The statement felt disloyal so she felt she must replace it with another.
“Not that he remembers.”
“Well I take me hat off to you, Mrs Gunn. The lad’s a rare footballer. I’m surprised he started playing with a w …”
She wondered whether he had been about to say “woman” or “wench” and gave him a suddenly saucy grin. “It’s the awful mix in me,” she said wickedly. “Welsh father, Irish mother. Lethal combination. Quite wild. Now what’s the education like in these ‘football schools’?”
“Not up to here,” he admitted.
“Then I need to talk to Sam and to his other masters.”
Paul Grant raised a hand in objection. “You know what schools like this are like. Private schools. Sam’s an all-rounder. They’ll all say he should be concentrating more on their subject.” A touch of humour. “Whatever it is.” They both thought Latin.
“As you are on yours, Mr Grant,” she rejoined.
He gave a frank, likeable grin. “No. It’s more than that, Mrs Gunn. He really is good. Talented. It’s a pleasure to watch him. The teams need lads like him. He could be coached to something very interesting. Special-like.”
“I’ll think about it, Mr Grant.”
The PE master put his hand out to shake hers with a faint touch of respect that had been absent from his greeting. “If he’s going to make a career in football this is the way he’ll have to go, Mrs Gunn. And he doesn’t have much time,” he warned. “They pick ‘em young these days.”
She left the school, perturbed and preoccupied. As she unlocked her car door and fastened her seat belt she reflected. There had been a few times since Martin had died when she would have given anything – anything – to be able to consult him. To be able to ask him just one question. Just one. What shall I do next?
She dropped her head onto the steering wheel. This was one of those dreadful occasions when she was reminded afresh of the big hole created by his absence. In some ways she wasn’t so alone. Both sets of grandparents were still living but even without consulting them she knew they would advise according to their class and generation. Education, education, education. Football was merely “kicking a ball around”. Education was what counted. But today’s world was different. Her children had not turned out how she and Martin had imagined they would. She blinked away the vision of her holding one twin, Martin the other, swapping to burp, swapping to feed, swapping to change their nappies. Martin who was somehow fading as each year closed behind him. She couldn’t picture him reaching forty years old. And she had never seen him touch a computer because nine years ago many people didn’t, whereas nowadays few people were without some QWERTY skills. She sighed and drove slowly towards the town. But the difficulties of the day were not over yet.
Still agitated and a bit depressed, she parked the car in the Gay Meadows football ground and wandered into Wyle Cop, stopping halfway across the English Bridge to read the police appeal on its yellow sandwich board. She wondered whether the police had had any response. She stopped walking and peered down at the swollen river, recalling the newsflash that it was due to peak again at roughly nine o’clock tonight. It was a strange fact about the Severn that because it meandered lazily cross country its worst levels could often be predicted hours, even days ahead. But the flooding was nothing new. An elderly inhabitant of the lower reaches of the town had once told her that years ago, as the river rose, vulnerable homeowners simply abandoned their cellars – then their ground floors. Something which would not be tolerated now. “But,” the elderly inhabitant had argued, “Shrewsbury has always flooded.”
Always has, always will, she thought and read the flood height level gauge: 5.25 metres on November 1st 2000, 4.86 metres in 1998, 5.16 in December 1960 and the highest, 5.37, in 1946, flooding a beleaguered town still recovering from World War Two, although only two bombs had actually been dropped on Shrewsbury. One which caused little damage and the other destroying a cottage on the Ellesmere Road and killing its occupants, a mother and two children. The real fear for the town had been not the war nor the floods but the influx of American servicemen and concern about the morals of the local girls.
Glancing across at Marine Terrace she knew her old, pretty memory would be now always superimposed by the other, the floating corpse. It never would look wholly peaceful, innocent or idyllic again even though the police tape had now been removed, and with that, the one external sign that anything untoward had happened here. Then, quite suddenly, as she turned away from the house, she felt acutely uneasy. Frightened. As though something dreadful was about to happen.
The light was fading across a radiant red sky. Shepherds Delight. In her mother’s voice. Calliphora buzzed across an empty sky.
Blood red, the setting sun sparking across heavy waters. Shooting gold. A man was walking towards her. In a smart suit, briefcase swinging. As he drew level he put his hand up to the side of his head. Their eyes met. His mouth opened. And she knew who it was. Humphreys. She knew him because he looked a little like the dead man. Same height. Same build. Same clothes. And she knew him because he had a swollen, broken nose. He opened his mouth as though to… Scream…
They passed each other. Still shaking she clutched at the parapet and tried to convince herself that she had not had a vision. It had been – coincidence. She had … It was a man crossing a bridge, at sunset, talking into a mobile phone clamped to his ear. It did not convince her. It was Munch’s The Scream.
She continued along Wyle Cop, heading for a friendly light. Rejecting the black and white half-timbered casement windows of the closing shops. She reached Finton’s and was inside before she had consciously made any decision, the bell clanging noisily behind her.
He was smoking in the corner. And she could tell from the dried grass scent of the rollup that it was a joint. He glanced quickly down at it then obviously decided she was no threat or else that it was too good to stub out.
“Hello again.” He took a glowing drag.
She knew that marijuana was illegal but she didn’t really disapprove of the drug. While, in her role as coroner, she had frequently pronounced that alcohol had contributed significantly to a victim’s death, whether through drink-driving, alcoholism, simple lack of judgement or an increase in aggression – and the same was true of cigarette smoking – she had never believed that marijuana was even a minor contributory cause of mortality. Therefore she held a tolerant attitude towards the drug. Besides, she was relieved to be inside. The scene behind her was so surreal. So disturbing. So frightening.
He was staring at her. “You all right?”
She nodded. Not trusting her voice to sound normal.
“You look as though you’ve seen a ghost.”
She managed a strained laugh. “Not a ghost. A tableau.” Another nervous laugh to match a nervous voice. “Munch’s The Scream, actually.”
Finton took another deep, thoughtful drag and his eyes were far away. “One evening I was walking along a path with the city on one side. The fjord behind me. I was tired and ill; I stopped and looked out across the fjord – the sun was setting – the clouds were dyed red like blood. I felt a scream pass through nature.” He scrutinised her. “Sounds like a hell of an evening out there. What exactly happened?”
“I saw only the picture,” she said. “That awful, unbalanced terrible nightmarish picture.”
“What precisely did you see?”
Before she’d said a word she knew how silly it sounded. “A man walking across the English Bridge – towards me.”
He took another deep, thoughtful drag from his cigarette. “Why did it remind you of The Scream?”
She shook her head. She could not say. She tried to explain the inexplicable. Rationalise.
“It must have been the light effect. As he drew level he put his hand up like so.” Her hand was shaking as she covered her ear, mimicking the action. “It was just a mobile phone. But it’s a very bloody sunset out there.” She wanted to use his name. “Mr
Cley.”
Finton gave a humorous stare at his joint. She knew had she been younger he would have teased her about her formality before offering her a drag. But even as he looked up he had already rejected the idea and said, quite seriously, “Finton’s my name.”
She acknowledged with a nod.
“And was he dressed in dark clothes?”
“A suit.”
“Well – whoever he was – he’s certainly got to you. You’re as pale as a ghost.”
Was that what she had seen? A ghost? Was it not James Humphreys but the corpse, searching for his identity? Was there then some significance, some warning, in the vision?
She tried to change the subject. “You’re obviously familiar with the painting, and the painter.”
“I took a degree in art,” he explained. “Specialised in Symbolism. So, for fjord think River Severn?” He was still laughing at her. When she didn’t reply anything he lapsed into reverie. “I always thought the tortured subject was Munch himself. It would have fitted into his life. Bit of a mess like plenty of artists.”
His joint had gone out. He gazed at it with mild regret. “‘Fraid I haven’t any Munch to sell you, Martha Gunn.” His eyes gleamed with a hidden joke. He was laughing at her. “But if you can wait a couple of days I’ll see what I can knock up.”
She allowed her eyes to drift down towards his empty fingers and she smiled at him.
“That’s better,” he said. “Come on. Have a brew. I can spare you one. I think you need one. Now tell me all about it.”
She sat down nervously. The work of a coroner must of necessity take place behind closed doors. Newspaper headlines sit on the shoulders of violent, unexpected death, so coroners must be bound by the strictest rules of decency, privacy and confidentiality. She could not discuss any of it with this gypsy boy. Certainly not the reason behind the crazy, puzzling vision she had had on the bridge, not five hundred yards from this shop. Not any part of it. But as she accepted the mug of tea and wrapped her chilled fingers around to steal its warmth she wanted, with an ache, to confide in someone. And if not to him to someone, some human being with sympathetic ears and a response. This is what you lose when you lose a partner. Someone to share secrets with. Someone standing at your side on the touchline, both of you cheering your own son. She felt a sick wave of isolation.
Obviously impervious, Finton Clay grinned across. “Then tell me about yourself,” he invited.
“Well, I work in Bayston Hill.”
“A doctor,” he pronounced.
It was true – in a way. “How did you know?” Not quite denial.
“Something about you. Something professional.” He watched her critically. “Something guarded. Warm, caring, but in a very controlled sort of a way. Clinical.”
She felt her eyebrows lift. “Oh?”
But she was reluctant to tell him more about herself and instead curled her fingers tighter around the coffee mug before turning the conversation neatly around to him. “So. Tell me about you.”
It was a not unusual story. A father who had died (she picked up on something there), a mother who had “gone to pieces”, a struggle through art school, a sister long-term depressive, dependant on alcohol and drugs for whom Finton – to his credit – felt partly responsible.
She stayed and drank two cups of coffee and found herself telling him about Sam’s big chance. He gave the subject plenty of thought. “How old did you say he was?”
“Twelve.”
“Why not give him the choice?”
“Because any boy of twelve would choose football, Finton, without even considering his long-term future.” She felt bound to add, “And you know footballers are more or less finished at thirty. And that’s if they escape serious injury when they’re younger.”
“They’re not finished at thirty. They just don’t play competitive Premier League football. But they can survive much longer than thirty.”
When she didn’t respond he said, “What does your husband say?”
“He’s not around to ask.” She let him think she was divorced, that Sam’s father was absent through choice. She didn’t want to “do the widow thing”. But it was twice in one day that she had had to explain.
“I see.”
He was quiet for a minute or two, staring into the distance. Then he picked his head up. “Martha Gunn,” he said, smiling, his hand on the move. For one awful moment she was sure he was going to cradle her own hand but it went no further than his lap. “There is no correct answer. Just two roads. Sam either takes the one or the other. Whichever road he chooses he will not know how his life might have turned out had he taken the other one.”
They stared at one another. Maybe the dope had got to her too. The simple statement seemed like a deep, timeless philosophy.
When she left the shop she still felt nervous, her perceptions heightened. The gloom had spread; the air was damp and cold. But years ago, when Martin had first been diagnosed, she had learned there is only one way to deal with insubstantial funks. Turn around and face them. Say Boo. And because the town was silent, holding its breath, fearing the Severn might isolate it yet again, she started walking up the hill, making the excuse to herself of a visit to the Barclays cashpoint on Castle Street although really she relished the climb in the cold air. She would withdraw money and check on her balance. Striding out it would take her little more than fifteen minutes there and back and she needed to clear her head.
It was a mistake. Threading along Dogpole and St Mary’s Street she found herself standing in front of the High Cross and, not for the first time, wishing she knew less about the town’s violent history. When they had first arrived, she and Martin had taken one of the walking guides.
“On this very spot in 1283 Dafydd ap Griffith, brother of the last native-born Prince of Wales, was brought as a prisoner of Edward I and hanged, drawn and quartered.” And he had not been the only one. In 1403 Harry Hotspur’s remains were left to rot here as a warning to other rebels that the might of King Henry IV was absolute, his response to treason merciless.
The town was now dark, deserted and quiet. For the first time she would have welcomed Saturday crowds. Noisy families, sweethearts, shoppers. Buskers. Big Issue sellers. She hurried uphill to the corner, let herself into the Barclays foyer and heaved a deep breath. The thirteenth century receded. She was back on familiar ground. But the walk had cured her. She strode, with confidence, back across the English Bridge and did not stare at people walking the other way, wondering.
It was late by the time she arrived home. The English Bridge was closed to traffic again and there was gridlock round the Abbey. Turning out of the Gay Meadows took precious minutes. She was anxious to get home now. It was only when she was on the ring road, driving steadily, that she returned to the encounter on the bridge. Had it been Humphreys or had she been deluded? If it was him, what had he been doing there? “Silly,” she said to herself. “He practically lives there.”
But he had been heading away from Marine Terrace. He could have been going anywhere. To the pub, to a shop. Anywhere. OK then. Who had he been talking to on the phone? She narrowed her eyes and gripped the steering wheel. She didn’t even know that it was John Humphreys. It could have been anyone. But her mind was not listening to reason. It rippled on. What connection was there really between Humphreys and the dead man and Haddonfield, the window cleaner? Because she didn’t buy the story that it was all pure chance.
As she covered the last few metres of the drive she could pick out lights on the top floor. A silhouette crossing in front of the window. Sam’s curtains were closed and she could tell by the light from behind it that his television was on. But downstairs was in darkness. She pulled up outside the front door and switched her engine and headlights off. Something had caught her eye on the doorstep. Something red.
She locked the car and bent down. It was a wreath. Of red roses. She scooped them up, searched for a card and couldn’t find one. She unlocked the front door and st
epped inside, puzzling. If someone was leaving flowers why hadn’t they rung the doorbell and delivered them properly? Someone would have been in for most of the day – Vera all morning, Agnetha throughout the afternoon, joined by the twins after four thirty. How long had the flowers lain on the step? Both Vera and Agnetha would have noticed them. They always used the front door. They had to enter and exit through the front door to set the burglar alarm. Why had they left them there? She would have thought that Agnetha would have taken the flowers inside. She loved flowers. She would have put them in the sink to keep them watered, preserved the card. Martha glanced upwards again. She should be running down the stairs to share the experience with her. Flowers delivered were not an everyday occurrence in the White House. They were special. She fingered the wire which bound the flowers to the circlet of moss. They must have arrived after four-thirty and Agnetha could not have heard the doorbell. But had no one been required to sign for them?
Once inside, in the light, she searched for the card and still couldn’t find it. It must have fallen off, maybe on the step. So, still holding the flowers, she went back outside with the porch light full on. And still couldn’t find it. She kicked the door closed behind her and carried the flowers into the kitchen. She put them on the draining board and splashed them with water. They still looked fresh. Agnetha and Sukey were running downstairs.
“The flowers, Agnetha,” she said. “On the front doorstep. Why did you leave them there?”
The two Abba lookalikes stared at each other.
“I did not see any flowers when we came home, Mrs Gunn. Someone must have left them since we arrive back from the school. But why they did not ring the doorbell? Who are they from? Are they not …?” She glanced at Sukey, obviously puzzled.
Yes, Agnetha. Wreaths are sent in sympathy. After bereavement. Our customs are the same as yours.
“I don’t know. I didn’t see a card.”
“But Mrs Gunn.” Agnetha peeled back one of the roses. “It is here. Look.”
River Deep Page 8
