‘For Mathilda?’
‘No. For her mother.’ Whilst he didn’t believe in an afterlife, some force compelled him to go to Katherina’s resting place before it was opened up by gravediggers. He had to . . . not quite tell her, yet he needed to put in a short appearance before the funeral.
‘All right. Now, shall we go? The taxi’s waiting outside.’
He nodded. ‘Yes. Let’s get the unpalatable business over. I’d take you for a good lunch, but I can’t seem to settle in the vicinity of food. It will be better once the course of medication is over.’
She wondered about that. ‘Will you be all right?’ she asked. ‘Will this one lot of pills do it?’
‘I don’t know.’ He had postponed his appointment at the hospital because there was so much to do, so little time, and he had a marked lack of physical energy. Always a strong and healthy man, Gus felt as if he had been hit by an overcrowded bus. ‘I’ll know more once the tests are done.’
She would have to be satisfied with that, and she asked no more questions. His wife didn’t even know he was ill. Sheila was probably the only person on earth who had an inkling about his condition. The medics would be aware, of course, but his family believed him to be in New Zealand. They didn’t deserve him.
When they reached the funeral parlour, Sheila remained in reception while Gus, the paying client, was taken through to the inner sanctum where he had to choose a coffin, its lining, the pillow and the furnishings, including handles for the casket and a plaque for the lid.
Mr Philip Rushton Senior invited Gus into his office. ‘There’s been a slight faux pas,’ he began. He went on to explain company policy regarding mobile phones and to give a reason for telephoning Gus’s domestic line. ‘You were distressed when you spoke to us after the death, and we didn’t get all the information we required.’ He continued to tell tales of nasty neighbours who had asked for a hearse to pick up the dead next door. ‘Bestial behaviour, Dr Compton-Milne, because no one has died, you see. We thought someone with a grudge might be trying to make you suffer by imitating you, because the mobile was turned off and we could not reach you.’
‘I was ill.’
‘Ah.’ Mr Rushton Senior dabbed a handkerchief against a hooked nose. With such over-exaggerated features and miserable black clothing, the man looked positively Dickensian. Yes, he would have done well as Scrooge or an evil schoolmaster. ‘The young lady seemed confused,’ the man added.
‘Yes, she would.’
‘And while we do our utmost to maintain high standards of confidentiality, the unusual nature of your circumstances led to the unfortunate disclosure of your business with us.’
Gus nodded. This man even spoke in nineteenth century English. Perhaps he was one of the undead? He was very pale, terribly ugly, and his voice might have been used to commentate for Hammer House of Horror films. ‘Please don’t worry. None of this is your fault. Did you speak to Harriet?’
The man in black nodded.
‘She’s a sensible girl. Yes, these circumstances are odd, but don’t worry. It’s just another of life’s twists and turns.’ Gus thought for a moment. ‘I want Mathilda all in white. The coffin must be lined in white, too. White lilies on a bed of dark green. Just the one spray, but let it cover the whole top of the casket.’
‘Ah. À la Princess Diana?’
‘No. À la Princess Mathilda. She never did a wrong thing, never spoke a wrong word. Mathilda is truly pure.’
‘Quite.’ The senior partner shuffled brochures on his desk. Some of them advertised what might best be described as a pay-now-die-later scheme. The room was perfumed, and soft music drifted in via hidden speakers. This was the sepulchre described in the Bible, all sin hidden behind grand facade and pretty decor, because the nuts and bolts lay beyond the scenes: where faces were straightened after strokes, where the dead were washed and made pretty for their relatives, where the quick prepared the deceased for that last journey. Gus shivered.
‘Are you still unwell, sir?’
‘Chemotherapy.’ He rose from his chair. ‘Thank you, Mr Rushton. The certificate is with your receptionist. Good day.’
He went with Sheila to the graveyard after picking up lilies from a florist. While his companion stayed in the taxi, he walked the last few yards and placed his tribute on the grave. He didn’t weep. He lacked the energy required. He simply stood and remembered a girl who had run barefoot through buttercups, who had abandoned a husband for him, who had loved him with a heart bigger than the revolution her elders had fled. Katherina had been a White Russian, born to a family whose members had deserted Hungary in the face of encroaching communism.
They had not liked Gus; they had blamed him for her betrayal of her husband, for enticing her away. ‘I did not do the enticing,’ he whispered. He closed his eyes, pictured her in folk costume, watched her dancing to music from a country that should have been her own. She had cooked borscht, had spilled beetroot juice all over the tiny kitchen of the flat in which he had kept her. ‘I am mistress of all I survey – you included, Gustav.’
Dancing, always dancing. Laughter like tinkling bells; neck, long and white; dark hair tumbling over soft breasts when she released it from its braids. The sexual act had been glorious, since it had been accompanied by love so overpowering that Gus had been lost in her.
No God would have taken her. No infinite power based in love and goodness could have dragged the life from her in so cruel a fashion. There was no God.
‘Mathilda’ had been her last word. Baby in a box, a plastic box heated and fed with measured oxygen. Running, running with that final piece of Katherina. Pleading for Mathilda to be saved, for hope to remain. Selfish, always so selfish. ‘I am sorry,’ he said.
‘Gus?’
He turned and looked at Sheila.
‘What are you doing down there?’
He had not realized that he was on his knees. ‘Sheila?’
‘Yes?’
‘Make sure they heed my will. My remains go in here with theirs. I shall explain, of course. But I beg you. Make sure.’
Sheila nodded mutely before helping him to his feet. The sun shone, but this remained the greyest of days.
Sal Potter arrived at her place of work, mind filled by worries because Jimmy seemed to be preparing to leave. Stuff had gone missing. He hadn’t found her building society pass book, so that was one thing less to ponder. She had never been a big spender, and she had salted away several thousand against the day when the peppercorn rent cottage would be taken from her by the developers who now owned Cotters Farm.
There was a lot less food than normal. Salmon, tuna, baked beans and soup had disappeared overnight. Lavvy paper, kitchen rolls and the wet wipes she used to clean her face were also in short supply. He owed her nothing, she supposed. The new furniture and TV had cost much more than he had stolen, so she was keeping quiet about the problem. But she was afraid. In fact, scared to death would be nearer the mark.
She changed her shoes, put on a tabard and went to fetch her tranklements, a word employed by her long-dead mother when describing a box filled with a variety of items. Armed with said tranklements, she picked out kitchen cleaners and began the wet work. Somebody had been overenthusiastic on the stove, so she set to in order to rid the top of various burnt offerings that covered two of the four gas rings.
Sal was suddenly aware that she was not alone. Turning, she saw the unhappy face of the spy from upstairs. It was the kind of face described by some as a bag of spanners, but a bag of spanners didn’t ask questions in a foreign language when a person was trying to do the work for which she was paid. ‘Hello,’ said Sal nervously.
‘Yes,’ replied Eileen. ‘You’re wanted.’
‘Eh?’
‘You’re wanted by madam upstairs. Mrs Hermione.’
Oh, God. Not more tea and scones. ‘I’ve a lot to do, Mrs Eckersley. I fell behind with my day off.’
Eileen sniffed and folded her arms. ‘It’s not a request, Mrs Pot
ter. It’s an order.’
‘Oh. Right.’
‘And whose is the cat?’ The intruder pointed to the open kitchen door. ‘Have you been feeding that?’
‘No.’ Sal banged her implements back into their box. ‘No, I haven’t fed it. I’ve never even seen it before.’
‘Right. Up with you now till we see the missus.’
Sal’s heart pounded in her ears all the way up two flights of stairs. She didn’t know what was coming, but she hoped it was only the sack. There were a lot of things worse than getting the sack, and she had been living with one of them. He’d even stolen her toothpaste and some of the old towels, so he was definitely—
She entered Hermione’s domain and found herself facing not only the old woman, but also her daughter, granddaughter and – she gulped hard – Jimmy’s wife. Even close to, it was plain that Annie hadn’t changed much; she still looked too young and tiny to be the mother of three kids.
‘Sit over there,’ commanded Hermione.
Sal obeyed without hesitation. It was the only option when Hermione was in charge. Feeling like the prisoner in the dock, Sal faced the four women. Three were on a sofa; the fourth was in her wheelchair. Next to Hermione sat the large dog that was responsible for deterioration both inside and outside Weaver’s Warp. The Irishwoman, probably clerk of court, hovered behind the four seated females.
Lisa opened for the prosecution. ‘According to my friend Mrs Nuttall, you have never been married, yet you gave your identity as Mrs Potter, widow.’
Sal hung her head.
Lisa carried on. ‘I won’t go into too many details – we leave all that to Mrs Eckersley – but you have been searching this house repeatedly. For this?’ She held up a mangled article. ‘We took a photograph of it before Mrs Eckersley’s husband flattened it in his vice. There’s already one life ruined because of the damned thing, and we wanted to make sure it could never be used again. Right. What have you got to say for yourself?’
Harrie chipped in. She was clearly present to offer some kind of mitigating defence. ‘Mother, she’s afraid of him. Look what he did to Annie.’
Annie put in her ten-pence worth. ‘Sal? I’m not your enemy, girl. We all know what Jimmy is. I don’t want my kids’ dad in jail, but what’s the alternative? He made a hole in my head – you’ve every right to be scared.’
Sal burst into tears.
Hermione joined the self-elected magistrates. ‘No time for tears, Mrs Potter. The man has clearly parted company with any sense he might have had. He needs to be separated from the children for their sake.’
Sal dried her eyes, opened her mouth to speak, but found no words.
‘It’s all right,’ said Harrie quietly. ‘Believe it or not, we’re on your side.’
Lisa grinned ruefully. ‘I was on my side in a field full of cows this morning, and I got no sympathy from this lot. Look at me. Look at me, Sal.’
Sal managed to make eye contact with her employer.
‘You can help.’ Lisa tried to smile reassuringly. ‘We women have to stick together. Come on, now. Tell us what’s happening. Did he get you to apply for this job?’
It poured from her in a stream that seemed never-ending. Filled with plasma screen, misplaced love, new furniture, depression involving her dead dad’s teeth, Sky TV, boredom and separate bedrooms, the story flooded out of her. She returned to teenage years and the loss of her virginity, told how he had visited her over the years, how he had been nice to her poor, dying father, how nasty he was becoming now. ‘He’s dangerous,’ she concluded.
‘In what way?’ Hermione asked.
‘I seen it on the telly.’ Sal mopped her face again. ‘Saw it, I mean.’
‘Saw what?’ Hermione leaned forward.
‘About loonies. He can’t keep still. He rocks and shakes and talks to himself. Then there’s his eyes – they’re not right. Stares a lot, then starts blinking all the while. Sometimes, I think there’s two of him. Or more. Mood swings, they called it.’
Harrie stood up, walked across the space and placed a hand on Sal’s shoulder. ‘We’ll look after you,’ she said.
The sobbing began again. ‘Don’t be nice to me,’ Sal begged. ‘You’ll only go and make me worse.’
‘But we will look after you.’
The seated woman took a deep breath and looked into Harrie’s eyes. ‘It’s you needs looking after, girl. If he doesn’t get that gun back today, he’s going to kidnap you and rob the shop. He says the Compton-Milnes would swap the gun for you and a few diamonds.’
Harrie blinked. Was that the bloke seen skulking outside, the one Roger had mentioned? ‘Stop worrying, Sal. I’ll stay away from the shop until he’s caught. Are you safe at home? Are you sure he won’t hurt you?’
Sal nodded.
Harrie pulled Sal to her feet. ‘Look. Go to Gran’s bathroom and sort yourself out – wash your face. Don’t go home yet. Stay for the usual length of time. You don’t need to do any work. Then carry that blessed gun home with you and let him do as he wishes with it. My mother will take her chances if he accuses her of involvement with his burglaries. She can stand up for herself, because this town knows and respects her. She’s been daft, but no more than that. There’s no danger of her being thrown out of office like poor President Clinton—’
‘And look what they replaced him with.’ Hermione was in the saddle again. ‘An ape with the brains of a—’
‘Be quiet,’ Harrie shouted. ‘Get off your high horse, Gran. This poor woman’s had enough.’
Hermione muttered about not being able to say her piece in her own house. She threatened to leave all her property to a home for sick donkeys, but nobody listened. Eileen, however, eyes and ears of the world, found the temerity to put a hand on her boss’s shoulder. ‘Enough,’ she said. Hermione stopped talking immediately.
‘Shall I say you gave it to me?’ Sal was asking, in reference to the mangled gun.
‘No!’ chorused five females. ‘Say you found it in the garage with the photo,’ Annie advised. ‘Then he won’t phone Lisa this afternoon. If he does phone her, she can say that it’s gone. It would be the truth.’
Sal went out to wash away her tears.
‘Can we trust her?’ Hermione asked.
‘Course we can,’ replied Annie. ‘She’s one of us. She’s another female who’s been stood on by a bloke. His mam said he wasn’t right the last time he visited her. She thought he looked wild – like a tiger kept too long in a cage. She’s scared of him and scared for him. She is his mother, so she must have mixed feelings over it all.’
‘Well, he’ll be in a cage soon enough,’ promised Lisa.
Annie sighed. ‘He was always wild. And I’ve got two of his sons to tame. God help me.’
The door had been left ajar by Sal. A face appeared low down, very near to the floor. It was black, fluffy, and had recently travelled, together with the rest of its person, in a skyward direction via Hermione’s summer-weight curtains. The room seemed to hold its breath. Hermione placed a hand on Milly’s neck.
Milly remained where she was. The cat, having looked from a distance into the face of its natural enemy, walked straight in and placed itself between the Alsatian’s huge front paws. There was no clawing or hissing this time. The animal had done its research and reached a decision.
‘Is this a suicide mission?’ Harrie asked. ‘Are we in the presence of a kamikaze cat?’
Lisa smiled. ‘In a fight between a cat and a dog, there’s only one winner. And it ain’t the dog.’
A pink-faced Will appeared. ‘Sorry to interrupt,’ he panted. ‘She got away from me. I found out her owner died a few days ago – lived on the estate – Beech Gardens. They used to have a dog as well – their son’s taken it, but he can’t have the cat because his wife’s allergic to them.’ He paused for breath. ‘Bella’s used to big dogs. See?’ He pointed to the animals. The cat had curled into a ball at Milly’s feet. ‘Can we keep her?’ he asked.
‘Bloody
hell,’ laughed Annie. ‘You sound like Billy or Craig. They even brought an old tramp home once – he stank of booze and was covered in sick. “Can we keep him, Mam?” Will, you proved my theory – males never grow up.’
Harrie’s eyes filled with moisture. He was a good man, and she would have his child. He would want her to have his child. University needed to be managed, and it would be managed. She stood up. ‘I’ll look after Sal till it’s time for her to go home. Then, I have a few things to do.’
‘If you’re going out, take Will with you,’ ordered Lisa.
Yes, she would take Will. Firstly, she had to share news with him. Secondly, he might help with the mystery of Mathilda.
Twelve
The hammock was slung between a pair of apple trees that seemed old enough to have figured in Genesis. Will, who had fallen off the thing twice, was now balanced precariously between comfort and broken bones, Bella purring contentedly on his chest. She had fallen to the ground with him, but she seemed to have accepted such events as examples of the vagaries of the life she had chosen for herself.
In a nearby upholstered swing made for two, Harrie was perfectly composed. The air of contentment was a mere cloak, however, as it concealed a great deal of inner turmoil. Firstly, there was the blob created by herself and the idiot in the hammock. As occupier of an unstable item of leisure furniture, he was, perhaps, not in the best of positions when it came to discussing blobs. She would deal with that in a minute, as he was sure to come crashing down fairly soon.
Ben wasn’t answering his phone. She knew he had experienced trouble when it came to recharging, but she so badly wanted to talk to him. About Father and Mathilda, about Will and the blob – though Ben had to be placed in the bronze position on the podium regarding her pregnancy. Will must take gold; Mother, Father – if he could be found – and Gran shared silver; while Ben would be forced into third position. In reality, she knew that her brother was all the gold in the world, because, in accordance with his instructions, she had opened a certain letter on his behalf. He had gained four A-stars in his A-level exams. She could tell him that, at least, before informing anyone else.
Parallel Life Page 26
