Rosie Meadows Regrets...

by Catherine Alliott

‘Absolutely.’

  As I stood at the door watching them go, I heaved a guilty but heartfelt sigh of relief. Daddy, bless him, had deliberately kept the visit as short as possible, but even so it could never have been short enough.

  The next few days passed in something of a blur. Ivo and I stayed put in the relatively snowbound cottage and people left us alone. My only visitors were a horribly nervous pair of young constables who sat on the edge of their chairs sipping tea and very gently asked me a few questions about the morning of Harry’s death. Satisfied that it was a genuine mistake on his part, they said that of course a coroner’s inquiry had been opened, with a date for the inquest to be fixed, but that this was strictly routine and I’d hear more about it in due course. In the meantime, the coroner was releasing the body for burial.

  I then rang Cartwright and Thompson to cancel my appointment with my solicitor, Miss Palmer. I recognized the receptionist’s icy cool tones. ‘Ah, so do I take it the problem’s been resolved?’

  ‘Er, you could say that,’ I muttered, deciding on balance not to go into the spectacular nature of the resolution.

  During that time, the only people I saw were the occasional farm workers when I trudged around the snowy fields, or, when I ventured out on the icy roads in my car, the people in the village. I had the feeling they knew exactly who I was and what had happened, but although they stared openly, they said nothing.

  One morning, I picked up a copy of The Times, which informed me on the court and social page that Harry Meadows had passed away, and that a funeral would be taking place in London on Thursday, 16 November. No flowers please, family and close friends only, donations to the Poppy Day Appeal.

  I shut the paper feeling very far removed from it all. All I had to do, it seemed, was brush down my old black jacket, buy a new hat, get to London and put in an appearance. Mummy and Philly had done the rest. In many ways it reminded me of my wedding.

  The day the funeral dawned I drove up early, deposited Ivo with Alison, our erstwhile baby-sitter of the plastic mac fame, and then went on to the little chapel next to the West London Crematorium, where much to my surprise a small, sombre crowd had already gathered. I didn’t recognize any of them. God, it just went to show, I thought with a gulp, the kind of separate lives we’d led when I didn’t even know the people at my husband’s funeral. I parked the car, and with a very dry mouth walked across to join them. It had suddenly dawned on me that this was very much my show and I was supposed to take the helm. I shook hands with a couple of elderly men and their wives who, it transpired, were cronies of Harry’s from his club. I asked them, sotto voce, if they’d be kind enough to take a seat inside while I positioned myself at the door. I was pretty sure this was where my duty lay, and apart from anything else I was intrigued to see who else would turn up.

  A few mates of Harry’s from the wine trade followed, one or two school friends, a smattering of pinstriped chaps from the City: in fact I was relieved to see that, on the whole, Harry’s crowd pretty much turned out in force. As they passed through, the girls clutching their hankies and their Ray-Bans, they all seized my hand, proffered cheeks and murmured appropriate sentiments as I murmured appropriate ones back.

  ‘Rosie, darling, how dreadful. How simply terrible for you.’

  ‘Charlie, Lavinia. Thank you so much for coming.’

  On and on went the dark-suited trickle, with all sorts coming out of the woodwork, actually. There was that rather dubious doctor friend of Harry’s, for instance, very much of the glistening moustache and bow tie brigade, firmly in the Terry-Thomas mould.

  ‘Ghastly thing to happen, my dear,’ he murmured with a glint in his eye as it roved up and down me. ‘If ever you want any help, any advice of any kind –’

  ‘Yes, thank you so much,’ I said quickly. ‘I’ll remember that.’

  I remembered him all right. I’d met him at a drunken cocktail party when I was about three months pregnant. Having fed me the ‘trust me I’m a gynaecologist’ line, he’d gazed lustfully at my admittedly burgeoning bosom and proceeded to pitch for the business of overseeing my pregnancy. ‘And you don’t want to worry about me being a friend of Harry’s and seeing your woo-woo,’ he’d brayed. ‘When you’ve seen as many as I have you’ve seen them all!’ I remembered giving a tight little smile and thinking I’d rather have my baby in a public convenience than let this man anywhere near my woo-woo. He squeezed my hand sympathetically as I hustled him through.

  ‘Hello Rosie.’

  I turned as another vaguely familiar drinking pal of Harry’s loomed.

  ‘Rum do this. Where’s Harry?’

  ‘Er … he’s dead.’

  ‘Dead. Good God. There’s a thing. I thought this was Reggie’s funeral.’

  ‘Um, no. It’s not.’

  ‘Well, that’s a relief. Reggie’s still with us is he? Okey-doke. Mustn’t linger.’

  As I blinked in astonishment at his departing back, someone else sidled up. It was our erstwhile next-door neighbour in Meryton Road, an earnest young churchgoer called Adrian who’d always tried to convert us over the garden fence, waving evangelical pamphlets across the wisteria and informing us about the next Bible-reading class. I smiled as I recalled. It was one of the few things Harry and I had ever had a laugh about.

  ‘Adrian, how sweet of you to come,’ I murmured.

  His glasses steamed up in consternation as he took my hand and I noticed, rather nervously, that he seemed to be clutching a guitar and a Ralph McTell song book.

  ‘What d’ you think?’ he asked anxiously. ‘At the end of the service maybe? Just to lighten it up a bit, and not too ecumenical either? I thought “Go Tell It On The Mountain” might not have been quite Harry’s thing.’

  ‘Er, no, you’re right, it probably wouldn’t have been, and it’s a kind thought, but actually, Adrian, he was a bit more of a “Jerusalem” man really, and they’re doing that on the organ. Thanks so much anyway, though.’

  I watched, dazed, as they all trooped through, this motley crew, to take their seats; upper lips nice and stiff and not a glimmer of a tear in sight. In fact the lack of tears was beginning to depress me somewhat. It was all right for me to be stoical, but hell, these were his friends, for God’s sake. I tried hard to squeeze a few out just for form’s sake and wished I’d thought to pop an onion in my pocket, but the realization that I was actually faking it horrified me, and I switched to an expression of frozen gaiety just as Charlotte and Boffy came sailing through the door.

  ‘Smiling through the tears,’ murmured Boffy, taking my hand in both of his. ‘Harry would have been so proud of you.’

  ‘Thank you, Boffy,’ I said guiltily. ‘And thank you both so much for all you did for Harry … at the end.’

  Charlotte seized my shoulders and clasped me firmly to her very considerable bosom. ‘Come and see me soon,’ she whispered urgently. ‘We’ll talk!’

  ‘I’d like that,’ I lied, face squashed into her mammoth cleavage. Oh dear, so many lies, so much guilt!

  Some of my own friends came quietly by, including Alice and Michael, and then a few of my relatives. It amused me to think how horrified Harry would have been to see the Northern contingent, whom he’d actually banned from our wedding, saying, ‘Rosie, my love, we can’t possibly have those ghastly cousins on your father’s side. Good God, one of them packs turkeys for Bernard Matthews!’ With the turkey packer came his wife Hilda, who according to Harry was a loathsome creature who always put the milk in first. I’d once asked Harry why he always took such an instant dislike to people. ‘Saves time,’ he’d growled.

  Then came my immediate family, with Mummy weeping silently, supported by Daddy, and Philly and Miles looking grave. I watched them troop down to the front of the chapel, accompanied by the gloomy organ music – and then someone goosed me from behind.

  I swung round. ‘Bertram!’ I gasped. ‘For heaven’s sake!’

  He kissed me noisily on both cheeks. ‘Sorry, my dear, something about t
he hang of that sexy little black skirt. So how about that then, eh? The old bugger’s up and died on you now, has he? Full of surprises, isn’t he?’ There was an alarming twinkle in his eye.

  ‘Yes, it’s – terribly sad.’

  ‘Of course it is, of course. Still, won’t be long before you’ll be pulling through, eh? Living to fight another day and all that. Perhaps even playing the merry widow? Can’t wait! Shall we say sometime after tea?’ He chuckled roguishly, dug me hard in the ribs and headed for a pew at the back of the chapel.

  I hurried after him. ‘Bertram, no, you should be at the front. There’s a special seat saved for you there.’

  ‘No, no, I’m fine here, my dear. I can see more from here, monitor the grief. I’ve always been a bit of a back row boy anyway.’ He settled down and stretched his arms out along the back of the pew, gazing around. ‘Not a bad turn-out really. Considering.’

  I hastened back to the door before he could elucidate on ‘considering’, and since there seemed to be a temporary lull in the stream of mourners coming through I busied myself by looking for some more service sheets.

  ‘How long do I have to stand here before I get a kiss then?’ inquired a familiar voice behind me.

  I turned and found myself looking into the equally familiar face of my brother.

  ‘Tom!’ I fell on him in delight. He hugged me back, then held me at arm’s length, looking at me as I gazed at him. Dark, floppy-haired, blue-eyed, suede-jacketed, cowboy-booted, the absolute personification of cool. He grinned as he saw me taking all this in. ‘Sorry about the clothes, I’ve come straight from the airport and I didn’t particularly want to fly the Atlantic in a black suit.’

  ‘Doesn’t matter at all, at least you’re here! How are you?’

  ‘Oh, I’m fine, but how are you, Rosie?’ He peered carefully, looking for telltale signs of grief. ‘Holding up all right?’

  ‘Yes, I’m fine actually. It’s …’ I struggled. ‘Well, it’s sad, of course, but I’m absolutely fine.’

  He nodded, satisfied. ‘Good.’

  ‘My gosh, Tom, you’ve come a long way though, I didn’t even know you were coming! You honestly didn’t have to, you know. I mean, you and Harry were never exactly bosom –’

  ‘I came to see you,’ he said firmly.

  Right from the beginning, Tom had been a vigorous and outspoken opponent of my marriage, deploying such subtle sobriquets as ‘tosser’ and ‘complete prat’ on my husband-to-be.

  ‘Whatever I thought of him, he was my brother-in-law, remember. And Ivo’s father.’

  ‘Yes, of course,’ I said, recovering. It was so lovely to see him, so tall and handsome with his LA poolside tan. Suddenly I felt very close to tears. ‘Oh, Tom, I’m so glad you’re here. I’ve been so mixed up about all this, I don’t know what to think, don’t even know how I’m supposed to feel, how to react, I –’

  ‘Shhh …’ He put his fingers to his lips as the organist crescendoed to a mighty, quavering chord. It soared ominously up to the ceiling. I turned to see the vicar beside me, poised in the doorway in his voluminous white gown, head held high, half-moons perched on nose, Bible clasped to breast ready for the solemn march down the aisle.

  Tom led me quickly to the front pew and I sat down, sandwiched between him and Philly. I glanced back for a moment and caught Bertram’s eye. He winked lewdly. I froze, then swivelled quickly to the front.

  ‘Dearly beloved, we are gathered here together today …’

  We were off. At quite a rate, actually. I don’t know whether the vicar was a bit behind with his services and had another one to fit in after this, but we cantered through the readings, a couple of hymns – ‘Jerusalem’ and ‘I Vow To Thee My Country’ (naturally) – at an incredible rate. Then the vicar said a little homily about how sad it was Harry had left us, and then Boffy did a little piece to camera about what a good chap he was, and then just when I was thinking it must be nearly over and wondering how the hell all these people would fit into the sitting room back at Meryton Road, he joined us. Harry, I mean. Down the aisle he came, carried high and slow in his coffin, and since I’d never actually been to a funeral before, I was totally unprepared. God, there he was, in that box. It came as a bit of a shock to realize that in these days of sanitizing everything they still buried real bodies, and to my intense relief I took one look and burst into a flood of entirely genuine tears. It seemed to act like a Mexican wave upon the rest of the female congregation, because within seconds a sea of weeping was well and truly under way. As the pallbearers moved slowly down the aisle, I couldn’t resist turning my tear-stained face rather defiantly in Bertram’s direction, but as I did, I saw that he was standing up on his pew with a video recorder trained on the coffin.

  ‘He’s videoing it!’ I hissed, horrified, to Tom.

  Tom turned round and looked. But Tom lived in America. He shrugged. ‘Had to happen, I suppose. Weddings, christenings, why not funerals?’

  The coffin came slowly to rest behind the lectern where it was laid on a platform, centre stage, as it were. I stared at it. About ten feet in front of it was a deep red curtain. There was a silence. What now? I thought, gripping my hanky tightly. Where was he off to now? Suddenly there was a low, mechanical whirring noise and the coffin began to move. It seemed to be on a sort of Generation Game-style conveyor belt and was heading towards the curtain, behind which was God knows what. Except that suddenly, I did. The flames, the furnace, the pyre and – Omigod! My hand suddenly shot to my mouth. Harry had always wanted to be buried! I froze. Of course! In the churchyard in Yorkshire, beside Bertram’s house, he’d got his plot mapped out and everything – God, he’d even shown me the exact spot, next to someone, who was it now … Oh! His parents!

  I tugged Tom’s sleeve. ‘Tom, I forgot,’ I gasped. ‘He wanted to be buried!’

  He looked at me in alarm. ‘Bit late now, Rosie.’

  ‘But can’t we stop it or something?’ I hissed. ‘Press a button?’

  ‘This isn’t a supermarket, you know,’ he muttered, ‘you can’t just stop the thing and put back the carrots, he’s on his way!’

  I gazed in horror as the box continued to advance, but short of throwing myself on top of it and sailing off into the flames with him – which you must admit would have looked like a pretty selfless act – there was nothing I could do except watch as the curtain gently rose to accommodate the coffin, then fell back into place. He was gone.

  ‘Ooooh nooooo!’ I sobbed aloud.

  A sympathetic murmur went up and many hands reached across pews to clutch mine.

  Oh God! I thought, sobbing guiltily into my hanky. I couldn’t even get that right for him, his final request! In all the confusion and with Mummy and Philly taking over the whole proceedings I’d completely forgotten, but I remembered now, he’d had very firm views on his demise. He was on no account to be left to medical science, on the basis that he didn’t want his dick to end up in some medical student’s pocket and pulled out in the pub as a joke – well, thank God I hadn’t gone down that route – but neither had he wanted to be cremated, because he was damned if he was going to be sprinkled on some unscrupulous vicar’s roses and have his casket refilled with a bit of old wood ash. I gulped guiltily into my hanky. Tom found my ear.

  ‘You can bury the casket,’ he murmured.

  I glanced up in relief. ‘Sure?’ I breathed.

  ‘Positive.’

  ‘So – it’ll almost be the same! I can take it up to Yorkshire and – he’ll never know the difference!’

  He smiled wryly. ‘I think we can safely say you’ll get away with it.’

  This was a relief, but I was still in a state of quite genuine shock as we all stumbled out of the chapel. Naturally this helped my demeanour and invited lots of sympathy and hand squeezing from everyone assembled on the steps. After that there was a bit of uncertain hanging about, then a gradual trickle of cars started back to 63 Meryton Road, with me, as chief mourner, I supposed, glancing nervously t
hrough the rear window, in the lead.

  As I put the key in the door of my old house, I had severe misgivings. The venue had been Mum and Philly’s idea, but I wasn’t at all sure I liked it. No, I didn’t like it at all, I decided as I smiled hesitantly at the two waitresses stationed like sentries by the door to the drawing room. I took a glass of white wine from a proffered tray, gulped it down and went through. Why had I let them do this? Have it here? Why hadn’t I asked for somewhere anonymous, like a room in a hotel or something? I gazed around at the familiar, heavy oak furniture, the huge dark paintings of Harry’s forebears who glared accusingly down at me from the walls. I shivered. It had only been a week or so since I’d lived here but already I felt like a stranger. I certainly could never make this my home again, I knew that for sure. I felt as if the ghost of Harry was already around me, and it wasn’t a particularly benevolent ghost either.

  As I sipped my wine, I resolved there and then to put the house on the market at the very first opportunity; tomorrow, in fact. I’d hand over the keys to the nearest estate agent and tell him to do his damnedest, get as much as he could for it. I wondered, as I moved around the room, if I ought to give the place a good clean first. I hadn’t been here for over a week so it was probably thick with dust. I ran my finger over a table. Spotless. I smiled. Philly, no doubt. She’d taken care of everything. She’d got caterers to come in to do all the food; there were waitresses whizzing around with plates of food even now.

  The room began to fill up. It was hot, oppressive. I tried to slip away and get out into the garden for some air but was cornered by an old school friend of Harry’s. I nodded and accepted his sympathies, flying on automatic pilot now. It wasn’t as if I had to say much anyway, just ‘thank you’, ‘yes, dreadful’, and ‘you’re very kind’. As I made polite conversation, I surreptitiously glanced around. Mummy had recovered enough to talk intently to Bertram who had his head bent low, listening. Daddy was chatting to his cousin Hilda, Philly was giving orders in the kitchen and the only other people I wanted to speak to were Tom and Alice who were over by the fireplace talking animatedly to one another. I watched as they chatted away, Alice, looking rather glamorous in a long, navy blue suit, throwing back her red hair and roaring with laughter at something Tom said, forgetting for a moment she wasn’t at a drunken drinks party, then guiltily stopping her mouth with her hand, glancing around, remembering where she was. I smiled. They’d always got on well and they couldn’t have seen each other for years, probably since Alice and I were at school. I tried to escape from my earnest, balding accountant to go and join them, but even as I made my polite excuses and turned away, I was boxed into another corner, by Bertram.