by Barbara Pym
The young doctor bent over Marcia. He didn’t like the look of her at all—indeed she was the kind of patient one didn’t like the look of at the best of times. Luckily Mr Strong was still around and it took only a minute to get him back again. He had been very concerned about Miss Ivory and would want to be around if anything happened.
Mr Strong was still wearing that green tie—was it the same tie or did he just like the colour green? It had a small, close design on it. His rather bushy eyebrows were drawn together over his grey eyes in a frown. He always seemed to be frowning—had she done something wrong? Not eaten enough, perhaps? His eyes seemed to bore into her—the piercing eyes of the surgeon, did people say that? No, it was rather the surgeon’s hands that people noticed and commented on, like the hands of a pianist when, at a concert, people tried to sit where they could see the pianist’s hands. But in a sense the surgeon was just as much of an artist, that beautiful neat scar … Marcia remembered what her mother used to say, how she would never let the surgeon’s knife touch her body. How ridiculous that seemed when one considered Mr Strong!… Marcia smiled and the frown left his face and he seemed to be smiling back at her.
The chaplain, on his way to visit Miss Ivory, was told that he was too late. ‘Miss Ivory’s gone, passed on…’ The words rang in his head like a television advertisement jingle, but he prayed for the repose of her soul and nerved himself for the meeting with her next of kin and other relatives. But the man he eventually saw didn’t seem to be any relation at all, just a ‘friend’ who was stepping into the breach, as it were. Somebody who had worked in the same office. Rather surprisingly, he held the view that there was nothing to reproach oneself with for not having been able to prevent death when, for the Christian, it was so much to be desired. Everything concerning Miss Ivory was settled with calm efficiency, without recriminations and certainly without tears, and that was a great relief.
Twenty
CHAPELS OF REPOSE or Rest, is that what they call them?’ said Norman. ‘The place where the deceased is put,’ he added awkwardly, not quite accustomed to thinking of Marcia dead.
‘It’s rather nice,’ Letty murmured, ‘to put it like that, the idea of resting.’ When her mother had died the body had remained in the house before the funeral. Letty could only remember feeling drained of emotion and worried about practical details, distant relatives suddenly appearing, and the arrangements for their lunch.
‘Well, here we are all together today, just like we used to be,’ said Edwin, but the others made no comment, for it was not quite like they used to be.
The three of them were having a cup of coffee in Edwin’s house before the funeral service at the crematorium, for which he had made all the arrangements. Marcia’s death had of course brought them closer together, for they were remembering their past association and perhaps wondering whether one of them would be the next to go, but not too seriously because they were all in good health and they had known about Marcia’s operation and what it could lead to. The most important thing was that they were seeing Edwin’s house for the first time, never having been invited into it before. Death has done this, Letty thought, looking around her with a woman’s critical eye at the old-fashioned embroidered cushion covers and chair backs—Phyllis’s work on those long evenings when Edwin was at meetings of the parochial church council? Norman’s reflections were more of a practical and financial nature—that Edwin could take a lodger or even two and get quite a nice bit coming in per week for a business gentleman, perhaps sharing the kitchen. Not that he would fancy sharing with Edwin if it came to that, which it obviously wouldn’t. The fact that Edwin lived in this house alone meant that he had no need of extra cash, that he wouldn’t be dependent on his pension when the time came.
It was a long car ride to the crematorium in the south-east corner of London, and as time went on conversation between the three of them began to flow more easily.
‘After all,’ Edwin pointed out, ‘we’re taking Marcia with us, we must think of it like that, and she wouldn’t be saying much anyway, so we can talk between ourselves in the ordinary way.’
This invitation to ordinary talk seemed to stun them into silence, then Letty made a remark about the roses, still beautiful in a garden they happened to be passing.
‘Little did we think, that time we all had lunch together,’ said Edwin.
Poor old girl—she seemed a bit round the bend then, didn’t she?’ said Norman.
‘I suppose that must have been the beginning of the end,’ said Letty. ‘She hardly ate anything, just a bit of salad.’
‘Oh, well, she was never a big eater,’ said Norman, as if he was the only one to be let into this secret. ‘She often used to say.’
‘Living alone sometimes makes people not bother about meals,’ said Edwin, almost as if solitude was a state that none of them had experience of.
‘I always see to it that I get one good meal a day,’ said Letty.
‘Mrs Pope lets you use her kitchen, of course,’ said Edwin. ‘Do you use your own cooking utensils?’
‘I have a couple of non-stick saucepans and my own omelette pan,’ said Letty, hurrying over the words, for she felt that the conversation was getting rather too ordinary now and she did not want to hear about Norman’s frying pan.
‘Oh, I just shove everything into the frying pan,’ Norman said, as she knew he would. ‘Omelettes and all. Not that you can really call it an omelette, the kind of egg thing I make.’
The hearse was gathering speed now, so the car following could step on it a bit, Norman thought. It was quite clever the way they did it, gradually increasing the speed. It would be a skilled form of driving, that, and no doubt the cars were automatic. Ken would know and it might be something to talk to him about next time they met; conversation was not his strong point except where it concerned the motor car.
‘Are we nearly there?’ Letty asked. ‘I don’t know this part of London.’
‘I brought Phyllis here,’ said Edwin, in a matter-of-fact way. It’s the nearest crematorium for where I live.’
‘Oh, yes, of course.’ Letty was momentarily embarrassed but Edwin did not seem to be affected by the memory of his dead wife, only going on to say that they had had a service at the church first which had been very well attended.
Edwin consulted his watch. ‘Eleven thirty is our time,’ he said, ‘and I think they work to a pretty tight schedule. Oh, there’s Father G.’s car just in front—he must have nipped past us at the traffic lights.’
‘Crossed on the amber, I shouldn’t wonder,’ said Norman.
‘This must be it,’ said Letty, relieved that the end of the drive seemed to be in sight. ‘Those gates ahead of us?’
‘Yes, that’s it,’ Edwin confirmed.
‘What we all come to,’ Norman said.
‘Poor Miss Ivory,’ Priscilla whispered to Janice. ‘I’m glad I was able to come, neighbours, and all that—and to give you moral support’ Janice was not sure that she liked the way Priscilla had put it, as if she needed moral support, but probably she had just meant for the service at the crematorium which wasn’t an everyday thing. For there was no question of Janice needing moral support in any other way. The discovery of Miss Ivory’s slumped body in the kitchen and her subsequent death in hospital, although unusual, not to say unfortunate, in no way reflected on the social services and there could be no implication of neglect on Janice’s part. Death was the end of all things, the culmination of life, and so it was for Marcia Ivory, a fitting conclusion to her story—something that could be quoted in years to come as an example of the kind of difficulties encountered by the voluntary social worker. It was impossible to help some people, to guide them in the way they should go for their own good, and Miss Ivory had certainly been one of those. Janice’s thoughts clothed themselves in the language of a report, for it did appear from what one of the doctors at the hospital had said that Miss Ivory had quite definitely been in a terminal situation, even before her last coll
apse. The only trouble was that there might possibly have been a lack of liaison, that Miss Ivory might be said to have fallen through the net, that dreaded phrase…
Letty, noticing Janice and Priscilla in their rather too bright everyday clothes, realized that she need not have worried about not having anything suitable for a funeral—obviously younger people didn’t take any notice of that kind of thing nowadays. Her dark-blue dress and jacket was sober, but hardly mourning; the saleswoman where she bought it had called the colour ‘French navy’, which seemed to add an old-fashioned touch of frivolity. The men were of course wearing black ties, for presumably a black tie was the kind of thing a man always had or could easily obtain.
Requiescat in pace, and may light perpetual shine upon her, Edwin thought. It had been a good idea to get Father G. to officiate at the brief service. He could ensure that things were done decently and in order, which one rather suspected some of these clergy officiating at crematoria, having to do one funeral after another, didn’t always achieve. He was glad to see that that social worker and the neighbour had put in an appearance, it was the least they could do, but undoubtedly it was just as well it had been him and Father G., rather than them or poor old Norman, who had discovered Marcia lying like that.
Norman, strangely disturbed by the idea of Marcia lying in her coffin about to be consigned to the flames, was visited by a frivolous couplet he had read somewhere:
Dust to dust, ashes to ashes.
Into the grave the great Queen dashes.
He didn’t know whether to laugh, which you could hardly do here, or cry, which you couldn’t do either and it was a long time since he had shed tears. He bent his head, as the curtains closed and the coffin slid away, not wanting to see that last bit.
Afterwards they all gathered outside in an awkward little group in the bright sunshine.
‘What lovely flowers,’ Letty murmured, turning to Janice and Priscilla. The eternal usefulness of flowers again eased a strained situation. Two sheaves of flame gladioli and pink and white carnations and two wreaths of hot-house roses, mauve everlastings and white chrysanthemums were lying in a space bearing a notice which proclaimed ‘Marcia Joan Ivory’.
‘Priscilla and I thought she’d rather have cut flowers,’ said Janice a little defiantly, her eyes on the wreaths. ‘Some people do specify that.’
‘Poor old Marcia, she was hardly in a state to specify anything,’ Norman said. ‘We clubbed together for a wreath—the mauve and white—Letty, Edwin and I, seeing as how…’
‘Of course, you worked together, didn’t you? said Priscilla, in her best finishing-school manner. She didn’t quite know how to cope with this odd little man and the other hardly less odd tall one, and hoped that it would be possible to get away quickly now that she had done her social duty.
‘The other wreath is from Marcia’s cousin,’ said Edwin. ‘She did have this distant cousin but she was too upset to attend the funeral.’
‘Not having seen her for forty years,’ Norman chipped in.
‘The son came, though,’ said Edwin, ‘so that was something. Apparently he works in London.’
‘That young person sitting at the back?’ said Letty. She had noticed somebody of indeterminate sex, with straggling, tow-coloured hair, wearing a kaftan.
‘Yes, wearing a bead necklace, that’s him.’
The group dispersed. Edwin, Letty and Norman found their way to Father G., who was waiting rather impatiently by his car. Edwin sat in the front by Father G. and Letty and Norman squashed into the back with the suitcase containing his vestments. The two in front kept up an animated conversation, mostly church shop, but the two in the back were silent. Norman did not know what to say or even what he felt, except that funerals were sad occasions anyway, but Letty was overcome by a sense of desolation, as if by Marcia’s death she was now completely alone. And it wasn’t even as if they had been close friends.
Twenty-one
LITTLE DID WE think…
It was inevitable that Norman should say something of the kind, Letty felt, remembering the last time they had eaten a meal together in a restaurant. Little, indeed, had they thought on that occasion at the Rendezvous that the next time would be like this. Now of course they had Father G. with them, so that added something different
‘Well, now..,’ Father G. took up the menu and began to study it. He presumed that he and Edwin would be sharing the cost of the meal between them, Letty being a woman, and Norman something a little less than the kind of man one might expect to treat one to a lunch. He had wondered when the funeral arrangements were being made what the aftermath was going to be, seeing that the deceased appeared to have no relative capable of laying on funeral baked meats. At first he had wondered if Edwin himself would invite them all back to his house, but he was relieved that he had evidently decided against it but had chosen a nearby restaurant with a licence. It was an agreeable change not to be crowded into a suburban sitting room or ‘lounge’, invariably furnished in appalling taste, forced to drink sweet sherry or the inevitable cups of tea. Would it be in the least appropriate, he wondered, to suggest what he really felt like at this moment—a dry Martini?
‘Something to drink, I feel,’ said Edwin, echoing Father G.’s thought.
Yes, one does feel.. ,’ Letty murmured.
‘It takes it out of you, a day like this,’ Norman said awkwardly. He had been going to say that what takes it out of you is a funeral but somehow the word did not come, as if he did not like to think of it, let alone say the word out loud.
Father G., thus encouraged, felt justified in being brisk and taking action. He summoned a waiter and ordered drinks—medium sherry for Edwin and Norman, a dry Martini for himself, and for the lady … Letty’s hesitation, her slight feeling that perhaps they ought not to be drinking when poor Marcia had never touched a drop, was taken by Father G. to be womanly modesty or ignorance of what was available. ‘Why not try a dry Martini?’ he suggested. ‘That will pull you together.’
‘Yes, I do feel as if I needed something like that,’ she agreed, and when the drink came it did seem to achieve a kind of pulling together. There is something in it, she thought, the comfort of drink at a time like this. It also had the effect of making her realize that while poor Marcia was no longer with them she and the others were very much alive—Edwin, his usual grey solemn self, Norman, obviously in a state of some emotion, and Father G., the efficient bossy clergyman. Looking round the restaurant, she noticed an arrangement of artificial sweet peas in unnaturally bright colours, a party of businessmen at a long table, and two smartly dressed women comparing patterns of curtain material. Conscious of her own aliveness, she allowed Father G. to persuade her to choose oeufs Florentine, because it sounded attractive, while he himself had a steak, Edwin grilled plaice, and Norman cauliflower au gratin. ‘I don’t feel like much,’ Norman added, subtly making the others feel that they ought not to have felt like much either.
You’ve retired now?’ Father G. asked, making conversation with Letty. ‘That must be…’ he cast about for a word to describe what Letty’s retirement must be ‘… a great opportunity,’ he brought out, all life being nothing so much as a great opportunity.
‘Yes, it certainly is!’ The dry Martini had encouraged Letty to a greater appreciation of her present state. ‘I find I can do all sorts of things now.’
‘We could take that in more ways than one,’ said Norman, with a return of his usual jaunty manner. ‘It makes us wonder what you get up to.’
‘Nothing, really,’ said Letty, inhibited by the presence of Father G. ‘I just have more time to do things—reading and other kind of work.’
‘Ah, yes, social work.’ Father G. nodded approvingly.
‘I think Letty is more likely to be on the receiving end of the social worker’s ministrations,’ said Edwin. ‘After all, she is a retired person, a senior citizen, you might say.’
Letty felt it a little unfair of Edwin to lump her into this category, whe
n she had hardly any grey hairs in spite of her age, and Father G. seemed to draw away from her at this unattractive classification. He did not much care for the aged, the elderly, or just ‘old people’, whatever you liked to call them.
‘What about the next course?’ Edwin asked.
‘Do you remember the last time?’ Norman asked suddenly. ‘What we had then?’
