Sweets From Morocco

by Jo Verity

  ‘My room? You still call it that.’ Her voice softened. ‘Anyway, how are you?’

  ‘Oh … you know. The Head said I needn’t go back to work until after the funeral but, to be honest, I feel better if I have something to do. Mind you, that’s got its own drawbacks. Everyone’s either steering clear or offering to make me cups of sweet tea.’

  ‘Yes, Dan’s been force-feeding me Typhoo.’

  ‘So you two are still …?’

  ‘Apparently. I’ve no idea why. We’re not at all suited.’

  ‘Could it be that he loves you?’

  ‘No. Impossible. Anyway, love’s a conspiracy to sell diamond rings and big white dresses. Any fool knows that.’

  Lewis laughed. ‘God, I’ve missed you.’

  When Tessa told Rundle that her mother was dead, and it was possible that she had killed herself, he poured them each a double whisky and raised his glass. ‘Here’s to free will and self-determination.’

  Any suggestion that theirs could be a casual friendship had been dispelled on her first visit to Brighton. After a perfunctory glance at the sea and a drink in Rundle’s ‘local’ they had ended up in his bed. The following week he’d come to London but Tessa was on pins the whole time, anxious in case Dan turned up or one of her neighbours spotted him leaving her flat to catch the early morning train home.

  Their liaison was based on sex. To pretend otherwise would have been absurd. Rundle fascinated her. Startlingly good-looking, in her eyes at least, he was intelligent and well-informed, yet he seemed happy to work as a garage hand, and it occurred to her that he must be reserving his true self for something other than his job. If he had friends, she never met them. She once asked whether he kept in touch with Mike Stoddy, or anyone else from the old days. ‘Why would I do that?’ was his reply.

  Dan was a considerate lover. Competent would be a fair description. Tessa was the one who orchestrated their love-making. But Rundle – he liked her using his surname. ‘Like Mellors,’ he grinned – needed no instruction. Their bodies spoke directly to each other, and not always politely. Whilst Dan gave, Rundle took. Sometimes it was necessary to conceal a bruise on her thigh or a weal at her wrist.

  Rundle didn’t talk much and when he did it was about a film he’d seen or a book he was reading. His observations were acute and incisive but it was as if his sphere of interest was limited to a fraction of what went on in the world. He shunned nostalgia, saying that the past no longer existed; that dwelling on it, or in it, dulled the senses. He was unyielding in this. Tessa wondered if, as a child, something unspeakable had happened to him and that looking back was, for him, a dangerous business. As for the future, he said that thinking about it was a waste of brainpower; guessing what lay ahead was as senseless as betting on a horse. ‘Look how often the favourite loses.’ Once or twice, hoping that his resolve had been loosened by alcohol or marijuana, she tried to tease out his history, but she never got anywhere.

  The wind swung back to the south-west. By the end of the week only filthy slush and the smut-flecked remains of snowmen proved that it had snowed. For Lewis, its immaculate loveliness had been a distraction during which the town had come to an enchanting standstill. The problems of travel; of keeping the house warm; of procuring vital supplies had dissolved with the melting snow and there was nothing left to divert him from the funeral and whatever lay beyond.

  Andrea said she would come to the service. He knew she would. She’d always been one to do the right thing and, despite their separation, Peggy Swinburne had been her mother-in-law and the girls’ grandmother.

  Whenever he went to visit his daughters, they were on their guard, treating him like a benevolent uncle who brought them toys when it wasn’t their birthday. He was welcome at any time – that had never been disputed – but Andrea wasn’t keen on his having the girls to stay at Cranwell Lodge. ‘I’m not sure you could cope. Jane’s still a baby. And Sarah’s only just settling at her new school. I wouldn’t want anything to disturb that. It’ll be different when they’re a bit older.’ He didn’t argue. He made the tiresome journey every few weeks. Occasionally he’d taken his parents. When was the last time they’d all gone? It must have been a matter of days before his mother was admitted to hospital. It had been a gruelling trip and they were all frazzled by the time they got home but, in the light of events, he was glad that he’d made the effort.

  ‘I could bring the children down on the train. Just stay one night,’ Andrea suggested. ‘It might be a comfort for you. And your father. Mum’s going to look after them when I come for the funeral.’

  Children about the place might be comforting but, when Lewis thought it through, it seemed a hazardous step. He was vulnerable at present. Yesterday he’d passed a dead cat in the gutter, sodden fur sleek against its lean body, tongue protruding between sharp white teeth, and before he knew it he was crying. Any show of tenderness by Andrea could scupper him altogether. He daren’t risk it, not now that he and Kirsty were back together.

  Within a few days of Andrea’s leaving Kirsty Ross’s Christmas card had arrived, complete with invitation. ‘Come to Bristol for tea – I’m always around at weekends. We could go to the zoo. It would be lovely to meet you all.’

  Lewis had phoned straight away, explaining his situation. ‘I’m so sorry, Lewis.’ Then, with the candour that was so particular to her, she’d asked, ‘It wasn’t anything to do with me, was it?’ He’d reassured her, saying that things hadn’t been right between him and his wife for years, and that it really wasn’t such a catastrophe. Not long after, he’d invited Kirsty to go with him to an orchestral concert in Colston Hall. It had seemed a level-headed, grown-up way to go about things. They met in a pub and, within minutes of being together, they had given their tickets to the young couple standing next to them, preferring to spend the evening in a second-rate Italian restaurant on Whiteladies Road, eating bad food and getting to know each other again.

  On the morning of the funeral, Tessa caught an early train from Paddington. On arrival she hung about in the station buffet concerned that, were she to get to Salisbury Road too soon, she and her father would have time to fall out. This was bound to happen at some point during her visit but it would be better if it were after the service. The nicotine-yellowed cafeteria, echoing with garbled announcements from the platform beyond its steamed up windows, became her temporary sanctuary. Food. Warmth. Anonymity. It was tempting to stay here for the rest of the day, harming no one and coming to no harm. Who would guess, or even care, that the skinny young woman in black, covertly lacing her coffee with something from a screw-topped bottle, was about to attend her mother’s funeral?

  When she reached the house, her father was courteous. He kissed her cheek and hugged her but his embrace was mechanical. ‘Tessa. Thanks for coming.’

  Thanks for coming?

  ‘Where’s Lewis?’ she asked.

  ‘Getting the coal in, I think.’

  ‘Anything I can do, Dad?’

  ‘No. It’s all under control. Ready for the off.’

  So bright and bloody breezy, but she knew why. Her father had transformed himself in to an automaton, primed to spew out stock phrases and perform commonplace tasks. It was his only chance of getting through the day.

  Her mother’s absence was manifest in what was missing that morning. There were no fairy cakes cooling on the tarnished wire rack in the kitchen; no freshly ironed clothes heaped on the corner of the table, waiting to be taken upstairs; no bunch of mint in the brown jug on the windowsill. And the whole place smelled wrong. Again it was a lack that struck her – no hint of lavender furniture polish or the cheap eau de cologne that her mother dabbed on her hanky; no traces of last night’s meal in the air; no smell of bleach in the bathroom.

  Tessa pushed the living room door ajar and peeped in. Her mother’s armchair was empty, the velvet cushions set at a neat angle, without trace of indentation.

  Lewis appeared, dumping the brass coal scuttle next to the grate and ho
lding out his arms.

  ‘It’s so good to see you,’ he whispered.

  The smell of his skin and his words of greeting released her tears. ‘Shit. I was doing okay until I saw you.’

  He handed her a white handkerchief, soft from years of washing. ‘You look thin. And pale.’

  ‘It’s the bereaved daughter look. Very “in” at the moment.’ She tilted her head back, still clinging to him. ‘And if we’re going to get personal, you’re going grey.’

  ‘Are you surprised?’ Then he touched the bruise near the corner of her right eye. ‘How did you get that?’

  She drew away, dragging her hair forward, concealing the yellowing bruise, not answering his question. ‘It’ll be okay for me to stay at Cranwell Lodge tonight, won’t it? I can’t cope with Dad and this house at the moment.’ She paused. ‘That sounds selfish but he’ll have to get used to being alone sooner or later, won’t he?’

  ‘That’s fine. I think Dad’s going to Uncle Frank’s for a couple of nights.’

  ‘What about Andrea?’ The last thing Tessa wanted was to share Lewis with her sister-in-law.

  ‘She’s up at the house now, sorting through a few things. She’s going to come back for a cuppa after the service then catch a train home.’ Lewis seemed keen to change the subject. ‘You should have something to eat. We don’t want you passing out.’

  ‘I wouldn’t mind a brandy. Or is that too outrageous?’

  They raided the sideboard and found the dregs of a bottle of brandy left from a Christmas past.

  Lewis watched as Tessa downed the neat spirit. ‘I don’t know how you can drink that stuff.’ He tugged his ear. ‘It was a relief to get the post-mortem results.’

  ‘A relief for whom?’ she asked.

  Lewis shot her a quizzical glance. ‘All of us, of course.’

  ‘I can understand why Dad’s relieved. It lets him off the hook, doesn’t it? No blame, no shame.’

  ‘You sound as though you’d be happier if she had killed herself.’

  ‘I think I would.’

  ‘Christ, Tessa, that’s a dreadful thing to say.’

  ‘She was an unhappy woman who never asserted herself. Or rather she was never allowed to assert herself. I was crossing my fingers that, for once in her life, she’d taken matters in to her own hands. Decided that enough was enough and got the hell out.’

  He shook his head. ‘You’re sick.’

  ‘And you’re sentimental,’ she countered.

  Members of the immediate family had been instructed to assemble at the house before following the hearse in the hired limousines. Andrea arrived first, stationing herself at Lewis’s side, setting out cups and saucers on the kitchen table, resolutely establishing her right to be there whilst simultaneously drawing attention to Tessa’s laziness. She was polite but disapproving and Tessa was glad she no longer had to bother with her.

  Frank Swinburne turned up next, with a couple whom she didn’t recognise. It turned out that the man was her mother’s cousin, from Oswestry. ‘I haven’t seen Peg since we were young’uns. She was a real scream. Played the piano accordion. And she was a lovely dancer.’

  A picture of her mother, fox trotting around the room, weighty accordion strapped to her chest, sprang up before her.

  ‘He must have come to the wrong funeral,’ she whispered to her brother and she began to giggle, clamping her hand over her mouth, turning away so that her father and the others couldn’t see.

  Lewis caught her arm, steering her out of the kitchen and in to the living room. He shut the door.

  ‘What is the matter with you?’ he demanded. ‘You might have the decency to pretend, at least for one day, that you care.’

  ‘Pretend? Is that what you want me to do? Don’t you see, that’s what’s ruined this family. Pretending. Baby gone missing? Let’s pretend he never existed. Mother round the bend? Put a brave face on it. Daughter gone off the rails? Sshhh. Let’s not mention it. Now you’ve started. Wife and children left you? Keep a stiff upper lip. But, at all costs, never tell anyone what you feel.’

  Lewis slapped her across the cheek then, before she had time to register shock or pain, he was holding her. ‘Sorry. That was unforgivable.’

  ‘No, it’s okay. It’s exactly my point. You should go with your instincts.’ She stood on tiptoe and kissed his chin. ‘It bloody hurt, though.’

  Lewis drew in a deep breath then exhaled slowly. ‘Dad was being truthful when he told you precisely what he thought about your book. And that didn’t solve anything, did it?’

  Trust Lewis to identify the flaw in her argument.

  ‘Only because he wasn’t prepared to listen to my side of it. He’s a bigot. He lives in a one-sided world. And, if you must know, I couldn’t help laughing because you have to admit that the idea of Mum playing an accordion is hilarious. A shame we didn’t hear about it when she was alive. We could all have laughed together.’

  The hearse, sleek and menacing, drew up outside the house. Tessa squeezed her brother’s hand. ‘Come on. Let’s get this over with.’

  Chapter 26

  By the time they left the house, the roofs and pavements were slick from a steady drizzle, and the pewter sky seemed no more than chimney-height above the ground.

  The funeral service was a dreary affair, devoid of passion. The vicar had called at the house, earlier in the week, to discuss it with Lewis and his father. He had never met Peggy Swinburne although, several times during their conversation, he mentioned ‘the sad events of the past’. They had attempted to paint a picture of her as wife and mother but, when it came to it, the vicar did no more than string together a litany of clichés in a one-size-fits-all ceremony. It was so unspecific that Lewis wondered whether the man had prepared something else but lost his nerve at the last minute. If that were the case, he should have tried harder to convey a life tarnished by sorrow. Wasn’t it his obligation, not only to proclaim his God’s triumphs but also to come clean about His failures?

  Lewis and Tessa stood either side of their father, Lewis nearest the aisle, within three paces of the coffin which rested on a trestle arrangement in front of the altar. As a child he’d dreamed of having ‘X-ray eyes’, giving him the ability to see through solid surfaces. Today he was glad that his gaze could not penetrate the shiny box. Nevertheless he could not help picturing his mother, lying in the suffocating darkness, dressed in the powder blue suit – her ‘best’ – which he had delivered to the undertaker a few days ago.

  There had been pitifully few people to notify of her death. No bunch of old friends, no workmates, no holiday acquaintances. Occasionally she had reminisced about school days, mentioning a Joan or Helen who had been sporty or gone on to greater things but, checking through the sparse entries in her address book, it was clear that none of them kept in touch. He was surprised, therefore, to see that there were perhaps thirty people in the congregation. Neighbours and work colleagues – both his and his father’s – had turned out on that dismal afternoon to support the survivors rather than to mourn the dead. Not a vast crowd but enough voices to carry the hymns, enough eyes to fill with tears as the coffin passed back down the aisle on its final journey.

  Most of the faces were familiar, with one notable exception. An elderly man, maybe in his seventies, was sitting towards the rear of the church. When the service was over and they were milling aimlessly on the pavement, the man stood separate from the rest, motionless and watchful. Wearing a dark grey overcoat, he had a military bearing, his black brogues shining like two enormous lumps of coal, and, for a second, Lewis wondered whether his mother did, after all, have one friend of her very own.

  ‘Who’s that?’ he whispered to Tessa, nodding towards the man.

  She shrugged.

  Lewis went across to him and held out his hand. ‘Good of you to come, Mr…?’

  The man, unsmiling, took Lewis’s hand and shook it emphatically. ‘Hulbert. Brian Hulbert.’

  Twenty-odd years on, the ex-detective was
still a bulky figure and he hadn’t lost that air of guarded vigilance and reticent mistrust which had permeated the house whenever he turned up. But he was no longer the sinister ogre that he had seemed to a small boy.

  Hulbert, seeing Lewis’s ill-concealed surprise, explained, ‘I always read the obituaries in the local paper, sir, and when I saw the announcement I felt I had to come. Pay my respects.’ He shook his head. ‘It was a tragedy. A real tragedy. My failure to find your brother is the biggest regret of my career with the Force.’

  All the time he was speaking, his eyes scanned the dispersing congregation and Lewis knew that the man was, even then, hoping to catch a glimpse of something that would shed light on the mystery. Lewis wasn’t sure if he believed the bit about ‘paying respects’. He wouldn’t have labelled Hulbert as the respectful type – more a remorseless blunt instrument, battering away to achieve a result. He was absolutely sure, though, that Hulbert was the last person that his father would want to see today and he positioned himself so as to obscure Dick Swinburne’s view of the interloper.

  Before he could think of a way to get rid of the man, Tessa joined them and he was forced to make the introduction. He watched her face, knowing that she must be feeling as disturbed as he was and admiring her skill in concealing it.

  ‘I’ve been following your career with interest, Miss Swinburne. Even as a child you had a very vivid imagination. I’m not in the least surprised that you’ve turned into a writer. To be honest, I don’t generally read novels. I always say that truth is stranger than fiction, but I must admit your latest book caused me to re-examine my opinion. Fascinating … quite fascinating.’

  There was an uneasy silence whilst they absorbed the implications of Hulbert’s compliment.

  Then Tessa gave a scornful laugh. ‘Don’t forget Lost is filed in the fiction section of the library, Mr Hulbert. I wouldn’t go reading too much into it if I were you. Anyway, didn’t you say you were retired?’