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CHARLES’S GRANDDAUGHTER sat on a granite slab in an overgrown rockery. From a distance, her black summer dress and pearls absorbed her into the surroundings, but her white skin and blonde hair held her at arm’s length, making her look marooned. Without knowing why, George removed his dog-collar.
She turned to face him when he was within touching distance of her. His fears were realised. Her beauty was set to haunt him for the foreseeable future. Her thin lips and concave cheeks gave her a stern look but her eyes were warm enough to mitigate it. Yet she was clearly an eccentric. She was filing her fingernails to sharp points. She wore only one shoe. What he’d initially taken for a bright brooch on her collar was a red, white and yellow Royal Mail badge.
“What do you want?” she said.
“I, er, noticed you crying, earlier. And I saw you sitting out here on your own. I just wondered if you wanted to talk about anything. You don’t have to.”
“And you are?”
“I gave a reading, in the service. You nearly drowned me out.”
“It was a funeral. You’re allowed to cry.”
He suddenly realised she took him for a predatory male, feigning sensitivity. His smile dropped off and his voice sped up. “I – I give advice for a living. I just thought I might be able to help. Yes, I mean, it’s right to grieve at funerals, but they’re also there so people can talk about their grief. And well, you were crying, and now you’re over here on your own. I just wanted to help. I’m sorry if I sounded rude.”
She sighed. Meanwhile, the weather had taken a turn for the worse. He removed his jacket and offered it to her. She hesitated then used it to cloak her shoulders. She didn’t thank him.
“I’m sorry Vivienne’s dead,” he said.
She shrugged.
“It’s a long time since anyone died who was close to me. Just over fifteen years ago, both my parents were killed in a car crash. I was twenty. It was bad enough for me – I was at university at the time – but my younger brother was just fifteen. You can imagine how it affected him. I had to bring him up, more or less, for the last half of his adolescence. At least you’re a little bit older than I was, and your grandmother was eighty-three, which was a good age. And - ”
“Who told you she was my grandmother?”
“Okay, sorry. Charles asked me to check you were all right. He’s worried about you. I said I’d come over but if I’m intruding I’ll leave. I didn’t mean to - ”
“You give advice for a living?”
“That’s right, yes.”
It started to rain. In the distance, the mourners made their way either into the marquee or the house. There was a beech tree about three hundred metres away.
“Should we take cover?” he asked.
“I want to stay here.”
“What happened to your other shoe?”
“I hit my mother over the head with it and Charles took it off me.”
“Well, let’s shelter - under a tree, perhaps? Can you walk in one shoe?”
“Do you think people can change?”
“What do you mean? Pull my jacket over your head.”
She ignored him. “Can someone who’s living a bad life ... live a good life?”
“I presume you’re talking about yourself.”
“That was a very nice poem you read out.”
“Would you like me to read it to you again?”
“Yes,” she said, struggling to make herself heard above the downpour, “I was talking about me earlier.”
“I’m utterly convinced that someone living a bad life can change and live a good life. It wouldn’t be an exaggeration to say I’ve based my life on that particular conviction.”
“Why? Have you lived a bad life?”
“I’ve never intentionally hurt anyone. But I’m not very well off or well connected and I suppose in some people’s eyes that might count as a ‘bad’ life. I haven’t used the opportunities that have been put in my way to climb the social ladder. But I’ve no regrets about that. None whatsoever.”
“Well, if you haven’t been bad, how do you know bad people can change?”
“Because I’ve known lots of them.”
“Do I seem like them?”
The rain dripped into his eyes. “I don’t think that matters.”
“What do you mean, ‘I don’t think that matters’?”
“It’s how determined you are.”
“I’d like you to read me the poem now.”
He fumbled for his pocket edition of The Prophet. The slamming of the rain on the pages made the words difficult to tell.
“Then Almitra spoke, saying, We would ask now of Death. And he said: You would know the secret of death. But how shall you find it unless you seek it in the heart of life? The owl whose night-bound eyes are blind unto the day cannot unveil the mystery of light. If you would indeed behold the spirit of death, open your heart wide unto the body of life. For life and death are one, even as the river and sea are one. In ...”
He paused. She was wiping her eyelashes.
“Would you like me to stop?” he asked.
“No – no. Go on.”
“In the depth of your hopes and desires lies your silent knowledge of the beyond; and like seeds dreaming beneath the snow your heart dreams of spring. Trust the dreams, for in them is hidden the gate to eternity. Your fear of death is but the trembling of the shepherd when he stands before the king whose hand is to be laid upon him in honour. Is the shepherd not joyful beneath his trembling, that he shall wear the mark of the king? Yet is he not more mindful of his trembling?”
He stopped with emotion. She turned to him, buried her face in his shoulder and put her arms round him. His breathing deepened.
When she disengaged, her eyelashes were almost invisible; the blue of her eyes was greyer than the sky; her hair was lank and flat and dyed dark by the rain; her nose was the sort of nose Arthur Rackham might have given a pixie. Yet in her return to ordinariness she was, if anything, even more beautiful.
“Were you very fond of your grandmother?” he said.
“She used to tell me I was her daughter.”
“Why did she say that?”
“Because she hated Valérie.”
“Valérie?”
“She said Valérie was spoilt and had no values except Winner Takes All. Valérie would try to make me like her but I wasn’t to give in. Do you think Vivienne can see me? Do you think she’s watching me?”
“I’ve often thought such a thing. I definitely don’t think death’s the end.”
She gasped. “Don’t you?”
He wasn’t sure how to take her amazement. He suddenly remembered he’d worn his dog-collar inside the Church, where presumably she’d seen it. Or had she been so busy crying she’d failed to notice? Maybe she was a true child of the twenty-first century: so secular as to be unaware of the existence of religion. If so, he might as well have kept it on. She’d probably have thought it a fashion statement.
“Well, no,” he said. “I’m sure death’s not the end.”
“How sure are you?”
“I firmly believe death isn’t the end.”
“Do you think she’s watching me?”
“No, I don’t think that.”
“Where is she?”
“I don’t know,” he said. “With God.”
“Do you believe in ghosts, though? I mean, could she be watching me?”
“No, I don’t think so. I don’t think - ”
“But she could be watching me, couldn’t she?”
“I suppose anything ‘could be’.”
“Oh my God, she is. I’ve got to do something. I’ve got to change, now.”
“Change? Change what?”
“My evil ways,” she said.
“So what exactly have you done wrong?”
“It’s like you said. I’ve climbed the social ladder. Instead of giving money to Children in Need, I’ve spent it on myself.”
He raised and dropped his shoulders. “I’d imagine most people are guilty of that in some degree.”
“But there’s more. I’ve got a boyfriend. He’s onto his second billion or you’d think it to talk to him. He lives in Canary Wharf. He’s married but not to me. He just uses me for sex, that’s all. That’s what I’ve realised. Today. I’ve realised that today. Expensive wine, expensive food, then a sweaty hour with him. It’s not half as satisfying as it sounds.”
“No. No, I can imagine.”
“Can you. He keeps saying he’s going to leave his wife and marry me but we’ve been going out for two years now and last year his wife had a baby. He wouldn’t have had a baby if he loved me, would he? And there are lots of other men who’ve made me offers. Other rich men. Fit men with big cars and houses. Some of them aren’t even married. I could have left him for one of those but I didn’t.”
“I see.” He suddenly saw that Charles had got her wrong – not entirely, but he’d placed the emphases in all the wrong places. He’d come across women like Susan before. And men like Charles.
“And I’m getting older,” she went on, “and, yes, I’m going to look attractive for a long time because I can get cosmetic surgery and my mother looks like me and she’s fifty-one. But he wouldn’t have had a baby if he loved me, would he?”
“No. You’re in what I would describe as a relationship with ... with a vampire.”
“What? What do you mean?”
“Not everyone would agree with me. Some people would say you’re an adult and he’s an adult and you both know what you’re doing and if you both know what you’re doing then it’s no concern of mine or anyone else’s - ”
“But?”
“My view is that he’s used his wealth and your impressionability to mine your greatest natural resources. Your youth and your spectacular beauty. I’ve no doubt that when he’s exhausted the seam he’ll pull out during the night and move on to someone else, leaving you abandoned and miserable. Your grandmother was right. I’ve seen it happen many, many times before. You must leave him now.”
“Say that bit about my ‘natural resources’ again.”
“... Your youth ... and your spectacular beauty,” he said, hearing the import for the first time.
She took a compact out of her bag and looked in the mirror then snapped it shut. “Vivienne died too soon. I’m not finished yet. And now I never will be.”
“Er, I’m not sure I follow.”
“Vivienne wanted me to be good. And now I can’t be. Things are just ... wrong. Everything’s wrong.” She started to cry again.
He was at a loss. Suddenly, he had a flash of inspiration. He reached for The Prophet and opened it at, ‘And a poet said, Speak to us of Beauty’. The rain petered out and he read the whole section without pausing.
“Was that for me?” she said.
“It was a tribute to your natural resources.”
“I’m not an oil well.”
“It was a tribute to your beauty, then.”
She took his hand. “Oh, wow. Look, I know this is a bit out of the blue, but could we ... do lunch? You could help me change. You said you were a good person, earlier? That’s what I need. And you believe the sort of things I do, like people living on after they’ve died.”
The sun emerged from behind a cloud and dazzled them.
“I didn’t say I was good,” he said. “I just said I hadn’t lived a bad life.”
“What’s the difference?”
“Just because someone’s not bad, it doesn’t mean they’re good.”
“You’re quite clever, aren’t you? First of all, you read poems, then you say things like, ‘Just because someone’s not bad, it doesn’t mean they’re good’. That’s quite intellectual.”
“I would love for us to meet up for lunch,” he said.
“Let’s go somewhere cultured then. I’m sick of stupid things. I used to go to the ballet a lot, but not any more. Not since him. Anyway, I want to branch out now. I’ll split up with my boyfriend then we’ll – or are you married?”
“No, I’m not married. And I’m unattached at the moment.”
“That’s so lucky. Where shall we go then, that’s cultured? I don’t mean let’s go to a restaurant and drone on about what the best wine is and how to cook ‘genuine pasta’, yawn, yawn. I mean real culture, like the ancient Egyptians and Melvyn Bragg. Do you know anything about the ancient Egyptians?”
“Lots.” He’d get a stack of books out of his local library tomorrow. He’d go on the Internet. “We could go to the British museum. They’ve got an extensive ancient Egypt section.”
“Is it interesting?”
“I think so.”
“Where shall we meet?”
“Waterloo Bridge? The view’s lovely.”
“Is it nearby? I mean, near the museum?”
“It’s only a short walk away.”
“Shouldn’t we get a taxi?” she said. “In London?”
“I don’t mind. It’s up to you.”
“No, no, let’s walk.”
“When? I mean, on what day? And time?”
She picked up a black clutch bag and produced a Filofax. She laid it on her knee and flicked through it. Despite himself, he couldn’t help looking.
The first few pages were scrawled with obscenities. Then a ‘No one can stop me’, written so hard the pen had gone through the page. Then a series of horses, in different styles, each with big eyes and big mane; then the words, ‘Today I will kill Mr Sharples’, followed by ‘My crappy lunch’, followed by ‘Suicide, today, 11.30’, then more obscenities, interspersed with more horses.
“I need to break up with my boyfriend first,” she said. “Two weeks on Tuesday?”
“The tenth?”
“Let’s spend the day together. Let’s meet at ten o’clock in the morning.”
“The tenth, at ten o’clock in the morning.”
“I don’t even know your name,” she said. “I’m Susan Swinter-Jones.”
He faltered, paralysed by the usual anxiety. “George. George Grant.”
“Why did you hesitate?”
“Because ... because frankly it’s boring. It should have been Pedro or Sebastian or Damien. Sorry.”
“Because men are always giving me false names. Ever since I threw breezeblocks through the windows of this can’t-remember-his-name tallish guy with freckles, working in the City. But I’d had a bit too much Chianti that night. It wasn’t normal behaviour.”
He nodded, relieved they’d cleared the boring-name hurdle. “We’ve all done something completely off the wall when we’re drunk.”
“So what have you done?”
His mind went blank. “I once, er ... moved one of my Pawns as if it was a Queen, even though I knew full well ... my Queen had been taken ... six moves earlier, yes.”
She looked across the lawn. “My mother’s calling me. I’m really pleased I met you, George. I feel better now. No, stay here. My mother won’t like you unless you’re rich. She definitely won’t like the fact that we’re going to be friends. If you meet her, just ignore her. She’s drunk. She’s looking for a fight.”
“A fight?”
“If you meet her, don’t speak. Let me do the talking. She can’t intimidate me.”
“Okay.”
“Do you know what? I don’t think our meeting was any coincidence. I believe in things that aren’t coincidences, George. I don’t think it was Charles that sent you over to see me, either. Do you know who I think it was?”
“Osiris?”
“Who?”
“The ancient Egyptian god, Osiris.” His joke nose-dived into the lawn and burst into flames.
“No, not him. It was Vivienne. And do you know what else?”
“No.”
“You actually remind me of Vivienne. Ciao, George.”
She got up and walked away without looking back. It was only when she was almost at the house that he noticed she was in her bare feet. She’d left her shoe behind, a black sling-back with a kitten heel.
He was about to pursue her, but he was going to miss his train. There was a short cut across the fields. He’d return it on Tuesday when they met. They’d laugh. They’d drink lattes. They’d resolve to keep it as a memento of the day they met. They’d hold hands and toss it in the air. But they’d make sure they caught it, because it was so valuable.
He took a breath. As usual, he was running out of control. He thrust it into his pocket and set off for the station.
