really tried to know that part of her. I have come to realise that truly selfish people are also rather stupid. It hurts that she knew my stupidity and my selfishness so very well when I didn’t know them at all, and that she loved me despite them. Now I know and it’s too late.’
Suddenly he was back with them. He took out a handkerchief and wiped his eyes and cheeks.
‘The priest who is looking after things is very kind, but I feel a total outsider, a stranger at my own wife’s death. I don’t know what to say or do … the prayers, the Masses. I can’t say sorry or goodbye through the tradition Lucy found so important.’ He was looking at Philomena with a kind of pleading in his eyes.
‘There’ll be plenty who know the prayers and get the Masses said,’ Philomena’s voice was gentle but she spoke with authority. ‘You say goodbye in your own way, the way Lucy would have been used to. She’ll want to hear you as you always were, not trying to be someone else.’
Mr Amhurst blew his nose.
‘I’m afraid I couldn’t have shared her beliefs even if we had talked about them. I have always found the main propositions of Christianity vaguely absurd. But what experience has taught me is that life itself is absurd, so I suppose Christianity is quite an appropriate religion. It can produce strength through absurdity. It can produce people like Lucy.’ He paused. ‘Thank you both so much for coming here today. This has helped. We had few friends and no family, we had each other and that was always enough.’
‘Will you be all right? Can we do anything?’
‘Thank you, Sister, there is nothing to be done. One advantage of money is that everything gets done. As for myself, I don’t know. I’m thinking of selling the business and giving the money to your Church.’
Philomena’s voice was full of anxiety. ‘This isn’t the time for that kind of decision …’
‘I just don’t want to run the company any longer. It has all become meaningless to me. Don’t worry, the money will go to your Church on my death. Through Lucy, it has given me so much. I really can’t think of anything else I’d rather do with it. Lucy was very fond of what she called the missions and there was a particular project in India she and I talked about recently. Janine had told Lucy about it.’
Philomena stood up.
‘Thank you for the tea, Mr Amhurst. Lucy is in our prayers and I’m sure we are all in hers.’
They all shook hands.
‘We’ll walk,’ Philomena said. ‘It will do us good.’
‘Are you sure? Please let me drive you.’
‘Not at all, Mr Amhurst. We’ll enjoy all these lovely gardens and trees around here, even if it is mid-winter. Goodbye, and take care.’
‘Goodbye, Sister, and thank you again.’
As they turned into the road, Philomena said, ‘I didn’t want him cross-questioned, Jimmy, but I didn’t tell you not to speak at all.’
‘There was nothing for me to say, nothing I could think of that would help.’
‘There never is. It’s being there that matters.’
‘You were very good with him,’ Jimmy said, and added, ‘Do you know where you’re going, Sister?’
‘If we’re lost, we can always ask somebody.’
He looked at her. Hampstead, Uganda, Paddington, it was all the same to her, she was never really lost. How in hell did people like her survive? Was it luck or faith?
‘I’m sorry about your questions, Jimmy.’
‘That’s OK. Mr Amhurst told me all I needed to know.’ Philomena stopped. Jimmy stopped beside her.
‘You know what this is all about then?’
‘Yes, like I said, it’s all about money …’
‘One minute, Jimmy. Excuse me,
are we heading for the station?’
The woman walking the dog gave them their directions. They were off course, but not by much.
‘Thank you.’
They crossed the road, turned right, and walked on.
‘Is there going to be more trouble, Jimmy? Is anyone else in danger?’
‘You are, Sister.’
‘Me! For God’s sake, what can happen to me? I know nothing.’
‘Look, Sister, you don’t see things because you don’t look. The police didn’t see things because they didn’t bother to look. You know things, but you don’t know that you know. But if somebody asked you the right question, you could tell them things and that puts you in danger.’
‘What do I know, Jimmy? Who am I in danger from?’
‘What you call gangsters.’
‘The man who came to see you?’
‘Yes.’
‘And the other one who came to see you today?’
Jimmy nodded.
‘What would they do, Jimmy?’
Jimmy remained silent.
‘I see. Well, what can I do? Should I go to the police?’
‘You can if you like, it won’t help.’
‘You’re a comfort, Jimmy.’
They saw the station sign further down the road and walked on.
As they stood on the platform Jimmy asked, ‘You said Mrs Lally did jobs. What did she do?’
‘She cleaned the back yard. Clients get in there and things need cleaning up and putting in bins, needles, and the like.’
‘The bin yard? Where I take the bins out on to the street?’
‘That’s right.’
‘When did she start to do that?’
‘Not long ago. Is it important? Is this one of the things I
know?’
‘I think so.’
‘It doesn’t seem worth killing me for.’
A man standing nearby reading a newspaper gave them a shocked look, closed his paper, and moved away. When they began to talk again, it was more quietly.
‘I won’t come back right away, Sister. I have to go somewhere and then I’ve got to meet someone. I’ll be back later.’
‘Jimmy, I’m beginning to be a bit scared. I could manage this sort of thing when I was younger but I don’t think I can manage so well now.’
‘Nothing will happen before I get back, until then you’ll be OK. I’ll try to sort something out.’
The train came noisily into the station.
Central Hospital, London, October 1991
Bernadette was finally dying. The illness had not been long but it had been terrible. Only a matter of a few months had passed since she had told Jimmy of her visits to the doctor and the results from the subsequent tests. She had cancer of the pancreas. It was aggressive and untreatable, she would die quite soon and there would be a great deal of pain. The doctor was very sorry. There would be drugs that would help with the pain. She needn’t worry about taking too many, the dose was to be as much as she needed. Did she take alcohol? But it didn’t really matter, take whatever you like. The doctor was very sorry.
Bernadette had stayed at home for as long as possible. The Macmillan nurse had been excellent. But then the cancer had suddenly exploded and reached out rapidly. They had taken her into hospital and today or tomorrow she would die. Jimmy sat at her bed. The priest came into the private room, brought a chair, and sat beside him. ‘Hello, Jimmy.’
Jimmy didn’t move or acknowledge him. He kept his eyes fixed on Bernadette’s face. Her eyes were closed. The priest took out his rosary beads and quietly began to pray, very quietly, almost in silence. Jimmy knew the words he would be saying, the First Sorrowful Mystery, the Agony in the Garden.
After about twenty minutes Bernadette opened her eyes. She looked at Jimmy, then her eyes moved to the priest. Her lips moved. The priest looked at Jimmy then came close so as to be able to put his ear close to her mouth. She was making an enormous and painful effort to speak. Jimmy could only guess at what the few words must be costing her. Then she closed her eyes again.
The priest sat back in his chair, Jimmy looked at him questioningly. ‘She said she wants to go home, Jimmy.’
Jimmy was shocked. He had no idea that being in hospital caused her suffering. He had just gone along with what everyone had said, he hadn’t thought to ask Bernie what she wanted. He stood up. ‘Then she goes home, Father. How do I do it?’
‘Sit down, Jimmy.’
‘Look, Father, I don’t care what it costs, I can pay, whatever it takes. I can pay for doctors, nurses, equipment, whatever.’
The priest stood up and gently took Jimmy’s arm. ‘Jimmy,’ he said quietly, ‘it’s not that home she wants.’
Jimmy stood, stunned.
‘She wants to go home, Jimmy, to her Father’s home, her Father in heaven. She wants release.’
Jimmy sat down.
‘She will soon, Jimmy, she will very soon. She has had all the rites of the Church and she is ready.’
Yes, thought Jimmy. If anyone was ever ready it was Bernadette, she had kept the faith for both of them. She had passed it on to Eileen and Michael, she had taken him and the kids to church on Sundays. She had made the confessions, lit the candles, and said the prayers. If he himself ever went to Heaven it would be because Bernie would get him in, somehow. Jimmy sat very still.
All these years she’s looked after me when I thought I was looking after her. She made a home for me when I thought I was making a home for her. She had strength and she had faith. When I went this way and that, she went straight. What will I do without you, Bernie, who’ll look after Jimmy Costello now?
The priest leaned forward and looked at Bernadette. He got up, went out, and came back with a nurse. The nurse checked Bernie’s pulse and then turned to Jimmy.
‘I’m afraid your wife has passed away, Mr Costello. I’m sorry.’
The priest knelt by the bed and began to pray quietly. The nurse left and Jimmy looked at Bernadette. She was still the same, even though the cancer had changed her she was still the same, but now she was no longer there. I’m looking at a body, thought Jimmy, I didn’t even notice her go. When Bernie died I was thinking about me. Suddenly, and with a terrible clarity, he understood the sin of pride in all its awfulness. His whole life had been centred on himself. If you had a purpose for Jimmy Costello, then fine, you fitted in, but otherwise – nothing. And even if you fitted in you had to fit the way that Jimmy wanted. He had moulded Bernie’s life to fit what he saw as the right way, and the centre of everything in that right way, was always Jimmy.
The true awfulness of pride was that you didn’t even stop to think about what it really was. It was the way everything was, the way it had to be, anyone who couldn’t see it was wrong. And now there was no way back. Bernie’s life was over. There was no way to give her anything, to see what it was that she wanted, to listen to her, to ask where she thought their lives together should go. The priest stood up.
‘She’s with God now, Jimmy, as sure as anything can be sure, she’s at home.’
Jimmy nodded. ‘Thank you, Father.’
‘Is there anything I can do, anything at all?’
‘No, Father, everything is taken care of. I spoke to someone at the head office of Michael’s missionary order. They can’t get him out of the Sudan just now. Little Jimmy’s not well, Eileen will come if she can get away for the funeral. Everything is done.’
The priest quietly left.
Everything is done, everything gets done if you’ve got the money and I’ve got the money, thought Jimmy. He sat down on the bed beside Bernadette. What will I do with all that money now, Bernie? I made it for you, so one day I could surprise you. I was going to retire and say, ‘Look, girl, look what I’ve done, and it’s all for you. Now you can go to Australia and visit Eileen, we can go anywhere and do anything. You can buy a really nice house, clothes, anything you want.’ You were going to be so happy, Bernie. What shall I do now with all that fucking money?
What’s it for now?
Jimmy got up and went out to the ward desk.
‘Thank you, nurse. Will you say thank you to everybody?’
‘Of course, Mr Costello, I’m very sorry.’
‘Everything’s arranged.’
‘I’m sure it is.’
He noticed a big jar on the desk with coins in it. ‘What’s it for?’
‘Play equipment for the children’s ward.’
Jimmy took out his wallet. He pulled out a note, folded it, and put it through the slot in the top of the jar.
‘Mr Costello,’ said the nurse quickly, ‘that was twenty pounds, are you sure?’
He put away his wallet.
‘Sure, the kids need something when they’re in here.’
She was still looking concerned. Bereavement did funny things to people.
Bernadette’s Requiem Mass was very full. Jimmy hadn’t realised so many people would want to come. They had never moved from Kilburn, but he knew hardly anybody other than as an acquaintance, a face you nodded to. Jimmy had said no flowers, donations to Michael’s missionary order. Things had been bad in the Sudan and Michael still hadn’t been able to get out.
Worrying about Michael had been something Jimmy and Bernadette had accepted as part of their lives three years ago when he was sent to Sudan. Little Jimmy was still ill, Eileen didn’t know what it was, the doctors were trying to find out. It probably wasn’t serious but it wouldn’t go away and the poor kid had quite a bit of pain. There were two of Bernie’s relatives from Ireland and a cousin of his own who kept in occasional touch, but mostly it was neighbours, colleagues, and parishioners.
There had been a wedding on the previous Saturday and Jimmy had asked if the flowers could be left. Bernie liked flowers in church, she would have liked these. Only one wreath was sent. It wasn’t big but it was expensive, the card said ‘Bridie’. Jimmy had it put by the box in the porch where donations could be given.
A few people came back to the house from the cemetery. Most didn’t stay long. Tommy Flavin and a couple of others from Jimmy’s station stayed and drank whiskey together. Flavin didn’t drink much but the other two drank steadily.
