TWENTY ONE
The cemetery was at Surbiton, which today seemed directly below the flight path to Heathrow. The minister, an Anglican priest engaged for the occasion, had a fragile voice that was frequently drowned by aircraft as he read the service and asked His Father in Heaven to take Georgina Rickson into His Kingdom. Apart from knowing her name, Patrick wondered if he had the slightest idea who on earth he was assigning into the care of his deity.
The sermon sounded thoroughly pedestrian — like a job, which it doubtless was. Patrick guessed the reverend probably did a dozen a day, using the same format with different names, and earning a fair stipend, although his bounty from this one might disappoint him, unless he’d negotiated his fee in advance with Mrs West. He reflected she must be delighted at the turn of events. She had her hands on the inheritance at last, and…
A nudge from Claire disturbed his thoughts. He realised everyone else was rising for a brief final prayer and the service was over.
It took place in the smallest chapel. Expecting no one to be present except the niece, Patrick and Claire were agreeably surprised to find over twenty people. Pleased, too, for the group included Mr Goldsworthy from the Leatherhead Historical Society and the estate agent Tom Rutledge, as well as Mrs Greenfield and Kitty the nurse. A man in a formal dark suit introduced himself as Georgina’s solicitor from Peacock & Marsh.
‘Fine woman,’ he said, ‘I hoped she’d see out her hundred, and get a royal telegram.’
‘That would’ve been nice,’ Claire replied with a diplomatic smile, and steered Patrick away before he could make a comment. She knew his republican sentiments on condescending telegrams from the palace that were most likely dispatched by royalty’s junior clerks. Patrick realised he was being manipulated, and rather enjoyed the feeling. Just to prove it he openly took her hand; she smiled at this and interlocked her fingers with his, a warm, intimate gesture which he found even more enjoyable. They went to greet Mr Goldsworthy and the agent.
‘I suppose this is the end of your search,’ Goldsworthy said, and appeared not the least surprised to see their clasped hands.
Patrick told them of finding Georgina in the nursing home, but made no mention of conditions there. They spoke to Mrs Greenfield and Kitty while Helen West ignored them. She was in conference with the solicitor, then left in a chauffeured limousine. They were not the only ones feeling she was already spending the inheritance.
‘Patrick, look!’ Claire pointed to an elderly figure, only now leaving the chapel. He was accompanied by a smartly dressed young woman.
‘Good Lord, it’s Andrew Gardiner.’
‘It certainly is. Who’s the girl?’
‘Karen, the au pair.’ Patrick said. ‘I didn’t recognise her for a moment with her clothes on.’
*
Andrew Gardiner said he’d have a pinkers. Bit of a risk, a drink like that in a local pub, but it was an old naval habit. He began to tell the barman the required amounts of gin and angostura bitters, but the barman replied he’d worked in a shore base, and Sir was not to worry. When it came, Karen sniffed and declared it smelt nice, wondering if she should have one.
‘Better not, my duckie,’ Mr Gardiner said, ‘not if you want to drive us back afterwards.’
My duckie, Patrick thought, my goodness! He tried to avoid Claire’s gaze. The old codger was doing rather well for himself.
‘He’s teaching me, so I get my English licence,’ Karen said. ‘He’s a very kind and patient man.’
She settled for a lemon drink, and Claire and Patrick ordered lagers. They expressed their pleasure at seeing Andrew Gardiner again.
‘I read about the funeral in the local paper,’ he told them. ‘At my age it’s the first thing you readjust to see who’s fallen off the twig. Felt I ought to show up. Dear old George, she was always kind to me. And young duckie here wanted to practice driving, so we put on our best bibs and tucker and came along.’
‘Best bibs and tucker means good clothes,’ Karen confided with great earnestness to Claire, ‘whereas tucker on its own means food. And bib on its own means the little towel for babies when they spill. Very confusing sometimes, the English language.’
‘It is,’ Claire agreed. ‘And how’s your driving?’
‘Good. Only one red light today.’
‘You only got stopped by one?’
‘No,’ Mr Gardiner said, ‘she only went through one. Better than yesterday. Lucky my old ticker’s up to it. Fit as a fiddle, lately.’
‘That’s another English mystery,’ Karen said. ‘How can a fiddle be fit? A fiddle is a musical instrument… I know because Mr Andrew often says there’s many a good tune played on an old fiddle.’
Patrick tried not to choke on his beer. He looked at Mr Gardiner, who winked at him and raised his pink gin.
‘To Georgina,’ he said, and they all echoed it and drank a toast. ‘I thought that minister was a dead bore,’ he observed. ‘Hadn’t a clue about her. The niece should’ve given him a bit of background, then he could’ve said less about God and more about George. How she was a nurse, and all that —’
‘But Andrew…’ Patrick felt it time to be less formal if he was going to disagree, ‘I don’t think she really was a nurse.’
‘Of course she was, old boy. Definitely a nurse.’
‘Oh, well…’ He felt Claire’s hand take hold of his below the table. It was asking a lot of an old man’s memory.
‘But… she wasn’t a Rose,’ Andrew Gardiner added, and they both turned to gaze at him while he took a sip of his gin, aware he had their interest. ‘Too young for that. Henrietta was older — she was the Rose. I got that wrong the last time we met. Tempus fugit, or as they say these days, a “senior’s moment”.’
‘I see…’ Patrick started to say, but the other was in full flow.
‘I started thinking about it, and the old brain box was in better shape this time. I can even remember the song, but don’t make a run for the door; I won’t sing it. Just try to rattle off the words.’ They leant forward to listen as he recited:
There’s a Rose that grows in No-Man’s-Land,
And it’s wonderful to see.
Tho’ it’s sprayed with tears,
It will live for years, in my garden of memory.
It’s the one red rose the soldier knows,
It’s the work of the Master’s Hand;
In the war’s great curse, stands the Red Cross Nurse,
She’s the Rose of No-Man’s-Land.
‘Bravo!’ Claire cried, and they all applauded his recollection.
‘Terrible load of old twaddle, but my dad loved singing it. He’d open the piano and bash the keys — long after the war when everyone else had forgotten it. My poor mother hated that song.’
‘So they were both nurses?’ Patrick prompted him back to the Rickson sisters.
‘They were, but at different times, old lad. Henry during the war, so I was told. Serving over in France for a while, then back in Blighty at a rum sort of place called Netley.’
‘She was at Netley?’ Claire was now as intent and absorbed as Patrick. It was as though the words in the notebook were coming to life in this unlikely locale, a corner table in a nearly empty pub in Surbiton.
‘Absolutely. Heard of Netley, have you?’ Andrew asked. ‘Never saw it myself, but it was supposed to be the biggest hospital in the world.’
‘Yes,’ Patrick replied. ‘They sent the shell-shock cases there.’
‘That’s so. Hadn’t a clue how to treat ‘em properly, from all accounts. Poor devils. Dreadful war. All wars are dreadful, but that was the worst because it never should’ve happened. Morally wrong, all about territory and national pride.’
After the drinks they walked out to the car park. Karen went to sit at the wheel of the car, an elderly but well-preserved Rover; rather like its owner, Patrick felt, as they made their farewells.
Andrew said he was glad he’d come, and was extremely pleased he’d met them both ag
ain. He hoped it was not out of order to wish the pair of them good luck. And on another matter entirely, he was going to leave strict instructions that on no account should he have that parson at his funeral.
‘How about a woman celebrant?’ Claire suggested, and Andrew’s eyes sparkled at the idea.
‘I’ll tell my daughter,’ he promised. ‘I want a nice-looking one. As pretty as you!’ He asked if she’d mind, but he’d like to kiss her goodbye. After a chaste kiss on the cheek and a firm handshake with Patrick, he got in the car beside Karen.
Patrick and Claire linked arms and watched as she started the engine.
‘As pretty as me,’ Claire repeated, ‘what a charmer!’
‘They don’t make them like that any more,’ Patrick assured her. It was all he had time to say, as Karen accidentally pumped the accelerator and the Rover shot out of the car park into the road. There was a screech of brakes. A furious male driver who stopped only inches from them honked his horn angrily while bellowing abuse. From her seat in the Rover Karen gave him a sweet smile, blew him a kiss and drove sedately off.
There was still no news of a meeting at the BBC and, even more surprisingly, no reply to any of the messages Patrick had left for Joanna. By now the staff at Fox studios would be speculating on the state of their relationship after his frequent calls and emails. It was a puzzle, and since she remained so determinedly out of touch — for that was how it appeared to him — there seemed nothing else he could do but make direct contact with his father-in-law Carlo Lugarno.
But after some consideration he rejected this. For despite their outward rapport, he had always been aware that Carlo viewed his daughter’s marriage with some negativity; having clawed his own way from indigent refugee to wealth and influence, he’d had elaborate plans for his only child. Few men could match his expectations, certainly not one from the arcane world of show business. Carlo had worn his disappointment with good grace, but Patrick knew his father-in-law secretly wished she had married a leading lawyer or a blue-chip industrialist, almost anyone but a ‘journeyman writer’ — particularly one foolish enough to toss away a legal career.
Also, Carlo’s impatience at their failure to produce children, and the accusatory comment of them making films, not babies, had been levelled at Patrick, not at his adored Joanna. He’d never believe she was averse to providing him with grandchildren, so the lack of progeny after five years would not be blamed on her. There was little point in seeking Carlo’s help; it was a matter of waiting until Joanna chose to make contact. However, it was now over a week, and while in their times apart there had been longer periods than this without communication, his sister’s phone call made this one strangely perplexing.
Meanwhile the weather in London continued to be kind, and the days were full and tranquil. Patrick and Claire sometimes ate at a favourite restaurant on the river. Each morning they went for a jog on the Thames towpath, and later strolled along Kings Road to buy prawns at the fishmonger’s, followed by a beer at the World’s End where they began to meet friends. Their simple domestic routine in the time since he had moved to Fulham felt euphoric, like a stolen honeymoon.
*
Patrick woke at two the following morning and found himself alone in bed. A spill of light came from the study where Claire was engrossed. She had been following links on web sites, she told him as he appeared, and sounded excited.
‘It’s all here, Patrick, just like Stephen said! The French mutiny, those poor devils they executed. All true! I haven’t found more names yet — but if I keep tracking we’ll find something.’
Her excitement was infectious. She wore a short towelling robe, and with her long bare legs, her face devoid of any makeup and her auburn hair tied back, she looked like a lovely vivacious schoolgirl. He sat beside her, feeling a rush of happiness, the same feeling that had taken him by such surprise at the village pub the day she had asked him to come and stay with her.
It felt like love, but it seemed premature and reckless to say so.
‘You’ve got mail,’ Claire told him the following afternoon, for Patrick’s laptop was now networked to her computer. Patrick saw a list of senders in his inbox, but there was nothing from Joanna. The only personal letter was from Sally.
‘God Almighty,’ he said, reacting to her news.
‘What’s wrong?’
‘My wife’s been in hospital. Not at home, she was taken ill in Los Angeles. She’s on her way home now.’
‘What happened?’
‘I don’t know. I’ve been leaving messages for the past week. This explains why they weren’t answered.’
Claire was certain he was being evasive, just as he had been after the surprise phone call. But why, she wondered, and felt her heart plummet. The acute disappointment made her reply abruptly.
‘Then you’ll want to go home. Better call the airline. Check if there are seats.’
‘Let me think about it, Claire.’
‘But you must go home. Surely your wife will expect you to?’
‘The email’s from Sally.’
‘Even so…’ Desperately wanting him not to go, Claire found herself almost insisting that he should. ‘If she’s been ill…’
‘I’ll wait until later, till breakfast time in Australia, and talk to my sister first.’
‘At least you can make a tentative booking in case, and cancel if necessary. I’ll take your shirts down to the laundrette.’
‘Getting me ready for take-off?’
‘It seems silly not to be prepared.’ She put his washing and some of her own into a bag. ‘Won’t be long. Here’s the phone book. The airline should still be open, if you ring soon.’
‘Not trying to get rid of me, are you?’
‘Don’t be so fucking stupid,’ she said, and went out while he was reflecting on what sort of an answer that merited.
When Patrick heard the street door below slam shut he read Sally’s letter again. Her emails were often verbose, but this one was different. Brief and to the point.
Knew you were worried, plus Mum bugging me about news on the preggers/grand-parentage aspect, so rang Carlo. He’s in shock. She flew to Los Angeles for some film meeting and was ill there. He thinks it was a miscarriage, ‘cos she’s no longer pregnant, but I have to say I’m not quite sure what I think, Pat. She’s back tomorrow. Felt you should know, luv S.
Patrick knew what the letter was hinting. Why hadn’t Jo let him know? Why, suddenly, was he hearing this news via his sister and father-in-law? And how did he feel about not being a dad? Disappointment or relief? Sally was clearly intimating an abortion. Sal sometimes jumped to hasty conclusions about her sister-in-law, but if this by any chance happened to be true, then why hadn’t he been consulted?
Claire sat watching the clothes and soapy water swirl in the window of the machine, wishing she hadn’t snapped at Patrick like that, and wondering why she hadn’t brought a book or newspaper to read. Probably because she’d never sat waiting like this before; she always left her washing with Mrs Rhani, the obliging Pakistani, who dried and folded it for a small extra charge. But today she’d said she would wait, and now realised that watching clothes being washed, rinsed and spun-dried was akin to watching grass grow, and about as exciting.
So why was she doing it? Because she didn’t want to go back to the flat just yet. After an exit line like that, she couldn’t think of the right one for an entry. And Patrick needed space, time to think. She knew it wasn’t his fault; it was just rotten luck that on one of the best days in her life, a day when she had felt happiest, this news had to spoil it.
Ever since the funeral, being greeted by people they’d previously met together, especially dear old Andrew Gardiner, she’d felt the comfort of knowing they were regarded as a couple, an item. Even Mr Goldsworthy, to whom she’d told the story about being Patrick’s PA, seemed to accept that the relationship had moved on. It was a good feeling. It had been a long time since she had been seen as a partner with anyone, a real item.
Nearly four years, which at her age of twenty-eight was a very long time indeed.
There’d been attachments, a few lovers, but no actual love. Frank, the most recent and now far away in New York, had never been a real contender. Not since Donald had stormed his way into her life — and out again after two years of love and pain: two years of exquisite joy followed by the reality of deceit and humiliation — had she allowed anyone to occupy a place so deep in her affections again.
Not until she’d gone to the Menin Gate.
And if the day of the funeral had been heart-warming, today was even better. It had been an ordinary and yet extraordinary day, full of simple things: jogging, breakfast, shopping together, a stop at the pub, and she was not sure if Patrick felt it, but to her it was as if this could be the pattern of a life. She’d made herself forget that he was married, that he already had a life, and was soon going back to another country and another woman. She had been idiotically happy until a sign on her computer told her he had mail. As an expert who made her living in the IT world, she profoundly wished the bloody things had never been invented. Although that was a stupid thought; bad news could always be sent by phone or fax machine. She was being childishly aggrieved.
Claire felt she could no longer bear to watch Patrick’s shirts and pants tumbling in the soap suds. ‘I’ll be back,’ she told Mrs Rhani, and leaving the laundrette she walked down to the towpath.
The tide was out, and on the mudflats gulls fossicked and noisily squabbled for the scraps that pleasure boats had dropped. She felt it sad the way people treated the river. She could see old tyres that had been dumped, and a rusted pushbike lay almost buried in the mud. Other debris lay waiting for the next attempted clean-up. Old father Thames, the song said, but Donald had always claimed the river should be feminine: she was a grand old lady. If that was so, today her mascara had run and left her looking like a tired old tart.
She hadn’t thought of Donald in a long time. Had resolutely not wanted to, although after a gap of four years it was less an ache than a distant and distasteful memory. He had been her first boss in a large communications company; she’d been selected, from a veritable army of applicants, to work in an elite group that set up computer systems. At first she believed that she’d been chosen on merit; later, much later, he told her he had seen her legs first, then looked at her other credentials, the ones on paper. Donald had had enough wicked charm to get away with that sort of remark, and by then they were lovers.
Barbed Wire and Roses Page 24