After yesterday’s storm, all was calm and bright as the helicopter made for the mainland. Mary-Jane and John left on the first flight this morning. John had a hire car waiting at Penzance and he was probably rushing to get to the Eden Project, keen to show his beloved wife the magic wrought within that old china clay pit, Cornwall’s premier attraction, driving east into the sun’s rays reflecting off wet, greasy roads. He had not driven for a long time.
He was killed outright according to the Truro police.
In the HR file Bobby discovered Mary-Jane had put John as both her next of kin and In Case of Emergency. Likewise, John has Mary-Jane listed. As soon as he’s ditched Kit, Bobby pedals over to the couple’s cottage, aiming to forage for more information. Several visitors remark on how he cycles by without so much as a ‘Good morning!’ Very unlike him.
It’s been a while since Bobby was inside this particular 266worker’s cottage. Pretty matching curtains and cushions in pinks, blues and lemons. It’s twee, a Cath Kidston wet dream.
He rootles through drawers – downstairs they’re neatly packed with kitchen utensils and tea towels; upstairs, folded clothes and home-made lavender sachets.
There’s a Bible on John’s bedside table, an inscription inside: To My Darling Boy, John. All My Love, Mom XXXXXX. Bobby hasn’t had much time for the book himself – hardly an ally, the Almighty – although Bobby always goes to the church services, just to be social, just to show his face. It would be remarked upon otherwise.
He finds the passports in a bureau on Mary-Jane’s side of the bed – Mr and Mrs Smith. He recalls her saying in that whispery southern voice, ‘Of course I took his name. We’re old-fashioned, aren’t we, darlin’?’ He wonders if he remembers that because it was rare to hear Mary-Jane speak when the two of them were together. Compared with her husband she was the shrinking violet, a surrendered wife. He was the confident one – so esteemed by the garden team, so … bumptious is the word that comes to mind.
Bobby blushes to be thinking ill of the dead.
In Mary-Jane’s neatly rolled underwear drawer, right at the bottom, he finds there’s an old-fashioned address book with purple teddy bears on the front. It is something a teenager might have. He flicks through it. There’s an address somewhere he’s never heard of in Georgia, USA, and a phone number under M for Mom.
Bobby sits on the bed and steels himself. There is no rush to track down John’s relatives – nothing to be done immediately, all too late. Informing them will be a job for the police. But 267Mary-Jane’s mother may want to get on the next plane over. Time may be of the essence. All he knows is that she’s in the ICU. He’s probably overstepping the mark, but surely the news is best coming from a friend, or at least someone who knows Mary-Jane as an employer.
He taps in the number. Waits, both impatient and reluctant.
A sleepy soft drawl on the end of the line, ‘Hello?’
‘Er, hello. I’m so sorry to disturb you in the middle of the night.’ Is it night there? He is blurry on time zones. ‘Is this Mary-Jane’s mother?’ He doesn’t know Mary-Jane’s maiden name.
‘Sure is, darlin’. Who is this?’ She sounds tipsy.
‘My name is Robert Parkinson. I’m calling from Tresco, the Isles of Scilly, in the United Kingdom. Your daughter works for us over here. I’m afraid there’s been an accident.’
‘Oh lawd!’ gasps the voice.
‘She’s in hospital in Truro. I can give you the number. I’m afraid we don’t have all the details yet. A car crash I believe.’
‘Lawd! Lawd!’ exclaims the voice again. There’s a shaky breath. Bobby frantically thinks of what is best to say next, but before he can say anything, the woman continues, ‘And John? He was with her?’
He’s not sure if this is his place to say. But it’s too late now. It would be cruel not to tell her about her son-in-law. ‘I’m so sorry. It seems he was killed outright.’
There’s a blood-curdling scream, which skewers Bobby.
‘NO!’
The invention of the telephone was an act of sheer torture for a circumstance like this.
Noisy sobs. ‘When?’ Gasps. ‘How?’
Bobby swallows, his mouth dry, and says, ‘It was earlier this 268morning, our time. I’m so sorry. I don’t have all the details.’
There’s a pause, then more strangled whimpers.
‘John!’ she wails. ‘No!’
It jars that she seems less concerned about her own daughter. She hasn’t asked about her injuries.
‘I’m so sorry,’ he offers. ‘Would you like me to help you arrange a flight over here?’ It’s the least he can do. The Family will cover the mother’s expenses and he’s just about to explain this when there’s a pitiful yelp of, ‘My boy!’
Something nags at Bobby which he can’t quite make sense of.
‘My son!’
She must have been exceptionally close to her son-in-law, he reasons. Then he has a fleeting thought that she might mean this in a religious sense, because he recalls John being very enthusiastic in church – a bit too American with all the smiling and singing. But he feels the chill of the knowledge an instant before she says, ‘Peas in a pod, those two. Always so close, my children.’
She continues talking, confirming the source of the shock spreading icy fingers across the back of his neck.
‘Thank God she was with him. They sure loved each other, those two. Always so close. I’m glad he wasn’t alone, you know?’
He’s not sure what else he says exactly. He shares basic information – his number, the hospital’s, the police contact. He disconnects.
Then he sits, winded as the information sinks in.
Mr and Mrs Smith, Mary-Jane and John, the happily marrieds – brother and sister.