by GJ Minett
She started with Eudora’s document that should have been on the laptop and wasn’t, how she and Kate had been so obsessed with O’Halloran, they’d missed the obvious. The idea that it had been erased after the break-in hadn’t even occurred to them because the only person who’d had the laptop then had been Ellen herself . . . apart from when she gave it to Alan.
As for the rest of it, it was like sitting down on a Saturday evening and watching the lottery balls fall into place. There was the passage from Carl Holmbach’s book, describing the accident which had resulted in the loss of the boy’s little finger and the top of the one next to it, a deformity about which he was so self-conscious that he always wore a black leather glove. It was the kind of thing she could easily have skipped, a tiny detail that might never have registered if she hadn’t already been in a heightened state of alert. Then there was the mystery of the parcels being sent to Calder Vale. If it wasn’t Jacob or Sam, who was it? And why? She told him how she had sat there, expecting to see her barely formed theory blasted out of the water with the drop of each new ball, only to discover that yet another of her numbers had come up. By the time she’d checked the employment records and discovered that Alan Wharton had arrived at Langmere barely three months after the death of Carl Holmbach, she knew she wasn’t going to need any bonus ball.
Then it was her turn to ask questions and he told her about his visit to Ashbury in search of a detailed picture of his father’s life there and in particular the woman who had obviously come to mean a lot to him. Ellen had no problem at all understanding his need to fill in the gaps – it felt as if she’d only just embarked on a similar kind of odyssey herself. He told her about the conversation with Old Jenny Moore which changed everything – the one in which she told him about Barbara’s sudden disappearance from the village and the rumours that the reason she’d left was because she was pregnant. If they were true, there was only one possible father, which meant that if he could track Barbara down, maybe he’d find another branch of his family he’d known nothing about. Maybe he wasn’t alone after all.
And as the sun inched its way across the living-room floor and the almost untouched cup of coffee grew cold to the touch, Ellen went with him as he followed in almost the exact same footsteps that Stuart Mahon, at Eudora’s bidding, had taken in the latter stages of his own journey just a few months earlier. She shared the sense of triumph John Michael – Alan? – must have felt when he finally tracked Barbara down at Langmere, was able to read in his expression the joy and sense of wonder when he discovered that he not only had a sister but was an uncle as well . . . twice over. It didn’t escape her attention that the longer they spent in each other’s company, the more he relaxed, to the point where he was actually initiating conversation. He even smiled at one point, apologising for having deleted Eudora’s file. He told her he’d kept a back-up copy if she wanted it, at which point she smiled too and it felt as if a bridge had been crossed.
Eventually, during a momentary lull in the conversation, Ellen looked at her watch and said she ought to be thinking about getting back. He offered to make lunch, then admitted ruefully that it would have to be jam sandwiches as he hadn’t been to the shop yet. She thanked him anyway. The Balfours were coming round later to see her and go over the arrangements for the funeral which was just three days away and there were still things she wanted to do before she picked up the children.
The door was only a few paces away but she suddenly felt unaccountably awkward, as if unsure how to cross that space. They’d talked, which was important. They’d made a start of sorts, and she’d even managed to relax a little in his company, but she was aware that the person she felt comfortable with was Alan Wharton. John Michael Adams was a different matter. He cast a long shadow and she wondered if she would ever be able to shake it off. She was aware of the uneasiness which had quickened her pulse and rattled her coffee cup whenever the subject of her children was raised, especially when he referred to himself as their uncle. It was one thing to appreciate how much it meant to him that he still had family after all but there seemed to be an assumption somewhere in all this with which she felt far from comfortable – an assumption of inclusivity. She didn’t want to leave him with any misapprehensions.
He seemed equally preoccupied as he got to his feet.
‘So,’ he said, looking at the cases. ‘What do I do about them?’
Ellen shrugged her shoulders.
‘Do you want me to leave?’
‘I told you, I’m not going to tell anyone.’
‘That’s not what I asked,’ he said, and for the first time ever, as far as she could recall, he actually looked her in the eye, unflinchingly. Clearly the answer mattered a great deal to him. She was the one who looked away first.
‘No, I don’t want you to leave,’ she said. ‘Not on my account. But I don’t want . . .’ She fished her car keys out of her jeans pocket and took a deep breath before continuing. ‘I don’t want you to get any wrong ideas, OK?’
He frowned. ‘What wrong ideas?’
‘About my family.’
‘I don’t –’
‘It’s just – you work at Langmere, right? I’m your employer. That’s how it’s been till now and anything different is going to get people talking. That’s all I’m trying to say.’
He looked at the floor, nudging one of the cases with his foot and looking as if he was picking his words carefully.
‘It doesn’t feel like that’s all you’re trying to say,’ he mumbled, as if to himself.
‘Look, I’m sorry,’ said Ellen, reaching for the door and pulling it open. ‘I can’t do this now.’ She stepped past him into the hallway before forcing herself to turn and face him.
‘I’ll see you tomorrow at work, OK?’
‘I’ve still got a job then?’ he asked.
‘Of course you’ve still got a job.’
‘I’m sorry about today . . . you know . . .’
There was something so childlike, so pathetic about him that she reached out and patted his arm, before turning away.
She was sitting in the car, trying to get the key into the ignition before she realised just how much her hand was shaking.
12
Ellen: three days later
‘Thank God it’s stopped raining,’ said Kate. ‘I always think rain at a funeral’s such a cliché.’
Ellen smiled, picking up instantly on the reference. Kate had stayed over last night and they’d watched a dreadful film which was so predictable they found themselves guessing not only what would happen next but even what the characters were about to say. They’d given up on it halfway through and watched repeats of Friends instead, working their way steadily through the one bottle of wine they’d agreed would be the limit.
‘What’s a cliché?’ asked Megan.
Kate draped an arm around her shoulder and pulled her in close, exaggerating the embrace. ‘You see,’ she said, ‘that’s such an intelligent question. When I was your age the only questions I ever asked were about Adam Ant and Wham, which is why I’ve ended up cutting people’s hair for a living and you, young lady, are going to go to university and become my solicitor.’
Megan beamed, as she always did whenever she was complimented on either her intelligence or her maturity. Ellen thought again what a blessing it was that Jack had cried off that morning with a raging temperature of 102, almost certainly Jack-speak for a heavy cold. She didn’t doubt he was unwell – he’d never have missed the funeral if he could help it because he took this kind of thing very seriously – but the atmosphere inside the car would have been so different with him there, asking Megan and Harry every five seconds if they were sure they were OK. They’d have been distraught by the time they arrived. With Kate the mood was so much lighter and it was easy to take their minds off what lay ahead.
The driver pulled up outside St Matthew’s church and helped each of them out onto the cobbled pathway. Ellen warned Megan and Harry to avoid
the puddles as they stepped out. She called them over in turn and fussed over their appearance for a few seconds, as much to compose herself as anything. Sam and Mary joined them from the car behind, Mary looking drawn and pale, Sam watching the pall-bearers closely as if ready to offer advice at any moment. The vicar stepped forward to greet them, glasses perched halfway down his nose and hands clutching a large black bible as he beamed down at the children.
Before Ellen knew what was happening the coffin had been hoisted onto six pairs of shoulders and she was falling into line behind it, holding Harry’s hand with Megan and Kate alongside as they made their way along the path. Long before they reached the entrance, she could make out organ music drifting through the vast wooden doors. The vicar began to intone in a strong, clear voice, his words ringing out from speakers in every corner of the building.
I am the resurrection and the life, sayeth the Lord.
There was a sudden rustling, a susurration of clothing and order of service sheets as the congregation rose in sequence like a Mexican wave, heads resolutely facing the front, as if turning to look at the coffin might be considered disrespectful. Ellen took a deep breath, then moved slowly forward. Harry tugged his hand from her grasp and she wondered if maybe she’d been holding on too tightly. She draped an arm over his shoulder instead.
He that believeth in me, though he were dead, yet shall he live, and whosoever liveth and believeth in me shall never die.
Even out of the corner of her eye, she couldn’t help but notice how many people from Langmere were here. She wondered exactly who was manning the fort back at the Grove, especially when she saw Colin at the end of a row, sitting slightly apart from his co-workers, which she thought was a fairly appropriate metaphor for his management style. Two rows in front of him Jacob from Calder Vale turned and actually smiled at her and she wanted to hug him for that gesture alone. She smiled back, then faced the front again, her eyes fixed now on the coffin, which the bearers were lifting from their shoulders before resting it on a trestle table in full view of the congregation.
We brought nothing into this world and it is certain we can carry nothing out. The Lord gave, and the Lord hath taken away.
Even as she took her seat in the front pew, she found herself wondering if he was here somewhere. She’d phoned Angela two days ago to check that he’d returned to work as promised so she knew he hadn’t run off. He’d spoken so fondly of Barbara that she couldn’t imagine him missing her funeral but she hadn’t actually spoken to him since that visit to his flat and had no idea what his plans might be. She’d thought of ringing him, even going so far as to pick up the phone on one occasion but what was she supposed to say to him that she hadn’t already said?
We have come here today to remember before God our sister, Barbara.
Several times during the past few days she’d wondered how she would feel if he did decide to leave. She still didn’t know for sure. Until very recently it would have been a no-brainer. He might be family, the only link with her past, but he was a ticking time-bomb, wasn’t he? And if there was any chance he would go off some day, she didn’t want her children to be anywhere near him. The Ellen of little more than a fortnight ago would have slammed the door shut. Everything in her world was safe, risk-assessed, predictable.
Then suddenly, in the space of a few days, black was white and all points of reference were way off-centre. The past two weeks had washed over her like a tsunami, uprooting certainties and destabilising the bedrock of her oh-so-safe existence. Even if she was still having problems in adjusting, at least no one could accuse her of having been safe and predictable. She’d never felt so exhilarated, so . . . alive in her entire life.
If she could be sure he’d be happy to stay on and watch from the outside as he’d been doing for so long, she might be able to live with that. It would be nice to meet discreetly from time to time and talk about their father – he was her only remaining link after all and there was so much she wanted to know. But would he be satisfied with such a minor role in their lives?
Safe . . . but predictable
Alive . . . but ticking.
At some stage she was going to have to decide which way to turn.
When everyone began to sing the first hymn, it occurred to her how much Barbara would have liked this. She had a lovely voice when she was younger. Ellen recalled breakfasts from her own childhood, her mother singing some show tune she’d heard on the radio while she waited for the kettle to boil. It seemed wrong somehow that she wasn’t able to join in now. Ellen herself was having trouble getting the notes out and could have done with her support.
And all of a sudden a memory springs up out of nowhere and for a moment she’s back at university, at the graduation reception on the lawns, talking to one of her lecturers, who’s spent the past six months trying to persuade her to stay on and do her Master’s. And she’s feeling really good about herself, sipping champagne and enjoying the attention when, out of the corner of her eye, she sees her mother heading towards her from the building she’d sought out a while earlier so that she might ‘powder her nose’. Ellen can see she’s hesitating, wandering from group to group, trying to locate her daughter somewhere on the crowded lawn, seemingly oblivious to the stares she’s attracting with that ridiculous hat she’s borrowed from Mary, which looks like something better suited to Ladies Day at Ascot or maybe a Carmen Miranda tribute show. When Ellen, watching from the wings, sees the patronising smiles aimed her mother’s way the moment her back is turned, she’s desperate to find a way to get out of this conversation right this minute and move off somewhere with her dignity intact before anyone manages to bracket her with this strange woman. And as she makes her excuses and heads off in the opposite direction before Barbara has seen her, what she feels is relief – the relief of a selfish little madam with her head buried so deep in her own preoccupations she can’t even smell the rosebushes that have bordered every path she’s ever taken in life, bushes planted and nurtured by the woman she’s not even prepared to accept as her own mother. How had it taken so long for her to acknowledge this?
She was brought back to the present by a tug at her sleeve. The final notes of the organ were dying away and the congregation had taken their seats, leaving her as the only one standing. She looked down at Harry and ruffled his hair, wondering why he looked so concerned until she felt the first tear dripping from her chin.
The rest of the service passed in a blur. Afterwards she would recall that Sam read a tribute in a strong, resolute voice although none of the detail stayed with her. The order of service confirmed that there must have been another hymn but she couldn’t remember it. As for the sermon, that was unusually brief and to the point by all accounts and much appreciated by everyone as a result but none of it registered. Her thoughts were exclusively with Barbara who had faced the same decision all those years ago. Face up or run. She’d put her unborn daughter first and left the village and the life she knew rather than invite the potential chaos of the past into their lives. And yet . . . and yet. Later in life she appeared to have changed her mind. When the opportunity presented itself, instead of staying away she’d decided to get involved, contacting Carl Holmbach and eventually managing to track down Peter’s son. Ellen, who had never once sought her mother’s advice while she was alive, would have given anything to be able to ask her why. And whether she ever regretted it. The irony was almost painful.
She looked up from the photo of Barbara on the back of the order of service – things were drawing to a close. The pall-bearers were discreetly making their way to the front, positioning themselves either side of the coffin. Then the funeral director leant over and had a quiet word with her, letting her know it was time for the funeral party to follow the coffin outside. She nodded and caught hold of Harry’s hand as she got to her feet.
As the procession prepared to move off down the aisle once more, she looked up and prepared herself mentally for the ordeal ahead of her – this was going to
be so much tougher than when they’d entered. Now she was actually facing the congregation and everyone was looking at her, each individual trying to convey in that one moment some sort of solidarity with her, a wave of affection and sympathy for what she must be going through. The feeling that she didn’t deserve it – had never deserved it – was overwhelming.
And now, as she looks away to her left, she catches sight for the first time of the slight figure, sitting on his own, partially obscured by a huge marble pillar some seven or eight rows back. He hasn’t seen her – he’s looking down at his order of service sheet. He looks different, smarter for one thing. His hair, usually hidden beneath the seemingly inevitable baseball cap, has been brushed back from his forehead and the dark blue suit surprisingly makes him look younger than the more youthful clothes he normally wears to work. She watches as he absent-mindedly slips a finger inside the collar of his shirt and tries to work the top button free. Then, as he looks up from the sheet, she quickly turns away, hoping he hasn’t noticed.
The procession starts to move back down the aisle. Kate glances across at her and offers an encouraging smile. Ellen returns it and takes a deep breath. She finds an excuse to straighten Harry’s collar, to stroke Megan’s cheek with the back of a finger and tell her how lovely she looks . . . anything that will spare her the need to look people in the eye as the cortege makes its way oh so slowly back towards the entrance. She isn’t aware she’s been counting the rows but she must be, because she knows she’s drawn level with him without even looking up.
Safe . . . and predictable.
Alive . . . and ticking.
She stops suddenly, a move which causes an element of confusion behind as there was no warning. Not that she could have given any because there are no rational thought processes underpinning this, just instinct.
She turns to her left to face him, as the pall-bearers draw further away, and he looks alarmed for a moment, as if convinced she’s about to raise her finger and denounce him here and now. And now that she’s closer she can see that even though he’s tried to sweep it back his hair’s sticking up, years of being fed through the clasp of a back-to-front baseball cap dictating how it should lie. His tie is slightly askew, now that he’s undone the top button of his shirt, there’s a mark on the shoulder of his suit jacket where he’s been leaning against a wall or something and all in all he looks a bit of a mess but . . . but . . .