Love in a Mist

by Sarah Harrison

  It was the change in the air, the shift in balance that was most unsettling. I didn’t understand it any more than I understood anything about my parents’ relationship, so it didn’t alter my status as an outsider, but it was unmistakably there. Zinny had the air of someone keeping a tight rein on anger, and my father’s famous charm – or anyway the will to employ it – seemed for the moment to have drained away. He was crestfallen and oppressed. Whatever their current reason for excluding me, it was not the same as before.

  But I was not the same, either. I would have liked things to be otherwise, but I wasn’t so ready to be cowed by them, or to feel guilty. The restaurant was on the high street and we weren’t able to park outside, so my father dropped us off and went to find a space. Once we were sitting at our table, I asked: ‘How is Dad?’

  ‘Nico is fine. Smoking too much, but he knows what to do about that.’

  ‘He seems so sad.’

  Zinny shrugged and took delivery of the menus. I persisted. ‘Do you think it’s to do with Jessie?’

  ‘It might be …’ She scanned the choices. ‘But after all he’s only seen her what, half a dozen times in the last twenty years.’

  ‘Maybe that’s it. Maybe he feels guilty.’

  ‘He does, a little. God knows there’s no need.’

  ‘I suppose,’ I began, conscious of venturing into unknown territory without a map, ‘it’s not always logical.’

  ‘Oh, for goodness sake.’ Zinny looked at me over her narrow, black-framed glasses. ‘She was a terrible woman. Is a terrible woman. You’ve met her.’

  ‘Only once.’

  ‘I’m sure once was enough.’

  At this point my father arrived, Zinny offered to drive home, and things cheered up considerably under the benign influence of a nice wine and a good dinner. A couple from another table even came over to say hello as they left. Later, when we got home, we sat on the verandah for a while. Zinny fetched the scotch decanter and glasses. I demurred, but she said, ‘Just a splash, it’ll do you good.’

  As always, the presence of the sea was calming. There was no moonlight, but on this still night and with only a hurricane lamp on the table we could just make out its restless breathing presence. What with that and the tongue-loosening effects of the wine and the unaccustomed whisky, I’d had enough of being cautious.

  ‘I don’t know when you’re thinking of going to see Jessie again,’ I said, ‘but I’d be happy to come along. For moral support.’

  If Zinny harboured any guilt about her lack of involvement, she didn’t show it. She raised her eyebrows in my father’s direction.

  ‘There’s an offer!’

  ‘That’s good of you, Floss. I’m honestly not sure when, or even if, but if I do I’ll let you know.’

  ‘Edwin’s away at the moment,’ I explained, ‘so I have fewer time constraints.’

  ‘Thanks, well, I’ll bear that in mind.’

  The sadness was back. There followed an awkward pause. Zinny glanced from one to the other of us as if checking that was that, before saying, ‘So what’s the Prof up to?’

  I explained, placing emphasis on the writerly aspects of the trip. Zinny liked E.J. Clay so I told her the other news.

  ‘And the first book is going to be on TV.’

  ‘Really? How exciting. Did you hear that, Nico, they’re doing one of the Clay books on telly.’

  ‘Good for him.’

  ‘When will that be?’ asked Zinny.

  I explained about the long lead-in – contracts, casting, locations and so forth. Zinny was alight with interest, she loved this kind of thing. My father nodded but he was on autopilot, fishing out his fags and putting them away again, taking snatched gulps of his drink. It struck me that he must have been at least ten years younger than Edwin, but there were no such exciting developments in his life nor, as far as I could tell, likely to be. Zinny picked up the conversational baton, enthusing about some current drama they were following. My father looked miles away. However humdrum his work, he’d always seemed happy in it – content, anyway – but now I felt uncomfortable about the turn the conversation had taken.

  ‘How’s business?’ I asked, and at once wished I hadn’t.

  ‘Business?’ He frowned distractedly. ‘Fine, as far as I know – look, I don’t mean to be antisocial but I think I’ll take a bit of a walk.’

  I was about to ask if I could go too, but Zinny got in first.

  ‘Good idea, don’t go too far.’ She laughed. ‘When should we send out a search party?’

  ‘Shan’t be long, twenty minutes or so.’

  I started to tell him to be careful, but he was already disappearing down the steps and over the road into darkness.

  ‘Will he be all right? It’s pitch black out there.’

  ‘He knows his way.’

  ‘And he’s had a skinful. Those steps—’

  ‘Honestly, don’t fuss. He’ll probably just go along the road and back.’ She darted me a look and added sharply, ‘I worry about him too, you know.’

  ‘Of course,’ I said, though I knew no such thing.

  Zinny removed some invisible speck from her drink with a glossy red nail. ‘It’s that bloody woman!’

  Not long after that I decided that whatever it was, I had as always to leave them to it. I didn’t even wait the allotted twenty minutes; the tension was too hard to bear. Instead, I wished Zinny goodnight, took my glass to the kitchen and went upstairs.

  A little later – I was still holding my book, though not taking much in – I heard their voices, so I knew he was back. But they didn’t come into the house, and in one way it was just like my childhood: up here, me not wanting to listen, but hoping to hear; down there, the voices, softly coming and going, talking about things that weren’t for my ears.

  In another way, everything had changed.

  TWELVE

  I didn’t see Fergal again. He was probably avoiding me and I wouldn’t have blamed him. On the Wednesday of the second week, Edwin rang just as I was about to leave.

  ‘Good, hoped I’d catch you. I wanted to touch base, see if all was well.’

  ‘All extremely well,’ I told him. ‘Nothing urgent to report. Percy’s in good shape, and I met Fergal.’

  ‘Ah, you did. And did he speak?’

  ‘Yes, actually. He seems a nice boy.’

  ‘He is …’ I thought something else was coming, but he simply said again, ‘Indeed he is,’ and then went on, ‘Did you manage to get to grips with the mountain of paper?’

  ‘No problem. I put out one massive black bag, and there’s a very small pile you need to cast your eye over when you get back. Where are you, by the way?’

  ‘Good question. I’m in a motel somewhere south of Monument Valley. En route to Albuquerque.’

  ‘How was the hiking?’

  ‘Wonderful!’ His voice leapt with enthusiasm. ‘A quite extraordinary landscape – unique, not remotely like anything else I’ve done. I must say I feel enormously energized.’

  He sounded so delighted, I found myself feeling envious, and not only because I needed a holiday myself. I envied the friends who were with him, participating both in the adventure, and in Edwin’s happiness.

  We talked for another couple of minutes, and when I put the phone down I thought, with a slight sense of surprise: I miss him.

  My father called later the same evening, to say that Jessie had died. In spite of this he was composed – unnaturally so. He cut off my commiserations.

  ‘I hate to ask you, Floss, but would you be able to come to the funeral with me?’

  I didn’t hesitate. ‘Of course.’

  ‘Zinny can’t make it and – you know.’

  ‘When?’

  ‘That’s the trouble, it’s this Friday, the day after tomorrow. A working day and not much notice.’

  ‘Remember Edwin’s not here, and I’m well up with work. He’ll understand, anyway. It won’t be a problem.’

  ‘I ought to warn
you, it will be ghastly.’

  ‘That’s all right, I wouldn’t expect a funeral to be fun.’

  He cleared his throat. ‘We could be the only ones there.’

  ‘All the more reason for me to come.’

  ‘Thank you. I do appreciate this, Floss.’

  The funeral was at two. We arranged to meet in town near the home, and go on to the crematorium together.

  I had never been to a funeral, but I was happy to be doing something to help my father. I felt wounded on his behalf that Zinny wasn’t making the effort, but I was secretly glad that it would be just me and him.

  We met in the cafe of a superstore on the ring road, because it was easy to find and the parking was free. My father looked pale but handsome in a dark suit. He’d had a haircut, which always made him look younger. I had opted for black trousers with a white top and a grey jacket. We ordered coffee and toast.

  ‘Like the old days,’ I said, ‘remember? But without the full English.’

  He stared down at his plate. ‘I don’t mind telling you, I’m dreading this.’

  I remembered something he used to say to me when I was dreading something at school.

  ‘Look at it this way. Three hours from now it’ll be all over.’ I glanced at my watch. ‘Perhaps two, I don’t know how long funerals take.’

  ‘Not long,’ he said. ‘Especially this one. Rent-a-vicar, and no-one with anything to say. I did put a notice in the paper, but I don’t expect there to be much take-up, if any. She didn’t have any friends, and most of the people who did know her will have forgotten her long since. That is if they’re not already dead.’

  His gloomy summary would have been almost funny if the picture it painted hadn’t been so unremittingly bleak.

  ‘Will you say something?’ I asked. He shook his head. I had an idea, which in truth I only mentioned because I knew what the answer would be. ‘Would you like me to say anything – on your behalf, I mean? Or, I don’t know, read something? We could stop at a bookshop.’

  ‘Good lord, no.’ He gave a bitter little laugh. ‘Now that would be farce. No—’ he picked up his coffee – ‘we just need to get the job done.’

  My ignorance of funerals didn’t stop me from realizing that they needed some organization, and it sounded as if this one had received none. If my father was the sole mover in today’s proceedings he had done precious little. The phrase ‘a poor show’ sprang to mind.

  The crematorium was also on the ring road, a little further west. It reminded me of a motorway motel, except with a bigger garden. The car park was surprisingly full. A noticeboard informed us that there were two chapels, South and West, and that Jessie Mae Sanders (the name was made up of letters in a slot) would be in West, the smaller one. As we arrived we saw a huge crowd of mainly black-clad mourners from a previous event emerging from South and milling around in a paved and cloistered area discreetly talking, kissing and admiring an impressive display of flowers and wreaths.

  That would explain the cars. We were early, and there was no-one else about outside the door of West Chapel, which was closed. There was a bench beside the path, and we sat down. My father lit a cigarette. Like Zinny I wished he didn’t smoke, but I reckoned he was entitled to a fag on this of all occasions. The people from the other funeral were beginning to move in the direction of the car park, ties were loosened and hats removed as the mood lifted and relief kicked in. There was almost a party atmosphere. I supposed they were heading off towards a pleasant wake – wine, sandwiches and cake, jovial memories of the deceased. The contrast between them and us could not have been starker. I promised myself that we would find a stiff drink as soon as this was over.

  After fifteen minutes or so, the door was opened by a young man in a sports jacket and dog collar. My father dropped his cigarette (he was well into the second one) on the path, and put his foot on it as he got up. The vicar came over, hand extended.

  ‘Mr Mayfield?’

  ‘Yes. And I can see who you are. This is my daughter, Flora.’

  The handshake was brief, and vigorous. ‘John Ormsby.’

  ‘Thanks for doing this.’

  ‘I was glad to be asked. You’re using Mr Jarvis, they’re a good outfit.’

  I didn’t know to what he was referring, but my father glanced around. ‘When will they be here?’

  Ormsby looked at his watch. ‘Ten minutes or so? And just to check, to be absolutely sure, no special instructions?’

  ‘None, thanks. Whatever you’d normally do.’

  Ormsby nodded. ‘Simple, succinct, dignified.’

  ‘Right.’

  ‘We have some very nice recorded music for entry and departure.’

  ‘Don’t worry.’

  ‘Of course. Silence can be better.’ As if for illustration, he allowed one to develop. When my father made no comment he added, ‘Excellent. In that case I should go and get ready. Do you want to come in, or stay here, in case, you know, anyone else …?’

  ‘We’ll stay here.’

  ‘Absolutely fine. I’ll see you in there.’

  He went in, hooking back the main door, and opening wide the interior glass doors, revealing a bright modern interior, all blond wood, discreet lighting and pale grey carpeting. Six semi-circular rows of chairs faced a lectern, a keyboard, an altar, an ominous plinth … For the smaller of the two chapels it looked worryingly large.

  ‘He seems nice,’ I said.

  ‘It’s his job.’

  ‘Still. He was accommodating and pleasant.’

  My father wasn’t listening, because the funeral director’s car had arrived, and pulled up in the driveway next to us. The driver got out and moved poker-faced to open the back of the car. The man from the passenger seat approached, removing one of his black gloves.

  ‘Mr Mayfield? George Jarvis. We still have some minutes in hand. Can I ask if you would like to accompany the coffin?’

  ‘Where to?’

  I was on fire with embarrassment, but there was no indication that Jarvis even noticed my father’s appalling bad taste, let alone recognized it as a joke. Probably bland, unshakable courtesy was both a qualification and part of the training.

  ‘Into the chapel.’

  We glanced at one another. I said, ‘No thank you.’

  ‘In that case,’ said Jarvis, ‘shall we take the coffin in now, and put it in position? Then you can follow with any other mourners. Or attendees.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  His politeness and discretion were watertight. The other man must have been listening, because without speaking to one another he and Jarvis took a folding trolley from the hearse, and slid the plain wooden coffin on to it.

  ‘I said no flowers,’ said my father by way of explanation, but just loud enough for them to hear. As if there might otherwise have been an avalanche of blooms. The stark barrenness of everything was getting to us both. Jarvis and his assistant showed no sign of having heard. It was all in a day’s work for them; they must have seen it all.

  ‘We’ll place the coffin and sit at the back of the chapel,’ said Jarvis in his quiet, neutral voice. ‘Have you seen Mr Ormsby?’

  ‘Yes, he introduced himself.’

  ‘You’re in good hands.’

  My father muttered, ‘I should hope so.’

  They proceeded to wheel Jessie in; that great rawboned giant of a woman, neatly boxed up. Ormsby, now in his surplice, greeted them near the altar and they transferred the coffin to the plinth. My father consulted his watch for the nth time. ‘Three minutes. Do you think if we just go in we can kick off early?’

  ‘No!’ I said. ‘Here are some more people.’

  The three women introduced themselves as being from the Home. The smart, personable matron (not Hilary, who must have long since moved on) introduced the other two: the oldest, very overweight and with swollen legs, was now retired, but turned out to be the motherly orderly whom I’d met all those years before. A sad-eyed Indian lady in her fifties had been Jessie’s main
carer for the past three years. We said how nice it was of them to come, but it was hard to say which was worse, us being the only ones there, or having this tiny group of outsiders to witness the desolate proceedings.

  Ormsby came down to tell us it was time, and we all went in together. Jarvis and his henchman were in the back row, and closed the doors after us. Ormsby indicated that we should sit at the front, and the three women sat a few rows behind. I was glad there was no music, for it would have made me cry – not for Jessie, but for us. This. The whole sad charade.

  Ormsby was as good as his word. We had each been given a card with the words of the service, and he spoke them with a clear, practised sincerity, and no irritating mannerisms. With no hymns, we were only required to mumble along with the Lord’s prayer, which I remembered from school, and halfway through which there was some movement behind us as if someone had had to leave.

  I’m ashamed to say that when Ormsby declared ‘Dust to dust, ashes to ashes’ and the curtains drew slowly around Jessie in her box, I felt only an enormous relief. We’d done it, and it was over. But when I looked at my father his cheeks were glistening. I felt for his hand, but there was no answering squeeze.

  Mr Jarvis came forward and opened another door, this time at the front, to the left of the altar, indicating with an outstretched arm and inclined head that we should leave that way. Ormsby shook our hands, and we were out in the cloistered area, with its extravagant display of other people’s flowers, their lively colours welcome after the austerity of the chapel.

  We talked for a couple of minutes to the ladies from the Home – they were good at this (undoubtedly practised hands) and then Ormsby, who’d been hovering in the doorway, came over and said something sotto voce to my father.

  ‘Excuse me for a moment.’

  I glanced after him and saw him re-enter the chapel with the vicar. Not long after that the ladies left – I felt bad that we weren’t offering them so much as a cup of tea – and then Jarvis came out to say that he was leaving. I thanked him and stood on my own, admiring the flowers and feeling the afternoon sun on my face. Through an archway I could see a procession of cars moving sedately towards the car park – the next lot, presumably. What did I care, we were all done. I was suddenly starving, and wanted nothing more than to be in a pub with a plate of chips. I went back in to gee up my father.