by Mark Morris
The boys shuffled over and looked down at Patty, not sure what to do, not sure whether to pull him to his feet or simply wait for him to recover in his own time. At least they knew that Patty was alive. He was making horrible gasping, gagging noises as if about to throw up. At last, he began to move his limbs, floundering like a beached fish. White-faced, Ossie said, “Come on, let’s get him up.” He tentatively took Patty’s left arm, Guy took his right, and together they hauled Patty to his feet.
His face was a mess, all cuts and bruises. His eyes and top lip were horribly swollen. He was bleeding so freely that it was hard to tell exactly how bad his injuries were. His breath was rattling liquidly in his throat. A stream of saliva mixed with blood drooled out of his mouth. He tried to spit, but the stuff slid down his chin and spattered on his T-shirt. His legs were all over the place, like a boxer who’d been KO’d. Through the swollen slits of his eyelids, the boys could see that the whites of Patty’s eyeballs had turned pink; Carl wondered fearfully whether this meant Patty had internal bleeding in his head. He saw Patty’s lips moving, heard a rumble of sound dribbling from between them.
“Hey, lads,” Carl said, “I think he’s trying to say something.”
The boys pushed their heads in to listen. At first it seemed that Patty was just mumbling nonsense. “Killim . . . ,” he slurred, “. . . killim . . .”
“What’s he saying?” asked Wally, blinking in his slow, almost sleepy way.
“Shut up, cretin,” hissed Guy, “and listen.”
The boys crowded in again. Patty cleared his throat, dribbled more blood, wiped a shaky hand across his mouth.
“He’s dead,” they heard Patty say. “He’s fucking dead. I’m gonna kill the bastard.”
Carl had heard Patty make such threats before, but this time he shuddered. Despite being only semiconscious, Patty sounded as if he really meant it.
PART TWO
LAID TO REST
7
FIRE AND LONELINESS
“I expect you’ll be wanting to get off to the house, get yourself settled in,” Aunt Georgina said.
Jack brushed his hands together, ridding them of cake crumbs. “Actually,” he replied, “I thought I’d stay at the Connaught.”
For the first time since he’d set off that morning, he was beginning to feel almost relaxed. His aunt’s lounge was cosy as ever, and even though arthritis had seized her joints, gnarling her hands into claws, he quickly discovered she had lost none of her culinary skills. Despite her comment about his weight, she had insisted on fetching him a bowl of soup that she had made from parsnips and apples, and a sizeable hunk of fresh-baked bread. Jack made a feeble objection, but his aunt waved it away. “I’ll not hear any arguments,” she said. “I knew you’d be hungry when you got here, so I made it especially.”
While she was in the kitchen Jack allowed himself a wry smile; she had lost none of her forcefulness. Mentally apologising to the God of Weight Loss, to whom he had made a solemn vow, he had begun, at first reluctantly, to eat the soup, and then had found to his shame that it was so delicious he simply could not refuse a second helping.
He salved his conscience by insisting on only a small slice of her equally delicious fruit cake and by promising himself that tomorrow, before breakfast, he would spend half an hour pounding the country roads. He sipped his tea and said, “Actually, I’d better give them a ring. This has all happened so quickly that I never thought about booking a room.”
Aunt Georgina looked surprised and a little disapproving. “What’s the point of spending good money on a hotel when you’ve got a big empty house all to yourself?”
Jack pulled a face. “Well, that’s just it. It’s big and it’s empty, and . . . to be honest, the memories that fill it are not exactly pleasant ones.”
He expected Georgina to admonish him for his extravagance, but she simply nodded, albeit half-heartedly, and said, “Hmm, I do see your point. Well, look sharp. You give the Connaught a ring while I fetch my coat.”
“You’re coming with me?” Jack said.
“Of course. I haven’t seen my nephew in fifteen years. I’m not about to let him out of my clutches now.” She pushed herself from her chair with obvious discomfort. “You know,” she said when she was on her feet, “I’d offer you accommodation here, but I’ve only got one bedroom and a piddling little settee. The neighbours would talk. They’d think I’d got myself a toy boy.”
He laughed, both at the phrase, which sounded odd on her lips, and the mischievous glint in her eye.
She hobbled through to the kitchen, rubbing her knee with a clawed hand and muttering what a wreck she was. Whenever Jack thought of her kitchen, he pictured work surfaces piled with chopped vegetables, her solid wooden table scattered with flour in readiness for the pastry that would be scrolled around the rolling pin. She used to love cooking, for neighbours and friends as well as herself. She baked cakes aplenty for church fetes and WI picnics and God knew how many other causes. Jack always remembered her as an active, energetic woman, but it was only now, with the advantage of hindsight, that he realised just how active and energetic she had been. Apart from her involvement with the WI and the Church committee, Jack remembered her attending meetings of the Beckford Art Society, the Amateur Dramatics Society, the Horticulturalists Society and the Knitting Club (it probably had a grander title than that but Jack didn’t know what it was). And on top of all this she used to make frequent visits to the elderly for some charity or other, she helped out with some part-time nursing at Dr. Travis’ surgery when the pace became too hot for the old man, and didn’t she also used to sing in some sort of choir? He suspected that was something to do with the church as well.
“That’s my aunt,” he muttered, picking up the phone, shaking his head in admiration. And then, all at once, Jack realised why she had been involved in so many village activities. It was a revelation that felt as if it had been waiting for years to emerge.
Aunt Georgina, he realised, had been—and still was—a very lonely woman.
He stood for a moment with the phone in his hand, staring into space, and all at once felt a wave of sadness sweep over him. He felt an urge to rush into the kitchen and hug his aunt, to apologise for all the years he had neglected her. It had never occurred to him, when he was younger, that his aunt had problems and anxieties just like everyone else. She had always seemed like a rock, so steadfast, so uncomplicated, so . . . so . . . the word that came to him was pure. It seemed a strange phrase, yet apt. She had seemed so certain of her own emotions, so open and honest and thoroughly without deceit. Jack’s sudden realisation had thrown him off-kilter, perhaps more than it should have.
“What did they say?” Georgina asked, emerging from the kitchen, struggling into her coat.
“Er . . .” Jack replaced the receiver clumsily and noisily and snatched up the telephone book. “I haven’t actually rung them yet. I’m still looking for the number.”
“Honestly,” Georgina sighed, “how have you managed all these years? Here, let me.” She took the book from him before Jack could protest.
She found the number in seconds and read it out clearly, as though to an imbecile, while Jack dialed. After two rings an oily voice enquired, “Connaught Hotel. How may I help you?”
“Oh, hello. My name’s Jack Stone. I was wondering whether it would be possible to book a room?”
“Certainly, Mr. Stone,” said Oily-voice. “When would you like the room for?”
“Tonight, if possible. And I’ll be staying for three or four days.”
“Ah,” said Oily-voice pointedly.
“Is there a problem?” asked Jack.
“Yes, Mr. Stone, I’m afraid there is. You see, we’re fully booked until Friday. There’s a marketing convention in Leeds and we have a group of forty staying here from the Midlands.”
“Leeds,” said Jack as if the man had made a mistake, “but that’s fifteen miles away.”
Oily-voice’s tone became a little less
accommodating. “That’s true, Mr. Stone, but our setting is far more picturesque, I’m sure you’ll agree. The drive to Leeds is relatively free of traffic congestion, and we have a very reliable train service. We do like to encourage this sort of custom.”
Jack felt his temper rising at the man’s insinuations, but tried to repress it. “Is there no chance of a room before the weekend?” he asked.
“None at all, Mr. Stone,” said Oily-voice with obvious satisfaction. “Very sorry. Good-bye.”
“ ’Bye,” said Jack, but he was already speaking to a dead line. He turned to his Aunt Georgina, whose face was set in a sympathetic expression.
“No luck, I take it?”
“No. Is there anywhere else I can try?”
She narrowed her eyes, considering. “The Dog and Gun used to have a couple of rooms, but since Shelagh had her baby I think they’ve stopped all that. . . .” She made a ticking sound with her mouth as though flipping through a mental index file. Eventually she said, “I’m sorry, Jack, but I don’t think there is anywhere else in Beckford. You could try one of the other villages.”
Jack thought about it, then shook his head, trying to dislodge the feeling that there was a kind of ominous inevitability to all this. “No,” he said, “that would be silly, wouldn’t it? As you said before, why spend good money on a hotel when I’ve got a big empty house all to myself?”
Georgina smiled, rubbed his upper arm briskly as if he’d banged it. “That’s the spirit,” she said. “I’m sure you’ll be fine there. What’s past is past, there’s no bringing it back. It might even help you lay a few ghosts.”
Jack looked at his aunt, a little startled. Lay a few ghosts—that was exactly the phrase that Gail had used yesterday. “Yeah,” he said, “that’s what Gail reckons.”
“Gail?” said Georgina. She tilted her head coquettishly. “And who might she be?”
Jack sighed inwardly and reminded himself that it would take his aunt a while to adjust to the fact that he was now a grown man. “She’s a girl—a woman—I’m seeing,” he explained.
“Oh, courting, are we? You’ve kept that one quiet.”
Jack felt embarrassed in spite of himself. “Not really. We . . . er . . . we haven’t known each other that long.” He hoped his aunt wouldn’t ask how long because it would emphasise his recent lack of communication with her.
“Well, what’s she like? What does she do? Is she from London?” His aunt’s tone seemed to suggest there was something slightly disreputable in that.
Jack laughed, flattered by her interest but also a little uncomfortable, a reminder of how cagey he was, how he valued his privacy. “Still as nosy as ever,” he said, grinning to show he was joking. “Come on, I’ll tell you all about her in the car.”
As far as Jack was concerned, the only drawback to living in London was being unable to get to the countryside easily, and if he’d been anywhere else he would have found the drive to his father’s house exhilarating. The spring sunshine seemed clean and fresh, making the earth appear newborn. Trees seemed to stretch out their leaves to capture its light, fields to bristle, verdant, as though soaking up its goodness. The closer they came to the house, however, the more Jack’s trepidation grew. He scorned himself silently for the groundlessness of his emotion. When he changed gear to scale the cobbled hill that led to Daisy Lane, he turned to his aunt and in an attempt at levity said, “It’s just like a Hovis advert.” However, the look of disapproval she gave him made him feel ashamed; it was the comment of a patronising townie.
She looked childlike in the passenger seat, the seat belt slanting across her chest. Looking at her, Jack again felt sad, though he guessed she would have been appalled had she known. He saw the opening ahead on the left, the faded sign, half-concealed by foliage, reading DAISY LANE. He breathed deeply, as though bracing himself for some ordeal, then changed down to second and swung the car into the narrow opening.
Here was the dry-stone wall over which he had leaped to avoid the ambulance. Fifteen years did not seem to have changed it; if stones had crumbled and been replaced in that time, Jack did not notice. What did seem thicker were the trees, which craned over the track in a natural arch, the tips of their branches probing the car’s roof. Sunlight dripped through the trees and winked softly on the road ahead. Fifty yards further the trees petered out abruptly; Jack screwed up his eyes as the sun pounced brilliantly from a glittering field on his left.
Daisy Lane twisted and turned for three-quarters of a mile before it reached Jack’s father’s house. Georgina had been fairly silent for most of the short journey—she had not even asked anything more about Gail—but now, as the Mini Cooper jounced and crawled along the uneven road, she said, “Tell me, Jack, do you really like London?”
He smirked, but turned away so she would not think him supercilious; there was so much in that one simple question. She was asking, “How can you really like such a noisy, smelly, busy place?” and “Isn’t it simply pride that keeps you there? Now that your father’s dead, wouldn’t you rather come home?”
Jack knew that if his reply was at all half-hearted, his aunt would continue to probe at his uncertainty, subtly undermining his lifestyle. In order to paper over that particular crack before she could widen it any further, he replied with gusto, “Oh, I love it. It’s such an exciting place to live—there’s so much to do, so much to see. I’ve got a lovely flat and all my friends are there, and Gail, and my work. . . . I don’t think I could live anywhere else now.”
His aunt merely grunted. Jack glanced at her and saw she was scowling; he wondered if that was because she realised he’d guessed her intention. Pretending not to notice, he said, “Look, why don’t you come and visit me when I get back? It’s only a few hours on the train. You could meet Gail. I’m sure you’d have a nice time.”
She pulled a face. “No,” she said a little sourly. “I don’t think I’d like it. It’s not for me.” She raised a bony hand and swept it at the windshield. “This is where I’m comfortable. I don’t know how you put up with all those cars and people, all that pollution.”
“Oh, it’s not half as bad as they make out.”
“Huh,” she muttered disparagingly and relapsed into silence.
They were getting close now. Jack could see the Butterworths’ farm in a fold of land ahead. A wisp of smoke rose from the chimney like a thread of frayed wool. Cows speckled the field beyond the farmyard; Jack could hear them lowing as though playing at ghosts. He felt an urge to chat to allay his nervousness. “Do you ever speak to Molly Haynes nowadays?” he asked.
His aunt gave him a look that Jack could not quite read; it was somewhere between disappointment and exasperation. “Molly died last year,” she said flatly. “I’m surprised you didn’t know.”
He felt like sinking into a hole in the earth. Knowing his face was reddening, he stammered, “Oh . . . n-no, I didn’t know. What happened? I mean . . . what happened to her?”
“She had cancer,” Georgina said curtly. “In the throat.”
“Oh no,” Jack said again, but could think of nothing else to add. The last time something like this had happened had been early in his relationship with Gail. She’d been pestering him about his childhood again, and he’d got annoyed and said, “Well, you never talk about your parents. What’s the matter? Are you ashamed of them or something?” Gail had glared at him, angry and hurt, had told him curtly that her father had died when she was four years old, her mother just a couple of years ago.
Jack became aware that his aunt was talking and adjusted his concentration. “I believe it was quite quick,” she was saying, “but I am surprised you didn’t know.”
“Well . . . I . . . er . . . I lost touch with Molly a year or two ago,” Jack said. It was actually more like five, but he wasn’t going to let his aunt know that. Immediately that thought was overlaid by another: perhaps she already did know and was testing him, in which case he would sound like a complete heel. “Or perhaps,” he blundered on,
“it was longer than that. I can’t really remember. I’m so busy nowadays time just seems to fly by.”
He resented his aunt for making him feel guilty like this. He had his own life to lead, didn’t he? He couldn’t be expected to stay in touch with everybody he’d ever known. Besides, communication was a two-way system. However, he knew that since he’d met Gail he’d happily become part of what he’d always despised: a couple. That was not a couple as in two individuals, but a couple as in an insular, self-contained unit. He’d lost or was losing touch with many of his pre-Gail friends. Even his best mate, Frank Dawson, was becoming a stranger now. They still went out occasionally, but it wasn’t like the old times. They didn’t seem to have that much in common now, and sometimes, in moments of piquant and usually drunken objectivity, Jack would hear himself talking and realise he was turning into a Gail-bore.
They passed the Butterworths’ farm. Jack glanced at it, solid and rugged as though it had become part of the land itself, then he fixed his gaze on the road ahead. He knew that if he looked up he would see his father’s house and he felt an almost superstitious desire to delay that moment as long as possible. Nevertheless, a block of shadow seemed to snatch at the edge of his vision; Jack knew it was the dark stone of the house contrasted against the sparkling sky.
“Do you remember the Butterworths, Jack?” asked Georgina.
Jack opened his mouth to reply and was surprised to find it dry and tacky. His tongue flickered between his gums and his lips, lubricating, unpeeling the two surfaces from one another.
He cleared his throat and said, “Oh, yes. There was the old man, wasn’t there, and three sons? Martin, Edward and . . . what was the other one?”