by Peter Benson
Sadie called, but I put her off until after the funeral. I couldn’t bear to look in her eyes because I wanted to dive into them and see myself as she saw me. I wanted to know what she felt, but couldn’t say what I felt. She said, ‘You look awful.’
‘I feel it.’
‘Do you need anything?’
I looked at her mouth. ‘I’m all right.’
The day before the funeral, Alice arrived. I moved the mattress out of the kitchen and went to meet her at Axminster station.
The train was late, but she didn’t complain. She was very quiet in the car, but when we got to the lodge, she said, ‘It’s exactly as I remember it. Even the cats.’ I hadn’t taken them to Sadie’s. The Rayburn was smoking - I hadn’t been able to control it. When I got a flame going, it turned into clouds of smoke that belched out of the cracks between the hot plates, and out of the doors. I made a cup of tea, but the kettle took ages to boil.
Alice wanted to know what I was going to do.
‘Go to the funeral,’ I said.
‘You know what I mean.’
‘Do I?’ I said angrily.
‘Yes. You know exactly what I mean.’
I sipped my tea. It was disgusting, so I fetched a bottle of whisky. Alice didn’t drink. It sapped her resolve.
‘I’m going to…’ I said, but couldn’t say what I meant.
When Dad died, I cried. When Mum died, I felt totally alone and couldn’t cry because - maybe - I had no one to hold. I drifted for too long. The quiet life was another lie: I bumped into Marjorie - her death made me angry. Alice understood that, told me not to stay up late and went to bed early.
I drove Alice and the Colonel to the funeral. He wasn’t sure about riding in an Italian car. ‘Took a hell of a beating in Sicily,’ he mumbled. Alice chided him for this. I kept out of it, and drove respectfully.
The weather was good, birds flying, farmers driving tractors in shirtsleeves. I stopped for one to pass, but didn’t look up. The roads were dry.
The Church of St Candida (St Wite) and Holy Cross, Whitchurch Canonicorum, had a full visitors’ book, a Norman inner porch door, a Perpendicular tower and is the only Anglican parish church in England that contains the enshrined relics of its patron saint.
St Wite lived in the Marshwood Vale when Coney’s Castle watched and protected the area from Danish attack. Or she was the daughter of a Prince of Brittany who lost two fingers in a piratical axe attack and walked across the English Channel. Or she was a monk who went to Germany to evangelise the people. Whatever - she was martyred and her bones rest in a stone coffin set into the north wall of the church. Below the coffin, three oval holes allow injured limbs to be inserted for cure, or messages and posies to be left.
The vicar was sincere, and didn’t preach.
As we stood around the grave and stared into the hole, an early butterfly, attracted by the coffin’s brass fittings, fluttered down and rested on one of the handles. The weather was warm; the trees and bushes in the churchyard were budding with new shoots. Patches of primroses grew around some of the old tombs, and bluebells by the hedges. Some graves had fresh flowers in pots, others were neatly trimmed and laid with fresh gravel. When I looked up, I could see the crude carvings of a Viking axe and ship on the church tower - carved in haste, I thought. A dog barked for a few minutes, but it wasn’t a bull terrier. It had a deeper note, an Alsatian, or a Labrador.
As we stood and paid last respects, some hikers came into the yard, admired the yew trees and sat beneath one to eat their sandwiches. I could see that they irritated the Colonel, but Marjorie would have thought they were a good touch. Sheep and lambs were grazing a field behind us. After a decent time, the vicar raised his head, and we took that as a sign, and left.
At the lodge, we opened a bottle of whisky and sat with the cats to drink it. I got drunk first, then the Colonel. Alice had one small glass, then made herself a cup of tea.
She fetched a book of old photographs and sat by the Rayburn, slowly leafing through them, occasionally lingering over one, putting her hand over it, tipping her head back and wiping the corners of her eyes.
‘She was—’ I tried to say.
‘A champion!’ the Colonel cried. ‘A champion. I never met a woman like her.’
‘Nor did I.’
‘Boadicea!’
Alice turned a page and gave a little gasp.
‘What’ve you found?’ I said.
‘Or someone like that…’
Alice turned the page quickly. ‘Nothing. They’re just old pictures. Old memories.’
‘Memories,’ the Colonel mumbled. ‘It’s all just memories. Photographs and memories. Not even telephone calls any more.’ He looked at me. ‘I’ve got a boy about your age. Lives in Hong Kong. It’s always the middle of the night there.’ He got his pipe out and started to fill it. ‘A grandson I’ve never seen.’ He scraped the pipe bowl without looking at it. ‘He’s one memory I could have now. Something for the future.’ He laughed. I’d never heard him laugh before. It came from his throat, and shot from his mouth in a short, cutting snort, like a gun. ‘Future! It’s just bloody memories—’ He turned and sat up. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘Not in front of a lady. Apologies…’
‘For what?’ Alice looked up.
He shook his head. ‘It doesn’t matter,’ he said.
Alice looked back at the photographs. ‘No,’ she said. ‘It doesn’t really.’
Part Five
23
I called on Sadie in the evening. It was still light. The fields were grey, but the sky was pink. Her mother held back two dogs when she answered the door. She asked me into the kitchen. Sadie’s father was washing his hands.
‘I was so sorry to hear about Marjorie,’ she said. She put a bowl of milk down for the dogs.
‘Yes,’ he said, drying his hands. He was a friendly man. When he’d finished, he rolled his sleeves down, buttoned them, came over and shook my hand.
‘No one really knew much about her. She kept herself to herself most of the time.’
‘But she always had the time of day for us…’
I didn’t say anything.
Sadie was washing down the milking parlour. When I went to see her, she stopped work to come over, put her arms around me and say, ‘I’m sorry.’ She traced a line down the side of my face with a finger. ‘Are you OK?’
I nodded, but couldn’t say anything. I’d gone past being drunk, into a place where the light was red, and nothing seemed to matter. The sound of her voice was like church music, and where she’d touched my face burned. I was steady on my feet, and capable in every way, but I still didn’t say anything.
‘Would you like to go for a drink?’
I shrugged.
She moved towards me and lightly kissed me on the cheek. ‘I’ll finish up,’ she said.
I sat on a box and watched her. She was wearing jeans and short rubber boots. When she did the milking she wore a long green mac, but she’d taken it off to sweep the parlour. I stared, concentrating on her body, but when she looked up and smiled, she went out of focus, and my eyes filled with tears.
Sadie took me to a pub, sat me in a corner and bought the drinks. She held my hand but didn’t say anything. I hadn’t shaved, or washed my hair.
I was thinking about going to London or Bristol or Liverpool when she squeezed my hand, leant towards me and whispered, ‘I love you,’ in my ear. Her breath smelt of cake.
I turned to her and said, ‘Thank you.’ She tilted her head towards me and I kissed her on the lips.
She tasted sweet. I had put my tongue in her mouth when I felt a sharp tap on my shoulder. I broke away from Sadie, looked up and recognised Nicky, but I couldn’t dodge his fist. He hit me on the chin. As I went down, I heard him yell, ‘Where’s the old bat now?’
I didn’t feel any pain; as I fell, I twisted and grabbed his leg. He was wearing black trousers, white socks and white trainers. He was off balance, and tipped sideways, towa
rds the table. As he smashed on to it, Sadie jumped up screaming, and dived for cover as glasses, ashtrays and coasters flew in all directions.
I got up, and was about to leap on Nicky when I noticed a fast motion out of the corner of my eye, and ducked. His friend Jack had tried to deck me with a chair. I picked one up myself and charged him, yelling like an elephant.
Other customers were cowering or diving for cover. Nicky was recovering. I pinned Jack against the bar, bared my teeth, growled, rolled my eyes and enjoyed the worried look in his eyes before I nutted him. When I took the chair away, he went down with a relieved expression on his face, and a little curl of blood on his forehead, like a question mark.
I stepped away from him and turned round in time to see Nicky approach with a beer mug in his hand. He waved it at me, leering. His jacket was torn, and some cigarette ash was smeared down the front of his trousers.
‘I’m champion with one of these,’ he said.
‘A mug?’ I said.
He nodded.
I heard someone laugh nervously.
I was still holding the chair. I said, ‘Want a seat?’ and waved it at him.
He slashed towards me.
I parried the attempt and lunged at his head.
He ducked and advanced.
I backed off, poking the chair at him.
He grinned, and rushed me, and smashed the mug against one of the legs. Shards of glass flew into the air. The crowd backed further away from us. I put an arm up to cover my face. As I did, Nicky kicked the chair out of the other and slashed again. I swerved, but this time he caught my cheek.
I didn’t feel a thing. Some blood ran into my mouth and dripped on to the floor. As soon as I tasted it, something snapped in my head. A sudden hot blast burned in my ears and spread behind me and down my back. I yelled, ‘Bastard!’ and charged him.
He hesitated. I slipped on some spilt beer - this was luck. As I went down, I found myself level with his knees. I grabbed them and pushed. I felt Nicky bend as he tried to slash me again, but before he could I had him over. I twisted away before he landed, and braced myself with a table leg. I heard a sickening crunch, and more glass smashing as I hauled myself to my feet.
I turned around as Nicky began to pick himself up. When he turned and I faced up to him again, I could see that he was having trouble focusing. He shook his head and rubbed it. Bubbles of blood were popping out of his nose. He moved towards me and stood on some glass. He looked down, lifted his right foot, looked at the bottom of his shoes and then looked at me, as if he wasn’t sure who I was or where he was. I gave him a big smile, but didn’t move towards him. He looked quizzically, but understood when Sadie smashed him over the back of the head with a pool cue. The light left his eyes so quickly that I didn’t see it go, and then he was asleep.
The landlord moved out of the crowd, pointing his finger at me. ‘Look—’ he said.
‘No!’ I yelled. ‘You look! You fucking look!’ I was boiling with venom. Blood was pouring out of my cheek and nose and dripping on to the floor. Nicky was very still. Jack didn’t move. I pointed out of the window and said, ‘There was a woman living up the road here, and people like him—’ I pointed at Nicky ‘-called her an old bat. People like him and the rest of you!’ I knew my eyes looked dangerous, and my voice sounded mad.
There was some rustling amongst the other customers, but no one made a move.
‘And you lot wouldn’t know it if it bit your arses!’ I took a deep, wheezing breath and fumbled for a handkerchief. I held it against my cheek. ‘She was worth more than all of you put together, but you didn’t know that, did you?’
No answer.
‘She was just an old bat, wasn’t she?’ I laughed, madly. ‘But now you’re going to have to find someone to take her place.’
Some murmurings. I moved backwards, towards the door. ‘It is, isn’t it?’ I said, grinning.
‘What?’ said the landlord.’
‘Bow and arrow country.’
‘What?’
I was almost at the door. ‘You heard,’ I said.
I looked around and saw Sadie. She was about eight feet away from me. She was still holding the pool cue, but didn’t move.
I reached into my pocket and took out a handful of change. There was four or five pounds there. ‘That’s for the damage,’ I said, and threw it into the crowd, and while everybody watched the coins fall and then scrabbled for them, I left. A moment later Sadie followed, and we drove back to the lodge.
24
I was sitting in Mr Kelman’s waiting room with Alice. My face was cleaned up but had throbbed all day.
Mr Kelman’s secretaries were trained to work efficiently in the presence of grieving relatives or hung-over beneficiaries. One of them was cursing her computer, but quietly. There was a pile of sailing magazines there, and advertisements for interest rates. We sat on chrome-framed chairs. No words were exchanged, apart from, ‘We’ve got an appointment with Mr Kelman’, and ‘If you’d like to wait here, I’ll tell him you’re here’, and ‘Would you like to come this way?’ when he was ready for us.
‘As you may or may not know,’ Mr Kelman began, ‘Miss Calder died a—’ he cleared his throat, ‘wealthy woman. Her accounts show that she was a regular and careful saver and in addition, of course, she was the original sole beneficiary of the late Mr Calder’s estate.’ He tapped a file. ‘The shirt manufacturer…’
Alice nodded.
I looked blank.
‘The shirt manufacturer,’ Mr Kelman repeated. He picked up a rubber band, hooked it over a finger and stretched it before checking himself and putting it down again.
‘Yes,’ said Alice.
‘So…’ he continued, leaning back and rubbing under his right eye, ‘we turn to the Will.’ It was on the desk - he picked it up, undid a ribbon that was tied around it, and coiled this into a mug with a seagull and Land’s End written on it. ‘She revised it less than a week ago,’ he said, ‘in your favour, Mr Thompson.’
‘In my favour?’ I said.
‘That is correct.’
‘Why?’
Mr Kelman shook his head. ‘That’s not for me to say.’ He lowered his voice, but I heard him say, ‘Not that that’s particularly unusual…’
‘What?’ I said.
‘Mr Thompson?’
‘What’s not particularly unusual?’
He scratched his eyes. ‘People often feel the need to change their minds at the last minute.’
‘Maybe they see things more clearly then.’
‘That’s one way of looking at it,’ Mr Kelman said, as if he was humouring me.
Alice didn’t say anything.
I got five thousand pounds, the Alfa, and any three of Marjorie’s possessions.
Mr Kelman read: ‘ “For helping with my dignity”, she says,’ he said, and then, after clearing his throat again, told Alice that the Communist Party of Great Britain was beneficiary of the bulk of the estate, ‘a little under half a million, property included, of course. You’re named as Trustee.’
‘Me?’ said Alice. ‘Us?’ She was on the edge of her seat, gripping her hands together.
‘Yes.’
‘My God.’
Mr Kelman was obviously appalled by this stipulation, but he was a professional, and used to coping under stress.
I said, ‘I thought you were an atheist,’ to Alice, but she didn’t hear me.
Alice and I walked down the main street and along the front to the harbour. My hangover had cushioned the shock, but I still couldn’t believe that I could drive out of Dorset in my own Alfa. Alice was dumbstruck. We sat on a bench and watched the sea roll in over the shingle.
‘I never thought,’ she said, ‘Never imagined…’
‘What?’
‘She—’
‘Alice?’ I didn’t wait for her to say anything. ‘What was it between you two?’
She sat in silence for a while, before saying, ‘Lots of things. Good times. Love, g
uilt…’
‘Marjorie said she felt guilty about going off.’
‘What else did she talk about?’
I shrugged. ‘Her father. Australia. Africa.’
‘It’s strange,’ Alice said. ‘I felt guilty about making her feel guilty.’
‘Why?’
She shook her head. ‘Who knows? Who knows why these things start, but it’s a downward spiral.’ She stared at the sea and sighed. ‘I suppose it’s what happens to lovers,’ she said, eventually. ‘But we never had a chance.’
‘What?’ I said.
She didn’t hear me. ‘It was different in those days. People are more tolerant these days. They’re not so kind, but they’re more tolerant. We used to be unnatural - now we’re just another minority.’ She shook her head.
It was too rough for any fishing, but two men walked by with a pair of oars between them.
‘I think I preferred it when I was unnatural. There’re too many minorities these days. Everybody’s in a minority…’
‘I’m not.’
She stopped musing and looked at me. ‘Yes, you are. A minority of one.’
‘You can’t have a minority of one.’
‘Yes, you can! You can have anything you want!’ She took my hand and said, ‘Do you know what your trouble is, Gregory?’
‘No. What?’
‘You don’t want to control your own life. You believe in fate.’
‘How do you know?’
‘I know.’ She nodded, meaningfully. ‘And it’s true, isn’t it?’ she said.
I nodded.
‘Don’t,’ she said. ‘Fate’s just another god. It’s something you can believe in. Don’t believe in anything and then you’ll understand. No method—’
‘Communism is a method—’
‘No, it’s not. Not at all. It’s just a means to an end.’
‘What’s the difference?’
She didn’t answer.
A group of comprehensive school children walked by. They were carrying bottles of cider and laughing at something they’d seen on the beach. One of the girls was hanging on to two boys. Another boy hung back and leant against a lamp-post with another girl. Periods of bright sunshine were interrupted when slips of dark cloud scudded across the sky and blocked out the light. ‘She didn’t have to do that,’ Alice said. ‘Guilt’s not worth that much,’ but she didn’t say anything else.
