Dead Ernest

by Frances Garrood

  “No. I mean where is he? His body? His — ashes? Dad was asking the other day. I think he knew you wouldn’t tell him, so he wanted me to ask you.” Ophelia grinned. “But I’m asking for me, not him. I promise I won’t tell Dad if you don’t want me to.”

  “I don’t want you to.” Annie handed Ophelia a cup of tea and sat down again. “But I will tell you. He’s in the larder.”

  “In the larder?”

  “Yes. I think Andrew was surprised, too, but it’s quite a good place. To be getting on with.”

  “I never noticed him!”

  “Exactly! He’s in a jar behind the pickled onions.”

  “But Gran, why?”

  “Why the larder or why the pickled onions?”

  “No. Why haven’t you done something with him? Something more permanent? You can’t keep him in the larder for ever.”

  “I’m waiting to decide. And I have done lots of things with him. We’ve been to bingo and to Tesco’s, and we’ve watched Coronation Street together. He hated Coronation Street. I even kept him in the shed for a while. But the larder seemed best.”

  “Oh.”

  “Yes. And ashes have to be scattered. I don’t know why they can’t be put or thrown, but they have to be scattered. It sounds such a messy untidy sort of business, doesn’t it?”

  “I suppose it does.” Ophelia had a vivid mental picture of scattering someone and having them blow straight back in one’s face. It would be most discomfiting to find on your return home that small particles of the deceased were still clinging to your hair and clothes. “You’d have to make sure the wind was in the right direction.”

  “That’s what I thought.”

  “I could come with you,” Ophelia said.

  “Would you?”

  “Of course I would. Dad might be a bit miffed, though.”

  “I don’t want him there. Nothing against your dad, of course, but this is between me and Ernest. I don’t mind you coming, though.”

  “Mmm.” Ophelia could see that Annie had unfinished business with Ernest, and that it had to be up to Annie to finish that business herself and in her own way. “What sort of place would he have liked?”

  “I don’t know. He never said. Andrew suggested burying him in the churchyard, but he wasn’t religious. Abroad might be nice.”

  “Abroad?”

  “Yes. Your grandad never went abroad. Always said he’d like to but never got round to it.”

  “So you’ve never been abroad, either?”

  “Never really wanted to.”

  “But you would? To — to scatter Grandad?”

  “I might.”

  “Where would you go?”

  “I don’t know. Your grandad didn’t like the sea, but he was fond of mountains. I might find a nice mountain. With a bit of snow on top, even. When I’m ready.”

  “You haven’t really forgiven him yet, have you?” Ophelia said, after a moment.

  “I’m not sure,” Annie said. “It takes so much time. I want to forgive him, but it’s not easy. Of course, you don’t know the half of it. Andrew does. I’ve told him most of it, and I don’t mind if he tells you, but I don’t think I’ve got the energy to go through it all again. It brings it all back.”

  “Of course.”

  “And you see quite a lot of Andrew, don’t you?” Annie gave Ophelia a shrewd glance.

  Ophelia looked down. “You know I do. But you didn’t want me to talk to you about it.”

  “No. But I worry about you, Ophelia. I can’t see where it will lead.”

  “Neither can I.” Ophelia said. “But when I’m with him, it doesn’t seem to matter. It’s all about now, and about him and me, and about loving and being loved.”

  “Have you and he —? I mean have you, well, you know?”

  “Not yet.”

  “Not yet?”

  “There are practicalities, Gran, as well as — oh, I don’t know. Conscience, I suppose.” How odd, Ophelia thought, that she was quite happy to discuss with her grandmother things which she wouldn’t have dreamt of telling Sheila, although her mother was so anxious to be taken into her confidence. Maybe that was it. Annie’s interest was just that. Interest. She didn’t need to be Ophelia’s confidante, and that, of course, made her the perfect person to talk to. “I think that maybe I’m a more moral person than I thought I was. I’ve never met Janet, and I don’t want to, but I wouldn’t want to hurt her, either.” She cradled her teacup in both hands. “What would you do, Gran?”

  “That’s a difficult one,” said Annie. “The trouble is, there’d be no going back.”

  “I know that. But there wouldn’t be any going forward, either. I know I can’t ever be with Andrew. Not properly. Even if he wanted me. I couldn’t cope with the responsibility of it all. His marriage, the church, you —”

  “Oh, you don’t have to worry about me.”

  “Yes, Gran. I do. You have to live here. In this village. And I care a lot for you. Apart from Andrew, I think you’re the only person who’s ever really wanted to understand me. I love being here with you. I can be myself, with no one nagging me about untidiness or crumbs on the carpet or when am I going to get a Proper Job.”

  “Yes, well. It’s not my job to boss you around, is it? Or bring you up, come to that. I didn’t make a very good job of your father, so I don’t suppose I’m in a position to bring anyone up.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “He’s spoilt,” Annie said.

  Ophelia laughed. “How can someone of sixty be spoilt?”

  “Well, isn’t he?”

  Ophelia considered for a moment. She thought of the way her mother ran around after Billy, of the fact that everything had to be done his way, of his strict adherence to routine and his total lack of flexibility, and decided her grandmother had a point.

  “I suppose he is. I’d never really thought about it. Is he like Grandad, do you suppose?”

  “In some ways. Not unkind, though. I don’t think Billy ever means to be unkind, although sometimes it can seem like it.”

  Ophelia thought of the many times she had been put down or criticised by her father, and wasn’t so sure. How could anyone say the kinds of things Billy had said to her without realising how hurtful they might be?

  “If I could just make him proud of me,” she said, “or at least reasonably pleased with the person I am, I think I’d be happy. But I’m certainly not going to achieve that by having an affair with Andrew, am I?”

  “He doesn’t have to know,” Annie said.

  “True.” Ophelia swirled the tea leaves round the bottom of her cup. “Andrew wants me to go away with him next week. Just for one night.” She paused. “Why don’t you use teabags like everyone else, Gran? They’re so much easier.”

  “Don’t change the subject. And I’ve told you before. Your grandad wouldn’t have tea made from teabags. Said he could taste the difference with his eyes shut. Are you going?”

  “Yes. Yes, I think I probably am.”

  “Well, then.” Annie got up from the table and took their cups over to the sink.

  “What do you mean, ‘well then’?”

  “I mean,” said Annie, picking up a tea towel (Blackpool Tower, circa 1980), “why’ve we been having this conversation if your mind’s already made up? And I think — oh, I just want you both to be happy. But please be careful.”

  “Oh, I do love you, Gran!” Ophelia got up and gave Annie a hug.

  “That’s the second time you’ve said that,” Annie said.

  But Ophelia could tell that she was pleased.

  CHAPTER FORTY-ONE

  Annie’s Story

  Annie’s daydreams soon became a part of her daily life, and as time went on, they became increasingly elaborate. She arranged and rearranged things in her dream house (for this was a home where she had a free rein to do whatever she wanted) and planted the garden with pink and yellow roses. A herd of sweet-faced Jersey cattle grazed in a nearby meadow, a goat and her
kid fed on the windfall fruit in the orchard, and the little girl in the pink frock played on the swing which hung from the bough of an old apple tree. Annie could see her clearly, with her blonde pigtails and her speedwell-blue eyes. She held a crisp rosy apple in her hand and laughed at the puppy which gambolled at her feet. Annie had provided the dog as a companion for Amelia. A dog would keep the child safe.

  The shadowy figure in the rough tweed coat came and went. Annie could never quite make out his face, but she could feel the warmth of his embrace, and breathe in the imagined smells of fresh milk and hay and good clean earth. Often, they would lie together in the big soft double bed. Annie rarely introduced sex into her fantasies; sex reminded her too much of discomfort and powerlessness and shame. But sometimes she imagined lying with her dream lover after lovemaking, holding him and being held; being loved.

  Sometimes, Annie wondered whether she was going a little mad. Was it normal to inhabit a dream world such as hers? There was no way of knowing, for presumably people didn’t talk about such things. But there could be no harm in it, and surely what she was doing was no different from a writer telling a story, or an artist painting a picture. The fact that no one would ever read her story or see her pictures was immaterial. Some people created stories and pictures to entertain other people; Annie’s creations were for herself.

  Meanwhile, Ernest became increasingly irritated by her daydreaming, the more so because there was very little he could do about it.

  “I can think, can’t I?” Annie said once. “You can’t stop me from thinking. I look after the house and Billy, your meals are always on the table, you have clean clothes. I try to do what you want.”

  “But when you have that — that look on your face, I know you can’t be concentrating on what you’re doing,” Ernest said. “For a start, how can you care for a young child if your thoughts aren’t on the job?”

  “Easily,” Annie said. “Remember, I have a lot of practice.”

  “And what’s that supposed to mean?”

  “Just that. Looking after Billy is what I do. Every day. I could do it in my sleep.”

  “That’s exactly what it looks like,” Ernest said. “You look as though you’re doing it in your sleep. If something happens to that boy —”

  “Nothing’s going to happen to Billy,” Annie assured him, well aware that it wasn’t her neglect of her duties that Ernest resented but rather his own exclusion from an area of her life which he knew was unreachable.

  “Well, if that’s the case, I suppose I’ll just have to leave you to get on with it,” Ernest said grudgingly.

  “You do that,” Annie said.

  For she knew she now had something which was beyond Ernest’s reach; a place to go where he couldn’t follow her. Her private world was her refuge and her sanity. It was the only thing in her life which was hers and hers alone. Ernest might read her letters and go through her things; he might cross-question her about where she’d been and whom she’d seen and what they’d talked about. He could rage and he could threaten, and he could possess and abuse her in the bedroom and outside it. He could and did invade every part of her life. But her dream-world was entirely private; a place of peace and tranquillity; and the more time she spent in it, the better she was able to cope with her life with Ernest.

  Annie began to tell stories to Billy; not her own dreams, of course, but stories she made up especially for him; tales of steam engines and animals and red buses and seaside holidays. Billy adored these stories, and would ask for them again and again, but Ernest disapproved.

  “Why are you filling the child’s head with that rubbish?” he demanded. “Hasn’t he enough books, without you making up all this stuff?”

  “He enjoys it,” Annie said. “He likes me inventing stories just for him. It makes them more special.”

  “He needs pictures,” Ernest said. “A young child needs pictures to look at.”

  “He has pictures,” Annie said, wondering that Ernest suddenly seemed to consider himself an expert on the needs of small children. “They’re in his head. They’re the best kind of pictures.”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about. Pictures in his head, indeed! He’ll soon be as crazy as you are.”

  Ernest bought Billy more picture books, and was infuriated when Billy preferred to listen to his mother’s stories. Since Ernest had little imagination, this was one area in which he couldn’t compete, and in the matter of his son’s affections, Ernest was very competitive.

  In her better moments, Annie reflected that part of the trouble was that Billy was quite probably the only person Ernest had ever truly loved. He had hardly known his father, and had feared rather than loved his mother. He had few friends, and those he did have were more acquaintances than anything else. He might once have loved her, but that love had died the day he allowed himself to be trapped into this marriage. But Billy was his; his son. He didn’t have to compete with Billy. He could celebrate Billy’s small achievements as an extension of his own. Billy wasn’t a threat.

  And Billy adored his father, following him round like a small shadow. He seemed to accept that his own childish games tried Ernest’s patience, and was content simply to be with his father when he did odd jobs around the house and garden. Thus, when Ernest tinkered with his car, Billy would fiddle with his own toy cars. When Ernest mowed the grass, Billy would push a little trolley up and down the lawn beside him. When Ernest fed the chickens, Billy accompanied him with his own little pail of corn.

  Once, Annie had felt excluded, and had had her own moments of jealousy, but now she was glad that Ernest and Billy had each other. She didn’t love Ernest, and knew she would never be able to love Billy in the way that Ernest did. If she had done nothing else for them, she had given Ernest a son to love, and Billy a father who loved him.

  Life wasn’t all bad for Annie. Sometimes, things would go smoothly for two or three weeks at a time. There were periods when Ernest seemed fairly content, and at times he was quite companionable. But Annie learnt to take nothing for granted, and to remain watchful, for beneath the surface there was always the threat of Ernest’s anger.

  Sex was less frequent, and Ernest no longer seemed to be punishing her. While never gentle, these days he rarely actually hurt her, and it was always over quickly. For Annie, it had become more of a chore than an ordeal, and she was well used to chores. Ernest’s mysterious fumblings still occurred beforehand, and Annie was glad, for on one matter they were in complete agreement: there were to be no more babies. Ernest had his son, and as for Annie, there could never be a replacement for the baby she had lost. Besides, she daren’t risk going through a similar ordeal. She had survived the loss of one child; she wasn’t sure she had the emotional strength to risk losing another.

  Ernest’s violence was another matter. His outbursts were unpredictable, and were often precipitated by something relatively trivial, while on other occasions, when something might have been expected to arouse his anger, he would let the matter pass.

  The unpredictability was the hardest thing for Annie to cope with, for it meant that even when things were relatively calm, she lived in a state of almost constant apprehension. If she could have pre-empted Ernest’s fury, she would have done so, and occasionally this was the case. But as often as not, his rage would appear to come out of the blue, with little warning and no opportunity for her to prevent it.

  She no longer dreamed of escape. She was too weary, and by now too entrenched in the life she and Ernest had made for themselves. Billy, the house, the village, her few friends, her routine; they were not only extensions of the trap which was her marriage, they also formed a framework for her existence. Without that framework, what would happen to her? At least it held her life together; within its boundaries she had a function and a purpose. If she kept her head down and worked hard, she would survive.

  Whatever else might happen, Annie was determined to survive.

  CHAPTER FORTY-TWO

  Andrew
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br />   They met in a lay-by off the motorway.

  “What if there aren’t any lay-bys?” Ophelia had asked fearfully. “What if we can’t find each other?”

  “There are always lay-bys,” Andrew had reassured her. “And we have our mobiles. Of course we’ll find each other. Trust me.”

  They found a village cul-de-sac where they could leave Ophelia’s car, and travelled the rest of the way together. It was already dusk, and a sharp drizzle was spitting against the windscreen. Andrew turned on the windscreen wipers.

  “They always remind me of summer holidays,” Ophelia said. “Sitting in the car waiting for the rain to stop, so that we could have a picnic. Dad drumming his fingers on the steering wheel (he hates weather because he has no control over it) and Mum with her perfect little picnic hamper. Knives and forks and napkins and proper coffee cups. They even had a little table and chairs. I longed to sit on the grass and eat sandwiches out of a paper bag, like other people.”

  Ophelia’s voice prattled on, nervous and staccato, and Andrew ached for her. It’s because she doesn’t know what else to say, he thought. Like me. Neither of us dares to talk about what’s about to happen. It’s as though we’re both embarrassed. Suddenly, we’re strangers once more, as though the past few weeks had never happened.

  “You’re not listening!” Ophelia said. “I don’t believe you’ve heard a word I’ve been saying.”

  “I have. You were talking about sandwiches and paper bags.”

  “That was about two topics ago.” He could see the pale oval of her face turned towards him. “This feels so — so odd, doesn’t it?”

  “Yes,” Andrew agreed. “But I’m sure it’ll be fine when we get there. It’s just that we’ve never done anything like this before.”

  “It’s a bit like seeing someone off on a train, and saying all the things you want to say, and then the train’s delayed and you find you’ve run out of words,” Ophelia said. “Which is odd, because no one’s going anywhere, and I never run out of words. Mum always said I could talk for England, and she’s probably right. Oh dear. I’m doing it again, aren’t I?”