Clouds bruised the sky as Jennifer dressed. She stared out of the window, trying to determine whether or not she’d need a coat. It took her a long time to make a decision. It seemed important to get it right.
She walked through to the living room. Violet stared at her. ‘Don’t you think you’ll need a coat? We’ll be walking to the cemetery.’
Jennifer glanced around the room, her eyes coming to rest on the chair by the desk. ‘It won’t matter,’ she said.
‘Of course it matters!’ Violet’s voice was sharp. ‘You’ll be soaked if it starts raining.’
Jennifer turned to Donald. ‘You’d better take your coat, Jen,’ he murmured.
She returned to the bedroom, and opened her wardrobe. Her coat hung next to Jim’s sports jacket. She lifted a sleeve of the smooth tweed and buried her face in it. Jim was still there. She could smell him. Reassured, she lifted her coat from the hanger and closed the door quickly, lest the lingering scent of her husband might escape.
Donald was holding the front door open, Violet already seated in the long black car at the roadside.
Charlie Maxwell, the undertaker, stood to attention as she walked down the path. He lifted his top hat in cheerful greeting.
‘No’ a bad day, Mrs Pascoe, if the rain’ll stay off.’
She smiled. Charlie was not known for his tact. ‘Let’s hope it does,’ Jennifer replied.
Charlie closed the door and ran round to the passenger side, nodding to the driver as he clambered in.
‘Right then, off we go.’
Barra gazed up at the stained-glass window above the minister’s head where a vast angel in golden cloth with widespread wings hovered over the congregation. The angel had captured Barra’s attention far more completely than the monotonous tone of the minister.
He knew you weren’t supposed to be angry in the church, but Barra did feel angry. He shouldn’t be here at some horrible funeral, with people shuffling and sniffling and being miserable. At least the angel looked happy, like a real angel was supposed to look, not a bit like Jamie.
Briefly, Barra lowered his eyes to the coffin. He couldn’t imagine Mr Pascoe lying inside it. He didn’t want to try.
He looked around him, receiving a swift dig in the ribs from his mother. He winced.
‘Ouch,’ he complained.
‘Be quiet,’ his mother hissed back. ‘And sit still.’
Barra gritted his teeth. The anger flared again, and his stomach growled noisily.
He shrugged at Chalmers, who had sat slightly forward to glare at him.
‘It’s just nerves,’ Rose whispered to her husband. ‘It’s his first funeral.’
And my last! Barra thought. He’d often heard people say ‘Och, it was a great funeral’, or ‘It was a grand send-off’. How could they find anything grand in all this?
He glanced across the aisle. Mrs Iacobelli, never known to miss a funeral – any funeral – had plonked herself down in the pew opposite. Her twin sons sat by her side, their heads lowered in apparent reverence.
Unaccustomed to the Protestant service, they had earlier stood when everyone else remained seated, but even that had failed to cheer Barra.
The service finally over, the pall-bearers stepped forward to lift Jim’s coffin. As they moved slowly down the aisle, one of them caught the heel of the man in front. They were directly level with the Yaks, and the coffin listed slightly towards the twins. Simultaneously, the boys threw themselves sideways away from it, their eyes wide with horror.
Barra held his breath until the procession moved safely on. For a split second he’d had his first real image of Mr Pascoe in the coffin, rolling around trying to catch his balance, and this, combined with the frantic genuflecting of the Yaks, suddenly struck him as absurd.
As Rose urged him down the aisle ahead of her Barra surrendered to his amusement, giggling all the way to the heavy oak doors.
‘Wait till I get you home,’ Rose seethed as they crossed the threshold together.
‘S … s … sorry, Mam,’ Barra apologised, helpless with mirth.
Jennifer closed her eyes. Her only prayer that day had been that the minister would hurry up and be done with it. He had droned on for what had seemed like hours in the church. Now he was addressing those assembled at the graveside in the same sombre voice, showing little sign of bringing the ceremony to a close.
The sky had cleared and she felt the heat of the sun on her back, but inside she was as cold as stone. She briefly wondered if she’d ever feel warm again. Other thoughts swam around in her mind, none of them coherent nor in any particular order.
Several of Jim’s friends and family had travelled up from Edinburgh for the funeral, its time set late enough in the day to allow for their arrival. She wondered how many would call back at the house, and if there would be enough food to go round.
The bedroom would be decorated immediately. She must remember to ask Sandy if he’d do the papering for her. Jim had liked the pattern. They had both agreed on it, gondoliers drifting across a background of palest blue. She wondered if she might need to change the curtains, too, and decided that she would. She would definitely change the curtains.
Jim, holding her hand as they stood on the Rialto Bridge, watching the water-buses come and go, and unable to eat his ice cream fast enough to prevent it from melting. She’d had to wipe the chocolate from his chin. He had laughed.
Struggling up the path with the damned chair. ‘Did you hurt yir back?’ she had asked. He had laughed then too. ‘I’m lying here half-dead. What do you think?’ Then standing, laughing still. ‘But you’ll be pleased to know your chair’s not hurt. Your chair’s just fine.’
‘You’ll need to see about it.’ How long after the fall had it been? She couldn’t remember.
She felt Violet move beside her, shifting her weight. ‘My mother married beneath herself,’ Jim had said. ‘Unfortunately, so did my father.’ They had laughed together at that. When had the laughing stopped? She couldn’t remember that either.
‘I’ll make an appointment with the doctor. I promise,’ he’d said. And he had, and he’d gone alone. She should have been with him. She should have guessed, long before he’d had to tell her.
A split second.
‘Six months, maybe less,’ he’d said.
In a split second, her life had changed. She’d never seen it coming, had had no chance to prepare. One minute her life was normal – and then it changed. And everything changed with it. Now it would never be normal again. She had left a different person behind, on the other side of that split second.
‘Why didn’t you tell me? Damn you! Damn you, Jim.’ She had been furious, yelling at him through her tears.
‘I’m damned, right enough,’ he’d said. That was when the laughing had stopped. She remembered now.
They had held on to each other and wept together.
‘Merry Christmas.’ The diamond solitaire in the black velvet box. ‘Will you marry me?’ She had wept then too, happy tears. Tears were tears. How could they feel so different?
The slow ride down the Grand Canal and out into the bay. Docking at Murano, Jim’s quick flash of jealousy as the handsome Italian youth helped her from the boat, holding on to her hand much longer than was necessary.
Jim’s rapturous attention to the glass-blowers’ art. She had been watching him while they stood together in the Fornace Gritti, careless of the talented trio before them, eyes only for her husband. She’d even loved the sound of the words – practising them long before the wedding. ‘This is my husband, Jim.’
And endless practice of her new signature – Mrs Jennifer Pascoe – revelling in the look of it.
On to Burano, strolling through the tiny island, stopping to watch the centuries-old art of lace-making. Jim had been patient, sitting by the quay while she wandered from stall to stall comparing prices. She had come up behind him, leaning to kiss the nape of his neck, now golden brown from the Venetian sun. How tanned and healthy and young he’d been then.
Venice had been full of it. Glass. There had been glass everywhere; mirrors, tables, chandeliers. Everything glittered. So much glass.
She imagined lifting a large rock and hurling it through time and distance, shattering all of it. How satisfying that would be. Where would you find such a rock?
‘I hate that chair.’
‘It wasn’t the chair, Jen. It was there long before that. Please don’t hate the chair.’
‘I don’t,’ she’d cried. ‘I love it.’
And, ‘Why don’t you ever get angry? How can you just accept it?’
‘I want to go quietly, Jen, not kicking and screaming, and holding back.’
‘I want you to hold back. I don’t want to be the only one with this anger inside me,’ she’d sobbed.
‘Anger fools you into believing you’re strong,’ he’d said. ‘But when it passes it leaves you weaker than before. I can’t afford anger.’
‘Can we afford it?’ She was gazing at the Mini in the garage showroom.
‘You love it, don’t you?’
‘Then we can afford it. You know how I feel. If you want something badly enough…’
‘… you’ll find a way to make it happen,’ she’d finished, hugging him with delight.
It wasn’t true, though.
Jim had been wrong about that.
She felt her mother slip an arm around her, and leaned gratefully into the embrace. Would the minister ever finish?
She wiped her face, surprised at how wet it was. She hadn’t been aware that she was crying. She drew her hand across her chest, drying it on her dress before covering her mother’s hand with her own. Holding on.
How different Frances was to Violet. ‘I never felt close to her,’ Jim had said. ‘Never felt she had the time for me. That’s why I love Frances so much. She’s more of a mother to me than my own ever was.’
‘We’re not good enough for her.’
‘No, Jen. You’re altogether too good for her. I love you so much.’
And as he slipped quietly from her, ‘I loved you once – and for all time. Never forget that.’
There was the rock! In the mound of newly excavated dirt by the grave. The perfect rock. If she could just get to it, she could hurl it into space. And it would never stop spinning, never come to rest, until it had shattered all the glass in the world.
* * *
It had been Doug’s idea to bring them back to the Whig. Jennifer’s home was packed to capacity with the folks from Edinburgh. Her neighbours in Drumdarg, however, had waited only long enough to drink the customary toast to the dear departed, before agreeing that they’d be better off out of Jennifer’s way.
After all, they’d be here for her tomorrow, and every day after – God willing.
The Whig was cheerful and comfortable, a refuge from the past few harrowing hours. Chalmers had joined Maisie behind the bar, while Rose kept company with Helen at one of the tables. Murdo was propped against the bar, regaling Sandy with tales of the bonny salmon which had escaped from Stewart’s line the day before. Isla, meanwhile, was in the kitchen with Doug, being initiated in the art of making the perfect bacon and egg piece.
Only Olive was missing, the tension of the funeral firing her neck with ever more painful strictures. Sandy had seen her home from the Pascoes’ before returning to the Whig for what had all the makings of a fine end to the day.
‘Well,’ he sighed happily, getting ready to down yet another free pint. ‘Here’s to the one that got away.’ He smacked the foam from his lips. ‘Y’canna’ beat a good funeral.’
Murdo sucked on his pipe. ‘I heard Jennifer asking you to paper her bedroom. I wouldna’ have thought she’d have something like that on her mind the day.’
‘Well, I’m a dab hand at the papering, right enough,’ Sandy replied proudly. ‘But, my God, it seemed a bit out o’ place.’
‘It seemed perfectly right,’ Maisie stated, removing the long black chiffon scarf from her throat. It was getting quite warm. ‘If it was me, I’d be wanting to fumigate the place, get rid o’ all that … illness.’
Helen bit her lip. ‘Och now, Maisie, that’s a wee bittie strong. Lord, she’d just planted poor Jim not an hour before.’
‘She planted a corpse,’ Maisie said, unperturbed. ‘Jim’s in her heart, where he belongs. And the smell o’ fresh paint’s sorely needed in that room. Besides, Jim helped her choose the wallpaper. She can lie in her bed and look at it, and remember happier times, instead o’ feeling like she’s sleeping in a morgue herself.’
She peeled off her long black evening gloves, admiring them as she did so. Unfortunately, they weren’t very practical. Violet Pascoe had made a point of staring at them. Now how could anyone find a pair of gloves so offensive?
At least Barra had liked them. ‘Where’s Barra?’ she thought to ask. ‘I haven’t seen him since we left Jen’s.’
‘He’s in the woods, Maisie,’ Rose replied. ‘I hope he’s having a good long think about his behaviour the day. Imagine giggling like that in front o’ everyone.’
Chalmers winked at Maisie, his earlier annoyance at his son mellowed by the company – and the drink. ‘He’ll be having a word wi’ his angel, no doubt.’
‘Cut it out, Chalmers,’ Rose said sharply. ‘He’s not the first one round here to feel betrayed.’
There was a second’s silence in the bar. Nobody had heard Rose Maclean use that tone of voice to her husband before. Chalmers looked most surprised of all.
Helen broke the silence, her gaze fastened on Chalmers’ by now purple eye. She lifted her glass.
‘I couldn’t help smiling myself, Rose. He was in such a fit, so he was.’
Rose frowned. ‘It looked bad, him carrying on like that. I don’t know what got into him.’
As if pushed on to the stage by an unseen hand, Barra appeared, his hand filled with two thick slices of bread from which emanated the enticing aroma of fried bacon. All eyes turned towards him.
‘I’m starving,’ he said defensively. ‘Doug’s bringing yir pieces through in a minute.’
He climbed on to the chair between his mother and Helen, licking his arm where some egg yolk had trickled downwards.
‘Isla’s getting good at the cooking,’ he informed them. ‘She’s got the bacon just right.’ He chewed happily for a moment, then turned to Helen. ‘I wish I’d seen Hattie before she left.’
Helen waited while he munched on the last morsel of his sandwich. ‘She’ll be back in a couple o’ weeks to say a proper cheerio to everyone. They were anxious to get back down the road, so Murdo offered to clear the cottage for her.’
‘What’s he like?’
Helen raised her eyebrows. ‘Kenneth?’
‘Aye,’ Barra said.
Rose and the others were also paying attention as Helen considered her reply.
‘He seems nice enough. Of course, the whole thing was a bit o’ a shock to us, y’understand. But I think he’ll be good to her.’ Helen knitted her brows together. ‘He’ll have myself to answer to if not.’
Barra nodded. ‘I hope he will. I thought Jamie … Well, anyway, I’m glad he came back for her.’
Helen smiled. ‘Barra, this … meeting o’ theirs took place ages ago – long before yir angel put in an appearance.’
It was Barra’s turn to frown. ‘I know. I just thought …’ He shrugged. ‘Och, who knows what I was thinking?’
‘It’s a hard thing to deal with, Barra,’ Helen said, quietly enough not to be overheard. ‘But dinna’ lose hope, son. It’s all we have at the end o’ the day.’
‘I don’t think Mrs Pascoe has hope,’ he answered, his voice as low as hers.
Rose strained forward, trying to catch his words over the general din.
‘Aye, son,’ Helen agreed. ‘By the looks o’ her today, I’m thinking it’ll be a long time before that lassie’ll know happiness again.’
Barra nodded, his expression still solemn. ‘I don’t mind … if Jamie wasn’t an angel. He was still right about a lot of things. I jist wish Mrs Pascoe could’ve believed in him, jist for a wee while. ’Til she feels better, anyway.’
Rose’s heart caught. ‘She’ll come to it all in her own time, Barra. I’m glad you’ll no’ be bothering her wi’ that nonsense any more.’
‘It wasn’t nonsense, Mam. Whatever it was, it wasn’t nonsense.’
And Rose wondered if she’d ever be able to stop worrying about him. He seemed determined to be … to be … Barra.
‘The big house’ll seem a bit empty now,’ Sandy remarked. ‘What wi’ Hattie gone, and the Cunninghams back down south.’
‘That reminds me, Murdo,’ Chalmers said. ‘I’ll be over tomorrow to do a proper survey. I’m hoping to get started on the rewiring in a couple o’ weeks.’ He glanced over at Helen. ‘You’ll be glad to have seen the back o’ Stewart’s wife, then?’ he called across.
‘Och, the lassie’s no’ as bad as I thought,’ Helen replied. ‘We came to a kind of agreement before she left. As a matter o’ fact, we might be seeing a bit more o’ them from now on. Stewart’s talking about coming north for the grouse in August.’
‘I still never got to meet her,’ Barra said. ‘Is she very Sassenach?’
‘Oh aye,’ Helen nodded. ‘Very.’
‘What is it exactly?’
‘What?’
‘Sassenach. I mean, I know it’s being English. But, what is it?’
Helen shrugged. ‘Well, that’s what it is, Barra. Just being English.’
‘Is that no’ enough?’ Sandy asked. ‘I couldna’ stand it myself – being English.’
‘Why not?’ Barra looked puzzled.
‘Och, they’re just … no’ like us. They’re different.’
‘Well, they would be,’ Barra stated in frustration. ‘They’re from a different country.’
‘Y’can say that again.’ Sandy lifted his glass.
‘Vive la difference!’ Maisie called out, and they all drank to it.
Isla appeared with a tray of steaming sandwiches, passing them around the small group. Barra reached for one, and she smacked his hand. ‘You had one already.’
He looked hurt. ‘Doug said there’s plenty for everyone.’
‘Go on then,’ she said, proffering the tray. ‘I’ll take it as a compliment to my cooking.’
‘I wouldn’t go that far,’ Barra teased. Rose looked at him in amazement.
He caught the look and blushed, but he was well pleased with himself just the same.