Two hundred and three were there. Long white-clothed tables had been set down the room. There was prawn cocktail, beef and vegetables and fruit salad or cheese, wine and a lot of beer.
Rona still could scarcely understand how her West Coast mother had become so involved, so swallowed, by this nondescript and, in itself, displaced English community, a village which scarcely knew where it belonged. Her stride along the street, her bonnets, her voice, her kindness and funniness, and her forthright ways had been seen, heard, and admired in Bedmansworth; her fame had reached even Stanwell, Bedfont and Cranbrook.
‘She’s brought a new sort of life,’ Dobbie confided to Rona. ‘Made us realise that there’s more in the world than Bedmansworth.’ His tuba was leaning against his leg like a dog and he patted it. ‘Still don’t understand, mind, why she wanted to read the lesson at the harvest service. I’d practised and had my suit cleaned and was all ready, but she wasn’t going to be stopped. Never mind. I’ll read it at Christmas. She will have her way, won’t she … ?’
Rona smiled and nodded. ‘She certainly will. It was only her determination that brought us to Bedmansworth at the start. She wasn’t going to be denied.’
‘Why did you come?’ inquired Dobbie as if he had been waiting long to ask. ‘There’s a sort of rumour that you had ancestors in the village.’
‘Something like that,’ said Rona. ‘My mother wanted to research the church records. She found what she wanted to find.’
Dobbie would have liked to inquire further but he did not. Instead they watched Pearl as she was led up onto the rostrum. Rona put her fingers to her chin. Even the darts players from outlying suburbs and villages knew Pearl. So did the airport teams. She had become the mascot of the Swan, Bedmansworth, and this was her, and their, great night.
The presentations were made on the stage by the overseer of the Heathrow sewage farm and Miss Aviation Maintenance 1992. The sewage farm was famous because it had been accused of stopping airport development and emitting smells, unmovable and unsociable. ‘We don’t mind what they say,’ asserted the overseer in presenting the trophies. ‘They might say we’re blocking the way for their new terminal and what not, but where would they be without us?’
Ribald suggestions flew from the room, wives put restraining hands on the more outrageous husbands. Jim Turner from the Swan, blushing in the lights, went up to receive the cup, and made a little awkward speech. Then he introduced Pearl, and the band, scattered to various parts of the room by now, managed to get together for ‘Yankee Doodle Dandy’ again and everybody sang.
‘Mrs Collingwood, Pearl as we call her, has become very dear to us,’ said Jim into the stage microphone. ‘She’s our mascot and she can throw a nifty dart too. I wonder if we can ask her for a demonstration.’
Loud cheering was stemmed by Pearl saying into the microphone: ‘Just try and stop me, Jim Turner!’ Laughter rolled over the room. Rona sat shaking her head, wondering again at this woman who was her mother. Within herself she was deeply sad because although they were leaving, they had to leave, there was much they would leave behind. She tried not to think of Edward Richardson. One day and night by the winter sea was all that they had known together. For a few hours she had loved him and that was that. It was almost as if it had been her due.
Jim Turner handed Pearl a glistening dart. The girl drummer wtih the Bedmansworth Band even managed to summon a drum roll. ‘Okay,’ said Pearl. ‘Show me the board.’
Jim manoeuvred her to face the dart board illuminated on the wall. Rona watched with anxiety. ‘Dart one!’ Jim called. Mrs Collingwood hitched up her long, glittering skirt, and threw the dart. It missed the board altogether and struck the wooden wall.
‘Who moved the board?’ Pearl demanded, while they all applauded.
‘Dart two!’ exclaimed Jim. He handed it to her. She threw again. This time the aim was even wider. It bounded against the wall and plummeted to lodge in the floor. ‘Nervousness!’ exclaimed Pearl.
Everyone roared again but Rona could see she was nervous. The hand holding her skirt shook so that the material shimmered.
‘Dart three!’
Pearl took a pace back. ‘I can see better from here,’ she called and again the audience responded, urging her on, but falling to silence as she poised with the dart. She drew back her arm and threw.
‘Double top!’ exclaimed Jim. A great roar went up through the room. Everyone laughed and applauded. It was as it should have been. Pearl turned, her face flushed with triumph and excitement. Jim helped her from the platform and, amid the faces and clapping, Rona went to meet her and kissed her.
Her mother’s face was glistening with happiness. Her eyes were wet. ‘What a wonderful, wonderful day,’ she almost whispered. ‘I swear it’s the best day of my life.’
When they left it had begun to rain thickly. ‘Don’t you ever have snow in this country?’ asked Pearl as Jim helped her into the mincab.
‘Come back in April,’ joked Jim. Pearl insisted on sitting in the front next to the Indian driver. ‘And where in this world are you from?’ she asked him affably.
‘Hounslow,’ he smiled.
Rona got into the back of the car. Dilys got in beside her. It creaked as they sat down. Jim shut the door and walked back to the small bus that had brought the rest of the Bedmansworth villagers. The two vehicles set off through the heavy rain.
‘Now,’ announced Pearl from the front seat, ‘we can go back to the States knowing that the Swan, Bedmansworth, are the champions at darts.’
‘We all hope you’ll be coming back,’ said Dilys. ‘We’ll miss you.’
‘Oh, we will,’ asserted Pearl. ‘Nothing’s going to keep us away.’
‘Nothing will,’ smiled Rona in the dark.
They were tired and happy and eventually silent. The cab went across the main roads and into the winding lanes, black and rushing with rain, then entering the village. ‘We’re here. We’re home,’ said Pearl.
And at that moment Bernard Threadle rounded the wet corner on his small motor cycle.
‘Homelea’,
Anglia Road,
Hounslow,
Middlesex,
England,
Great Britain
15th December
My Dear Father and My Dear Mother,
This time my letter to you brings news of sorrow because Uncle Sammi is unexpectedly dead. It was an accident when he was driving his minicab late at night and the road was wet and a motor bike came around a corner. Uncle Sammi’s minicab skidded and unfortunately hit a tree. An old American lady, who was sitting with him in the front, was also killed in this sad accident, although two other lady passengers were OK.
We were very proud at the funeral of Uncle Sammi because it was one of the finest seen in Hounslow or even Southall for more than one year. With Marika he was building up his business here over many years and he was well known among the Indian people. It was difficult to say how many there were to mourn him but afterwards we considered it must have been more than three hundred.
I have left my career at London Airport to take over the shop with Marika although we are no longer to have the minicab business and the social club register is also no longer because the lady who operated it has gone.
Now I have a camera and I have taken some photographs of Uncle Sammi’s funeral. I will send some to you when they come back from the chemist.
Your loving son,
Barry (Nazar)
The single bell of Bedmansworth church rang out, neutral and inevitable. It was tolled by Mr Henry Broughton-Smith, wearing his brown tweed suit and his Military Cross. His hands were as solemn as his face. When it was all over Rona thanked him and he merely said: ‘It’s my sad duty, madam.’
Although it was only a week to Christmas, it was a day of summer-like sun, bright and widespread, with birds in the churchyard, the air mild. Bare trees spread their branches like cracks across the surface of the blue sky.
The grave, vivid with
flowers, was against the old wall. Rona, her face white in the bright daylight, framed by the rim of her black hat and the black collar of her coat, stood just outside the lych-gate with the vicar and shook hands with the villagers. They seemed reluctant to leave, standing inside and outside the churchyard, conversing of other things as people do when released from a funeral; the lovely day, the plans for Christmas, the local gossip.
‘I felt she was with us,’ said Rona to Henry Prentice. ‘Perhaps looking in at the window. Smiling that smile of hers.’
He smiled. ‘Yes, I felt that too.’
‘So many people,’ said Rona. The crowd still occupied the whole of the churchyard path, standing, waiting on the grass to speak a few words to her. She could see Edward and Adele standing near the church door, moving with the people slowly towards her. Her heart was full.
The villagers came to shake her hand, some saying a few difficult words, some speaking of the flowers. Rooks began to caw to each other from the trees where they sat clearly outlined, looking down at the walking people.
Sergeant Morris, Mrs Bollom and three slow ladies from St Sepulchre’s shuffled along the path, looking determinedly ahead, with not a glance at the tombstones. Sergeant Morris blew his nose in a big blue handkerchief, so loudly it scattered the rooks. Mrs Bollom looked at him reprovingly. ‘Oh dearie me,’ she said.
‘I saw your grandson crying,’ said the vicar to Mrs Durie. ‘Tears streaming down his cheeks.’
‘Randy, yes. He had to go home,’ she said. Her eyes were red rimmed. ‘I cut his pigtail off.’
She looked at Rona as though apologising. ‘I couldn’t stand it any longer, Mrs Train,’ she said simply. ‘Thinking of your mother and everything, and seeing him sitting in front of me. I’ve always got my scissors in my handbag so I took them out and snipped it off. That’s why he was crying. That’s why he’s gone home.’ Rona and the priest regarded her with plain astonishment. As if she thought they did not believe her she opened her handbag and produced the braided pigtail. ‘There it is,’ she said.
Others came, Jim and Dilys, Anthony Burridge and the hugely pregnant Annabelle. Rona had to stretch to embrace her. Mrs Mangold haltingly said it had been lovely, and so did many others whom Rona scarcely recognised but whom her mother had known. Dobbie Dobson had read the verses from the Book of Ruth, repeating the words that Pearl had spoken in the church only weeks before. Rona thanked him for this and he stood searching for words of his own. Eventually he said: ‘I’m very sorry. She was a nice lady.’ Turning to the vicar with a sort of embarrassment, he asked: ‘I can still read the lesson at Christmas, can’t I, Mr Prentice?’
All the time Rona could see Edward and Adele Richardson coming step by slow step down the path from the church door. They reached her eventually and she turned and looked at them, two people with whom she knew she had kinship, the man she loved but from whom she was parting, the woman who, almost, might have been her sister.
As Edward and Adele came through the gate Henry Prentice was taken aside by a big woman who, Edward realised with surprise, was Mrs Kitchen. He and Adele and Rona stood together, the hands of all three intertwined. At first they found it difficult to say anything. ‘Your mother made a lot of people in Bedmansworth realise the possibilities of life,’ said Adele sincerely. ‘I’m sure it’s almost as sad for them as it is for you.’ She leaned and kissed Rona on her white cheek.
Edward said: ‘That’s true. She was quite unique.’ Still holding her hand and feeling its warmth and need in his, he asked: ‘How long before you will be leaving?’ Their faces were only inches apart, her eyes and her mouth before him and his before her. Adele watched them.
‘I’ve decided to go very soon,’ said Rona. ‘The day after tomorrow, Thursday. I am on your company’s flight to Los Angeles in the afternoon.’
‘I’ll make sure everything is done to make you comfortable,’ he said. ‘Any problems, please call me. I’m at Heathrow that day, unless something untoward happens, so I’ll come and see you off.’
‘Thank you, Edward,’ she said. ‘I’d appreciate that. And thank you both for coming today and for your flowers.’
Edward and Adele walked from the church. The large form of Mrs Kitchen was heading towards Bedwell Park Mansions.
Eventually the vicar and Rona were left alone. For the most part the people had gone over to the Swan. As though it were a reminder that it was a December day a sharp touch of breeze came through the lych-gate. The priest’s vestments ruffled. He turned and held Rona’s hands. ‘I haven’t said my piece,’ he told her. ‘And, in truth, I hardly know what to say.’
‘You said it in the service,’ said Rona quietly.
‘I don’t think I have ever felt so sad at a funeral,’ he said surprisingly. ‘It’s part of a vicar’s life, funerals, and if we believe what we try to teach others then the parting from loved ones is only temporary. But I was … so sorry. I was only glad in that I had known her.’
He took her arm and they walked across the silent and sunny village street towards the Swan. ‘Your mother arrived in this village as a stranger,’ he said. ‘But it was almost as if she was meant to come here. Everybody … so enjoyed her. I know I did.’ He looked soulful as they paused outside the bar. It was dim and full of people’s voices. ‘Who will I smoke with now?’
The house seemed emptier than ever when Edward returned on the evening of the following day; void and chill. The thorny rose climber was knocking metallically against the window. There were Christmas cards distributed through the house on shelves and bookcases, their colours and jollity mocking the sombreness of the rooms and his feelings. Even turning on the lights and lamps did not lend it much comfort. Edward lit the fire in the sitting-room and, after pouring himself a whisky, sat down moodily watching the flames spluttering from the dusty logs. It had been a long time since it was last lit. There had been a sheaf of letters on his desk, left there by Adele. He had no idea where she might be. He shuffled them like a dubious hand of cards. Two had handwritten addresses. He opened the first:
Halifax Villa
Bedwell Park
Mansions
18th December
Dear Edward Richardson,
I had hoped to speak to you at Mrs Collingwood’s funeral – what a sad occurrence – but there was no opportunity. I did not know her but I felt it my duty, my last duty, to attend on behalf of the Residents’ Association.
You will ascertain from the foregoing that we are leaving. You have won your battle. It often seems to me that the people who struggle least are often the winners. There is apparently some deficiency in the 1937 covenant which, according to the Residents’ Association’s legal advice, would make it doubtful in a court of law. I would have liked to fight but other circumstances have dictated that this will not be possible. We are quitting Bedwell Mansions forthwith, the Halifax Building Society having taken out a repossession order against us. There appears to be no room in this district for people who are prepared to act for their conscience. Perhaps I should point out that the reason that Bedmansworth village is preserved as it is today is because people, and perhaps you were one – when it suited them – fought the authorities. Otherwise it would now be part of Heathrow Airport. We would have liked to stay and support the campaign to prevent the monstrous plan for the new terminal on the site of the sewage farm but this cannot be. My husband has been made redundant and we are going to try our luck at Kilmarnock.
On a more personal note, may I just say that I like you. You are a gentleman which is more than can be said for so many round here who only think they are.
Yours sincerely,
Kathleen Kitchen (Mrs)
Richardson shook his head wryly. It did not seem to matter now. He opened the second handwritten envelope and saw, with surprise, that it was from Toby. He had forgotten his son’s handwriting. It was addressed from Old’s Antiques, Windsor:
18th December
Deaf Dad,
I will be over to see you
at the weekend (if you’re in) and I have to collect some of my stuff. I will ring beforehand. I think Mum will have already explained that Mr Old has let me take over the flat above the shop. As I told you before, it is not really a flat, just one room and a shower room, but it’s great. He is only charging me twenty pounds a week because he does not want to come into the shop so early from now on. He wants me to open up in the mornings and to run things a bit more. I hope this is all right with you. I know it’s earlier than I said.
See you when I see you.
Love,
Toby
He read the letter twice. His sadness lay on him deeply. They had lost a son – it was their fault. It was his fault. He finished his scotch with one gulp and walked through the house, along the corridor, past the dim portraits of Adele’s parents, touching familiar pieces of furniture. He looked up the shadowed staircase towards his study and the closed door to his observatory. Slowly he went up there, step by single step. There was the familiar desk and the deep chair. His books, the fine astrolabe and there, along the wall, were the old celestial charts with their rich colours and their fabled animals. He switched on the desk lamp and its light warmed the room. Then he took the further short staircase to the observatory and opened the door, with care, as if conscious that he would not do it often after this. The pale glow of the sky was like an open umbrella above him and he lifted his face and gazed up at it. Good old sky. It was a cloudy night but with lakes of clarity through which he could see the stars. They, at least, remained the same. Blinking.
He switched on the diffuse light and climbing the metal seat, began to work the eye of the telescope across the sky. Winter was the best time to view the stars. Polaris, the polar star, Ursa Minor which had joined Ursa Major, and Orion were all on display, shining and unconcerned. The Milky Way beamed through Cassiopeia. He settled back into the seat and touched the button for the music stereo.
Arrivals & Departures Page 36
