Death Comes First

by Hilary Bonner

  She had always assumed that she and Charlie would marry one day. They’d both been certain from the start that they wanted to be together for ever. But the last thing she expected that morning, after Charlie had so unceremoniously blurted out about the sale of the boat, was a formal proposal.

  She stared at him in silence for a minute or so.

  ‘Well?’ he enquired, and flashed the old lopsided resist-me-if-you-can grin, which had become, she thought, a depressingly rare sight.

  His hair had grown a bit, thankfully, the parting was crooked, and there was just a hint of the old tousled tangle she’d so adored.

  She continued to stare at him.

  ‘This isn’t what I expected . . .’ She struggled to find the words. ‘To tell the truth, Charlie, I thought you’d gone off me.’

  ‘Never.’ He kissed her again on the lips, but lightly this time. ‘I love you more than ever. Surely you realize that.’

  She shook her head. ‘Oh, Charlie,’ she said. ‘I love you so much. But you’ve changed lately. I mean, if you get married, does it mean you can’t do daft things any more like bugger off in a boat and let the winds take you? ’Cos if it does, well, I don’t know . . .’

  He interrupted, raising one finger gently to her mouth and placing it there.

  ‘Sweetheart, you didn’t seriously think we could sail around the world on this old crate, did you?’

  She thought for a second. The answer to that was yes. Yes, she had thought they could. He had made her believe that. And she told him so.

  ‘I never had any doubts, Charlie,’ she said. ‘I thought we’d work on her until she was right, then take off. You and me and the ocean waves.’

  ‘Joyce, I doubt we’d have got Shirley Anne out of the estuary, let alone on to the ocean waves. She’s riddled with woodworm and rot!’

  ‘But, Charlie,’ she protested, ‘I believed you. Absolutely. I thought we were going to do it – fulfil our dreams, find our Shangri-La.’

  ‘We can still fulfil our dreams, my darling,’ he said. ‘But they’ll be different ones, that’s all. My dream is to marry you, for you to have my children, and to keep you and them safe and happy and well for the rest of our lives. Isn’t that even more romantic?’

  He stroked her face, his touch warm and suddenly every bit as exciting as it had been in the beginning. He kissed her cheek. His lips were soft, deliciously soft.

  ‘Marry me, my darling,’ he pleaded. ‘Please, please, marry me. I cannot imagine that life could go on unless you say yes. Please, please, say yes. Say you’ll marry me. Go on. Say it. Say it.’

  He kissed her forehead, the tip of her nose, raised her hand and kissed her fingers, pressed his lips to her ears, the top of her head, her eyes, and oh so lightly, her mouth, again and again.

  She found herself laughing uncontrollably through the kisses.

  ‘Yes,’ she cried out eventually, her words half smothered by his kisses. ‘Yes, yes, yes, Charlie. Yes, I will marry you, my darling. Yes! Yes!’

  He grabbed her by one arm and pulled her towards the bunk in the aft cabin. She noticed, and it made her laugh, that he was trying to get out of his trousers as they hurried to get there. He nearly tripped them both up. He tore at the buttons on her shirt, ripping one off, and tugged at her jeans whilst trying to get out of his own shirt at the same time.

  The undressing was clumsy, terribly clumsy, but the love-making was fluent and seamless, as good as it had ever been, possibly better. Bold yet tender. Urgent yet without haste. Charlie was there. Right there. With her. On her. In her. No longer detached in any way. Instead, after so long, he was part of her again. At last.

  And when it was over, for one crazy, wonderful, ecstatic moment, Joyce even thought they might be JC again.

  She phoned her parents to tell them that she’d accepted Charlie’s proposal, and to her amazement they both expressed delight. In spite of Henry’s recent efforts to bond with Charlie, she’d expected him to urge caution, to point out that she was only twenty-two and Charlie twenty-one, too young to be taking such a step. Even though Henry and Felicity had been even younger when they’d married, Joyce had anticipated a long drawn-out argument before her father gave his blessing. His enthusiastic approval took her completely by surprise.

  A date was set for the coming June, straight after Joyce’s finals. The wedding reception would be held at the Tarrant Park tennis club, following a traditional ceremony at a nearby church. Henry took charge of everything. And he would be footing the bill, of course. Gladly he said, beaming at his daughter and her husband to be.

  It did occur to Joyce that the next stage in her life appeared to be evolving without her having much of a say in it. But Charlie had been far more his old self since she had accepted his proposal, and she was far too excited to let herself dwell on anxieties she couldn’t put a name to, let alone explain. Instead she gave herself up to the excitement and joy of becoming Mrs Joyce Mildmay.

  Two

  It was on their wedding night that Charlie dropped his next bombshell.

  They were in their splendid garden suite at Gravetye Manor, chosen and paid for by Henry, who said it was one of the best hotels in the country, and close to Gatwick, the airport from which they would be flying off the following day for a honeymoon in the Maldives.

  Joyce, exhausted after the excitement of the day and full of food and champagne, had collapsed on the four-poster bed. Charlie came and sat down next to her. He looked uneasy.

  ‘There’s something I’ve been meaning to tell you,’ he said, taking her hand in his. ‘I hope you’ll be pleased. I’m quitting university. I’m going to work for your father.’

  It was the last thing Joyce had expected. She was anything but pleased, and she was damned sure Charlie would have known that.

  ‘Why on earth would you want to do that?’ she asked, snatching her hand from his. ‘At least you could stay on for your final year, complete your course, take your finals, and then work for Dad, if that’s what you want.’

  ‘No,’ Charlie said. ‘I’m done with studying politics. I’ve totally lost interest, and I no longer want to be a politician so there’s no point in my carrying on with it. I’ve had it with all that changing-the-world crap. I want to get real, earn some proper money, build a life for my wife.’

  He tried the boyish grin. It didn’t work. Undeterred, he leaned towards her, lips puckered, looking for a kiss.

  Joyce brushed aside his attentions, impatient with his attempts to distract her from the matter in hand.

  ‘For goodness’ sake, Charlie, you don’t have to be a politician,’ she told him. ‘A degree in politics could set you up for all sorts of things. You’re a clever student. You like university life – you could be a full-time academic. Or a journalist. Maybe TV. You have a good speaking voice.’

  ‘A journalist?’ sniffed Charlie. ‘What, and get myself locked up along with half of what still passes for Fleet Street? Do you want to get rid of me, Mrs Mildmay?’ He tried the cheeky grin again.

  ‘Be serious, Charlie,’ she said. ‘Apart from anything else this is the third major decision you’ve made in the last few months without consulting me or even letting me know what you had in mind.’

  Charlie stopped grinning.

  ‘OK,’ he said. ‘Perhaps I should have talked to you before selling the Shirley Anne. But I just knew I was acting for the best. And it’s the same with this. I’m certain it’s for the best. You father always says that where financial provisions for his family are concerned, a man has to make his own decisions.’

  ‘I know what my father says, Charlie,’ Joyce replied through gritted teeth. ‘I didn’t realize I’d married my bloody father.’

  ‘Oh, come on, Joyce,’ said Charlie. ‘Let’s not have an argument on our wedding night.’

  He reached out his hand, searching for hers again. Angry as she was, she had to concede that Charlie was right. They couldn’t quarrel on their wedding night. She let him take her hand.

&
nbsp; ‘Shall we do room service?’ he asked.

  ‘I don’t think I could eat anything. I’m upset, and I’ve eaten and drunk too much today already.’

  ‘Something light,’ he coaxed, picking up the menu. ‘Look, they do plates of mixed hors d’oeuvres.’

  She relented. Even forced a small smile.

  ‘Sounds good. But don’t think this is over. We should have our honeymoon and then discuss it when we get home. You haven’t made any decision that is irrevocable, have you?’

  Charlie looked sheepish.

  ‘Have you, Charlie?’ Joyce repeated.

  ‘I’ve resigned from Exeter. I shan’t be going back. I can’t go back. It’s done.’

  Joyce removed her hand from his. She felt bereft. Whatever had happened to JC?

  ‘Without telling me, let alone asking me?’

  ‘Well, I’m telling you now and . . .’

  Joyce could see Charlie searching for words.

  ‘There’s something else, isn’t there?’ she said. ‘C’mon, Charlie, what is it?’

  He reached in his pocket and produced a key with a golden ribbon attached. She took it from his outstretched hand and studied it for a moment, puzzled.

  Then he dropped the biggest bombshell of all.

  ‘It’s the key to a house in Tarrant Park,’ he said. ‘Your father has given it us as a wedding present. He wanted me to be the one to tell you.’

  I’ll bet he did, thought Joyce. Henry Tanner knew all too well what his only daughter wanted, what she had always wanted. And that was a life of her own, away from the confines of Tarrant Park.

  ‘Charlie, how could you!’ She leapt up from the bed and stood looking down at him. ‘You fool, you bloody fool. Have you any idea what this will mean?’

  ‘Yes, that we will start our married life in a dream home, a house most young couples could never hope to afford, where we can bring up our children and build our lives together. And I will have a dream job, doing interesting and well-paid work for a man I have come to both like and respect.’

  ‘Really,’ snapped Joyce. ‘You sound as if you’re reciting some sort of mantra, you pompous idiot. I thought your dream was to sail around the world aboard the Shirley Anne. And I loved you for that. It became my dream too. Not this. I’ve had a lifetime of Tarrant Park. You want to “get real”? Tarrant Park isn’t real, Charlie, can’t you see that?’

  Charlie shook his head. ‘Seems real enough to me,’ he said.

  ‘And what exactly is this “interesting well-paid work” that you’re going to be doing for my father?’

  ‘I’ll be learning the ropes of the import-and-export trade. Your father is one of the leading brokers in the country. He’s the master when it comes to cutting through red tape. He’s done wonders for the UK economy over the years, like his father before him, and your Uncle Max. And I am going to be the newest junior partner at Tanner-Max.’

  ‘Master at cutting through red tape, eh? Sounds bloody dodgy to me,’ countered Joyce.

  ‘Don’t be ridiculous,’ said Charlie. ‘I have never met anyone more sound than your father. He would never be involved in anything he didn’t believe to be morally right, let alone “dodgy”. International commerce is rife with complicated rules and regulations. It takes someone with Henry’s experience to deal with them – legally.’

  ‘How come you’re suddenly qualified to join the firm?’ asked Joyce. ‘Explain that to me.’

  ‘Henry says my political knowledge will be a considerable help. Everything in life nowadays is politics, Henry says.’

  ‘Henry says, Henry says,’ growled Joyce. ‘Don’t you have a mind of your own any more, Charlie?’

  ‘I thought you’d be pleased,’ he replied plaintively.

  ‘Did you?’ snapped Joyce. ‘Did you seriously think I would want to sit at home in some glorified luxury prison while you go off playing man games that you don’t even tell me about, having to put up with the same thing my mother has put up with all her married life?’

  ‘No, of course not. It won’t—’

  Joyce cut him off. ‘If we set up home in Tarrant Park that is precisely how it will be. And you thought I’d be pleased, did you?’

  Charlie shook his head sorrowfully. ‘I don’t understand,’ he said. ‘I’ve always thought your parents had a wonderful marriage. And that’s all I want for us. Felicity has always seemed perfectly happy with her life. Isn’t that the case?’

  ‘Yes. She probably is happy,’ Joyce sighed. ‘But I am not my mother. I want more, can’t you see that?’

  ‘I will give you more, then. I promise you, Joyce, all I want is for you to be happy. Your father and I both thought this house would make you happy. What do you want me to do? Tell him we don’t want it? Throw it back at him?’

  ‘It wouldn’t do any bloody good,’ muttered Joyce.

  ‘We can make this work, Joycey. I’ll get another boat, one that doesn’t leak,’ Charlie promised. ‘We’ll sail off into the sunset and let the winds take us where they will. We’ll still find our Shangri-La. You’ll see.’

  ‘And did you and my father also happen to decide when we would be moving into this bloody house?’

  ‘Well, when we get back from our honeymoon—’

  Once more Joyce interrupted him. ‘Have you forgotten that I’m still hoping to be accepted to do an MA at Exeter if my grades are good enough?’

  ‘You could still do it,’ said Charlie. ‘I mean, it’s just about commutable.’

  ‘Commutable? It’s an hour and a half’s drive from Tarrant Park to Exeter. And that’s on a good day. Besides, commuting isn’t exactly what university life is about, is it? Be honest, Charlie. You assumed that if you quit university, I would too, didn’t you?’

  ‘No, of course not,’ said Charlie. But he blushed deep crimson.

  They continued to squabble for another hour or so, going over and over the same ground. In the end Charlie pleaded with her, ‘Please, Joyce, can’t we just put this on hold until after the honeymoon? This has been such a special day for me. Please don’t let it be spoiled.’

  There had been tears in his eyes, and the last thing Joyce wanted was to see her new husband cry on their wedding night. Grudgingly she agreed to let it drop, even though for her their special day had already been irrevocably spoiled. The obligatory nuptial lovemaking was perfunctory and unimaginative. Joyce feigned orgasm, something she had never before done with Charlie, in order to be able to seek the release of sleep, then lay awake all night with her back to him.

  She blamed her father, the master manipulator who knew her better than Charlie ever would, for the way she’d been set up. If she’d had the slightest inkling of Charlie’s intention to join the family firm and start their marriage in Tarrant Park, one thing was certain: she would never have gone through with the wedding. As she set off on her honeymoon the following morning, she was still wondering whether to walk away from the marriage.

  Her first sight of their idyllic Maldivian island, fringed with a ribbon of sand almost starling white against the turquoise sea, helped restore her spirits, and gradually, although a niggle remained at the back of her mind, the honeymoon became pretty much everything she had wished and hoped it would be. She acquiesced to Charlie’s entreaty that they put all discussion about their shared future on hold until their return home, and allowed the Maldives to work its own special magic.

  Their own piece of paradise was called Nakatchafushi. Back in 1991 Maldivian islands were strictly no shoes and no news. Joyce thought Nakatcha was perfect. Stylish but breathtakingly simple. They slept in a rondavel yards from the edge of the sea and ate at candlelit tables set out on the beach.

  Mornings of swimming and sunbathing were followed by afternoons of lazy lovemaking, which returned almost to their usual standard, and evenings drinking cocktails as the sun went down and dining on local curries and fish.

  Only very occasionally did that abiding little niggle force its way to the front of Joyce’s mind. If sh
e had known what Charlie and her father had planned, she almost certainly would not be on honeymoon.

  *

  On their return from the Maldives, Charlie was tactful and tentative in all matters concerning their future life together.

  ‘Look, why don’t we move into the house on a temporary basis?’ he suggested. ‘I’m not starting work with Henry for another couple of weeks. We have plenty of time to talk about everything. And, Joyce, I’m sorry I didn’t involve you. It was supposed to be a surprise. I honestly thought you’d be pleased.’

  No you didn’t, you devious bastard, thought Joyce. But she didn’t say so.

  ‘Life on a leaky boat was all right for a few months, Joycey, but it couldn’t have gone on, don’t you see that? Your father calls you his princess, you’ve always been treated like a princess, you are my princess now, and I had no right to make you suffer for my crazy ideals.’

  And he carried on in that vein, implying that he had sacrificed his own independence to show his love for her. How could she spurn such a gift? But the whole time Joyce had a nagging suspicion that he was spouting the lines he’d been told to deliver by her father.

  She grudgingly agreed to move into the brand-new, five-bedroomed mock-Georgian house Henry had bought for them. A former show home, it had been partially furnished by the developer with state-of-the-art fixtures and fittings – none of them chosen by Joyce. It seemed to her that there was to be no aspect of her future life that bore any stamp of her personality. The thought of being sucked in, of slotting into this pre-programmed life and turning into her mother, appalled her. To Charlie’s dismay, she informed him that she still wanted to go back to Exeter at the end of the summer to continue her studies. Despite his pleas to see reason, she remained adamant – until her results came through. She had obtained an acceptable history degree, but the grades were not high enough to qualify for an MA course.

  Undeterred, she enquired about teaching courses and other academic options at Exeter and elsewhere. Anywhere, in fact, as long as it wasn’t Bristol. She hid none of this from Charlie, but though unhappy he raised no objection. She suspected her father had told him not to. Henry Tanner always avoided confrontation with the women in his life.