Goodbye Sweetheart

by Marion Halligan

  She was right about the likelihood of nobody finding her fallen to the bottom of the stairs, washed in waves of pain, slowly starving. It would have been a long time. But she did not have to find this out. She was comfortable on the sofa, safe, nothing hurting, the world turning, herself going to sleep and then not waking up. Not knowing that, or how cold she became, or how many weeks it was before people came and found her.

  LYNETTE VISITS THE SHOP

  When it came to the point, Jack didn’t want any help with his words for William. He was my brother, I’ll do it, he said to Ferdie. You should do some of your own, though. That’s a usual thing.

  So we’ll have a number of speeches?

  It’s the usual thing.

  Jack tried to get Lynette to set a date for the ceremony.

  Not yet a bit, she said. I want to get things sorted out first.

  Ferdie would have liked to say, What things?, but could not be so rude. He and Jack caught one another’s glance over Lynette’s head.

  She said, I’ve got to sort out the shop.

  Isn’t Janice looking after it?

  Can’t do that forever. And she’s going overseas.

  Jack said, I think I have to get back. You can let me know when you want to come down. I’ll do my words at home—that’ll work better.

  Oh Jack. Do you have to go?

  I better, he said. Can’t leave the chooks any longer. Well, another day.

  Ferdie said, I have to go too. I’m feeling worried about all the work I’m not doing.

  Oh Ferdie, said Lynette. Oh, now I feel bad. Why don’t I set you up in the study, with my computer?

  I’ve got to get back to London, he said. I can’t really do anything here. The gods are only dead if you believe them so. I’m worried about believing.

  Oh dear, said Lynette. It was clear she had no idea what he meant, but then he wasn’t sure himself.

  Jack said, The gods are only dead if we stop worshipping them, and looked surprised. So did Ferdie.

  Lynette wasn’t worried, she’d made her mild protest and was accepting their departure.

  You’ll miss the casting of the ashes, said Jack.

  I’ll have to, said Ferdie. But I’ll write some words, if you like.

  That would be good, said Jack.

  Ferdie could see that they were all accepting departures. Nerys and Acacia came to say goodbye. Acacia had a funeral to prepare. They said they’d like to come to Eden for the ceremony, but Ferdie thought they probably wouldn’t.

  I’ll let you know when it’s going to happen, said Lynette.

  Yes please, they said.

  They could see that Lynette was taking her time over working out the next stages. When you think, said Ferdie, William was such a control freak. Death must be hard for control freaks.

  Lynette laughed. Watch out, I’ll assume the mantle.

  Go for it, said Aurora.

  Jack shook Ferdie’s hand and invited him to come fishing, one day.

  One day, said Ferdie. Yes, I’d like that. Won’t be soon, but one day. He meant it.

  Cezary came down to take Aurora back. She went to the airport to meet him. Ferdie had imagined he would be big and fair, but he was small and dark with a lean face, he spoke lively English in a rich deep voice with a faint accent. Ferdie put out a lunch of bread and cheese, salad and grapes; Lynette fetched the tall glasses and a bottle of riesling. Cezary wouldn’t have any because of driving; he announced that they would leave immediately after lunch. He sat beside Aurora and hovered over her, his brow furrowed. She called him Honey. She ate no cheese and drank no wine. Ferdie savoured the dry honey taste of the riesling, knowing that his days of wine with lunch would soon be over.

  He asked Cezary about his dream book. Ah, he said, it goes slowly. Since I noticed many patients report strange dreams after they have been for a while on the heart-lung machine I have been collecting them. It is patient work. Patient, he smiled. And I am not sure about the interpretation of these dreams.

  You’re going to write about what they mean?

  Yes. Dreams are dreams, however bizarre. It is what they are telling that matters.

  That sounds quite difficult, said Ferdie.

  But you know this, I think, that the things that are hard are the things that are worth doing. Look at you yourself.

  When Lynette was out of earshot, Aurora muttered to Ferdie, Has she found out about the will? I don’t mean I want to know what’s in it, just whether she knows.

  Whether he had one or not?

  Ferdie! He was a lawyer!

  Just the kind of person to die intestate.

  Oh, there was one, said Lynette, coming back in. Just what you’d expect. Perfect William. No surprises. Except perhaps in the final worth of the estate.

  They looked at her, but she was pouring wine, and clearly wasn’t going to say any more.

  On television they have the family solicitor reading the will, said Aurora. Usually to gasps of horror.

  I wouldn’t worry about that, said Lynette. Small legacies all round. You’ll hear soon enough.

  After lunch, Aurora hugged Ferdie. Stay in touch, she said. Email me, I’ll write back. She suddenly looked contrite. I’m ditching you, aren’t I? Or shall I take you back to Sydney, now?

  I’ll be all right, he said. He liked the idea of the bus, its solitude.

  No, said Lynette. He can’t go yet.

  I have to, soon.

  Come to the shop with me, said Lynette, then you can go.

  The pavement outside was still stained from the vandalising of the cumquats. Inside there were a few sale bins, from the work Lynette and Janice had been doing on the day of William’s death, but generally it was its elaborately ordered self, with its arcane and expensive objects seductively displayed.

  Aren’t they beautiful, said Ferdie. I don’t even know what most of them are for. But they are beautiful.

  They’re a kind of pinnacle of ancient generations of arts and trades. Skills and techniques and ancient knowledge.

  Is that what people buy them for?

  Are you suggesting it’s just because they’re cute and decorative?

  It’s something of a mystery to me.

  Of course they’re cute and decorative, and I’m sure that’s all some people think. But they’re useful, said Lynette. I use them. I have in the past.

  A young woman in jeans and white shirt and navy-blue butcher’s apron came up to them. Can I do anything, Mrs Cecil? she asked.

  No, Hannah, I’m just looking, said Lynette, and laughed. You know, she said to Ferdie, I had decided I was going to sell the shop. Get rid of everything.

  Yeah? You’d do that?

  Well, I was going to. But now I look at it, I’m thinking I won’t. It’s too nice.

  Yes. And I think you’d make yourself very unhappy.

  Will the shop make me happy? But no, not the question. It does work. I know how to do it. It keeps me off the streets.

  She peered at a shelf. Mind you, it is nice, but if I don’t pay some attention it might not be soon. I think I’d better do that. Leave William in the cupboard till the spring, and work on this place. And after that, take Erin on a buying trip. She might as well start learning the business, even if she doesn’t want it. Will you mind not being here for the throwing ceremony?

  Ferdie said, I saw a photograph, in a gallery in London. Of a man’s ashes being thrown into a river. As they fell they assembled themselves into his shape. They were a kind of pale dust, they shimmered, and the photograph caught them forming the shape of a man. The photographer’s father, it was, the ashes were.

  His ghost, said Lynette, floating above the river. I’ll get someone to take a photo of William’s ashes, in case that happens. She shivered. Before he’s dashed to pieces on the rocks. Do you believe in ghosts, Ferdie?

  Only as figments of the imagination.

  She took his hand, and stared around at the shelves.

  It is full of images of order, said F
erdie. Same with same, like with like, in all this mad variety. It’s a taxonomy, and taxonomies are wonderful things. You are lucky.

  On the counter were free postcards. People could use them as gift cards when they bought presents, or just take them away. Ferdie picked one with rows of wooden spoons and whisks making patterns. He addressed it to Berenice, and wrote, My stepmother’s shop. It is full of beautiful taxonomies.

  They walked out of the shop, Lynette calling over her shoulder, Thanks Hannah, I’ll be in tomorrow morning, we’ll get to work on that sale we advertised. She went on, I’m glad you came, Ferdie, it’s been good having you here, you’ve helped.

  Never got the olives planted.

  Oh, I’ll get a man in for that. It’s what I’ve always done. I’ll be surprised at how little has changed. No, you’ve been lovely. She gave him a little hug around his waist. Shall I come and see you in London?

  Yes please.

  I thought it might be the end of the family, but it won’t be, will it.

  Not if we don’t let it.

  Not that William ever did much towards holding it together. No, you’d have to say his line was more breaking up.

  So, nothing will change. You will still be the one holding us together. I’m thinking, he said, Erin and I have ties of blood, and Aurora and I, but there are ties of family, what were once chosen ties, and they come to be binding. You’re not my blood, but you are my family.

  A stepmonster, said Lynette.

  You know not that.

  Let’s have a cup of coffee. She turned into the cafe they were passing, which was also a bakery. It had a glass cabinet full of tarts. Lemon, custard, apple, passionfruit, mandarin, grapes in a reddish juice, gooseberry. Rows and rows of them, as big as small saucers. Other rows, of eclairs, and those cakes like plump little nuns with round heads called réligieuses, and small brioches.

  Would you like a tart, Ferdie? she asked. It’s like France, isn’t it, you can look at all this stuff and feast your eyes, you don’t need to eat it. But I think today we will. Yes.

  He chose one mandarin, and one of the grapey ones. The woman next to him asked for her apple tart to be heated up.

  I’m afraid we don’t do that, madame, said the waitress.

  What, said the woman, I never heard of that. Just stick it in the microwave.

  We don’t have a microwave.

  Lynette bought one to take home to Erin. Passionfruit. I have to watch that she keeps eating, she said.

  I don’t know, Ferdie, she said. I won’t sell the shop yet, I’ll get it in really good order. But I might after that. I might not have the energy.

  Sell it and go and live in the south of France.

  Everybody’s dream idea. I don’t think so.

  You’re young . . .

  Don’t tell me I’ll get married again.

  Ferdie grinned. Okay. I’m not saying it. But who knows. The world is full of things to do.

  The next morning Ferdie made coffee and grabbed Lynette before she started drinking wine. I’ve been thinking, he said.

  Oh yes?

  Yes. One of those long nights where you think and don’t sleep.

  Lynette turned her head and looked at him sidelong.

  Yes. And you can’t do this, you know. You do know, don’t you.

  Of course I can. I’ve started doing what I want, not what I ought. So I can.

  Yes, said Ferdie, but not yet a bit. I think we have to have that ceremony for William now.

  Lynette folded her arms on the table and rested her head on them. She sighed, not noisily. He used to call me Linnet, you know. I used to like that. Though, I suppose, not much lately. Nobody ever will, now.

  But he used to, that’s the thing. You can remember that, it’s lovely. Especially if you do the right thing now. You have always been a woman who behaves well.

  Married to a man who always behaved badly.

  Not always. And we loved him. He liked to be loved.

  It’s all too hard, Ferdie.

  No it’s not. We can do it.

  We?

  It’s your moment for delegation.

  It’s too late. Everyone’s gone.

  Going. We can catch them, maybe, but if not it doesn’t matter.

  Okay. Fix it. We’ll go down to Eden on Friday and do it on Saturday.

  Then it’ll be done, and you’ll feel a lot happier.

  It’ll probably be vile weather with a howling gale and the ashes’ll blow back all over us and get stuck in our hair and eyelashes and teeth.

  We’ll shut our eyes and mouths, at least. Ferdie laughed. It’ll be a lovely still winter’s day, brilliantly sunny, you’ll see.

  Oh, so you control the weather now, do you?

  Do you want me to put a notice in the paper?

  Do we have to? Couldn’t we just tell people?

  That’s hard work. Anyway, putting a notice in the paper is telling people.

  I’ll leave it to you, said Lynette.

  Jack called in to say goodbye again. He said, Good. It’s the right thing. People could stay with me, well, Lynette, but I think she’d prefer the Seahorse Inn. Built in 1840-something, by the same Ben Boyd as the tower. Bit of a crook, he seems to have been. On a grand scale. Took people’s money as investments and lost it.

  I think Lynette might like somewhere a bit newer, bit more luxurious.

  Oh, it’s new and luxurious now. All done up, hardly a sign of the original. I’ll ring up if you like. What about you, would you like to stay with me?

  Yes please, said Ferdie.

  She’s doing the right thing, said Jack.

  Yes. Except I dunno what William’s got to do with Eden.

  The sea, said Jack. His boyhood was by the sea.

  PEPITA GOES TO DINNER

  It was a morning in late summer, the leaves on the great trees round the village green a little dusty, their green dark and worn. There was no change of colour yet and no sign of a break in the hot weather. At ten o’clock the manicurist came, as she did every week, a sweet girl, and good at what she did. She seemed about fifteen, but wasn’t. She cleaned off last week’s varnish, filed her nails in the shape she had learned Pepita liked, soaked them in some scented soapy water, dried them in a soft towel and rubbed her hands with cream. They were small hands, with shapely long fingers, the veins and tendons showing and the skin age-spotted, but elegant even so. Sometimes the girl, who was called Vivienne, chatted to her about her life in the village, an artless little runnel of conversation that Pepita listened to in a slightly dozy fashion. She knew the girl thought she was a sleepy old lady, and that suited Pepita. Listening was quite comforting but there was nothing she wanted to say to her.

  Vivienne began painting the nails, base coat, several coats of polish, the finishing varnish. You have lovely nails, the girl said. So large and oval and smooth.

  The colour was a kind of dusky pink that would match her silk taffeta cocktail dress. Pepita said, I like this ashes of roses colour, it’s very pleasing.

  Ashes of roses, said the girl. The label says Phantôme de Fleur. She pronounced all the words as though they were English.

  Ashes, ghosts—they’re much the same thing.

  The girl left her with her hands resting on a small pillow, waiting for the varnish to dry and harden.

  The finishing coat is very quick-drying, said Vivienne. But best be on the safe side. I’ll let myself out.

  She said these things every week. She liked saying them, and Pepita found herself soothed by them. Vivienne was a nice child, pleasant looking; nothing remarkable about her features but her skin was lovely, fine-textured, very white and clear, with a faint natural rose about her cheeks, and dark lashes that fluttered as she concentrated on her work. Pepita once asked her about the make-up she used, and Vivienne blushed a bit and said, None really, just moisturiser, and Pepita said, Very wise. To herself she said, it is youth that looks like that. When she gets older she will be a woman with skin still lovely, but it will
not have that bloom of youth, that downy smoothness, that luminous freshness. Each of those phrases had a melancholy absence. She sighed faintly to herself. It was a long time since she’d possessed any such things, and when she had she’d not known it.

  She sat with her hands on the small pillow long after the varnish had dried. She probably doesn’t know it either, she said to herself. Next time I’ll tell her, so she can enjoy it before it fades.

  After a while the lawyer came. This was not a weekly habit, though not uncommon, and it was not a social call. Pepita took out a small cedarwood chest and they discussed certain papers. Notes were made, documents signed. There, she said, it is all in order, is it not?

  Perfectly, said the lawyer. It is of a textbook orderliness.

  After he went she sat for a while longer, looking out the window at the greenness of the trees. The village was very pretty at this season. Village was what it called itself, though a colder glance might have said suburb. She felt beautifully calm, watching the green, the pond, the little school beside the church; she could not see beyond and did not need to think about what might be there.

  She ate a peach and a banana and after this lunch went to bed with a book and had a long sleep. Her nap she called it. Then she had a scented bath and put on the ashes of roses dress. Its silk taffeta rustled mysteriously. She put on some Joy by Patou. All the men who bought her perfume knew this was what she wore. She had been wearing it for almost as long as it was old. It was invented in the Great Depression, a scent wonderfully glamorous and extravagant, to cheer people up. Apparently people buy perfume, and lipstick, in times of public financial stress. She had read that there were twenty-eight dozen roses and a thousand jasmine flowers in every ounce. She loved the smell of it, late in the evening. Ashes of roses. Phantom of roses. Deep, precious, complicated. So many flowers perishing to make it. But not perishing, preserved.

  Tonight she was dining with Andrew. That happened about once a year. He would come and collect her in a car. Andrew expected to be chancellor when the current party lost power. She had taught him to speak as if born to rule, with just a faint tinge of a vernacular, to add sincerity. A long way from the newsagency in a Manchester suburb where he had grown up.