The Last Winter of Dani Lancing: A Novel

by P. D. Viner

  “I’m in Greenwich Park, dancing in the dark with my wife.”

  “Remarried—good for you. I hope she’s a looker.” He whispers to Jacks, “New wife.”

  “Congratulations. Now let us get back to sleep!” shouts Jacks.

  Patty grabs the phone. “No, still the same old wife.”

  At home in Dorset, Ed and Jacks jump up in bed like they’ve been electrocuted.

  “Patty?”

  “I think the object of this call is to ask you to dance with us again,” she says.

  “It’s almost bloody midnight. I’m sixty-five,” Ed says in disbelief.

  “We all are,” says Patty. “Isn’t it great?”

  She puts the phone back down by the Dansette and lifts the needle again. She drops it on the first groove and takes her husband in her arms to dance.

  In a bedroom 134 miles away, a couple who have not danced together in a long, long time, get out of bed. They put on the speaker-phone and dance with their oldest friends.

  When the song ends, both couples kiss and Ed takes the phone.

  “We love you. Let’s get together soon. I think we have both really missed you. But now bugger off so we can get some sleep.”

  “We love you too,” Jim tells them before he ends the call. He stands there for a while, silent, thinking about his oldest friend.

  “What else do you have?” Patty asks.

  Jim opens the bag and looks through. “Carole King, Four Tops, Diana Ross, Donovan …”

  “Anything. You decide. I need to pee.” Patty runs off behind a bush. Jim continues to fish through the bag until he finds something that makes his heart skip a beat. He pulls it out and looks at it in the moonlight.

  “I remember that from my first party.”

  Jim turns to see his daughter standing there.

  “Good to see you,” he tells her.

  “Do you remember? I danced to it with …”

  “Gary, Gary Rohr. Buck teeth.”

  “My first kiss.” She smiles, remembering such an innocent time. Behind her there is a flare of firework from somewhere behind Canary Wharf.

  “Come up and see me …” he starts.

  “… make me smile,” she finishes.

  He puts it on. Steve Harley’s unmistakable voice cuts through the air. Jim holds his hand out and the ghost drifts over. Without touching the two of them move and spin together.

  They dance until Patty returns and steps through her daughter’s image, making it shatter into a million fragments, to take her husband’s hands and dance with him.

  “This was …” she starts.

  “… Dani’s favorite,” he finishes her sentence.

  THIRTY-TWO

  Sunday, December 26, 2010

  They danced in the park and watched the stars until four that morning before they went home. Now, at 2 p.m., they sit surrounded by newspapers and with a laptop open. They are back in the rushing of time that is real life. Patty sits at the table, head down over her laptop, searching, intently scrolling and noting down things in a small Moleskine notebook. Jim stands to the side, alternating his gaze from the road outside to the side of his wife’s head, his mind in an absolute turmoil.

  “What are you looking for?” he asks. “What are you hoping to find?”

  “I don’t know,” she tells him, though she knows full well what she’s searching for. She wants to see photographs of the wife … widow. Ideally two photos: before and after; happy and sad—the eternal opposites.

  The first would be the couple, together and happy. The second would be of her alone, after his death. Patty wants to see her grief.

  “Bloody hell, that sounds sick,” she thinks. “Why do I need to see that?” But she knows the answer: because she wants to judge her sorrow.

  In her own wallet she has two photographs of herself. She never leaves home without them, though she hasn’t looked at them for a very long time. She just needs to know they’re there. The first shows her happy … no, not happy, that is far too bland a word. She is absolutely ecstatic—caught in a moment of rapture with her husband and her child. She is whooping, whooping with delight. Her perfect child has just won the English prize at school and Patty dreams she will follow her into writing, noble writing for great causes, something to make her so very proud. Patty can close her eyes and see that photo in every detail. It is taken in the grand hall of her school. Dani is about twelve and is standing on the stage holding a cup aloft—her prize. Slightly behind her are Jim and Patty. Jim stoops slightly to make sure his head is in the picture. His hair is still a brilliant black, he’s dressed like a cut-price Steve McQueen—he looks great. Patty has long hair—probably the longest she ever wore it. It suits her, spilling over her shoulders. She wears a clingy dress—a floral pattern that shows off her fuller figure; hourglass many people called it. Patty knows it’s her and yet she barely recognizes herself.

  It’s the woman in the second photograph, the after image, taken maybe three years ago and thirty years after the first, who she recognizes in the mirror today. Sat alongside the first photo, it reminds her of some champion slimmer standing next to the cardboard cutout of their former giant self. The contrast between the two Pattys, especially in the face, scares her a little—showing how the acid of loss strips away the flesh, etches the lines of pain and rage into the body. This is how she judges pain and loss. And that is why she must see Audrey Cobhurn. To weigh up her loss like a butcher judging a cut of meat. But the search yields nothing. There is only a half-turned shot of her from her husband’s failed election bid. It tells Patty nothing.

  “I’ve got to go to the funeral,” she says.

  “You won’t do anything stupid though, will you?” he asks nervously. “You won’t confess without talking to me first?”

  “No,” she lies.

  In the middle of the night Patty wakes. Jim is curled into her, as if they are one body. His body heat keeping her warm.

  “I must remember this, all this. If nothing else, I must never let this memory go,” she tells herself.

  She can see what it means to him—he sees it as the continuation of a forty-year love affair. He’s the romantic one. For Patty it’s new and exciting, a final fling before everything rusts away or falls off; something that can live away from the burden of their previous life together. Could she ever be that Patricia again?

  She slips out of the bed, as quietly as she can. As her flesh pulls away from his, she feels the separation—the pop of the skin disengaging. It makes her heart dip.

  She walks downstairs as quietly as she can and makes her way to the den. The curtains are not drawn here, and moonlight illuminates the room. What she sees most in the room—in the whole house—are the missing things. Once upon a time this room had been filled with photographs, certificates, diplomas and trophies. Dani had been a winner. If she ever sees this room again she will replace those pictures. The time for grieving is long gone. They should remember their beautiful girl and sing her praises to the heavens—not hide her away like they’re ashamed of her.

  She walks over to the fish tank—well, ex-fish tank. Dani used to keep her beautiful little friends in here. Jet-propelled flashes of neon that would fascinate her for hours and hours. That was before running became her big passion. At some point, when she was about twelve, they stopped replacing the ones that died. After about a year they were all gone and the tank was drained. No one wanted to get rid of it and so the bottom was spread with soil and brightly colored stones. Then exotic cacti were planted—the kinds that would be all right after you left them for months with no care.

  Patty pushes her long, slim fingers down inside the tank. Through the stones and into the soil, the dry soil. She moves her fingers like worms through the crumbling bed until she finds the buried treasure. She had placed it there many years before. The memory of that day shames her.

  She had been sitting at the kitchen table. It was early; she had barely slept—again. She was smoking—again. She had promise
d Jim she wouldn’t smoke in the house but … but what? She had thought: “Fuck him and his stupid rules.”

  He had come down and seen her sitting there, wreathed in smoke. He hadn’t said a word, just looked at her, a pained expression on his face like a fucking martyr. She took the cigarette and ground it out in her own hand. It hurt. She had wanted a reaction, wanted him to scream at her: “You idiot, you stupid self-obsessed cow, you weak, feeble woman. If you want to harm yourself then do it properly, kill yourself and do the world a favor.”

  He hadn’t screamed. He had said nothing like that. Instead he cleaned the wound, slathered it in antiseptic cream and bound it in a bandage. All the while looking at Patty with love and compassion. It was then that she knew she had to leave him. When he left the house that morning she packed a small bag, wrote a note and, lastly, walked over to the cacti tank.

  She blows on the treasure, removing the little bits of soil attached to it. It’s still a little grubby but seems fine. She slips it back onto the second finger of her left hand. Perhaps she could try to be that Patty again.

  THIRTY-THREE

  Tuesday, December 28, 2010

  She drives to Durham. She leaves plenty of time and so arrives early at the churchyard. She stands outside and waits. She’s well insulated against the cold, but still finds herself hopping from foot to foot and clapping to keep the blood circulating. She sucks in the chill air and feels it burn her throat a little.

  The church itself is impressive, flint and cobble hewn from the earth and tamed into a house of worship. The churchyard looks ancient; the headstones are a little like medieval teeth and tree roots have burrowed beneath them forcing them to stick out at odd angles. It is a dramatic place to be laid to rest; a dramatic place to be unmasked as a murderer too.

  Patty has a story all worked out if anybody asks who she is, or why she’s there. She’ll be Carol, Carol Plimpton, née Hawkins. She worked with Duncan a long time ago, before he set up on his own. She carries no identification and, once again, all her clothes are from a charity shop, except the underwear.

  It’s a long time since she’s walked inside a church, years, and much longer since an event of joy beckoned her in. In her twenties and thirties it was weddings, then christenings; now it’s funerals. She’s stopped attending obsequies though, now she sends condolences, in a few instances a tasteful floral tribute, but she can’t attend in person. There were two or three funerals of contemporaries from university; she went but found she had to fake compassion, pretend some sadness; it made her face ache and stomach churn. Of course, there was another reason: she was avoiding Jim. The last funeral she attended was seven or eight years ago. Poor Connie Tunstall, the woman who was responsible for Patty and Jim meeting, though of course Patty knew Connie kicked herself for that. Connie had always had a thing for Jim. And of course Jim had been there too and … she had hated seeing him then. Why? She smiles. These last few days things have begun to get clearer—clearer than they’ve been for twenty years. She did not want to see him for fear he would cheer her up. How idiotic, to be so married to grief.

  “Christ, am I going to be cursed with epiphanies now that I’m a murderer?” she laughs to herself. Then she remembers Audrey Cobhurn and feels ashamed by her flippancy. Her head swims a little and she walks further into the churchyard, all the way to the wall that separates the church from the farm. She looks out and sees beauty all around. She sniffs the air; it’s tinged with that scorched leaf smell she remembers from childhood and knows that somewhere there must be a bonfire. She remembers that there used to be a man at the end of the street who roasted chestnuts on a brazier. The smell drove the kids wild, but Patty remembers that when she finally tried some they were disappointing. The hot, sweet nuts were not as tasty as the smell they gave off. In her mind that man was always there, in the street, ringing his bell and yelling through all seasons, but it can only have been December and maybe January too. In summertime it was Tonibell ice cream.

  Duncan Cobhurn is being interred in the earth. Patty finds that surprising. She thought everyone was burned nowadays, that there was no room left for the brittle dust of mortal remains. But she does understand it. The thing about burial is that there’s somewhere to visit, a plot to tend and make beautiful. She would have liked to have had Dani buried so there was somewhere to go … but she was unavailable for the funeral planning. Jim made the decisions. Now, each year on Dani’s birthday, Patty goes to a park, always alone. She knows that Jim goes to a garden of remembrance where Dani’s ashes were scattered but Patty doesn’t want to go with him. Especially not to somewhere that celebrates her death. Instead, Patty goes to a park, the closest point she can get to where Dani was born. The hospital itself was pulled down years ago and is now a supermarket. She went in there once. Worked out that Dani was born in the deli section. It could have been worse; feminine hygiene and incontinence were close by. Patty bought some cold cuts, salami, breaded ham and a baguette. She thought about eating them there and then, but it seemed a little crass. Instead she walked outside and wandered around the area, until she found a little park.

  She sat in there, that first time, and ate and thought of Dani. She went back a week later—this time she had a sapling with her, in a plastic bag. The man at the garden center said it was really sturdy and would grow quickly. She also bought a little spade plus that stuff like chicken wire you see around baby trees. She dug a hole, popped the tree in, then pushed the soil back and put the coil of wire around it. There’s no plaque or anything, but Patty know it’s hers. It has thrived over the years and now gives enough shade in the summer to allow her to picnic underneath.

  Cars begin to arrive, a fleet of them sweeping in formation like geese headed for home. Black. Traditional. The first setting the speed, slow and dignified. One by one they sweep in and park. Only when all the cars stop, does a tall, silver-haired man with military bearing walk forward and open a door. Patty can see why he became a funeral director. She immediately trusts him; maybe she should tell him she’s the murderer and get it all over and done with.

  “Christ, Patty, that’s not funny,” Jim’s voice-in-her-head tells her.

  From the phalanx of cars there is now a steady pouring of black suits into the courtyard around the church. Some walk straight in, others take the opportunity for one last cigarette before they receive the reminder of their mortality. Patty insinuates herself into a clump of middle-aged mourners and they file in.

  “Just look at her if you have to, but please, please, do not try and speak to her. Please,” Jim had asked her that morning.

  “Okay, fine,” she had said without meaning it.

  The church interior is just as impressive as the outside, with delicate stained glass and tapestries that shimmer across the walls. The pews are ornate and each one has a series of hand-embroidered cushions on them depicting a Bible scene.

  “Hope I get Sodom and Gomorrah,” Patty thinks.

  The most impressive part of the church, however, is the carved Jesus which towers over the congregation, his face a bloody mask of pain, his blood congealed to gore in puckered orbits on hands and feet. Arms outstretched to … to what? Absolve, condemn? He is a wooden man, spindly, grotesque, a mahogany Pinocchio with no strings to hold him down. He dominates the room, his eyes following Patty around, seeming to say: murderer. She takes a seat toward the back, away from the altar and the towering Jesus, but on the aisle close to the exit.

  Funereal black is a lifesaver. She is bulked up: three jumpers, jacket and then a black suit. Huge and baggy without the padding, but with it … grieving fat woman. The ensemble is topped off with a black hat and veil from Cat Rescue. Patty had hoped the body would be on show—she had wanted to see his face one last time but this is no open-casket freak show.

  Slowly, a trickle of people arrive and the chairs start to fill. She holds firm to the aisle seat and moves aside so people can squeeze past her intimidating bulk. The room is full by the time the vicar enters, and even then, as t
he organ strikes up “Nearer My God to thee,” there is another wave of mourners who have to stand along the walls and at the back. There are at least two hundred people in the room before the service begins.

  Finally, two women enter, arm-in-arm, both tall and slim—widow and daughter. The older woman walks fully erect, her chin hyper-extended to show she is bowed by nothing. The younger is slightly curved and leans a little into her mother. Both are dressed in elegant black dresses. The two women process down the aisle and take their places center stage, below the all-encompassing Jesus.

  “What is a man …” the priest begins and Patty shifts her attention to the other mourners. She has never been a fan of organized religion, always thought it destroyed the questioning mind. Her eyes scan the room and her blood turns cold. There is the policeman who tried to question her in the hospital, but he isn’t in uniform. He is looking straight at her: their eyes latch, she holds her breath. Finally, his gaze moves on. He seems to be scanning the congregation, is he searching for a killer there? Patty feels herself shake, though it’s not her illness, merely the shudder of blood unfreezing and starting to pump again. She has no idea if her disguise held up to scrutiny. He certainly didn’t seem to register any recognition and yet policeman are also actors, trained to morph into friend and confidant of the criminal, to blur the distinction between good, bad and ugly.

  For a second she wishes Jim were there with her—then feels guilty for that thought. It was bad enough that she got him into trouble this far; she cannot endanger him any more. “Shit.” She suddenly realizes everybody is standing except for her. She blushes and, with some difficulty, pulls herself up for a hymn.

  God sent His Son, they called Him Jesus; He came to love, heal, and forgive.

  Patty moves her mouth a little, to look as if she’s singing. She cranes forward, trying to see the widow, is she singing? She can’t tell. The hymn finally ends and everyone sits again. Now the vicar begins to recount a litany of charity work done by Duncan Cobhurn. A long list of young people’s charities, homeless and drug-addicted teens mostly. Around Patty, men and women nod their heads, many shed tears and some hold hands; some of these mourners are the drug-addicted teens, now grown up and made good: Duncan Cobhurn helped save them. Patty feels her stomach lurch. He sounds like a saint.