8

Timothy sat at the top of The Manor’s wide, sweeping staircase holding the flopped, purring body of Anthea, his mother’s cherished Persian cat. Although he’d heard no ringing, the ansaphone downstairs began to broadcast the strident tones of Cora Feather, the daily help, who grandly referred to herself as the housekeeper. Clearly, her intention was to leave a message of condolence and to offer the usual, ‘Is there anything I can do,’ but her courage failed when faced with the vexation of a recording machine. She rang off mumbling.

As Timothy waited, he began, with something of a sense of failure, to wonder why his mother’s death hadn’t induced the dramatic flood of tears and hysteria he’d anticipated. His only sensation was of a breath-holding suspension from time, and a conviction that her last words, ‘Hat trick,’ were some sort of celestial link to heaven and the afterlife.

At last he heard the low, regular hum of the Mercedes Estate and leaped to the landing window. It was raining heavily, and he watched Roger park in front of the columned portico, haul himself out of the car and reach inside to the back seat. He emerged holding a small bunch of flowers, a razor pouch and a duvet. Why a duvet? But when he lifted the tailgate the answer leapt out. Finnegan! He’d said nothing about custody of the dog! The agile Wolfhound sniffed the sodden air and barked with brainless pleasure.

Timothy crashed down the stairs, threw open the heavy oak front door and ran out with his arms wide open. ‘Skipper!’

‘Angel,’ Roger gasped, but any tender scenes of sympathy were foiled by Roger’s arms being full of things, the teeming rain and the chaos of a neurotic dog inspecting his new quarters. Finnegan rushed ahead into the house, leaping like a springbok and splodging his wet, muddy paws all over the cream Wilton. In the muddle of the moment, they both failed to notice that a terrified Persian cat had been hounded out into the black hole of the night.

‘I passed Cora Feather by The Dog and Duck,’ Roger said. ‘She was in full flight up here to poke her nose in, but I steered her off. Firmly said I was coming up to take control.’

‘Thanks. She means well, but I only want you tonight.’

‘Well, for better or worse, you’ve got me for every night now.’

Moving into the house, and with all arms free, they kissed gently to reflect the sadness of the occasion. This moment was the watershed point; the moment they’d long planned: all conventional ties severed and their lives united. ‘I can’t cry, Skipper,’ Timothy sniffed. ‘Tears won’t come.’

‘They will, honey pie, they will,’ Roger assured him. ‘Now, let’s go down to the kitchen and I’ll get you something to eat.’

‘I’m not hungry.’

‘Nonsense. You’ve got to keep your strength up.’

Preceded by Finnegan, Roger steered Timothy down the long corridor to the kitchen, and guided him to a seat at the table, but when he banged about in the larder and the fridge, he discovered there was very little to prepare. All he could find was half a packet of Cream Crackers, a chunk of old cheddar, a plastic bag of tired salad and some supermarket bottles of wine. ‘Can’t find much,’ he said. ‘Shame. I’m actually quite hungry.’

Roger realised he was, indeed, ravenously hungry, having had nothing since a bowl of Weetabix just after dawn. Lunch had been spent at The Groucho with a famous geriatric comedienne, supposedly to plan the publicity for her ghost-written autobiography, but no one had warned him she was an alcoholic. The session had turned into a long, foodless piss-up, culminating with the funny lady slipping slowly under the table and having to be carried in his arms to a taxi. Dozily inebriated himself, he’d sobered up on the train, but he now had a gnawing desperation for food. ‘Is this really all there is?’ he said plaintively, his disappointment a little too obvious.

‘What do you mean, “Is this really all there is?”’ Timothy snapped. ‘I haven’t exactly had time to go to Sainsbury’s this week, have I?’

‘Well, how about I ring for a pizza then?’

‘Oh, Rog, please! Mumma only died five minutes ago. How can I scoff a pizza?’

‘Sorry, old chap. Didn’t mean to sound gung-ho. Cheese and biscuits will do nicely.’

Roger sat down to eat, but Timothy’s face had set in hard, sulky lines. By way of appeasement Roger offered sympathetic facial expressions and hand-patting, but nothing raised a flicker of response. Undaunted, Roger polished off the meagre leftovers and poured out two glasses of a cheap chardonnay. ‘Come on,’ he said, ‘get this down you. Please, Angel. A little toast. To us and our new lives.’

But as Timothy sipped, he gave in to grief and the long-awaited tears arrived. ‘Skipper, you know I don’t believe in God, don’t you?’ he gulped.

‘Absolutely.’

‘Well, Mumma’s last words were really odd. She said “Hat trick.” You know – like in cricket. I know this sounds crazy, but I’m sure it was a sign she knew she was going to the Kingdom of Heaven to join Pa and Morgana. Like she was the last of the three of them. Seconds later, she was gone. It’s really spooked me. I spoke to Father Ewan earlier on and he said he was “there for me” if I needed to talk. I think perhaps I’ll phone him in the morning, to talk things through.’

‘Not a good idea. Far too drastic. The last thing we want is that Creeping Jesus poking his oar in.’

‘But he’s a good, wise man, Rog. He gave Mumma great strength in her life.’

‘Look, things are bound to seem much better after a good night’s sleep. You’ve got me now and I’m all you’re ever going to need.’

‘Oh, I do hope so. You are here forever, aren’t you? No going back?’

‘Nope. Honest Injun. It’s all sorted with Sally and my moccasins are coming tomorrow. Now, why don’t we go to bed? I think a nice early night’s just what the doctor ordered.’

Ten minutes later Roger was laid flat on his back in the dark with his eyes wide open. Timothy was turned away from him, screwed up in the foetal position, rocking with prolonged sobbing and mumbling incoherently about the existence of God.