52

In the dull light of early morning Roger woke in the lime-coloured sheets of the spare bedroom, wishing he could sleep forever. Last night he’d made apologetic excuses to Sally and had gone to his study. She’d pressed Father Ewan’s textbook into his hand, and although he’d kissed her and thanked her, he discarded it as soon as the door was closed. He’d slumped down on his swivel chair and reached out for the whisky bottle; the only friend he wanted, but one with no wise counsel to offer. He could only think of Tim’s cold body, lying on a refrigerated mortuary trolley with a label tied to his ankle. The words declared the body to be that of Timothy Tobias Proudfoot, but the beautiful man, so identified, would never have recognised himself. Roger opened his eyes and watched the cold morning air gently fluttering the hems of the curtains. His inner self began to invade, but he pushed it away, unable to contemplate its findings, knowing he had no hope of ever perceiving Tim’s despair or his own part in it.

There was a sound of movement from the corridor, the door opened and Sally entered, wearing blue jeans and a pink sweater, holding a tea tray. ‘Did you sleep at all?’

‘Suppose I must have, thanks to Scottish malt. What time is it?’

‘Just gone nine. I’ll pour you a cuppa.’ Roger struggled to sit up as Sally placed a large mug at his side and packed a bank of firm pillows behind his back. After pouring one for herself she sat cross-legged at the end of the bed.

‘What I said last night,’ Roger said. ‘About Tim and Morgana. It really is true. I knew it was wrong to conceal what I knew, but how could I expose Tim? I must be guilty of some sort of chargeable crime, even now. You won’t ever tell anyone, will you?’

‘Of course not. What would be the point? Tim’s dead. He’s paid his price. No one needs to know now, but it’s an horrendous crime. Poor little kiddy. And poor Marina, too. How blighted her life was. It’s all too dreadful to contemplate.’ She sipped her tea, thinking ruefully. ‘I remember the first time I met Tim. It was in The Dog and Duck. June 1983. After a village cricket match. We’d just got engaged and I was so in love with you. You said, “This is Tim, my oldest friend,” and I remember thinking how dazzlingly good-looking he was, but he seemed so dull and bland. Then you told me afterwards he’d lost his father and little sister in a drowning accident the summer before, and you’d saved his life. Whenever I tried to discuss it with you, you clammed up, and it stayed that way, didn’t it? I thought you were just being heroic or modest.’

‘A topic too delicate for discussion.’

‘I’ll leave it that way, I promise. And I promise I won’t ever blab that you and he were…’

‘Thanks.’

‘I’d better go and phone the undertakers now to see if the cremation’s still on.’

‘If it is, I won’t be coming. I can’t face it. Sorry.’

Sally came to stand at Roger’s bedside, dressed in a plain black trouser suit and holding a brown envelope. ‘All systems go, Rog. I’m just off to the crem.’

‘Will you come back here afterwards? What I mean is, will you come back to say goodbye before you head off to Suffolk?’

‘I’ll come back to pack some clothes, but I’ll be leaving when I’ve done that.’ She then passed him the envelope. ‘I forgot to tell you about these. Did you know that Marina had requested that Father Ewan bless a handbag that belonged to Morgana?’ Roger nodded. ‘It was in the sitting room last night. I opened it and found these snaps inside a zipped pocket. I know I should have left them, but after what’s happened, I thought you might like them.’

Roger took it from her. It contained a collection of old photographs, wound round with a small piece of pink baby ribbon and he slowly examined them. Most were of Timothy. As a baby, as toddler and as a happy, animated little boy. He soared on a swing wearing Wellington boots and a bobble hat; dressed as a cowboy, he posed as a tough guy and pointed a toy gun; he waved from Noddy’s car on a fairground roundabout; he hung upside down from a tree branch. And there were also some of the child Morgana, in various poses. She’d been such a pretty little girl, but there were none that showed her smiling. A cross face with a creased brow and a look of disdain to whoever was trying to encourage her to pose and laugh for the camera. One of Toby, as a twenty-something young man, slim and beardless, holding what looked like his final qualification scroll. Another of him taken forty years on. Rotund and florid, cigar and wine glass in hand, wearing a Panama hat and cream linen suit. A faces-only shot of Marina’s wedding day and a standard postcard of Crucifix Man. One of an unknown child sitting on a beach holding a puppy in his arms. Wearing glasses. Something wrong with his face.

‘I wonder who the strange kid is,’ Roger said. He turned the picture over. ‘It says Dearest Patrick. Wherever. Aged 5. That ties up, actually. Tim was getting very worked up about finding someone called Patrick, but Andrew thought he was just an imaginary childhood friend. I guess he must have been real after all.’ Roger then looked reminiscently at the images of Tim again, separated them in a dedicated pile, and placed them, without further comment, on the bedside cupboard. ‘Thanks for saving them, Sal. I’ll treasure them.’

‘What about the rest of the snaps? Shall I take them to the cremation?’

‘No point. The coffin lid’ll be firmly nailed down, won’t it?’

‘What shall I do with them, then? It seems sacrilege to throw them away.’

‘Oh, Christ, Sal, I don’t know and I don’t care. I really haven’t the nous to get my shoes on the right feet today. Sorry to be so arsey, but I feel like shite. Who’s left to want them? Chuck them away.’

‘OK’

After telephoning the undertakers, and receiving confirmation that the cremation would take place, Ewan spent no more time in nostalgia. Before leaving the house he removed the painting of his love from the drawing room wall and carefully carried it to the car. Perhaps it was stealing, but he didn’t care.

He arrived at the undertakers, but lacked the strength to view Marina’s body. He blessed the purple handbag and gave instructions that it be placed within her hands.

‘Father McEwan, the Proudfoot’s solicitor has rung,’ Mr Fullylove simpered, twirling his black-gloved hands. ‘A Mr Mount. He sends his apologies. Dr Gibson has also confirmed that there is to be just the one piece of music to be played. “Twilight Time,” by The Platters.

Ewan nodded. ‘Yes. It was a favourite piece of hers. And mine too.’

He drove behind the long, black Volvo to the crematorium, and on arrival found Sally waiting outside. She came to stand beside him and took his arm. With the cremation being so hastily arranged, and no social grapevine informed, only two other mourners arrived. A stout, elderly lady hanging onto the arm of a middle-aged, nondescript man. Sally whispered their names. Cora Feather, the housekeeper, and Andrew Gibson. Both parties nodded to each other and moved together, but no one smiled. Introductions and handshakes were made. Ewan thanked them both for their superb care of Lady Proudfoot, and all four of them respectfully expressed their profound shock and sorrow at the news of Timothy’s death. The undertakers were now assembled and the small party followed on into the small parody of a chapel.

Ewan moved forward and knelt in front of the coffin, crossed himself, placed his hands together in prayer and, after a statutory time of silent reflection, stood up. A pair of red brocade curtains slowly closed, a gentle clunk announced its slow journey to the pyre and after a few seconds the dark brown sugar voices of The Platters began to sing. ‘Heavenly shades of night are falling, it’s Twilight Time.’

Ewan felt Sally’s hand take his elbow as the small party filed out with slow, weary steps. The tradition was that mourners would now pause to view the wreaths, but there was only the one floral tribute. Red roses from an unknown source. ‘They’re lovely, Ewan,’ Sally said. Behind them Andrew Gibson was now clearly supporting a very distressed and openly sobbing lady.

‘Both of ’em gone,’ she choked. She shook her head, clearly unable to say more. The doctor nodded in agreement and sympathy, but chose not to add any wisdom or comment. Ewan stood for a long, contemplative stare at the wreath, and then began to walk away at a snail’s pace. Sally accompanied him until they were standing on a bland patch of grass that fronted the car park.

‘My day is done,’ he said. ‘I’m going back home now to prepare for great changes in my life.’

‘I’ll be back at Waldringhythe later on tonight,’ she said. ‘I’ll be ready to counsel you when you feel the time is right.’

‘I wish I could say that I’ll be taking up your kind offer, Sally, but I won’t be able to. I’ll be blunt. I’m giving up the priesthood and leaving the Abbey for good. By the time you get back tonight, I’ll have left. Like you, I suppose, I’m running away.’

He didn’t notice her jerk of shock or the flush that came to her face. Neither did he notice the crinkle of misery around her mouth, her juddering jaw or cry of desperation in her voice. ‘No, Ewan. You can’t leave. Please don’t go. Please don’t. You’re not alone. I’m here. I understand everything. Let me help you.’

‘I don’t need help,’ he said kindly. ‘I have a whole new life planned. Soon I will be very wealthy. So wealthy as to be immoral, but I will use the money to benefit my fellow man. I intend to become an ambassador for the anti-nuclear movement, and I’ll be staging a high-profile political enquiry. Sally, the misery of my lost love remains and always will, but for some strange reason, I’m suddenly happy. These last four days, I’ve been practising what I preach. I’ve been on an intense odyssey around myself and I’ve come home. It’s as simple as that. Now it’s time for me to be strong and grow, but thank you for caring.’ A rare, wide smile came to his face. ‘As Marina said, the true meaning of life is to love and to have been loved. That must be my last word. Goodbye, Sally.’

Sally watched him as he walked away. His head held strongly, his leather jacket loose and his fedora in his hand. The broad shoulders held stiff, his lower body rolling in his unique Salsa-dancer way and his Spanish dancer boots clicking on the tarmac. His buttocks firm in his tight jeans and his long legs moving forward with swinging, confident strides. Although the view of his car was half obliterated by the hanging branches of a yew tree, she saw him open the door and jack knife his body in. He removed the band in his hair and shook its length free. He was still smiling. As he drove off, he didn’t look back or wave.

Her moment of despair was invaded by Cora, still holding heavily onto Andrew’s arm. ‘That’s ’im, then,’ she said, with renewed strength. ‘That Father Ewan. What a shock. He’s nothing like a priest. Looks more like one of the BeeGees.’

‘I’ll take you home, Cora,’ said Andrew. ‘By the way, Sally. Might I invite you and Roger around this evening for a drink? I’d like to talk a bit more to Roger about Tim’s psychosis. His condition was most complicated, and I’d like to enlighten him further.’

‘Not tonight, Andrew,’ said Sally kindly, ‘but thanks for asking.’

‘Another time then. By the way, the cat seems to have settled in. I’ll be making a donation to the RSPCA.’

Sally returned home. A fire burned in the inglenook and there was a smell of freshly brewed coffee. Roger got up, kissed her on the cheek and helped her off with her jacket. ‘Sit down, love. You look exhausted. I’ll pour you a coffee.’

‘A coffee and a very large brandy please. You’re right. I’m exhausted.’

‘Well, I’ll be leaving you in peace soon. I’m driving up to Worcestershire. I’ve turned up a Wolfhound breeder with a litter. I’ve just got to get one. Can’t stand the silence. Suppose you’ll be gone by the time I get back?’

‘Change of plan, Rog. I won’t be leaving after all. I’m not going anywhere. I’m staying here.’

‘I see.’ Roger paused diffidently for several seconds. ‘Suppose you don’t fancy coming with me? That’s if you feel up to it.’

‘Yes, I’d like that. I’d like that very much.’

Roger paused again. ‘The puppies. They’re eight weeks old. Ready to take home. Both silver, like Finnegan. There’s the choice of a dog or a bitch. What do you think?’

‘I think we should take them both.’

Ewan drove away from the crematorium in a state of inexplicable joy, his freedom soaking into him as if he were immersed in warm wax. At the turn off for Hurley, he followed the village road until he was parked, as before, down by the Thames. From his pocket he removed the often-read medical report concerning Child Ref: 6543M, the only historical piece of his past he possessed. He wouldn’t tear it up. That was sacrilege. He knelt down and placed it on the bobbing surface of the river and watched it as it floated downstream. ‘Sleep, sweet, little child,’ he said. ‘Sleep sweet.’ In time it would be taken up by the water, but Child Ref 6543M wouldn’t drown, as Marina’s tiny child had drowned. The child would live, as he, himself lived. As Ewan McEwan. A man like any other.