Four

The following Monday morning, Modesty was given the opportunity she’d been waiting for to take a more active part in the family business. Unfortunately, though, an outbreak of clutter-clearing over the weekend had left her with a room that looked as though she was following her sister’s example in the interior design stakes. So, when her father’s voice sounded over her shoulder, it was an unwelcome interruption.

‘Look at this mess!’ Mortimer de Mise chided as he picked his way across the floor.

In fact, Modesty thought the sorting and tidying exercise had been a total success and had achieved both its objectives; not only had it been a productive outlet for all the grief and frustration she’d been feeling recently, but it had also given her a valid reason to distance herself from her father for the best part of two days.

‘Dad!’ she reprimanded. ‘First of all, it’s not a mess - it’s in the process of being tidied. Secondly, how many times have I asked you to knock before you come into my room?’

Mortimer scanned his daughter’s floor suspiciously. ‘Anyone would think you had something to hide.’

She gave an irritated sigh. ‘I haven’t got anything to hide, but this is my space and I want you and Mum to respect that and not just barge in whenever you feel like it.’

Mortimer seemed to weigh up whether or not it was in his interest to challenge his daughter, but decided against it and softened, as though he was making an enormous effort to be nice. He gave a condescending chuckle. ‘Your space!’

Modesty ran her hands through her hair in exasperation; it was pointless arguing. ‘Did you want something?’ she asked curtly.

Mortimer drifted across the room to where several dozen placards with such slogans as ‘Sacred Bones, not Yuppie Homes’ and ‘R£ST in P£AC£?’ were propped against the wall. He made no comment but she could see his jaw set and then relax again. ‘Yes. Your mother has taken Grace to buy some new shoes-’

‘Good luck to her on that score,’ Modesty remarked, then realised how churlish and offhand she sounded and instantly regretted it. Her father, however, did not rise to the bait and Modesty, at first confused, decided that his sudden character- change must mean that he wanted something.

‘And I have two collections this morning,’ he went on. ‘They’re the men who passed away in that diamond robbery last week. They’re being held at the City of London mortuary, which means that I’ll probably be away until early this afternoon, so I will be requiring someone to cover for me.’

Modesty stifled a smile of self-congratulation at having sussed his motive.

‘As you’re off school for half-term this week and you’ve been hankering after this for some time, I thought it would be an ideal opportunity for you to make the arrangements for the Timpson funeral. It’s very straightforward.’

Ordinarily, Modesty would have jumped at the chance but the way her father phrased it made it sound as though he was doing her a huge favour, and the word please hadn’t even featured. She got the distinct impression that she was being used for his convenience and she didn’t like being taken for granted.

‘Actually, I’ve got masses to do today and Cerys is supposed to be coming over. Can’t Emlyn do it?’

Her father bristled. ‘No. Emlyn’s working on that circus artist today.’

The big top had come to Wanstead Flats for the October half-term but, sadly, Hywel the Human Cannonball had underestimated his own ability and, instead of being propelled the length of the circus ring, had overshot the safety net by several feet, landing headfirst on the bonnet of the clowns’ exploding car. The premature firework display had received rapturous applause from the audience until The Flying Fiascos realised what had happened and began evacuating hundreds of disappointed families. Emlyn, on hearing that the unfortunate performer was a Welshman, was determined to do the best he could for his fellow countryman.

‘It’s a rush job before the circus moves on and Emlyn’s likely to be tied up all day. Anyway, I thought you wanted to be more involved with the business?’

‘I do but...’

‘But when it suits you, is that it?’

‘No! That’s not what I meant!’

Her father shrugged. ‘I thought this would be a nice little way in for you - but, if you’d rather go out with your friends...’

It was nothing short of emotional blackmail, Modesty knew that, but she was tired and the idea of finally being given some responsibility was very tempting. ‘No, it’s fine,’ she conceded. ‘What time are they coming?’

Half an hour later, as she sat in the arranging room, the words of her late friend Beattie came back to her: ‘Be careful what you wish for, dear, because you might get it!’ Modesty was beginning to realise just how true that was.

She had acquiesced to her father’s wishes and worn a plain skirt for her first arrangement, although in order to maintain a sense of her own style she’d chosen an Indian embroidered blouse to go with it. She sat with a clipboard on her lap - looking the part, even if she didn’t feel it.

Opposite her, on the soft leather sofa, sat eight- year-old Timothy Timpson, whose bloodshot eyes and puffy cheeks gave some indication as to the extent of his grief. His mother, clutching her son to her side, was nibbling her bottom lip anxiously and hyperventilating almost to the point of a panic attack. Mr Timpson, on the other hand, sat some distance from them with his arms firmly folded and an expression that fluctuated between abject boredom and intense irritation. Modesty lowered her eyes to the form that was clipped to the board on her lap.

Mrs Timpson’s quavering voice brought her focus back into the room. ‘Father Ged - our parish priest - has said - he’s willing - to do the service - for us.’ Mr Timpson emitted a grunt of disapproval.

Modesty nodded and wondered if she ought to fetch a paper bag for Mrs Timpson to breathe into.

‘And had you had any thoughts as to where you’d like Hamish to be buried?’ she asked gently.

Timmy let out a howl like a werewolf and thrust his head into his mother’s bosom.

A loud tut came from the opposite end of the settee. ‘Get a grip - for heaven’s sake!’

Mrs Timpson’s breath became even shorter and she shot her husband a venomous look of reproach.

‘Well,’ she panted, ‘I - quite liked - the idea - of the woodland area - because - it’s all - natural. But - Timmy wanted - to have a headstone - that he could - come and visit.’

‘You have got to be joking!’ Mr Timpson snapped. ‘And how much do you think that little lot is going to set me back?’

The child increased his volume by several decibels and Modesty felt panic starting to rise from the pit of her own stomach. She took a deep breath to try to calm herself before she and Mrs Timpson became paper bag-buddies.

‘Erm, I can look that up for you,’ she said. ‘But I must warn you that I’m not sure it’s suitable for Hamish to be buried here.’ Timmy jacked it up a level until he was fast approaching a pitch that would shatter plastic. ‘There are specialist cemeteries...’ Modesty fumbled with the papers on her clipboard. Hadn’t her father told her that this would be a fairly straightforward arrangement? She suddenly felt renewed admiration for her parents and their ability to handle such situations with apparent ease - not that she had any intention of telling them that just yet. An idea occurred to her and she placed her clipboard on the coffee table that acted as the demarcation line between the bereaved and the arranger. ‘May I make a suggestion?’ she offered.

‘As long as it involves getting out of here, I’m open to anything,’ Mr Timpson replied.

‘Perhaps if you and I could have a word?’ she suggested, indicating that he should follow her out of the room. Once they were out of earshot, Modesty spoke in a forthright manner. ‘Am I right in thinking that you don’t share your wife and son’s sense of loss, Mr Timpson?’

The father opened his hands in an appeal for common sense. ‘It was a hamster!’

Modesty nodded. ‘I know. I appreciate that.’ She adopted a tone of reverence. ‘But, you know, none of us can ever really know how another person feels and it’s clear that your wife and Timmy are extremely distressed. So I’m wondering if we can’t make a compromise here.’

Once back in the room, Modesty put her proposition to the rest of the Timpson family. ‘Why don’t we ask Mr Midgely, the man who makes our coffins, to build a special one that’s just the right size for Hamish?’

Timmy nodded, his bottom lip quivering only slightly now.

‘There’ll be no cost for that. And I’ll have a word with the monumental masons who make most of the headstones around here. They’ve just got a new apprentice started so I’ll see if she can come up with something suitable that could be very discreetly erected at the bottom of your own garden. How does that sound? And then Hamish will have a proper grave that you can visit at any time.’

By the time they left, Timmy was managing a small smile and both his parents looked extremely relieved.

Modesty took the shoe box containing the deceased hamster through to the workshop at the back of the house.

‘Midge, we’ve got a very small client here. Can you do something a bit special and bill me for it?’

Colin Midgely stopped stapling the plastic lining into the oak-veneered coffin that stood on wooden trestles in the middle of the workshop. His face lit up. ‘Anything for you, Moddy - you know that.’ He picked up one of the tiny MDF boxes that were stacked on a shelf next to the smallest coffins, tossed it in the air and caught it with his other hand behind his back. ‘Will the bird size be big enough, do you think, or should we go for small mammal?’

Modesty grinned. An encounter with Midge always cheered her up. ‘He was a very small mammal, so I think bird size should do fine. But,’ she grimaced, ‘I’ve promised them purple taffeta for the lining.’

Midge sucked air in through his teeth. ‘Purple? I can do you a nice pale lilac.’

Modesty shook her head. ‘No - they definitely want galactic purple.’

‘OK - leave it with me. I’ll see what my mum’s sewing box can offer.’

‘Thanks, Midge.’ As she turned to leave, Modesty ran her hand along the side of the oak coffin Midge was working on. ‘Is this for the circus guy?’

Midge nodded. ‘Tiny, wasn’t he? I’m not surprised he travelled so far - he must have been as light as a feather. Hey,’ he said, suddenly excited, ‘have you heard we’re getting the two blokes from the diamond robbery? Quite a celebrity week, isn’t it? I can see it now.’ He cocked his head on one side and raised his eyes skywards. ‘Mortimer de Mise - funeral care for the rich and famous!’

‘Yeah right - but if they’re our clients then it doesn’t really matter how rich or famous they were does it? They’re all the same once they’re in here.’ Modesty knocked on the side of the coffin.

‘Spoilsport.’

She smiled and picked up the shoe box containing Hamish the hamster. ‘I’ll leave this little fellow in the mortuary - keep him nice and cold.’

Back inside the main building, Modesty checked the answerphone in the office and was about to go upstairs to get changed when the doorbell rang. On peering through the spy-hole in the heavy studded door, she felt a rush of excitement and the colour rose in her cheeks. Taking a deep breath to calm herself, she opened the door.

‘Hi!’

‘Can I ask you a favour?’ Oz Appleby blurted, without any preamble. His tone was serious.

Modesty felt a tiny flutter just beneath her navel. ‘I suppose so - it depends what it is.’

‘Will you take me to where Gran died? I’d really like to see the spot and the part of the cemetery that she cared about.’

Modesty felt a flush of warmth spreading through her. ‘Sure. I’ll just get changed.’ Then she hesitated - she’d promised to stay in and hold the fort until one or other of her parents returned home. She sighed with frustration; typical - what were the chances of this happening? The first time she’d been left in charge and Oz Appleby turns up on the doorstep. She couldn’t turn him away and ask him to come back later, yet neither could she just walk off and leave the place unattended. What a dilemma! There had to be a solution. ‘Wait here,’ she said, running back along the corridor.

‘Emlyn?’ she called through the door of the embalming room, so as not to contaminate the hygienic environment in which he worked. ‘I’m going to switch the phone through to you for about half an hour and if Mum or Dad comes back, will you tell them that I’m with a client and we’ve gone over to the cemetery?’

‘No problem, my lovely.’

She ran back, signalling the thumbs-up to Oz before mounting the stairs two at a time all the way to the second floor. She threw off the clothes she’d been wearing and donned her combats and a sweatshirt with the message: ‘Resting Places not Investing Places’. She was back with Oz in under two minutes.

‘Ready!’ A shiver of anticipation ran through her. She could hardly believe that this was the same boy she’d known four years ago. His hair had gone from being plain scruffy to gorgeously tousled. His eyes, always deep brown, were now like wells of dark chocolate and his scrawny little body had morphed into a strapping six feet of hunk. She lifted down her parka from the coat hooks by the door and beamed. ‘Come through this way, it’s quicker - but you’d better leave your skateboard in the hall, they’re not allowed in the cemetery.’

She led Oz through the ground floor of the building, taking a moment to patch through the phone to the embalming room as they passed the door of her parents’ office. Then past the double doors of the small memorial chapel and out into the yard. Oz looked round the large courtyard of buildings, immaculate in their appearance.

‘Wow! It’s much bigger than I realised.’

‘Yeah.’ Modesty pointed proudly at the numerous doors that opened on to the yard. ‘Garage, coffin store, workshop and that door leads back inside to the embalming room and chapel of rest.’

They stood in silence for some time before Oz looked at her quizzically. ‘Doesn’t that freak you out?’

She shook her head and tried to hide the feeling of disappointment his comment had stirred. ‘No. Why should it?’

Oz shrugged. ‘I don’t know - just having a coffin store in your back yard, it’s a bit, well, you know - weird.’

‘They’re only boxes, for heaven’s sake. It’s not like we’ve got Dracula living in there.’

‘Look, I didn’t mean to upset you.’

‘You didn’t,’ Modesty lied. ‘Most people think I’m weird, so why should you be any different? Now,’ she added, more tersely than she’d intended, ‘do you want to see where your gran died, or not?’

Oz stood his ground and took a deep breath. ‘Hey, look - I’m sorry. Can we start again?’

Modesty turned to face him but made no response. Her emotions were in turmoil. On one hand she was almost as upset as he was at the death of Beattie, and yet his very presence seemed to have transcended her grief: simply looking at him sent her head and her stomach into turbo-drive. And, to add to everything, she felt strangely guilty - as though she shouldn’t be feeling this way at this time.

Oz continued, speaking slowly and softly. ‘I’m finding things really difficult at the moment and I came here this morning because I wanted to talk to you.’

Someone seemed to have let off a firecracker in Modesty’s stomach. He’d come to talk to her!

‘I don’t know anyone else round here except Mum and she’s gone on a dust-busting blitz at Gran’s house. She’s like someone possessed and won’t talk about anything unless it contains the words “bleach” or “disinfectant”.’ Oz looked at Modesty and her knees seemed to dissolve. What on earth was happening? She’d never felt like this before.

He went on, ‘I just need a friend at the moment, and I know we haven’t seen each other for four years but you’re the nearest thing I’ve got. Please tell me I haven’t blown it.’

Modesty felt her shoulders drop in disappointment. Friend? Was that all? Her eyes were fixed on the cobblestones in the yard. ‘You haven’t blown it,’ she muttered.

Oz smiled. ‘I didn’t mean you were weird. I just meant that the idea...’

‘It’s OK - I’m used to it.’ The sadness in her voice betrayed the truth of the remark. ‘Now, do you want to see the development site?’

Modesty led Oz across the yard. Neither of them spoke as she took him round the back of the stone- built outhouses to a small area of scrubland between her parents’ property and the cemetery perimeter. The silence suited Modesty. Her dashed hopes had formed a lump the size of a walnut in her throat and she welcomed the breathing space in order to regain her composure.

There was a gap in the hedge and Modesty bent down and ducked through. She’d been using this clandestine entrance for almost as long as she could walk, sneaking into the magical world of stone angels, mysterious mausoleums, rose arbours and rhododendron walks. Oz followed and, when he stood up, took a deep breath.

Wide tree-lined avenues fanned out before them. Tombstones of every size and form, from the simplest headstone to the most ornate Gothic statue, spread out along the paths. The trees were fading from gold through copper to bronze and rust, and the last roses of the season were forcing their blousy petals on the crisp autumn morning. The grass beneath their feet was strewn with acorns and conkers, while squirrels scurried about gathering supplies of beechnuts for the winter ahead.

‘Wow!’ Oz said. It was more of a sigh than an exclamation.

Modesty once again felt a sense of pride. ‘I know. I love it here.’

Together they walked through the avenues of monuments and obelisks, past the ornamental pond and the catacomb, until they came to an area of trees and rough grass where there were no gravestones.

‘This is the woodland area for environmentally friendly burials,’ Modesty explained. ‘This is where Beattie wanted to be buried.’

Oz nodded his approval. ‘We’ve chosen a bamboo coffin, you know. Mum wanted a cardboard one because they were cheaper but I thought it would be nice to go for something a bit more special.’

Modesty’s face lit up. ‘Oh, I love those. They’re like giant hampers.’

Oz shot her another look of distaste. ‘I know this is all normal for you, Moddy, but I’m finding this death stuff a bit difficult to get my head round and, to be honest, the thought of Gran being buried in a picnic basket doesn’t help.’

Modesty grimaced. ‘I’m sorry.’ Now it was her turn to think she’d blown it. She gave him an apologetic smile. ‘Quits?’

‘Quits,’ he agreed.

They stood in silence, absorbing the atmosphere. After a while they moved on to an area of rough land at the far end of the cemetery. There were some old wooden sheds which had yellow planning notices pinned to the doors.

‘This is it.’ Modesty pointed to a gnarled old tree with a gaping wound at one side where the bough had broken off. The limb had already been sawn into logs by the groundsman and all that was left were a few piles of sawdust and twigs.

They remained in silence for some time until Oz turned to Modesty. ‘What I don’t understand is how anyone can even think of getting planning permission. I thought cemeteries were protected.’

Modesty gave an angry shrug. ‘You’d think.’

‘So how come this one can be developed?’

She pushed her hair from her face and looked at him, passion blazing in her eyes. ‘It turns out that this one has been privately owned since it was built. It’s never been owned by a church or the council or anything like that so it’s never been consecrated.’

‘But what about the graves? I’d have thought they’d have had to get special permission.’

Modesty shook her head. ‘Your gran looked into it. Apparently there was an Act of Parliament passed about ten years ago that allowed the law to be changed so that human remains could be relocated, and another privately owned cemetery could be developed. That doesn’t apply here because - look at it.’ She made a wide sweeping gesture with her arms. ‘There aren’t any graves in this part. It hasn’t been used yet, so there’s nothing to disturb - except the wildlife and the tranquility. But of course, once they’ve got a foothold, it sets a precedent for anyone else who wants to come along and redevelop the rest of the cemetery.’

Oz went across to where there were already many bunches of flowers laid out in remembrance of his grandmother. A surge of anger welled up and he kicked ineffectually at a pile of twigs. ‘It’s just not fair!’

Modesty hovered uncertainly. ‘I know,’ she agreed quietly. She was torn between the urge to go across and comfort him and the belief that he needed to be alone to grieve. ‘Shall I leave you?’ she asked.

He shook his head and dropped to his knees on the damp grass. ‘Gran always used to say that life wasn’t fair and the sooner we understood that, the fairer it would seem, but...’ His words petered into silence. He picked up one of the bouquets and read the card, then another, then another. ‘It’s good to know so many people cared,’ he said, more calmly.

Modesty joined him on the grass under the sweet chestnut tree. She took one of the cards and frowned. ‘Yes,’ she replied, doubtfully.

‘What’s the matter?’

She turned to Oz and read aloud, ‘ “A true warrior who died for the cause”? That doesn’t make sense.’

‘It makes perfect sense to me,’ he said, defensively.

‘No, no, this isn’t about your gran; it’s about the people who sent these flowers and cards. Listen to this one, “We were always with you in spirit”.’ She looked at him cynically. ‘It would have been a hell of a lot more use to Beattie if they’d been with her in body!’

It was Oz’s turn to look confused. ‘What are you getting at?’

Modesty continued, ‘You know, in the last couple of weeks, your gran and I thought we were the only ones who even cared that this place was going to become “Heron Park - superior one- and two-bedroomed apartments with integral swimming pool and sports complex set in ancient forest land”.’ She sat back on her heels and tried to contain her anger. ‘Sure, when the planning notices first went up and Beattie set up camp in the tree we had loads of support. And I took a petition round and got about a thousand signatures, but gradually people stopped coming to see her and then everyone kept ringing up or writing and asking for their names to be taken off the petition.’ She turned to face Oz, trying to make sense of everything that had happened. ‘It was like a full-scale outbreak of apathy. Do you know, there are only ten signatures left on the petition - and half of those are Disney characters!’ She pointed to the floral tributes and words of support on the cards. ‘And yet look at all these!’

Sensing her anger, Oz reached across and squeezed her hand reassuringly. ‘I don’t know how long Mum wants to stay down here, but I’ll do whatever I can. I was part of a protest that diverted a bypass away from some ancient woodland in Yorkshire, you know? Even chained myself to a tree and got arrested,’ he said proudly.

‘Wow!’ Gorgeous looks and a social conscience! She could hardly believe this was the same boy she’d rescued from that thug Mickey Bigg all that time ago. Suddenly, that weird sensation came over her again and she seemed to have lost the link between her brain and her mouth. Try as she might to think of something intelligent and appropriate, the only word that seemed to be forming on her lips was Respect!

Fortunately, she was saved from embarrassing herself by the sight of a middle-aged man approaching, carrying a posy of flowers. As he grew nearer, Modesty recognised him as Ronald Batty, the man who owned the fish and chip shop in the High Street. Mr Batty Senior had died a couple of years earlier and Mortimer de Mise had arranged the funeral. Ronald had been so upset at the proposed development of the cemetery that he had been one of the first to sign Beattie’s petition but, not long afterwards, he had phoned Modesty and asked her to strike his name from the form.

When he saw her, Ronald Batty lowered his head and tried to avoid eye contact.

‘Good morning, Mr Batty,’ she called out.

‘Oh, hello, Modesty. I heard about Mrs Appleby. Terrible, terrible. Such a shame.’

Modesty found it difficult to contain her irritation with the man’s hypocrisy. ‘Dreadful,’ she agreed. ‘Have you met her grandson?’

Mr Batty looked uncomfortable and scurried away to place the posy under the tree before skirting round them and heading back out of the cemetery.

‘So what’s all that about?’ Oz asked.

Modesty shook her head. ‘Don’t know - but there’s something very odd going on. You saw how many flowers there were and yet not one single person is willing to go to the council meeting tomorrow night to protest.’

‘I’ll come,’ he offered without hesitation.

Modesty felt a quiver of excitement at the prospect of the two of them attending the council meeting together.

‘And I’ll bring Mum too,’ he added.

She tried to muster some enthusiasm for the thought that her evening à deux had suddenly become à trois, but her voice fell flat. ‘Excellent.’

They walked back to the house in silence but, when they rounded the corner behind the garages, they came face to face with Mortimer de Mise and Midge, unloading the black van of its two occupants.

Her father’s face contorted with thinly disguised outrage. Without taking his eyes off his daughter, he spoke to the young coffin-maker. ‘Take Mr Finlayter to the mortuary, will you, Colin, and I’ll let you know when to come back for Mr King?’

Midge wheeled the trolley with the first of the body-bags across the courtyard and into the back door of the building.

Oz was the first to speak. ‘I’d best be off. I’ll see you tomorrow then, Moddy.’

‘No, you won’t,’ Mortimer de Mise said. ‘You will not see my daughter again. Your grandmother’s funeral is on Friday and I’ve persuaded your mother to have the viewing at the house on Thursday evening, so there will be no need for you to come here again, Oscar. Good day.’

‘But...’ Modesty protested.

Her father’s voice rose in volume but not in warmth. ‘I said, good day!’

‘Mr de Mise...’ Oz began.

‘Have I not made myself clear, Oscar?’

Oz faced Mortimer full on and held his stare without animosity. ‘Yes, quite clear. But...’

‘There are no buts.’

Oz continued unabashed. ‘But,’ he repeated with emphasis, ‘I’ve left my skateboard in your hall, so I’ll need to go through your house, if that’s OK?’

‘Nice one, Dad!’ Modesty snapped. ‘Come through, Oz.’ And she led him back through the ground floor. In the hall, she quickly wrote her mobile number on a slip of paper and stuffed it into Oz’s hand. ‘Text me,’ she whispered.

‘Are you going to be OK?’

She was touched at his concern. ‘It’s nothing I can’t handle.’ Before she could say more, Mortimer strode in. ‘Just go,’ she said, pushing Oz out of the front door.

‘Modesty!’ her father roared. ‘Upstairs - this minute.’

Once they were in her bedroom on the second floor, Modesty turned mutinously towards her father. ‘You have no right...’

Before she could finish, Mortimer cut in. ‘As your father, I have every right and I will not say this again, young lady. I forbid you to have anything more to do with that family.’

‘On what grounds?’

He hesitated, then lowered his voice. ‘I will not have a daughter of mine associating with that family. They are extremely undesirable.’

‘Wrong again, Dad!’ Modesty muttered under her breath when her father had left. ‘Oz Appleby is extremely desirable!’

She sat down on her bed to ponder her next move. Her father had used her in order to get his own way this morning, so if that was the way he wanted to play things, she was up for that.