`Are you feeling any better now?` her best friend Jenny from painting-class enquired, settling comfortably into the corner of the sofa with a cup of coffee.
Sylvia shook her head. `I honestly don`t know how I feel. As if I wasn`t really here, I think.`
Jenny nodded, dunking a ginger-biscuit with happy lack of manners. `It`ll be the shock coming out.`
`I guess so. I think it`s not knowing why that`s got me so mixed-up.`
`You never found any note, then?`
`No. We`ve looked everywhere, and the Police scoured the museum-office from top to bottom, but they didn`t come across anything either.` Tears flowed suddenly. `What did he do it for, Jen? I have to know, I just have to.`
`Why don`t you go and see a medium? If they can get in contact with him, you can ask him why he did it.`
She looked up in astonishment at Jenny`s unexpected suggestion. `What did you say?`
`A medium – one of those people that reckon they can contact the dead.`
The prospect was unimaginable. `I wouldn`t dare.`
`Why not? Surely it`s better than all this uncertainty?`
Sylvia`s churchgoing past supplied the most immediate objection. `It`s not Christian. The dead sleep till the Judgement, it says in the Bible.`
`I don`t think that stands proved. What about ghosts? Plenty of sensible people believe in them, and surely a ghost is as dead as you can get.`
`I`m not sure whether I believe in them. I`ve never seen one, and I`ve never met anybody who has.` Aware that they were digressing from the point, Sylvia fought her way back to it. `Anyway, mediums don`t talk to ghosts. They only see the dead through the eyes of the spirit. How do we know it`s not all in their imagination?`
Jenny shrugged. `Dunno. But maybe if you approached it with an open mind . . .`
Sylvia sniggered, thinking of the greatest objection of all. `I`d get myself thrown-out. If they started all-that Is there anybody there? Knock once for Yes, twice for No sort-of-stuff, I`d burst out laughing. They might put a curse on me, or something.`
`They don`t do that,` Jenny giggled, setting her cup down hastily to avoid spilling the contents. There`s a girl at work – her mother`s a medium, and she reckons that-woman Madame Arcarti in "Blithe Spirit" has a lot to answer for.`
`What do they do?` Sylvia was becoming interested, in spite of herself. `Sit in a ring in the dark?
`Not in the dark. They do sit round a table and hold hands, but there`s one light switched on.`
The antics of Madame Arcarti still hovered disconcertingly in Sylvia`s mind. `What if she goes into a trance? I know I couldn`t keep a straight face if she went all rigid and started singing nursery-rhymes or throwing herself about.`
`Apparently it doesn`t have to be like that. Her mum doesn`t – throw herself about, I mean. She does go into a trance, but Gloria said you can hardly tell, except that she sits very still and seems to be staring at something nobody else can see.`
The notion that had originally been unthinkable began to seem slightly less bizarre. `Can she really contact people who`ve died? Does anybody ever make sense of the messages?`
`Seemingly she`s well-thought-of. They say she`s provided an awful lot of Evidence, as they call it.`
Tempted now, Sylvia hesitated still. `Do you really think it might work, Jenny? If I thought it would, I`d go for it.`
`Why don`t I have a word with Gloria and get her to ask her mother what she thinks?`
They left it at that for the moment. Afterwards Sylvia was not at all sure she had done the right thing, haunted by the religious upbringing that branded Spiritualism as a work of the Devil. But the chance to learn Tom`s motive overrode caution. If only I could speak to him, ask him why, she thought - I might find peace again.
She decided against mentioning it to her family. The girls might be frightened, as initially she herself had been. Paul would pronounce it nonsense at once, in that dismissive way of his. Even happy-go-lucky Edgar, brought up by devout Catholics, would be horrified, warning her against it for fear of her soul`s damnation. Keeping quiet would cause less trouble.
Although the museum authorities had been so insensitive over the matter of her moving out, their tactless mental nudge reminded her that it was time she went to Tom`s office to clear his desk. The prospect was daunting – could she bring herself to go up those wide stone steps, along the echoing corridor and into the room where he had written letters answered the phone and, in all probability, planned his own demise? Halfway up the steps, courage failed her. Cursing her cowardice, she leaned against the balustrade, weeping from sheer mental exhaustion.
Help was unexpectedly at hand. `Sylvia! Are you all right?` The voice was Dave`s, and through a blur of tears she saw him peering anxiously at her. `What are you doing here?` She wanted to tell him, but words would not come, and he put an arm round her. Having his company made it easier to step over that threshold into Tom`s other life, about which she had cared so little. Had that lack of interest been a mistake? And had Tom died because of it?
`Sit there a minute.` With delicacy of feeling, Dave had not led her to Tom`s chair, instead seating her by one of the windows. Outside it had begun to rain, dirty rivulets of dust trickling down the glass. The effect was almost like thin bars – had Tom ever looked upon his domain as a prison?
`Marie.` Dave summoned the secretary from a back-room where a photocopier hummed. `Can you make Sylvia a coffee, please? She`s not feeling very well.` That was no exaggeration -- I would never have come, if I`d known it would be as dreary and oppressive as this, she thought.
The hot drink was too strong, and needed more sugar to make it palatable, but she did not ask for any, making herself swallow until the shaking had passed off as she grew calmer. `Thanks, Dave,` she said at last. `I`m sorry for making such a scene. I should be able to cope better than this.`
`It`s early days yet.` He took the empty cup from her and stood it on the blotter in front of Tom`s empty chair. It`ll make a soggy ring on the paper, she thought - he would have hated that.
`I meant to come and clear out his desk, but I honestly don`t think I can face it.`
Dave nodded towards a filing-cabinet in the corner. `We did wonder about that, so we took it on ourselves to pack up whatever we could find. It`s all in that cardboard-box up there. Will I carry it over to the flat for you?`
`Could you? I`d be ever so grateful.` She could not bring herself to touch what was, to all intents and purposes, a coffin containing the remains of Tom`s working life.
THREE
It was not until after tea that Sylvia nerved herself to pull the box out of the corner where Dave had left it, in order to examine the contents. A few Christmas cards, probably saved for their attractive pictures – Tom kept a whole sheaf of those in a plastic carrier-bag on top of the wardrobe. (`They`ll come in handy when we`re a pair of miserable old gits nobody sends card to any more,` he had always said, but he would not need to worry about that now.)
One or two personal letters from contacts at other museums and universities, discussing archaeological matters foreign to her understanding. Why had she taken so little interest in his work?
Half a packet of Curiously-Strong Mints – she picked one out and held it beneath her nose to sniff, as if the smell might bring Tom nearer. The Parker fountain-pen she had bought him for his last birthday because he preferred them to Biros. A few sheets of their personalised notepaper, and one or two unused notepads. The Swiss Army penknife Patty had given him one Christmas when she was little.
Down the side of the box someone had pushed a framed photo showing the museum staff at a Christmas function many years ago. Names leapt out from the recesses of her brain to bring the flatly-grinning faces to life. Bill Everard who had been in charge then. Tony Watson who helped with manual work. Eleanor Somebody-or-Other from the office. Des-Somebody-Else who had been there only a month when they`d caught him trying to sell items of undisplayed stock to an antique-dealer in town. Others who still worked there - Dave, who
had found Tom`s body, the secretary Marie Bowers, the cleaning-women Mrs. Parr and Mrs. Brody, along with others whose names refused to come to mind. Where were all those who had moved on? Were they even still alive? Or had any of them taken Tom`s way out?
Right at the bottom of the box, underneath a brown-paper parcel which for the moment she put aside, lay a plastic wallet containing four more letters. Why had they been filed so carefully together, as if they were special and private? Though she had the right to read them, she had to force herself to take out the envelopes and examine the contents.
Surprisingly they were rejection-letters with regard to jobs he must have applied for without telling her. One of them, at a much grander museum, would have been a real step-up. Did the answer to his suicide lie there? Had the applications represented his last chance to take charge of a more prestigious museum? Or had it involved some particular interest of his, where he could have become involved in research? -- all these years I`ve been living every day with Tom, kidding myself we were close, and yet there was so much of his life I never seemed to get involved with -- was that his fault, or mine?
Below the plastic wallet, stored carefully inside a large manila envelope, she discovered a sheaf of financial statements in respect of an investment-account she never knew he had. As her startled glance took in the size of the deposits, she realised this had to be where he had been keeping most of his money. But the balance that should have been so healthy had been inexplicably depleted by a long list of sizeable monthly credit-transfers to something called the Harland Venture, of which she had never heard. Could it be anything to do with the Retirement Fund of which he had spoken? At all events, once she had established Probate by getting Letters of Administration, the funds in this account – plus the money on deposit with Harland – would also be hers, in the absence of a Will to the contrary. Financially at least, things were looking up. Another letter at the bottom of the heap bore the name of a firm of solicitors, a useful guide to who to approach for help with Tom`s business affairs.
It was only now that she turned to the final item, which she had set aside in order to read the letters – a package wrapped in brown paper slightly grubby with age. Despite the sadness of the occasion, Sylvia felt a stirring of anticipation invariably triggered-off by the sight of a parcel. Perhaps it had been meant for her anyway – it would be her birthday in ten days` time. Tom had most likely shopped in advance and hidden the present at work to prevent her from finding it prematurely. But the aged appearance of the wrapping made that scenario unlikely, and curiosity got the better of her. Tearing recklessly at the paper, she began to unwrap an object that felt partly soft and partly hard, as if made up of several pieces joined together. What on earth could it be?
Certainly not my present anyhow, she thought in astonishment as the last of the wrapping fell away to reveal a teddy-bear with light-brown fur, and the sort of beady glass eyes never fitted to soft toys nowadays. At some time or another it had been played with, judging by a line of clumsy stitching along the seam in its back, but it was far too clean to be a child`s beloved toy.
Sylvia laid the bear on the coffee-table and studied it thoughtfully - what on earth did Tom keep this for, and where did he get it, anyway? A relic of his own childhood? If that was the case, why hadn`t he kept it at home, rather than in his office? Could he have bought it for the son they lost at birth, and hidden it so as to spare her grief? The thought that he might have struggled with that secret sorrow for so many years set the tears flowing again.
In the morning the postman delivered a white envelope with a black-printed crucifix in the top left-hand corner next to the company name: “Jos. Halliday and Sons (Funeral Directors) Ltd.” Nearly fifteen-hundred pounds seemed a lot to pay for a coffin, three cars, and a perfunctory service in the crematorium chapel, conducted by a celebrant who had not known Tom and could say nothing to heal the hurt anyway. In the days when everyone lived and died in their birth-villages, it must have been easier to speak a meaningful eulogy, she thought. Fortunately, enough money remained in their former joint-account to pay for Tom`s funeral, without waiting for the Mutual General Assurance Company to bestir itself.
Jos. Halliday and Sons accepted their money in a dignified manner suited to their calling and, with due solemnity, waived the final seven-pounds-sixty-eight by way of a discount for prompt payment. Outside in the street, Sylvia fought against laughter and did not quite win the battle. One or two passers-by looked sidelong at her and kept their distance, as if afraid she might be drunk or maybe even mentally-disturbed; Sylvia wondered if perhaps she was.
`I spoke to Gloria`s mum,` Jenny phoned to tell her, `and she says, if you like, you can come over one night and she`ll try and contact Tom for you. No promises, mind – the spirits aren`t always willing.`
Not at all sure that her own spirit was willing, Sylvia accepted, mainly so as not to upset the good friend whose help was well-meant. `What would I have to do?`
`Mrs. Hillier said it might help if you bring something with you, relating to Tom`s life or interests. Have you got anything like that?`
`I`ve got a pair of earrings Tom gave me as a wedding-present, in the shape of an Ankh – he was interested in Egyptology. Would they do?
`Sounds like the very thing. Just let me know when you want to come, and I`ll fix it with Mrs. Hillier.`
Sylvia hoped she was not sinning her soul by agreeing to the arrangement.
The voice that answered her call to the solicitor`s office sounded young and pleasant. `Hardy, Holmes, Herbert and Bell. How can we help you?`
`I think you might`ve done some work for my late husband Thomas William Brandon, and I need to talk to somebody about it.`
The Someone proved to be a Mr. Holmes, who expressed facile condolences, the customary reaction to a death, rather than a spontaneous upsurge of feeling. `Perhaps you could call and see me one day this week. How would Thursday at eleven suit?`
`That would be fine, thank you.` Perhaps then she would find out how to go about getting the Letters of Administration that would allow her to settle Tom`s estate.
The office of Hardy, Holmes, Herbert and Bell was exactly as she had imagined – ancient, dingy and up four flights of musty-smelling stairs in a pre-Victorian building down a side-street still paved with stone-setts. All it needed were gas-lamps and fog to provide a perfect setting for one of the Baker Street mysteries – could the solicitor`s name possibly be Sherlock?
Dismissing the foolish notion, Sylvia trudged up the stairs and introduced herself. Mr. Holmes – who bore no resemblance to the stereotype-image of the ace detective – invited her to sit in a huge leather armchair that looked almost as ancient as the building. `From our conversation the other day, I gather Mr. Brandon has now died?`
`Yes, a month ago.` Sometimes it seemed much longer, sometimes like only yesterday. `I was wondering how to go about getting his affairs settled. I`ll have to go to Court and get Letters of Administration, or something, won`t I?`
`Not in this case, fortunately.` Mr. Holmes patted a folder on the desk in front of him. `All we need to do is probate Mr. Brandon`s will.`
`There`s a will?` Sylvia felt sure her astonishment must be visible to the solicitor – he`ll think we were a funny sort of couple, not discussing things of this-much importance with each other.
`Indeed there is.` From the folder Mr. Holmes drew a manila envelope and up-ended it to release the contents. Sylvia`s eyes registered the thick paper with its heading in Olde-English script: “Last Will and Testament.” Just one more thing she had not known about the husband to whom she had been – apparently – happily married for well over thirty years.
`Am I allowed to ask what`s in it?`
`As you`re his executor, you can read it, if you wish.` The paper felt stiff and awkward in her hands as she unfolded it, feeling almost guilty, as if she had opened one of Tom`s personal letters without permission, while he was still alive.
There was no house to leave, of course: the flat
belonged to the museum, and would revert to the Local Authority as the residence of the future Manager. The car and caravan were to be hers, along with the proceeds of his Life Assurance policy, and any money remaining in their joint bank-account. A few small mementoes had been left to her and the girls. But there normality ended, as she read on with an increasingly light-headed feeling. The entire hundred-and-eighty thousand pounds representing Tom`s share from the sale of his late father`s business-interests was to be shared between The Harland Venture, and a Daniel Henry Franks, neither of whom she had ever heard-of.
She re-read it twice to make sure there was no mistake in her comprehension of the words, then stared at Mr. Holmes in bewilderment. `I don`t understand. What`s the Harland Venture? And who the hell is Daniel Henry Franks?`
If the solicitor felt curiosity, he hid it well. `I`d never heard of the Harland Venture until Mr. Brandon mentioned it in this will. As for Daniel Henry Franks, I`m afraid I know nothing of him either, beyond the fact that your husband saw-fit to leave him well-provided for.`
He certainly did, Sylvia reflected bitterly. `You`ve never met him, then?`
`No, Mrs. Brandon. I`m sorry, I haven`t.`
`How do we go about finding him?` When we do, he`s going to get a piece of my mind, whoever he is, she fumed silently -- how has he managed to worm this huge legacy out of Tom? -- he`s got to be some sort of con-man.
Mr. Holmes looked almost as baffled as she felt. `I can only suggest there might be something about him among some of your husband`s other personal papers. Letters from him, perhaps, or from someone else who knows him?`
`Someone else?` She puzzled over his meaning for several moments before the enormity of his suggestion hit her -- he thinks Tom`s had-it-away with some slag, and this Daniel Henry Franks is their son! A month ago she would have laughed off the possibility. At this juncture she felt capable of believing almost anything, and it would hardly be fair to blame the solicitor for any unwelcome repercussions from Tom`s secret past.
A Long Road Through The Night Page 3
