As if knowing how anxious Sylvia had been for news from The Other Side, Mrs. Hillier pressed her hand gently. `This must`ve been disappointing for you, pet, and annoying. Tom so nearly got through. Perhaps we can try and reach him again another day?`
`Yes, perhaps,` Sylvia agreed, knowing she would probably never again get up the courage to do anything of the kind.
Despite her earlier outburst, Sylvia found herself obliged – as Tom`s executor – to deal with the proving of his will. Attendance at the offices of Hardy, Holmes, Herbert and Bell, and at the District Probate Registry felt like impositions, in view of the effect the will had had on her life. Finally, with all the legal formalities complete, she flung the document down on Mr. Holmes` desk. `There! I`ve been to the Probate office, proved Tom`s will and sworn my Executor`s Oath. From now on, you can deal with it – I just can`t be bothered any-more.`
The solicitor looked doubtful. `It`ll mean writing letters, making phone-calls – there`ll be expenses to meet.`
Bitterness welled up in her. `Send your bill to Daniel Franks or the Harland Venture. They`re the ones who are inheriting, so let them see to the expenses. Tom`s made sure I`ve got no money to pay them.`
A letter arrived from the Museum trustees, enclosing Tom`s P45 and a cheque in settlement of their obligations to his estate. - eleven days` pay, and two weeks extra in lieu of holiday not taken, all of which contrived to make him seem more Dead than ever. His Trade Union chipped in eighty pounds, an unexpected bonus. It was hardly a king`s ransom, but every little would help.
The girls invited Sylvia for an evening out a few days later. Though they had purposely seated her where she could talk with friends who monopolised her attention, Sylvia knew herself to be the subject of family conversation, and eavesdropped shamelessly.
`They want her out of the flat as-soon-as, so what`s she going to do?` That was Patty – bright, energetic and needing to be so, in order to cope with her boisterous offspring.
`I`m afraid she can`t very well come to us.` Patty`s husband Edgar, this time. `I`d gladly give her a roof any time if we had room – but if ever she moved out, we`d have no excuse for refusing to take Dad, and I`m not letting Patty in for that.`
`Not unless he`s done something about his wandering hands,` Patty agreed. Her father-in-law, widowed and over-sexed, was not welcome in her home – even as a casual visitor – unless Edgar also was in the house.
`Anyway, we`ve already got eight folks in three bedrooms. You two are the ones with all the space, four bedrooms for just the two of you.` Edgar eyed Delia and Paul as if challenging them to think-up an excuse for ducking-out.
Paul sounded displeased, as usual when called on to assist anyone who could do him no favours in return. `In my position, I need to do a good deal of entertaining, so we must keep a room available at all times. One of the others is my home-office, and I don`t imagine Mother would be comfortable among the computers and desks.`
`And when Monica and her family come to stay, we`ll need the fourth bedroom for their children,` Delia pointed out, entirely reasonable and utterly unwelcoming.
At this point, Sylvia became aware of a hand waved jocularly before her eyes. `Hello! Is there any intelligent life there?` Guiltily she apologized to the friends she been ignoring in order to snoop on the family discussion.
`Sorry. What were you saying? My mind must`ve wandered. I`m finding I just can`t concentrate these days.` The friends agreed how Understandable that was, and that it Hadn`t Been Important. In that case, why bother saying it, she thought in instantly-regretted lack of charity.
Being talked about as if she was not there grated on Sylvia. For the best of motives they were treating her like a child incapable of making arrangements for her own future. When Paul came back to the table, carrying a laden tray, a combination of drink and ill-temper caused her to adopt an acidic tone. `So what have you all decided to do about me?`
Patty blushed at once. From childhood she had never been able to tell lies successfully. Delia simply looked startled, and it was left to Edgar to respond. `All right, Sylv, we were talking about you, but it`s not how it looks. If the Council want the flat back, you`re going to have to move out shortly – you said as much yourself – and we`re just trying to work out what to do for the best.`
His reasonable explanation made her regret her snappish attitude. `I know you mean well, folks, but I`m sorry – at the minute I just don`t appreciate it the way I probably should.`
`It`s no problem. You can come to us till you find somewhere.` That was Delia. Sylvia wondered how many of them had taken-turns to twist Paul`s arm sufficiently to secure his agreement.
The matter of what to do with the furniture in the flat was something of a headache until Jenny, a friend beyond price, came up with the ideal solution. `Keep it at our place.`
`Have you any idea what you`re taking on? Your husband won`t be very thrilled if you clutter your house up with my stuff.`
`I wasn`t thinking of the house. Most of it can go above the garage, in what used to be Dad`s workshop, and the big heavy stuff in his shed.` It was the perfect answer. With the bulk of her home stored at Jenny`s, such of Tom`s personal papers as had not been gone-through yet could be left in the caravan for the time being. After hesitating momentarily over the mysterious teddy-bear, Sylvia decided to leave it at Jenny`s place too, since it had no sentimental value for her.
The following weekend, suppressing her misgivings, Sylvia moved in with Paul and Delia. She had thought she would regret leaving the museum flat, with all its memories – the girls as small children, the Christmases, the lovingly-tended garden – of the last time she had seen Tom there, seated in his favourite armchair and smoking his pipe. But now that the die was cast, she found she could hardly wait to leave the place behind. Patty and Delia were no longer little children. Next Christmas was a nightmare she was in no hurry to face. The armchair was the one in which the young police-constable had sat to tell her the news of her husband`s death, and the fragrant scent of Tom`s pipe- tobacco was impossible to bring back. More recent memories were almost unbearable.
At the very last, watching the departure of the furniture-van, she allowed herself a few tears, as she walked the empty rooms for the last time, her feet sounding hollowly on tiles and bare boards. Who would next furnish the flat? Would they build up a store of happy memories? Or would their tenure come to some end as dreadful as hers?
I`m getting morbid, she decided, blowing her nose and wiping her eyes - look forward, Sylvia, not back. Banging the door behind her with a feeling close to relief, she lifted the letterbox to drop the keys inside, as she had been told to do. How funny – ha-ha – it would be if the Museum authorities could not find their own set of keys and had to break the door down to get in. Serve them right, she thought.
Without a backward glance, she walked briskly over to the car, climbed in and pulled away. Driving across town towards her new life as Paul`s not-very-welcome guest, it struck her that they had never discussed the matter of the caravan now hitched at the rear of the car. She and Tom had begun touring when the children were small, and holiday-funds low. In the yard behind the Museum there had been plenty of space to store the van, but how would Paul feel about having it parked in his driveway?
Too late to wonder about that now, she decided, as she drove past the big Victorian villa that was the headquarters of Jos. Halliday & Sons (Funeral Directors) Ltd. In front of the building, they were marshalling another cortege, ready for yet another funeral. (In the midst of Life we are in Death. In the midst of death we are in business. O Lord, into thy hands I commit my profit-centre.) But it was unfair to blame Jos Halliday & Sons for making money out of her nominally-Anglican grief. The tills doubtless rang just as merrily for Catholics, Jews and atheists.
At Delia`s house she encountered the first surprise. In the bedroom allotted to her, there was hardly any spare space in the wardrobes. `Where should I put my things?`
Delia stared down at the pile of boxes and sui
tcases on the floor of the caravan. `What is it all, Mum? I thought your stuff was going into storage.`
`The furniture and suchlike is, but I can`t send everything away. These are my clothes, and your Dad`s, and some personal bits and pieces I need to keep. Books, CDs, that sort of stuff. And the TV and video, so I can see programmes in my own room if you want to watch something I don`t fancy.`
Delia looked doubtful. `The TV`s a good idea, and I suppose some of the boxes can go in your room, but it`s not really worth unpacking them all, is it? You`ll only need to box it up again when you find your own place.` They don`t want me making myself too much at home, Sylvia thought, reminding herself that it was probably Paul who had laid down the ground-rules.
As anticipated, he viewed the presence of the caravan with undisguised hostility. `What on earth is that doing here?`
Sylvia shrugged, a frequent habit these days. `Where else can I put it?`
`Won`t they let you leave it at the Museum till you find a buyer for it?`
`Who says I`m selling it?` That was sheer bloody-mindedness, of course, for she could never contemplate caravanning alone.
`Well, it certainly can`t say here indefinitely. What`s going to happen when we have business-contacts to stay?`
`I`ll park it outside on the road.`
His face froze with shock. `You`ll do no such thing! It`ll lower the tone of the whole street.`
Clearly upset, Delia intervened. `I don`t expect Mum`ll be keeping it long. Like you say, she`ll need to sell it eventually, but this isn`t the best time of year to get a good price.`
Grudgingly, Paul agreed to tolerate the presence of the caravan for the time being, although Sylvia was sure he complained incessantly to Delia about it when they were out of earshot. He doesn`t make allowances for people, she thought, but what else can we expect? -- he`s not all that close to his own relatives, so why should he feel close to me?
With such a shortage of space in her room, she could not keep Tom`s things to sort through at leisure, as she would have liked. Forced to snap out of her grief before it was half worked-through, she cleared out his possessions dispassionately, retaining his favourite jacket and slippers as the only reminder that she had once shared life with him and believed herself happy. The rest, packed discreetly in black plastic sacks, went to the Council tip.
Paul made no bones about declaring that method of disposal wasteful. `A charity-shop could have turned those into money. Why throw them out?`
`Because I don`t fancy passing by and seeing them in the window, with price-tickets on. Would you, if they were Delia`s?` Perhaps that thought really had never occurred to him. At any rate, he changed the subject and never referred to it again.
Even with Tom`s clothes gone, there was still hardly room for Sylvia to hang her own garments - where do they put all this stuff when their friends come to stay, and why can`t it go there while I`m here? She did not mind about sending some of her own things to the Oxfam-shop, for the sight of them in the window would cause her no pain. The clothes she used regularly could hang in the caravan wardrobe, and be brought in at night for wearing next day, to preclude dampness.
It quickly became apparent that the presence of the caravan in Delia`s drive was – even in the short term – an intolerable intrusion into her son-in-law`s space. `Are you certain it can`t stay at the museum till you find a place of your own?`
`No, Paul, it can`t. I asked the Council about that before I left the flat, and they said everything I wanted to keep had to be taken. So where else can I put it?` Struck by a sudden malicious impulse, she added, `Besides, it`s useful having it to keep my stuff in. If I get rid of the van, I`d have to bring all my gear inside the house, and then where would it go?` That apparently settled the matter, for the moment at least. Sylvia could not help wondering whether he would have given her so much aggro if she had been able to hand them a lump of money for that conservatory they wanted.
While she scanned the newspapers night after night, and visited every estate-agent in town in the vain attempt to get a flat she could afford, a further misfortune befell. Tom`s bank, now officially aware of his death, at once demanded repayment of the outstanding loan for Delia`s wedding.
`Did he not have insurance-cover for it?` Paul demanded on hearing the news.
`Either he didn`t, or it`s cancelled-out if you kill yourself, like the life-assurance. They want their money, anyway.`
Delia looked puzzled. `Why didn`t they just take it out of what he had in his account, instead of asking for it now?`
Paul knew the reason, of course. `They couldn`t touch any of it until his will was proved. Now they know the estate`s been settled, they want their money back. If I was you, Sylvia, I`d tell them to wait for it until you`ve got yourself straight.`
His unwanted advice grated on her nerves, making her reply too curt for politeness. `It`s got to be paid, and I`d sooner have it over and done with.` Was there no limit to the cheek of the man! It would be more to his credit if he offered to chip-in – after all, it was their fancy wedding Tom had borrowed the money for. Realistically however, it was unlikely she could count on any help from that quarter. It was just as well that Tom`s holiday-pay and Union money had come in. After settlement of the loan, there would be barely five-hundred pounds left of the money she had inherited from him.
As if to remind her that troubles never come singly, the company from which Tom had been buying their TV and video refused to honour the payment-insurance he had taken out. `But why?` Delia demanded, affronted by the arrival of the company`s van outside her door to repossess the equipment.
`Need you ask?` Sylvia retorted. `The same as the Life Assurance. It covers you if you drop down dead, or get murdered, or eaten by a bear or something, but you`re not allowed to kill yourself.`
`Whatever will the neighbours think? It`ll make it look as if it`s our stuff they`re taking back. Paul will go bananas when he hears about this.`
`God forbid anything should upset Paul!` Sylvia snapped, slamming the front door behind the men and reminding herself that it must be hard for Delia to be fair to both husband and mother at the same time.
As expected, Paul freaked out completely at the news. `For God`s sake, Sylvia! Is there going to be any more of this? We`ll find our address on a credit-blacklist before long, if we`re not careful.`
`How do I know whether there`s going to be any more or not?` Sylvia snapped. `It`s not up to me, is it?`
`It was up to Tom, though. Did he have much more stuff that`s not paid-for?`
`Not as far as I know.` But what does that amount to? she thought -- I used to think I knew everything about Tom, but it turns out I know nothing all. Thus forced into thinking about her late husband, she was horrified to realise she could not remember what he looked like. How could the face constantly before her eyes for over thirty years just vanish from her memory without trace? I must be able to remember what he looks like, she told herself, fighting panic. But Tom remained obstinately blurred, an incomplete image indistinguishable from everyone else she had ever known.
Just as Sylvia had begun to think – and hope – that the second séance had fallen through, her friend Jenny phoned with details. `Gloria says her mum`s holding another Circle next Friday, so I said you`d come. Hope I haven`t taken too much on myself.`
Sylvia knew she could not very well decline it now, with the arrangements already made. `No, it`s okay.`
`Don`t forget to put the earrings on again. It did help a bit the last-time.`
`No . . maybe . . . oh, I don`t know.` As an answer it left much to be desired, and Jenny laughed out loud, the sound crackling in Sylvia`s ear
`It`ll be all right. Nothing bad happened last time, did it? And you very nearly got a message, if it hadn`t been for that silly old trout jumping-up, so it might work this time.
That prospect was the only redeeming feature of the enterprise.
FIVE
Social Services were of little help in finding Sylvia a flat. `There just isn`t the money
available,` the woman in their office told her with insincere regret. `We might be able to fund a bedsit, though.`
Even at the point of desperation after five weeks of being in Paul`s way, Sylvia had more pride than that. `How would you like to find yourself living in a bedsit?`
While the dreary search went on, the presence of the caravan in Paul`s drive remained a constant irritant to him. `Why don`t you get it sold? You`ll still get a decent price, even at this time of year.`
`And bring all my stuff into the house?`
The point that had previously made him back-off did not have that effect this time. `Well, something`ll have to be done by next week. The Managing Director of our biggest customer is coming to stay.`
`What`s that got to do with the caravan being outside? He`ll not be able to see it from in here.`
Paul sighed impatiently. `It`s not just him, and it`s not just a business visit. He was saying how much he and his wife had always wanted to tour the countryside hereabouts, and we`ve invited both of them to stay for the week. They`ll wonder where the hell they`ve come to, if they see that thing stuck there. It looks as if we had gypsies camped round the house.`
`Not very many gypsies, surely? It`s only one small van.`
Ignoring her comment, Paul stood his ground. `This can`t go on, Sylvia. I`ve done well for myself and provided generously for Delia, but that hasn`t been brought about by compromising on standards. Social Services`ve offered you places, but if you keep refusing them, they`ll lose interest in your case altogether.`
Your case, Sylvia mused, firing up. `All they`ve offered me so far are one or two damp dreary bedsits in houses that should`ve been condemned before the Crimean War. Perhaps I`m too much like you – standards matter to me, as well.`
`Beggars can`t always be choosers.` He probably had not meant to make quite so hurtful a remark, but the reminder of the reduced circumstances in which Tom`s demise had left her struck too closely to home, sweeping aside the last shred of patience.
A Long Road Through The Night Page 5
