The Love of a Family

by Rebecca Shaw

  Myra studied the mess on the table and thought about two boys and how much more mess there’d be if they came to live in this precious monument to her barren useless life. Then her thoughts flitted to her ‘design studio’ upstairs. For a single moment she despised her idiocy in thinking she ran a business. Tea cosies a business?! ‘Oh! Yes, I work in textile design,’ she liked to say. It was all a fantasy, though. She could admit that to herself. She might be good at machine embroidery, none better, but as for ideas or style or design . . . Viv’s ginger cat Orlando would do better. Then it struck her: if the boys came then she could give it up; too busy she’d say and it would be a good excuse. But they weren’t coming, were they? She just couldn’t cope with all that energy, and noise and laughter. Laughter! She’d been short of that all her life. Graham had laughed a lot when she first knew him, but he hadn’t for a long time now. Mainly because he was worried about her health she had told herself.

  The phone rang just after she’d finished supper. Before Myra picked up the receiver she guessed it would be Graham. Who else? His voice was thick and almost unintelligible.

  ‘It’s our John. It’s all over. He was conscious right to the end, and knew the boys. Now he’s out of his pain, no more chemotherapy, that’s the only good thing about it. I won’t be home, not tonight. I’ve got things to sort . . . death certificate and that. Solicitors. Funeral arrangements. The boys are being brave, so very brave, it’ll all come out sometime I expect, but right now they’re being so strong. I’ll ring again when I can.’

  ‘Right.’

  ‘In the morning, probably, when I know what’s happening. I’m not very happy with the neighbour who’s been helping John out with the boys. I’ll fill you in tomorrow. Bye.’

  Her own whispered ‘Bye’ he never heard because she was too late with it. She wondered about this neighbour Graham had declared he wasn’t too happy about. Well, she’d meet her at the funeral and she’d see for herself. If she’d already been looking after the boys and was willing to continue, then why ever not? They could stay at their own schools, no disturbance there and . . . just then little Piers’ eyes came to mind. Bright blue, almost gentian blue they were, and he smiled so beautifully, his smiles captured your heart. But would they still capture it when you saw that enchanting smile of his every single day, Myra asked herself. When he was naughty and cross and broke things, would his smile still catch at her heart then?

  Myra went upstairs and stood in the guest bedroom. It was twelve years since they had decorated it. Myra remembered how she’d insisted Graham spend every weekend on it – painting and papering until it looked nothing like the dream of a nursery Myra had treasured in her mind. It was modern and up to date then, but tonight it felt faded and disappointing. She caught a glimpse of herself in the wardrobe mirror and decided she looked the same . . . faded and disappointing. Myra turned ninety degrees to study her side view and saw her figure didn’t look too bad, her shoulders needed straightening a little, but her stomach didn’t need pulling in. God! How long had she had this skirt? Black and white check, straight, neat, passable. Well, hard cheese, that was how she looked and there was no reason to change, she told herself. She was perfectly all right as she was.

  Sleeping alone didn’t upset her, she’d slept alone for years now. She wondered where Graham was sleeping tonight. In a hotel perhaps. Or John’s house with the boys. Myra pulled the duvet closer, it felt cold tonight. How would the boys be feeling tonight? Deserted she expected. Their remaining anchor gone. Well, life threw all sorts at people and the two of them would have to get over it and grow up and make the best of it.

  Myra still felt cold. She got out of bed, put the light on and searched the cupboard for her extra quilt. It was only November; she usually made herself wait until December before she dug it out. She ran her fingers over the different fabrics – she remembered cutting and stitching each one meticulously, watching the geometric shapes grow and form a pattern all of their own. It had been her project the first winter after she’d married Graham. And as she’d spent the evenings sewing, she and Graham had talked of all their future plans. The places they’d go, the children they’d have. Somehow, after the lost babies, she couldn’t bear to think of stitching another quilt. So this was the first and last she’d made. It was straight to tea cosies after that.

  Myra slept fitfully the whole night; she’d thought she would be upset about John, but even those feelings, illicit and passionate though they had been in the early years, had dried up, as Myra had told herself they would never amount to anything. No, the worst was facing up to the thought that Graham might put his foot down about the boys.

  She almost laughed to herself, of course he wouldn’t. He never did. Even that time when he’d got the chance of a big promotion, which meant moving to the next county, and she’d said no, he’d given in without a fight. Move house, she’d said, just when we’ve got it how we want it? What about your garden, you can’t leave that when you’ve put all that work into it, she’d said as her final gambit and he’d capitulated. No, in the end Graham would understand because if nothing else, he was understanding about her needs, and the last thing she needed now was two boys to look after. Some other arrangements would have to be made for them, she was determined.

  Chapter 2

  The funeral was at ten fifteen, so Graham and Myra set off first thing in the morning to make sure there was plenty of time to make an appearance at John’s house and see how Piers and Oliver were coping.

  The next-door neighbour, Delphine, popped out to greet them as soon as Graham pulled up in the drive. He’d always felt there was something curious about her, ever since John and Mo had come to live there. There was always the feeling at the back of his mind that if John had showed the slightest bit of romantic interest in her she would have stepped into Mo’s shoes without a single protest, but unfortunately for her, John had mourned his loss with a deep and lasting passion, and thrown all his remaining energy into raising his sons.

  Graham unlocked John’s front door. ‘Good morning, Delphine. Well, not so good, really, is it?’

  ‘No, Graham not so good.’ Delphine was dressed from head to foot in black. ‘The boys are almost ready. Good morning, Myra. Sad day, very sad day. Still, these things happen don’t they, life’s never fair.’

  Myra agreed with her, ‘No, it never is.’ She then added, ‘Boys all right?’

  Delphine came closer. ‘Not too bad considering, they’ve been crying a lot, well Piers has, but Oliver’s bearing up. Cup of tea?’

  Myra nodded and followed her into John’s house. For one moment Myra got the distinct impression that Delphine was more at home in the kitchen than Myra had ever imagined. Graham went off in search of something while Delphine and Myra stood awkwardly for a moment not knowing who should play host.

  ‘The boys. Will they need something?’ Myra asked, at last.

  ‘They’ve had soya milk and biscuits over at mine. Would you or Graham like a biscuit?’

  ‘I’ll ask him.’ Myra walked into the sitting room and got a shock.

  There was Graham sitting on the sofa. Oliver on one side and Piers the other, an arm around each of them and the boys clinging to him as though . . . well, a stranger could have been forgiven for thinking he was their dad. They looked so like him, especially Oliver. She hadn’t heard them come in – they must have dashed out of Delphine’s the moment they heard Graham arriving.

  ‘Good morning, boys.’ Myra said. ‘You’re looking very smart. Delphine wants to know, Graham, if you would like a cup of tea and a biscuit?’

  Graham nodded. He’d been holding everything togther, but now he could barely speak. The two boys had clung to him the moment they walked in and he could feel their need. They had no one but him, their grandparents were too frail to cope, their mother gone, their father gone, who else was there? These boys needed him and Myra, but were either of them fit to become parents to two grieving boys? And were they willing? He’d had difficult momen
ts with Myra many a time, when she needed his support, and he’d offered it, only to have it rebuffed. Now, this particular moment, he needed her support. He was certain he couldn’t reject his own flesh and blood, his closest living relatives. They were so deeply in need. So afraid. So anxious. So desperate.

  Delphine came in with his tea and biscuits. ‘Now boys, I think you’d better be going to the lavatory don’t you? It’s nearly time for off. Come on, jump to it.’ When they didn’t move she said ‘Now!’ very firmly. Graham didn’t like her tone. Naturally, he thought, they were slow to react. Neither of them wanted to do anything today, least of all anything that brought them nearer the moment when they would leave for their father’s funeral.

  Graham released his arms and said softly, ‘Good idea to go like Delphine says.’

  Myra thought she sounded common. But she liked her being strict with them, boys needed someone strict. She glanced at Graham and saw he was angry, very angry. What was wrong with being a bit strict? But he was obviously very hurt.

  Graham stood up as he heard the front door opening. ‘I think it’s Mo’s mum and dad, I caught sight of them passing the front window. Yes, it is, that’s her voice. Be nice Myra, be nice,’ Graham warned.

  In came old Mrs Stewart. Graham took her arm and helped her to sit on the sofa. ‘Mrs Stewart. How are you? A sad day for us all, especially for the boys. Good of you to come all this way.’

  The reply came in a thin reedy voice, almost as if the effort to speak would bring about her immediate demise. ‘It’s brought it all back about our Mo, John dying. Nice man was John, proud to have him as a son-in-law. How are you, Myra? You look no different than the last time I saw you, at our Mo’s funeral.’

  ‘I can’t believe it’s been almost ten years. How are you keeping?’ Myra knew without waiting for the answer that that the Stewarts were not well enought to take on their grandchildren.

  ‘Keeping body and soul together, Myra, but only just and my other half’s not much better. His heart you know. Were are the boys?’ Mrs Stewart delved into her handbag and brought out a handkerchief to dab her eyes. ‘You’ll be doing your duty then, Myra?’

  ‘My duty?’

  ‘Taking the boys.’

  Graham intervened well before Myra had decided what to say. ‘That’s all in the melting pot, Mrs Stewart. Still to be decided.’

  ‘That Delphine woman, she’d have married John at the first snap of his fingers. Fancied him for years, she did. Well, it’s all too late, he didn’t want nobody after our Mo died. Broke his heart when she got killed.’ So wrapped in her misery was she, that Mrs Stewart had no idea Delphine had come back in and been standing behind the sofa listening to every word.

  ‘Well really Mrs Stewart, that’s simply not true. I only helped because of the boys, he’d no one else had he? Where were you at the end of the school day while the boys waited for John to get home?’ Delphine’s cheeks had gone a fiery red. ‘I’ve done my bit, believe me, and it’s more than can be said of you. I’ve slaved for John and the children, I have slaved and I mean that. Don’t you think of mentioning a word of it in front of my boys.’

  Mrs Stewart surprisingly found some energy to answer her back. Her lips curled, her mouth twisted and out it came. ‘My boys Indeed! They are not your boys and never will be. You’re not having ’em. Graham’s having ’em, so you can forget that, lady.’

  Myra reeled with shock. Just when she was forming a convenient plan of letting Delphine have the boys, old Mrs Stewart goes and says that. Her reply slipped out before she had engaged her brain. ‘Oh no Graham’s not, because I won’t allow it.’

  At that exact moment the two boys walked back in, coats on, scarves wrapped about their necks, gloves on, looking like two very sad well-dressed angels.

  Myra looked at Graham and thought he was going to boil over. She’d never seen him so angry.

  Mr Stewart walked in just in time to hear Graham’s emotional yet somehow positive reply. ‘These boys have been left in my care by John in his will and that is how it will remain. Nothing and I mean nothing about this matter is to be discussed, ever again. The matter is settled as of this minute, it’s what John wanted. Now let’s assemble ourselves, the hearse is here, and remember it is these two boys who are suffering the most today and they’ve to have every consideration. From everyone.’

  ‘But . . .’ protested Delphine.

  Graham, in Myra’s eyes, suddenly appeared to have grown.

  ‘Come along, Myra, we’ll go in the first car with Piers and Oliver. OK boys?’ He gently guided them to the front door, waited for the last of the mourners to leave and then locked it and preceded Myra, Oliver and Piers down the front path. He couldn’t bear to even glance at the coffin. His dearly loved little brother was gone for ever. What his sons must be feeling Graham couldn’t even begin to imagine. For the last week or so he’d kept himself busy organising the funeral, notifying friends and colleagues, tackling a mountain of paperwork – but now he couldn’t distract himself any longer. He would have to be strong while he said his last farewells, he would have to be the rock these boys could lean on now.

  ‘Come along boys, you get in first with your backs to the front of the car, these seats are just the right size for two boys, aren’t they? That’s it. Now you, Myra, facing the engine . . .’ dropping his voice he added curtly, ‘and like I said no more foolish talk, it’s not appropriate right now.’

  ‘But all I was going to say was . . .’

  ‘Drive on, please.’ Graham, grim-lipped and stony-faced, stared hard at her and for once in her life she stayed silent, but it didn’t stop her thinking. It had come to a pretty pass that Graham had silenced her. It had never happened before, he was always so patient, so gentlemanly, so courteous even when she knew she didn’t deserve it. Somehow she’d have to read the will and find out the real truth of what John had decreed. After all, how would she know what was the truth if she didn’t read the will? It was a bit surprising, John had always been so sympathetic about her poor health, surely he would never have intended for her to have the boys long-term. It must be a misunderstanding.

  Here they were in the car park, the crematorium looming above them. Graham would have given anything to be able to get out and run, anywhere, anywhere but where he had to go this minute. The moment was finally here. His legs were stiff, his spine rigid, his heart bursting but the service had to be got through.

  Myra watched Graham shepherd the boys to wait at the side so they could walk behind the coffin into the little chapel. There was a host of people waiting to follow them in. Who were they all? Smart, well-dressed, black ties, solemn faces, important-looking. Must be from John’s office, she thought. They’d all be manoeuvring for his job now, Myra suspected. As she looked around at the sea of pained faces, she was determined not to let herself feel the pain of John’s demise. She took pride in always being in control of herself, and she wouldn’t be making an exhibition of herself, today or any other time soon.

  Out of the corner of his eye Graham saw Viv in the crowd and it occurred to him that she would be an ally for him in the matter of the boys. Perhaps she’d convince Myra of what a chance they’d been given. But as for Myra . . . he glanced at her and saw her impassive pale face, emotionless, controlled. What on earth had happened over the years, was it his fault they never let their true feelings show? Had he been too considerate? Too willing to give in? Too eager to keep the peace? Before he could continue his train of thought, he saw his mother. He half rose but sat down again when he saw his cousin Susan had made a space for her. When he’d phoned her to let her know the funeral arrangements, she’d said she wouldn’t come, that she couldn’t face saying goodbye to her favourite son. That was how it had always been, she’d never made a secret of the fact that her youngest was the apple of her eye. John couldn’t have hand-me-downs like other younger sons, her John had to have the best, even if it meant going without herself.

  The service itself passed Graham by, his head t
oo full of problems, his hands holding Oliver and Piers closely to him, sharing a service sheet, grieving for the brother he’d lost and for the father Oliver and Piers had had taken from them. It was all mixed up in his head and his tears didn’t help. He hadn’t a free hand to get at his handkerchief but he didn’t care, so the tears fell unheeded. He glanced again at Myra. Impassive, carved in stone despite this being her last farewell to the man she’d once hoped to marry. Myra must have felt him looking at her and turned her head, her eyes challenging him briefly. But he said nothing.

  Before he knew it the gliding sliding organ music began and the coffin went on its final journey through the curtains. The service had ended. And now he had to take on life again. Myra opened her mouth to speak, but Graham held his finger up to her and shook his head as he turned back to the children. ‘Come along, boys, it’s time to leave. We’ll shake hands with everyone and thank them for coming. You’ve been very brave. I’m proud of you. Very proud, are we not, Auntie Myra?’ His eyes told her to answer, but she didn’t.

  Graham was taken by surprise by the depth of sorrow John’s work colleagues expressed as they filed out.

  ‘Wonderful chap to work with.’

  ‘So sorry he’s gone.’

  ‘He’ll be greatly missed.’

  They didn’t any of them stay for a drink, but he could understand that. Even Graham half-wished he could skip the uncomfortable conversations he knew would abound at the small lunch reception he’d arranged in a nearby pub.

  Arriving at the reception, Graham felt he should bite the bullet and talk to his mother.

  ‘Boys, we’ll go have a word with Granny Butler, she’s over there – look.’ Piers was unwilling to let go of Graham, so trotted across with his uncle to say hello to a Granny he rarely saw. Despite doting on her youngest son, Mrs Butler was firmly of the generation that thought children should be seen and not heard. She visited as infrequently as she could, preferring instead to have John take her out for lunch (without Graham, ideally) while Delphine had the children. That way she could sweep in for a moment or two afterwards, ruffle their hair and leave without having to speak to the boys properly or, God forbid, play with them.