4

Alexandra, in need of conversation, plugged the phone jack back in the wall. It rang at once. During the evening there were seventeen calls.

Three people hung up as soon as she answered.

One asked for Lucy and then hung up when Alexandra said, ‘Wrong number.’ Alexandra felt bad for a minute, because after all it might have been for Lucy Lint, whose name was next to theirs in so many address books: Lint, Lucy; Ludd, Ned and Alexandra. Only the L-o’s could intervene and there weren’t too many of those. Though she’d once known a Loseley. But it was too late anyway: the callers had evaporated.

One from the theatre. Sam, the front-of-house manager, to say the understudy Daisy Longriff was atrocious, houses were bound to suffer as a result of Alexandra’s absence, but there was no fear of Daisy being asked to take over the role permanently. Alexandra must just relax and not return before time.

‘A whole crowd of us will want to come down to the funeral, darling,’ he said. ‘So long as it’s in the morning, and not on a matinee day.’

Alexandra said apologetically she didn’t think anyone Ned had savaged in his time – and there were many; that was the fate of critics, to make enemies – should feel obliged to come to his funeral. Sam said, ‘Ned was a man of integrity. The play was always the thing. He spoke as he found. He’ll be sorely and sincerely missed.’

Alexandra said, ‘You mean everyone will want to come to his funeral,’ and laughed for the first time since Sunday. She explained to Sam that her brother-in-law Hamish was coming down the next day from Edinburgh to arrange everything, including funeral dates; she’d do what she could; otherwise she supposed there’d be a memorial service sometime later, in London. ‘You’re in your competent mood,’ said Sam. ‘That’s better than “poor-little-me”. Look on the bright side: at least you were saved from him falling dead at your feet.’

‘I don’t like to think of him dying alone,’ said Alexandra.

Sam said, ‘Why wasn’t he in the London flat making you cocoa anyway?’

Alexandra said, ‘He had too much work to do,’ and began to cry, so Sam concluded the call.

The next call was from Irene, Alexandra’s mother. She lived with her fourth husband next to a golf course in Surrey. She had Romanoff blood, way back in the past. ‘How are you, darling?’ she asked. ‘Has Ned been back to say goodbye to you yet?’ And Irene explained, as she often did, that the dead would appear in dreams to the bereaved in order of their closeness and say goodbye. Ned, she implied, was being laggardly, in death as in life.

‘He’s been, Mother,’ said Alexandra, as diplomatic in Ned’s death as she was in his life. ‘I expect he was waiting until after the autopsy, when he could settle.’

‘I’d rather not think about that,’ said Irene. ‘As for Sascha, he’s just fine. Don’t worry about him. I’ll keep him here till you’re ready.’

Alexandra had been to her mother’s to see Sascha on the Saturday afternoon. She had expected Ned to bring the child up to London at the weekend as usual, after nursery school. Then, apart from Saturday night, they’d have the weekend together as a family. Instead Ned had taken Sascha to Irene’s on Thursday and left him there, claiming pressure of work. He’d gone back home and two days later died, around midnight, ten minutes into Casablanca.

‘But I want Sascha with me,’ said Alexandra. ‘I need him. He’s my child.’

‘I daresay you do need him,’ said Irene, ‘but what does little Sascha need? He needs a cheerful mother, an organised home, and proper child care while you’re at work. So I’ll keep him till you’ve got your act together, if you don’t mind, in his interests not yours.’

‘But I have to tell him his father’s dead,’ said the daughter.

‘What’s the hurry?’ enquired the mother.

‘Shouldn’t one tell a child at once?’ asked Alexandra. ‘Won’t he find out?’

‘Not if he can’t read the papers,’ snapped her mother. ‘Because I’m certainly not going to tell him.’

Alexandra recalled how the news of her own father’s death had been kept from her for a week or more, till Irene felt strong enough to tell her. She had always resented it. A similar fate was being prepared for Sascha.

‘OK,’ said Alexandra. She was exhausted. Perhaps after she had talked to Hamish tomorrow she would simply drive all the way to Sussex and pick up Sascha. The child care, Theresa, wasn’t yet back from holiday, but that hardly mattered now.

It seemed unlikely that Alexandra would be back to work by the following Tuesday. She supposed, speculatively, that it would be possible to back out of the production altogether. They would hardly hold her to her contract. Daisy Longriff might yet get the part of Nora on a permanent basis.

It occurred to Alexandra that Longriff would come between Lint and Ludd in an address book.

‘Alexandra,’ said Irene. ‘Now I don’t want to upset you, you’re upset enough already: but there’s something strange going on here.’

‘What?’ asked Alexandra. She felt bad-tempered as well as tired. Her mother was convinced, as mothers often are whose own lives are not above suspicion, that Ned was unfaithful to her daughter. Alexandra could explain and explain that these days men could have women friends and women men friends without any sexual sub-text, but Irene would have none of it.

‘What time did Abbie call you?’

‘Six in the morning,’ said Alexandra. ‘From the house. It took me two hours to get over the shock, and I drove down on my own which I shouldn’t have, and ran out of petrol and didn’t arrive till twelve, and the ambulance had just taken the body away. It was terrible.’

‘Poor Alexi,’ said Irene, in the soothing mother’s voice which at the best of times made Alexandra want to cry. ‘You still won’t see it. What was Abbie doing at The Cottage at six in the morning? More like half past five, because it seems she called the doctor before she called you.’

‘Jesus,’ said Alexandra, ‘I don’t know. Mushrooming; leaving edible fungi at Ned’s door. Taking her students out to look at an English dawn. Needing a telephone: the students are always en crise. Whatever.’

‘Darling,’ said Irene. ‘You’re in denial.’

Alexandra slammed the phone down. It buzzed again.

Dr Moebius said, ‘I’ve been trying to get through to you for hours, Mrs Ludd. There’s either no reply or the line’s busy. Now it’s very late.’

‘There’s always tomorrow morning,’ said Alexandra, with a temper better reserved for her mother. ‘What’s your hurry? People are a long time dead.’

‘It was you I was concerned about,’ said Dr Moebius, a little stiffly. ‘I have not seen you since your husband died.’ Dr Moebius headed the local Health Centre. He was known to be a pleasant man, a bad diagnostician, and gullible; much given to acts of faith. He was as likely to recommend acupuncture as surgery, meditation as medication. He was a favourite with terminally ill patients, who looked forward to having him at their death beds. He would pray, and believed in heaven.

‘I could do with some sleeping pills,’ said Alexandra. She had searched out the carton in the bathroom cabinet but found it empty. She’d remembered it with at least eight tablets left Perhaps Ned had needed them, in her absence.

‘Not a good idea,’ said Dr Moebius. ‘Lime tea’s just as efficacious and easier on the liver. I wanted to tell you the autopsy report is in. Massive myocardial infarction; a heart attack, in layman’s terms. What we all supposed. Unfortunately the forensic people have only done half of what I required, so the body has had to go back to them. Technically I should have asked your permission first, but Mr Lightfoot’s ambulance was on its way back to the lab, empty –’

‘You wouldn’t want to waste the opportunity, I can see,’ said Alexandra. ‘But if my husband died of a heart attack, isn’t that all you need to know?’

‘That’s not the point,’ said Dr Moebius. ‘The labs take liberties. I asked for a brain dissection – there was a possibility of cerebral haemorrhage. It was not the lab’s decision to take. They cut corners. You’ve already viewed the body, in any case.’

‘I have not,’ said Alexandra.

‘Oh,’ said Dr Moebius. ‘Mr Lightfoot said you had.’

It seemed perfectly possible to Alexandra that Mr Lightfoot was right. What did she know? She was only the wife.

No sooner had that call finished, when her mother was back on the line.

‘Don’t worry about it,’ said Irene. ‘I’m not offended. I know how upset you are and how difficult for you this is. But why haven’t you asked Abbie what she was doing at The Cottage at five in the morning?’

‘Six.’

‘Half past five,’ conceded Irene. ‘Well? Isn’t it an obvious thing to ask? How can you deny you’re in denial?’

‘But one would, wouldn’t one?’ remarked Alexandra. There was such a sharp dividing line between the world in which Ned was alive and the world in which Ned wasn’t, there seemed something indecent in trying to link the two. ‘And then Ned died,’ was like a tidal wave which swept through your dining room carrying everything before it, flinging all familiar bits and pieces everywhere, snapping and sheering in its violent onward rush. To try and retrieve and piece together this one mingy little detail seemed almost impolite. Had he been frightened? Or was it all too sudden? Did he gasp for air look round for help and find her not there? Ten minutes into Casablanca? What could he have found so upsetting in Casablanca? Did one need to be upset to have a heart attack? Or did it just happen? He’d switched the video off: had he walked about the house feeling uneasy, searching for breathing air?

‘Darling,’ said Irene, ‘are you OK?’

‘Things just suddenly hit me,’ said Alexandra. ‘Sorry.’

‘People are like quarks, darling,’ said Irene from her house at the edge of the golf course. ‘They wink out of one part of this universe and wink in somewhere else, simultaneously.’

‘You’re optimistic. Ned’s plodding up a hill somewhere,’ said Alexandra bleakly, ‘in a hideous, doomy fog, and I can’t help him.’

But she told her mother she’d ask Abbie for more detail, and her mother went away.

The next call was from David, a colleague of Ned’s. He was weeping and incoherent. He’d only just heard the news. Alexandra was sympathetic and comforting, but she held the phone a long way away from her ear.

When David had gone, Alexandra called Abbie.

‘Abbie,’ she said, ‘my mother wants to know. What were you doing in my house at half past five in the morning?’

‘I’d had a row with Arthur,’ said Abbie, as if she had been waiting for the question. ‘I’d gone for a drive to calm myself; I was driving along the main road; I could see The Cottage with every light blazing. I thought Ned was in London: he usually is at weekends: I went down to see what was going on, in case it was burglars. I looked through the dining-room window and saw Ned on the floor, so I went on in. The door wasn’t locked. You never lock your doors. You’re too trusting. OK? I wondered when you’d ask.’

‘It’s just my mother wanted to know,’ repeated Alexandra.

‘That figures,’ said Abbie. ‘She doesn’t miss a thing.’

‘Why do you think Ned turned all the lights on?’ asked Alexandra.

‘I have no idea,’ said Abbie. ‘Why don’t you try to sleep, Alexandra? I’ll come over if you like.’

‘I’m just fine,’ said Alexandra. She thought Abbie’s answer was rather pat. It sounded rehearsed. But then it would be.

How did pathologists get into a skull to examine a brain? Anything but think of that.