‘Do sit down.’ He forced a smile. ‘Can I get you a cup of tea?’
‘No, no. I shan’t stay long.’
Thank God, thought Aubrey – not that he believed in Him.
‘I just wanted to see how you were.’
‘Fine.’
‘I hear Marilyn did a good job.’
‘Excellent.’
‘But she, er, said you seemed a little … down.’
Down? His wife of forty-seven years now rotting in her coffin. Why should he be down?
‘That’s only natural, of course. But what you must remember, Aubrey, is that she’s gone to a better place.’
He had a sudden vision of his wife surrounded by porcelain figurines – a whole heavenly host of cherubim and seraphim, with the usual fulsome names: Paradise Beauty, Celestial Bliss, Love Is All Around. ‘Yes, just as you said at the funeral,’ he muttered, shuddering at the memory. He had loathed that mawkish service – an overlong concoction of denial, hypocrisy and cant. ‘I’m sure she’s in her element,’ he added, quickly tacking on a ‘Reverend’, to sweeten any sarcasm.
‘Please do call me Frank.’
A vicar could never be frank. If doubts crept in (which inevitably they must), how could a Man of God admit to them without losing all respect and credence, not to mention his livelihood? Anyway, it was hardly frankness to suggest that, despite her marble-cold and waxen corpse, Pearl wasn’t really dead, but had simply migrated to a Royal Doulton heaven, along with a myriad other Pretty Ladies, International Beauties and Princesses. He wondered about the Mermaids. Would they qualify for entry?
‘Do mermaids have souls?’ he asked the vicar, suddenly.
‘I beg your pardon?’
‘Mermaids. I mean, as far as God’s concerned, do they count as human beings, to be damned in Hell or saved in Heaven, according to their vice or virtue, or should they be classed with fishes and thus barred from either place?’
The vicar was looking distinctly uneasy, although he did his best to rise to the challenge. ‘Aubrey, my friend, I know from long experience that grief can manifest itself in many different ways. These sorts of speculations may point to the fact that you’re beginning to doubt God’s essential goodness, as a result of your present grief.’
He had doubted it since childhood, in plain, unvarnished fact. Would any halfway decent God have created parents like his – a violent mother and an alcoholic father? And the recent cyclone in Burma, earthquake in China, and rash of teenage stabbings had done nothing to shake his decades-long belief that one lived in a random world, with no benevolent deity to prevent disaster, pain and cruelty.
‘Perhaps you could try to change your perspective and focus on that fact that your wife is now released from all her dreadful suffering.’
Yes, true enough, he conceded, gazing at their wedding photo. Pearl had never looked more beautiful in that white meringue of a dress, topped with the whipped-cream froth of the veil.
‘And when the good Lord sees fit, you’ll join her in that same happy realm.’
If there were a Heaven (a gigantic if), he knew he’d feel an intruder there. Tipping the scales at sixteen stone, he just wasn’t the right size or shape to be deemed appropriate company for ethereal angels and lean, ascetic saints.
‘It sometimes helps to remember, Aubrey, that this life is just a preparation for the next. Looked at in that light, it’s easier to bear one’s cross.’
Aubrey cast a glance at the sympathy cards (which, unfortunately, Marilyn had left unscathed). Even they denied death. He had snorted in derision at one of their pat rhymes:
Those who mean the most to us
Are never really gone,
But are transported to a better place
Where we will follow on.
The words were so close to Frank’s, he wondered if the vicar had a sideline in penning verses – the trashy, sentimental stuff you saw in every card-shop. The fact that sympathy could be purchased made it still more spurious. Just grab a card, toss a few coins on the counter and – lo! – empty, flowery phrases could be sent to the bereaved, to save you the embarrassment of having to broach the subject personally, or think up something meaningful to say.
There was silence for a moment, filled by the steady ticking of the clock. That clock was like his wife: dependable, meticulous, never running fast or slow, but providing a consoling sense of order and regularity. He was just the opposite – or had become so since her death – unstable, unpredictable, wayward and shambolic.
The vicar cleared his throat, although the pesky man showed no sign of going. He was now leaning back in his chair, as if ensconced for the whole day. ‘And we mustn’t forget,’ he quavered, ‘to give thanks for the many happy years you and Pearl enjoyed together.’
Oh, so it was counting-blessings time now, was it? His parents had been good at that. When he broke his leg, aged ten, his mother had informed him that he was lucky to have legs at all, since he could easily be a double amputee. And earlier on, when their house was bombed in the Blitz and he was sobbing from the shock, his father had snapped, ‘Shut up and stop snivelling! At least we’re safe in the fucking cellar.’
‘I wonder if it would help, Aubrey, if we said a prayer together?’
Aubrey moderated his spontaneous ‘No fear!’ into a mumble of assent. With any luck, once the prayer was over, Frank would make a move.
The fellow sat up straighter in his seat; assuming an elevated tone, to match. ‘Eternal Lord, we beseech Thee to look with mercy on Thy suffering servant, Aubrey, and to grant him peace and acceptance in his …’
Aubrey’s mind had strayed to M-Theory – not that he understood it, nor, for that matter, much else about theoretical physics. All he’d managed to grasp from the recent TV programme was that it was an attempt to reconcile the various superstring theories, and that there were probably eleven dimensions, instead of the more familiar three. The presenter had even suggested that there might be multiple universes – maybe an infinite number – and had dismissed our own universe as small and insignificant and something of a sideshow. Indeed, he’d said in humbling conclusion that it might actually be beyond the grasp of paltry human beings ever to fathom the true nature of reality. Yet, in face of such dizzying speculations, most God-men clearly thought that their own trifling brand of Popery or Anglicanism constituted entire and absolute Truth.
‘Amen,’ the reverend murmured, eyes still closed; hands still piously joined.
‘Amen,’ repeated Aubrey, although more to the TV presenter than to any Eternal Lord.
After a brief pause, the vicar rose to his feet. ‘Well, it’s been a pleasure to see you, Aubrey, despite the sadness of the occasion.’
Trying not to seem too eager, Aubrey accompanied him to the door, but, once in the hall, Frank started on a new tack, apparently still reluctant to leave.
‘Have you any plans at the moment? I wondered if you intend to sell the house?’
Aubrey shook his head. It was very much Pearl’s house: neat, compact and shiny-bright (at least since Marilyn’s onslaught). When they’d first married and were looking for a home, they had viewed a ramshackle cottage, with peeling paint, a dodgy roof and a rampant garden overgrown with weeds. Although he’d fallen totally in love with it, he had let himself be overruled by Pearl, who wanted something bandbox-fresh and manageable, without so much as a crack in the ceiling or a daisy on the lawn. In fairness to her, she had always kept both house and garden pristine, and it would seem disloyal to sell the place that had been her home for close on half a century. Besides, if he moved to a small flat, there wouldn’t be room for her china collection, and it would be tantamount to sacrilege to dispose of the host of bosom friends she had cherished for so long. Although, in truth, he could do with the cash. Ever since he’d lost his pension when the firm he’d worked for all his life went into liquidation, life had been something of a struggle. Being six months short of retirement age when the crash occurred, he hadn’t received a penny i
n compensation. Things had deteriorated further with Pearl’s cancer diagnosis, which had forced her into retirement, too.
‘Well, if there’s anything you need, Aubrey, don’t hesitate to ask.’
He smiled politely, although uncomfortably aware that the things he needed were unlikely to be provided by the vicar: a chef to cook his meals, a phial of morphine to sort out his insomnia and Marilyn Monroe to remind his ageing loins of the long-lost joys of sex.
‘Oh, no,’ he muttered, grimacing as the doorbell rang.
The Reverend Frank must have decided to earn more Brownie points by calling in again. He was tempted not to answer – except suppose it was the postman? He was expecting his first package from Book Club Associates, who, as part of a special promotion, had offered a range of science books at amazingly low prices. The books, he hoped, would help him get to grips with M-Theory, which he’d decided to explore, if only as a distraction from his grief. The M, he’d learned already, constituted a problem in itself, since no one knew exactly what it stood for. Many suggestions had been posited, from Membrane, Mathematical and Matrix, to Mother (as in the mother of all theories) and Master (as in master theory), whilst the cynics had suggested Missing, Murky and Mystery, on account of the fact that the theory was more or less impenetrable. But, whatever the M might signify, it would be safer altogether than the double M of Marilyn Monroe. Randy old men were utterly pathetic, as he already knew to his cost.
Opening the door, half-nervous, half-expectant, he saw neither Frank nor the postie, but a middle-aged bloke he could only describe as faded spiv. The tie was vulgar, the dark suit worn and shiny, the fixed smile unctuous, the handshake smarmy.
‘Vincent Grundy. I left my card yesterday.’
‘Your card?’
‘Yes, I put it through the letterbox. I’m interested in buying silver, gold, jewellery, china—’
‘Sorry,’ Aubrey said, interrupting the list. ‘But I don’t do business at the door.’
‘I offer extremely favourable prices, sir. You won’t get a better deal – that I can guarantee.’
Well, at least he was sir, and not Aubrey. And although he had no silver, gold or jewellery (Pearl’s few rings and bracelets having been left to her favourite nurse), there was a hell of a lot of china going spare. Would it really hurt to sell a couple of the figurines? Who would even know?
‘Come in,’ he said, although grudgingly. He didn’t like the man’s thin lips, his sludge-brown eyes and putty-coloured skin. However, he ushered him into the sitting-room with as much grace as he could muster, and took down Ocean Beauty from the shelf, handling her with care, indeed devotion, as befitted the top favourite in Pearl’s extensive tribe. ‘What would you give me for this?’ he asked.
Vincent peered at the figurine as if it were a piece of shit, then said, in near-derision, ‘I’m sorry, sir, but there’s no call for this sort of thing.’
No call? So how did Royal Doulton stay in business, or Hummel, or Boehm Porcelain, or all the other firms Pearl had patronized?
‘Knick-knacks like this are completely out of fashion now.’
Really? In that case, why did the glossy catalogues still plop on to the doormat; the special offers arrive in every post? Knickknacks indeed! Snatching back the Mermaid from the man’s offensive grasp, he replaced her on the shelf.
‘Hold on! Not so fast. I’ll give you a fiver – although that’s far more than it’s worth.’
A fiver was an insult. That slinky little Mermaid had cost at least two hundred.
‘Tell you what, how about fifty quid for the lot? In fact, I’ll be doing you a favour, taking them off your hands. No one wants this kitsch stuff any more.’
Aubrey all but shoved the odious man across the room and into the hall. ‘And don’t come back!’ he bawled, giving the front door a slam. Fifty quid, for Christ’s sake!
Slouching back to the sitting-room, he was aware of countless pairs of eyes fixed on him in cold contempt.
‘Traitor!’ Thumbelina hissed.
He bristled in indignation. ‘I got rid of the blighter, didn’t I? Refused to take his cash.’
‘If he’d offered more, you’d have taken it fast enough.’
‘Fancy inviting him in, in the first place!’ Esmeralda fumed, pursing her cherry lips. ‘Pearl must be turning in her grave!’
‘And look at the state of this room,’ Autumn Splendour chided. ‘Marilyn bought you all those dusters and you haven’t used a single one.’
‘Or washed your stinking trousers,’ the Queen of the May chipped in.
‘Slob!’ Aurelia accused.
‘Randy brute!’ jeered Jasmine. ‘If you spent less time lusting after Marilyn Monroe, you might find a few minutes to dust us.’
‘No point,’ he tried to remonstrate, despite the fact he was fatally outnumbered. ‘Dusting’s a total waste of effort. Do it once, and it only needs doing again.’
‘If you really want to know,’ the snooty Miss continued, ignoring his interruption, ‘Pearl always found you rather gross. That’s why she bought us, of course – to escape your crude demands. She felt the need to surround herself with people of distinction, people in possession of natural style and class, to compensate for her lecher of a spouse.’
‘Yes, she often used to confide in us,’ Ocean Beauty confirmed, now taking part in the general execration. ‘Tell us what a trial you were. However high her standards, you would always drag her down.’
Suddenly, she took a step towards him, and all the other figurines began moving from their shelves, closing in, bearing down, jostling and surrounding him, until he was in danger of suffocation. And they were all shouting accusations; even the ones upstairs joining in the diatribe. ‘Traitor!’ ‘Ruffian!’ ‘Monster!’ ‘Lout!’
China fingers were wagging, china fists raised in indignation, china faces distorted in expressions of disgust. China angels plucked their harps in discords of disdain, while china fairies used their wands to beat him round the head. Even the china bambinos let out wails of protest, and their reproachful elder siblings swelled the chorus of complaint.
All at once, he dashed into the hall, flung open the front door and, despite his age and bulk, began pounding along the street in pursuit of Vincent Grundy. The guy was still in sight, thank God, about to turn in to another house, fifty yards along the street.
‘Wait!’ he shouted. ‘Wait! Come back! You can have them all – have everything.’
He clung on to a gatepost, feeling a sudden sense of liberation, so astounding and acute, it was like a revelation from on high. He could be freed, at last, from those foppish, phoney figurines that had held him in subjection for two tyrannical months! He had somehow reached a crisis-point; could no longer bear their sanctimonious faces, their self-important posturing, their endless castigation. And it wasn’t just the figurines – the ultra-delicate bone-china cups and saucers also drove him to distraction: too small and itsy-bitsy for a bloke of six-foot-three. He needed a pint of tea, for pity’s sake, not a derisory thimbleful. And his strong coffee stained the insides of the cups, which only reinforced his sense of being gross and yobbish. He was sick of feeling an intruder in his own prim and decorous home – a home better off without him, so all its other occupants believed.
‘Do you buy fabrics, too?’ he asked, in desperate hope, clutching hold of Vincent, as the man doubled back to join him.
‘Depends,’ the guy said, warily. ‘I’d need to see the stuff.’
Aubrey all but dragged him back towards the house. Here was a chance to rid himself of the frilly bedroom curtains, the chichi satin counterpane (salmon-pink, with ruffles), the stack of silken cushions littering the bed. If he couldn’t sleep, why did he need curtains? And those poncy cushions were just impedimenta, to be offloaded or sent flying every time he needed to lie down. As for the fluffy bedside rugs, all they did was clutter up the place and shed guilt-inducing, snow-white wisps on the darker, smooth-pile carpet. Every item in the preening house was too
refined and smug for him; the whole place a gilded cage, tarnished by the simple fact of his living there at all. Only now had it dawned on him – and with electrifying force – that he must sell not just the contents but the namby-pamby house itself.
Vincent was discussing the recession, as the pair turned into his gate, but Aubrey barely heard. His whole attention was focused on a further wild idea, sprouting like a lush green shoot in the desert of his mind: why not find another dilapidated cottage – yes, one with peeling paint, a dodgy roof and a garden overrun with weeds? He could spend the rest of his old age there, with no one to reprove him; no conceited, nagging figurines; no ornaments at all. The only person he’d allow past his moat and drawbridge would be Marilyn Monroe. Double M might be perilous, but now he wanted danger; wanted every Madcap M missing in his life to date – Marvels, Mischief, Messiness and, Most of all, Majestic Massive Mammaries. He and that Momentous Minx could revel in the squalor of their steamy little love-nest, indulge in Miraculous Mating, from Morning through to Midnight, until he pegged out from the unaccustomed exercise – or expired from simple bliss.
No, not simple bliss – Magnificent Martyrdom.
Tulips
‘Quiet today,’ Julia observed, pausing by the desk on her way to shelve an armful of books.
Claire looked up from the screen. ‘I suppose the weather’s keeping everyone indoors.’
The rain slamming at the windows served to underline her point, all but drowning her voice, as a sudden, still more frenzied blast rampaged against the glass. Hardly April showers, she thought – more a deluge or a cloudburst. She had a sudden image of the library floating down the water-logged street like a second Noah’s Ark; the books lined up in twos, the staff transmuted into animals: tall, gangling Bill, a giraffe; svelte Olwen, a gazelle; Julia, a dragon (breathing fire, despite the flood), and herself – now, what would she be? An ocelot? A warthog? A millipede? Rhinoceros? Something singular, for certain, so she could experience a different kind of life; break out of her rut.
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