by Rick Gekoski
Lucy rose so quickly, her face twisted and tears pouring from her eyes. I thought for a moment that she was going to hit me. ‘How can you? I sat through it too. My mother! And unlike you, I faced it, didn’t turn my back. Men cannot do this. They cannot care or put themselves out. When the going gets dirty, they are selfish and squeamish and cowardly.’
‘That’s not fair.’
What to say? In fact Lucy was hardly there most of the time – and I told her nothing of it – when life in our bedroom was a maelstrom of shit and tears and vomit and blood, when I spent hours on hands and knees, cleaning and puking, while Suzy rested between bouts of expulsion.
‘You put her down! Painless and humane, so that’s it? She got treated like a dog!’
‘She was lucky. Vets are kinder than God, and better at their job. Do you remember that little Shih Tzu, Milly?’
‘Who?’
‘One of your friends owned her when you were little.’
‘No, I don’t. Why do you ask?’
‘Never mind.’
Sam, his coffee long finished and a second slice of cake dispatched, rose from his seat. ‘Can I suggest we take a break? This is heavy stuff.’ He put his arm around Lucy as she rose, still sobbing, and pulled her to his chest, looking at me over her shoulder. A love hug. Was I next?
I rose quickly and stretched.
‘I did some grief counselling courses, Dad, and yours is a classical case. Don’t you think it might be useful to talk to someone? After all, there are both psychological and moral problems here – even legal ones – and it would be healing to talk them out.’
I stood up so abruptly that it made me giddy. ‘I think I’ll have a stroll in the garden. Perhaps smoke a cigar. Excuse me.’
They didn’t, they followed me through the plastic conservatory that was attached like a boil onto the backside of the house, with its white plastic table and chairs and a square bright-blue plastic box filled with balls and toys.
The garden was overlooked on all three sides, separated by a wooden fence which had seen better days. Most of it was laid to lawn, which had been mowed recently, while along the perimeters were beds with various colourful flowers, planted a bit thinly, or maybe just immature, ready to fill in slowly.
I wasn’t allowed, even, to light up in the breeze-free environs of the conservatory, and it is difficult to get decent draw off a cigar fired up in the open air, the tip rarely burns evenly. The key to this, as any aficionado knows, is that you have to smoke an outdoorsy cigar, smaller, narrower gauge. A Montecristo No. 4 will light easily enough even in a breeze – no cigar lights properly in a wind – whereas a No. 2 will not. I took the pack of five from my inner jacket pocket, selected one, rolled it in my fingers, snipped off the end, and got it lit. Satisfying enough for something that is too small.
‘Just as long as you are finished with it when Rudy gets home. I don’t like him to see you smoking, it upsets him.’
‘Been brainwashed at school, has he? Right little dictators, kids are these days, full of self-righteousness.’
Sam took a noisy deep breath. ‘Perhaps he is merely aware that his Granny recently died of lung cancer? And perhaps he might be frightened . . .’
‘Enough, you’re right. I promise. I’m just a bit desperate because every time I smoke one in the Parks some stringy spinster gives me the evil eye and begins to wheeze.’
Lucy took my arm. ‘Come and walk round the garden. I don’t mind the smoke. It smells lovely really, though Rudy will notice it on our clothes and give us a lecture. Isn’t it looking terrific out here? Rudy and I planted it after Mum died. He says it’s his Granny garden. He picked the flowers himself at the garden centre. He remembered a lot of them from last spring when we came to London that day. He even knows their names.’
‘Good for him!’
‘Do you?’
‘Hmm. Not very good on flowers. I prefer them in vases really, or I did until Suzy got ill . . . But let me try . . .’
I peered downwards myopically, walking along the border that skirted the rear of the house, taking my time, hoping to establish a new tone, find a way to let her feel superior. Dad is a foolish old git who doesn’t even know his flowers. It beats And he murdered my mother!
‘These ones – primulas?’
‘Close. Primrose.’
‘Not bad. At least I didn’t say hydrangeas. And I do know these! Small and yellow with a bright orange centre. Daffs!’
‘Almost. Narcissi.’
‘Same thing Mum used to say. Same family.’
‘I’m surprised you listened.’
‘And these gorgeous ones are tulips, right?’
‘They’re called Queen of the Night.’
‘Lovely purple black colour, like a Rothko.’
‘What’s a Rothko? Is it variety of tulip?’
I must have looked startled. She laughed.
‘Gotcha! You did keep Mum’s garden up, didn’t you? It was so gorgeous and she’d worked so hard on it. She used to love having her coffee there in the morning, listening to the birds, reading the papers . . .’
‘What would have been the point? I’m no gardener. I never even went into it.’
‘You could have hired somebody.’
‘Why would I do that?’
‘It’s called respect. It’s a form of love.’
‘How did you know?’
‘It was pretty obvious. Both of you were at breaking point. I could see the thought in your eyes every time Mum took her morphine. And what appals me is that I wanted you to do it. Sort of. Part of me. Wanted you to. I feel so ashamed. What right do I have to castigate you?’
‘You didn’t do it, though, did you?’
‘No.’
Sam, bless him, had removed himself, off to fetch Rudy from school.
‘He knows you’re here, he’s so excited,’ said Lucy.
‘How could he know that? I could easily have left by now.’
‘I texted him. I said “Great news! Gampy is here!” He missed you terribly, you know. Did you get his letter?’
‘Letter?’
‘Oh. Anyway, you’ll stay for tea, won’t you?’
Rudy insisted on sitting on my lap to eat his plate of sausages with red sauce and round bits of spaghetti. The grown-ups got oven chips with theirs, and frozen peas.
‘I’m afraid we’re used to kiddie food, Dad. I could have done better if I’d known we were having company . . . But to tell you the truth, I prefer it this way. This is who we are. Every time you and Mum used to come for dinner, I’d have a nervous breakdown over my Nigella cookbook, trying to dish up something up to your standards.’
‘It was always delicious.’
‘No, it was always crap. I can’t cook a roast without burning it, or boil a potato without it going all mushy. I know I’m hopeless. I actually prefer sausages and fish fingers now.’
‘So do I,’ said Sam. ‘Proper food!’
Following the conversation, wriggling deeper into my embrace, Rudy was watching a children’s programme on the telly as he ate.
‘Let’s turn that off, shall we? Then I can talk to my little Rudy better.’
Rudy looked hurt, but didn’t object.
‘You know Gampy was ill, don’t you?’ said Sam. ‘That’s why he went away for a while.’
Rudy looked at me wisely. ‘I know. Mummy says I forgive you. Cos you forgot my birthday.’
‘I’m very sorry, but I’m back now.’
‘Do I still get a present?’
‘Of course you do. I’m just sorry it’s late. What would you like most? Do you fancy going to the Natural History Museum again? Remember? You loved that, they have all those handles and switches you can pull to make things happen.’
He took a spoonful of spaghetti loops, many of which went into his mouth. ‘That was cool. But Gampy, can I really have what I want most?’
‘Of course you can.’
‘Cool! Can we go see the Blades?’
&nbs
p; ‘The Blades? What are they?’
‘I’m a junior blade! Did you know?’
‘No . . . Do tell!’
‘It’s my football team, silly! Anybody knows that! From Sheffield!’
‘Well, that’s a long way to go.’
‘They come to London, Gampy! We can see them. We can get tickets! Please! I’ve only ever been to one game, cos Daddy says they are so expensive, and just for special treats.’
‘Perhaps we could do that. Because it is a very special treat to be with you again.’
‘I’ll see what fixtures there are. My iPad is upstairs, I’ll go and get it.’
‘Not now, love, you know the rule about iPads during meals.’
‘Oh, Mum, just this once? It’s so exciting!’
‘I’ll tell you what,’ said Lucy, ‘why not go over to the fridge and take down one of your drawings to show Gampy? He’d like that.’
‘I would like that. Are they of Captain Blade?’
‘No, that’s silly.’
He walked into the kitchen and pulled a drawing from under a fridge magnet, and walked over to hand it to me.
‘Why that’s lovely! Aren’t you clever! When did you do this?’
‘After Granny died. It’s an angel!’
‘I can see that – it’s a very good angel. Very life-like.’
‘I learned how to draw them. Mrs Goddard teached us. Do you want to see? Then you could draw one too! They help you to do the grieving. Angels can make you cry, which is good if you’re very sad.’
‘That’s a nice thought,’ I said. ‘I’m sure that’s right.’
In a few minutes, I rose from the table to say thanks and goodbye. I stumbled slightly as I pulled my chair out.
‘I must go,’ I said, I fear a bit hastily. ‘I need to get back.’
‘Where are you staying?’
‘You know, the Old Parsonage. On the Banbury Road. It’s very comfortable.’
‘The Old Parsonage! But Dad, that’s so expensive! And now you’re here you must move in with us. Your old room – yours and Mum’s room – can be ready in a jiffy. I’ll just go and put on some sheets.’
‘No, Lucy. Thanks. It’s good for me to have a little time on my own, helps me make the transition.’
‘But it’s so expensive! And renting that fancy car! How long have you been here?’
‘Only a couple of days. And they upgraded me to a suite! They’re taking good care of me.’
‘Not as good as I can.’
‘Of course not, love, of course not. But I’m like a bear coming out of a cave – ’ (Rudy laughed) – ‘and I keep blinking at the light. I’ll get used to it soon, but after you’ve spent so long in the darkness it’s hard to acclimatise. Especially at my age.’
‘OK, suit yourself. But can we see you again tomorrow?’
‘I hope so. I’m rather exhausted. I’ll need a lie-in.’
Rudy came over to take my hand. ‘I have a good idea, Gampy. Tomorrow is Saturday and Daddy is home. Can we all go to visit Granny’s grave? We go at the weekend sometimes. I bring flowers for her from my Granny garden.’
‘Isn’t that nice? I’ll tell you what, I’ll ring in the morning, see how I feel.’
‘Please Dad, that’d be so good.’
‘Yes,’ said Sam, ‘and not only that but – ’
‘I’ll see,’ I said, opening the door.
Suzy was buried in a country churchyard, twenty minutes from Abingdon, that we’d once discovered when hunting for country pubs. There was a perfectly pleasant one opposite, with good beer and a sign recommending their home-cooked food, though why ‘home-cooked’ is a recommendation is unclear to me. Plenty of bad cooks about, making noxious food in their own homes. But the Plough provided a passable cottage pie, and the ‘vegetables from our own garden’ – another dodgy category – were fresh and rarely over-cooked.
After lunch, all those years ago, we’d wandered into the church opposite, a run-of-the-mill Saxon edifice, with a squat tower, some not very good post-Dissolution stained glass and the pleasing chilled austerity that characterises the interior of English churches. But if the building itself was unprepossessing, the churchyard was magnificent, overlooking a wooded dell, with several yews around the western perimeter and a profusion of daffodils on that grey day in May.
Suzy wandered about reading gravestones, computing the ages of people when they’d died, finding a considerable number of infants who had died in the middle of the eighteenth century. ‘There must have been some sort of local epidemic,’ she said, kneeling down to try to read the chipped mossy headstone of a little girl’s grave. ‘Eliza . . . something . . . 1756. Beloved daughter of Samuel and Mary . . . Butler, I think it is.’
I knelt down to look at the faint inscription.
‘It makes you wonder who they were, and what sort of lives they led. And this is all we have of them – maybe something in some registry or public record office, but nothing else. They’re gone. It’s so final, isn’t it, and cruel?’
‘I don’t know. I suspect they weren’t very interesting . . .’
‘Everyone is interesting!’
‘You might be. I’m not. I’ll be quite happy to be forgotten. I don’t even want a grave.’
‘I do! And you know what? I’d like to be buried here. Right by those yews. There’s even some free space . . .’
‘Hold on, you’re a long way from dead! And I thought . . . you know . . . that you might want to end up in Dorset, in the family plot.’
‘Family plot? Don’t be daft. Mummy and Daddy were the first-generation Moultons to live there, and they just bought up some premium space in the cemetery. Hardly anybody to bury except them, and I suspect Daddy fantasised about being interred in Westminster Abbey, poor sap. I can hardly think of anything worse than spending eternity lying next to them.’
‘Bit dreary, what?’
‘Of course. But now you know what I want.’
‘I’ll probably die before you. You’re so hearty, and I’m – ’
She chortled, unwilling to supply an appropriate adjective.
‘Anyway, to get buried in a churchyard you have to be a member of the congregation, don’t you?’
‘Well,’ she said, to my surprise, never having evinced the slightest interest in religion as anything other than a universal aberration, ‘let’s join.’
She wasn’t entering the Anglican communion, she was putting a down-payment on a piece of property, as a long-term investment. The next day we wrote to the vicar to introduce ourselves, and said we were looking for a local congregation as we were resident in Oxford and preferred a quiet country setting.
We got a charming letter in reply, went to a service, reserved Suzy’s chosen plot for that fateful future day, and tried to remember to make a contribution to the church appeal every year.
But when the time came, the vicar had moved on, and one who didn’t know us from Adam had arrived. He was young and very modern. He probably didn’t know Adam from Adam either.
Suzy was gravely ill, but still mobile enough to look after her affairs, and insisted that we drive up to Oxfordshire to ensure that the plot that we had earmarked was still ours. We hadn’t bothered to keep track, busy with our lives, intimations of mortality brushed easily aside.
‘I’m pleased to meet you both,’ the vicar said a little strictly, wondering why he had never encountered us before.
‘We moved to London, you see. But I believe we’ve kept up our contributions to your – I mean, our – restoration fund. I think you’ll find we have reserved a plot in the south-west corner, near the yews.’
‘Yes,’ he said, drawing out the word as if it had several syllables. ‘I have a note here that we wrote to you several years ago, to say that we now require a yearly stipend for reserved plots. Just a token amount, but it enables us to keep in touch with – ’
Suzy leaned forward fiercely. With the loss of weight, and the disastrous effects of her chemotherapy, her visage had
grown hawk-like, and when roused she was quite a frightening prospect.
‘Are you about to tell me that I no longer have a reserved plot? That you have sold it – that’s what I’d call it! – sold it to a better customer?’
‘Now Mrs Darke – ’
‘That’s Miss Moulton. I go by my maiden name.’
‘Suzy . . . Moulton. You’re not the Suzy Moulton, are you?
‘I suppose I am still, just.’
‘The writer?’
‘Yes! What about it? Are you now going to scold me and tell me that you have no places available for sinners and free-thinkers?’
‘Not at all. I read your novels. I thought them the work of a very clever girl, young and anxious to shock, who was likely to do some good work in her maturity. Why did you stop writing?’
‘I never stopped writing. I stopped finishing.’
He nodded gravely. ‘I see.’
‘You don’t. Now, do I have my burial plot or don’t I?’
‘I am afraid to say you don’t. I regret causing you this distress . . .’
I took his arm, a little firmly perhaps, and turned him in my direction. ‘Suzy, perhaps you could take a stroll. I need to talk to the vicar for a minute.’
She wandered off, still seething, but knew that I was more likely to negotiate a settlement than she was to force one.
‘Now, Vicar, I am sure we can come to some arrangement. I notice that you have an appeal out for special funds for the restoration of the roof? How’s that going?’
He caught my drift immediately. ‘Not so well as we had hoped, we’re still some ways from our target.’
‘I see. Would £2,000 help?’
‘Of course it would! Thank you so much.’
Seeing us amicably engaged, Suzy came back.
‘I think we can see our way to reinstating your name on our list, Miss Moulton, thanks to your husband’s kindness.’
‘What kindness?’
‘He has agreed,’ said the vicar smoothly, ‘to give £3,000 to our restoration fund. It is like an answer to our prayers, and exactly the amount we needed before work on the roof can begin. With a little luck, it will be done by the end of the summer.’
