16

‘Jesus Christ, that’ll be the bloody undertakers,’ Roger shouted, dithering on the stairs. ‘Mrs Feather, hold the fort until I’m dressed. Tim, just stay calm.’ Cora, still simmering from her altercation with a naked man and a mad dog, immediately switched from dragon to dove. As Roger fled she grabbed Timothy’s arm with matriarchal compassion, and with slow-footed solemnity, steered him up the long corridor to the front reception hall. Through a side window she could see an immaculate Volvo estate (special order with smoked blackout windows, reinforced floor, and nine inches longer than the norm) parked strategically distant, with its open tailgate to the fore.

‘It’s them all right,’ she mouthed, lurching forward to open the door. Three grave-faced men were standing in stiff line. They were all of equal height, equal shoulders being the prime requirement of coffin bearers, and apart from radiant white shirts were dressed in traditional black. Their patent leather shoes shone like glass, and Cora thought they resembled three elderly tap dancers. With perfect coordination all three stood at ease and clasped their hands behind their backs. Mr Arthur Fullylove, the proprietor himself, was placed centrally and announced his superiority with a gold tiepin depicting the Fullylove logo: a flying dove with an olive leaf in its beak. He moved forward, massaging his gloved hands with Uriah Heep-like subservience.

‘In respect of the departed, Mrs Maureen Proudfoot,’ he simpered with hushed, oily tones, and proffering a small, black-edged card.

Fullylove and Fullylove
Family Funeral Directors, Est 1914
Saying goodbye to your loved ones with reverence and dignity
Private Chapel * Golden Wings Prepayment Plan * Brochure available

As Cora examined the card she pursed her lips, and was compelled to correct him. ‘It’s actually Lady Maureena, what’s pronounced Marina,’ but before she had a chance to officiate further, Roger walked confidently down the front staircase, fully dressed and sporting a sombre, authoritative face.

‘Thank you, Mrs F, but I’ll attend to this. Please don’t let me keep you from your normal duties.’ Cora, being ungraciously dismissed, had no choice but to return to the kitchen. As she moved off (glowering) Roger turned his full attention to the undertakers.

‘Good morning, gentlemen. Please follow me upstairs.’ The trio entered the house without comment, wiping their feet fastidiously and examining the carpet.

Once in Marina’s bedroom they carefully unfolded a light chromium trolley, of the type a magician uses when he elevates and vanishes the lady, but sadly, despite the fairy lightness of Marina’s body, there would be no dignified exit. The three chorus boys puffed and groaned with ruddy faces, demonstrating that their short arms, thick waistlines and advancing years had robbed them of any artistic ability. After much struggle and effort the corpse was transferred to a zipped mummy-shaped bag, secured by straps to the trolley, and manhandled down to the front door.

‘Such a joy to have a wide staircase,’ Mr Fullylove said, with unrequired familiarity. ‘We usually only get the two-foot turn round of a standard semi to work in. It involves a complicated vertical manoeuvre that’s less than ideal.’

Roger, in the role of stoical family supporter, accompanied the working party to supervise the transfer to the Volvo, taking a full military stance as the black car crunched slowly down the drive and out of sight.

Timothy sat in his mother’s empty bedroom, his head bowed with depression. Was it only a week ago that she’d lain back in heroined comfort and idly reminisced? At first, recalling happy memories of himself as a rewarding, loving child, but then, with half-closed eyes and a sweet smile on her face, she’d begun to talk of Morgana. ‘She was a feisty little madam, wasn’t she, Tim? Do you remember that pull-along Snoopy she called Hoggyponk, and how she used to shout at him, and tell him off, when his little clicking legs got stuck? I’m sure she wished she’d been a boy. She had no time for teddies and dolls – she’d much rather play football with you. Do you remember that huge purple handbag she hauled everywhere? I’ve asked Father Ewan to bless it, and make sure it comes in the box with me. You’ll find it in her room and you must make absolutely sure he gets it.’

Yes, Timothy well remembered his little sister’s traits. How she’d once cleared Hoggyponk four feet in the air with a vicious kick. Her insistence that her big brother Timfee carry her everywhere on his back. Her moodiness, her thumb-sucking, her calling in the night for nothing at all and her stroppy little foot stamps of defiance. Did either of them really remember Morgana, or had they created another child out of snatched enlargements from her short life?

And his mother had also talked lovingly of his father. ‘Toby loved Yeats, you know, Tim. At our wedding we had a full reading of Men Improve With The Years, and indeed he did. ‘O would that we had met when I had my burning youth! There were many years between us, but the older he got, the stronger our love became. He was the darlingest man, a wonderful husband, and a devoted father to both of you.’ She’d then closed her eyes and disappeared into a short sleep. Thankfully, Timothy had been able to turn away and press his face into a cushion.

Roger came back into the room cracking his knuckles.

‘Mission accomplished, old chap. They’ll try to arrange the cremation as soon as possible. A week’s about the average delay. No longer than that.’ Cora’s strident voice was then heard calling up the stairs, to tell them that she was off to Mr Bhatti’s because they were clean out of milk and biscuits, and you had to offer tea and biscuits to all the people who would be coming round to pay their respects, and actually it would be a very good idea if Mr Fuller could do a full shop at Sainsbury’s when he could find the time.

Mr Fuller, in unseen sanctuary, raised two sharp fingers. ‘Tim, do we really have to put up with that old hag? She gives me the shits.’

‘I’m afraid we do,’ Timothy replied. ‘You’ll get used to the old feather duster. She might seem grumpy, but she means well.’

‘Well, she can bloody well get used to me as well, can’t she.’

‘Skipper,’ said Timothy, gingerly. ‘At the cremation. We are going as an item, aren’t we? You know – like we talked about. Come out. Show the village.’

‘We most certainly are, honey,’ said Roger confidently. ‘Gay pride and fuck it will be the order of the day.’

‘And is it really all sorted with Sally?’

‘Yes, Tim. Once and for all, it’s all sorted with Sally. I love you. All those years ago we wanted it to last forever, but we were young and the world was a different place. Things went wrong. We were both to blame, but we can’t spend the rest of our lives wrangling with ‘what ifs.’ You’re still the beautiful boy I fell in love with on that awful day.’

Timothy closed his eyes and screwed his hands into fists. ‘That day. We don’t talk about it, do we? We’ve put it away, like you pack things up and hide them in the loft, but it’s always been there like a black shadow. It’s been over twenty-five years, Rog. I thought I’d learned to live with it, but the minute Mumma died, all the old wounds were opened up. Hold me, Rog. I feel so weak and peculiar. You will get me through this nightmare, won’t you?’

‘’Course I will, love. Come here.’

As Roger put his arms around Timothy, he found that, although his own memories of the day were more horrific than Tim realised, it was the day after Morgana and Toby were drowned that came more readily to mind. Marina, standing straight-backed and hideously controlled. His father, having identified the bloated body of the child, being forced to stumble through the worst afternoon of his life, and himself sitting there like a big moronic dummy. The events that later culminated in his first blissful seduction of Tim. He’d also forgotten that Cora Feather had been there as well.

June 1982

Roger and his father stood at the front door of Monks Bottom Manor, both stooped with diffidence and sweating with anxiety at the scenario to come. It was opened by Mrs Feather, the lumbering, pigeon-breasted woman, famed in the village for her sumptuous cricket teas.

‘Yes. What can I do for you?’ she demanded, with the challenge of a security guard.

His father spoke with quiet respect. ‘We’d like to consult with Lady Proudfoot.’ Cora nodded covertly, conveying she was ‘in the know’ to every single micro-detail of the situation, and that she gave her approval.

‘She’s in the garden room. She’s very shaky so go careful.’ Marina, dressed in long black garments, was standing within a tableau of tropical green plants. Her hair tumbled in chaos to her waist and her face was that of a stranger. Her lips were pale, twitching, and thinly compressed. The linings of her eyes were inflamed, emphasising the stunning bright blue of her irises. Her nose was florid and shedding skin, having been blown and sniffed and rasped by a great many fine linen handkerchiefs. All Roger really wanted to do was to run away, but at the age of twenty-three and being (as he was then) a Captain in the Grenadier Guards, he was expected to behave like an officer and a gentleman.

The widow turned with the grace of a prima ballerina. ‘Toby was a great admirer of Larry Adler, you know,’ but it was obvious she had no desire to discuss jazz harmonicas. Roger’s father moved forward jerkily to take her hand, but she backed off with a writhing body movement that said, ‘don’t touch me!’ She gestured for them to sit on two large wicker armchairs, but remained standing herself.

‘Positive identification,’ Alex continued. ‘It was her.’

‘Of course it was her, Alex. How many other children were drowned yesterday? And where exactly was she found?’

‘In a weir near Hurley Lock.’

She nodded. ‘Thank you, Alex. It can’t have been pleasant.’

‘Marina, you know I’d give my own life to turn the clock back. What else can I do to help you? Surely, there must be something?’

She stared at him in a pose of cynicism. ‘To make you feel better or to make me feel better?’

‘I am grieving for you. Please believe me…’ but the conversation had reached the immediate truth that Alex wanted a quick release from any indictment.

‘Alex, be assured there’ll be no charges or seeking of compensation. The fact that you own the San Fairy Ann doesn’t mean you’re guilty of any crime. The police are satisfied that the boat was correctly certified, and all the required safety standards were in place. It was my fault for not ensuring she wore a life jacket. Now they’re gone, and I must live my own death sentence.’

Roger’s father was a successful man of business, but of so little sensitivity that he was floundering like a hooked trout to sound profound and wise. ‘Marina, perhaps you might find some support through your religion?’

‘No chance. I’m hopelessly lapsed, but Toby was devout. Father Joseph would come and drink our sherry, and they talked philosophy together, but the old bore had no time for me.’ She turned her head away and addressed the garden. ‘Like everyone else, he thought I was no more than a dumb blonde. A trophy wife. I’ll tell you what I am, Alex, or rather what I was. How many times, over the years, have you made me a filthy little offer behind the salad dips and how many times did I fall for a bit of fun? Never. That’s how often. No one could ever believe it, but I was a faithful, loving wife. We had to wait sixteen long years for… for our daughter. Sixteen years! I know there were vile rumours that she wasn’t Toby’s child, but she was. She was our miracle. Now they’ve both gone and I’m bereft.’ She swung back to look at them fiercely. ‘I can’t help being bitter,’ she raged, ‘but I’ve their funerals to get through, and I must be strong enough to support Tim.’ She paused, sighed deeply and became becalmed. ‘I’m so sorry I flew at you, Alex. It was very undignified. Please forgive me. And now I’d like to thank Roger again.’

She walked over and placed her hands on his shoulders. ‘Roger. Dear Roger. I’ll never forget how hard you tried to save my little girl. You put your own life in such danger, and you’re truly a hero. But then you saved Tim’s life, and for that I truly thank you. Now you really must go up and see him. If there’s one thing he needs it’s some young company. He heard last week that he’s been accepted at Kew as a student, and I so want him to go. Perhaps you can support and encourage him?’ With sudden strength she tossed her head back and ran her fingers through her hair. ‘Now, Alex, there is something else you can do for me, after all. I’ve wreaths to choose. Will you take me into Henley, please?’

Cora Feather preceded Roger up the stairs and knocked on Timothy’s bedroom door. She called him Mr Timothy in those days. ‘Mr Timothy. Here’s Mr Fuller to see you. Mr Roger.’ The door opened and Roger entered the room, darkened by closed curtains against the bright sun of the afternoon. Cora hovered but Timothy shut the door against her. She tapped at the door again. ‘Would you be wanting a tray of tea, because if not I’m just off.’

‘No thank you, Mrs Feather. Your kindness is truly appreciated.’ He then sat down on a small padded chair while Roger took to the floor, leaning against the protrusions of an ancient metal radiator. ‘Thank you for saving me,’ said Timothy. ‘A million times thank you, but it should have been them, not me.’

‘It was just chaos,’ said Roger. ‘Everyone was splashing around the bow and shouting. I tried to find Morgana so desperately. I went under the water twenty or thirty times, but it became so stirred up it was as thick as soup. There was no point carrying on. Then, when I emerged for the last time, I could see you were in trouble.’

The Fuller Jaguar was heard spiriting the widow away to the florists. The front door banged and Cora’s flat, heavy feet were heard crunching away down the drive. Roger swallowed and fixed eye contact with Timothy. He got up, moved across to him and knelt down. He took his hands and focussed on his face with soft concern. ‘How are you, Tim? You must be feeling lousy.’

‘It’s so bad. How can I ever live a normal life again?’

Roger began to massage the inside of Timothy’s wrists with his thumbs. ‘Tim. Everything’s going to be all right. I can help you. You do like me, don’t you?’ Timothy nodded. ‘And you do like me in another special way too, don’t you?’ Timothy nodded again.

‘As special as this?’ Roger rose up, leaned forward and kissed him on the mouth. ‘I love you, Tim. I’m in love with you, and I want to make love to you, but I want to look after you as well. My love can help you to survive all this.’

‘I’ve been in love with you for years,’ said Timothy. ‘Do you remember all those village sports events the vicar’s wife got together in the school hols? I went to all of them if I knew you’d be there. I followed you around like a pet dog, but I know you never noticed me. You were always captain of cricket, and you looked so splendid in your whites, and in the winter, when it snowed, there were those toboggan contests on the common. One year I sat behind you and I held on to your waist, and we bumped all the way down Abbot’s Hill together. It was magic. The moment I knew… You know. When I knew for sure what all my dreams were about.’

‘What a stupid blind bastard I was. I’m sorry I didn’t notice you, but you were only a kid in those days. It was yesterday that did it for me. The sight of you sitting there on the boat with the sunlight on your face. And it was the way you looked at me, too. I just knew. I was trying to concentrate on steering the boat, but all I wanted to do was look at you.’

‘I was looking at you all the time as well. You looked so fantastic in that Ark Royal hat.’

‘It was only something whacky. Good old Rog, playing the clown as usual.’

‘I thought it made you look so… you know… so important. So powerful. You were the skipper and I was the naval rating. I wanted to be your slave.’

‘Call me Skipper, then.’ Roger began to slide his lips down Timothy’s neck and his hand reached out to lie on his thigh. There was a short silence, both knowing that within the next few seconds the commitment would be made. ‘Have you ever made love, Tim?’

‘No. Never. Have you?’

‘Only a few times,’ Roger lied. ‘Boy at school. Innocent fumbling. Not love like this.’

‘Ever with a girl?’

‘Never,’ he lied again.

Roger began to pull Timothy’s T-shirt over his head. Gradually, they undressed each other, moved to the bed, pulled the duvet back and lay on the cool sheet facing each other.