4

Andrew Gibson sat at Marina’s dressing table, dealing with the officialise of death. He looked at his watch.
    ‘Just gone eight, Tim. It’s a bit late to call out the undertakers, but I’ll give them a ring for you first thing in the morning. Her instruction was that she wanted a standard cremation, with no bells or smells of any kind. Are you agreed?’

Timothy nodded and Andrew continued. ‘The only other thing I must do, as executor of her will, is to mention her requests. Firstly, there’s the music she wanted played.’ The doctor blew out his lips, as if in bewilderment. ‘Just the one piece. A hit song from the nineteen-fifties called “Twilight Time” by The Platters. The other thing was a purple handbag she wanted Father Ewan from Waldringhythe to bless, and then to go in the box with her. Do you know what she means?’

‘Absolutely,’ replied Timothy. ‘A hideous plastic thing that Morgana kept her little toys in. It was rescued from the chaos of that… that horrible day. I told Father Ewan I’d ring him when… as soon as… I’ll mention it.’ Clearly agitated, he began to reverse slowly towards the door. ‘Andrew, could you possibly inform Cora Feather for me? I’m not up to coping with her.’

The doctor nodded. ‘Of course. I’ll pop in on my way home. The old girl was very close to your mother, wasn’t she?’

Timothy then turned to Sally, but before he could deliver an obligatory speech of thanks, she shook her head and held up a warning finger. He nodded in agreement and left the room.

Sally immediately set about clearing up Marina’s bedroom with fast efficiency, heaving the debris of the sick room into a black plastic bin-sack. Andrew Gibson sighed, stretched wearily and got to his feet. ‘She was an incredibly beautiful woman, wasn’t she?’

‘She was,’ Sally agreed. ‘Stunning. Even now she still looks lovely.’

‘I’ve always thought there was something a bit peculiar about her, though. Not an obvious psychosis, but an aura of… How can I put it? A part of her no one could fathom.’

‘Surely that’s natural after a tragedy like hers? She talked quite a bit about the child towards the end. Said it was only Father Ewan who’d kept her sane.’

‘That’s another strange thing. She told me several times she had no time for God, so it’s weird she had such a strong bond with a priest – especially one as sanctified as Crucifix Man.’

‘He was just her grief counsellor, Andrew. Her harbour in a storm. His fame and following are just things that have grown up around him.’

‘Well, I still think it’s very odd. In fact, I think the whole set up was very odd. I mean, look at that wedding photograph over there. A lovely young girl on the arm of an old gargoyle. A fabulously rich old gargoyle, though.’

‘She was no gold-digger,’ said Sally. ‘She idolised Toby. It was a real love match.’

Andrew shrugged. ‘Oh, well. If you say so. She certainly led a very plain and sober widowhood, so you might be right.’

Together they drew back the bedding and stripped the skeletal body of its slinky, satin nightgown. The body that in health had defied time’s march, and in illness had scorned the practical comfort of winceyette and long sleeves. Then the ritual performed. A perfunctory obligation carried out in a respectful silence.

With duties done they pulled up the lace counterpane to shroud the body. Sally’s hands then dropped to her sides and she adopted a frozen attitude of her head. The fingers of one hand flexed and the other tightened into a fist. She pressed her lips firmly together, sniffed loudly and turned away. Dr Gibson smiled sympathetically. ‘It’s so difficult sometimes not to get personally involved, isn’t it?’

Sally grabbed her coat and rushed from the room, scrambling for her car keys.