by Rebecca Tope
‘It’s about that Craig, then, is it? I heard you’d been having a ding dong with him?’
Susie leant against the foot end of the coffin, bumping against it slightly as she rocked restlessly on the balls of her feet. ‘It’s not my fault, Dad – he just won’t take no for an answer. I don’t know what else I can do. I thought maybe if you had a word with him—?’
‘Me? He’s not going to listen to me, is he?’
‘He might. He respects you. If you could just tell him you know for a certainty that I’m never going to change my mind about going back with him. Say anything you like about me, as horrible as can be, if it’ll put him off. It’s really getting to me now. He follows me about, and phones and writes letters … It’s like having a stalker.’
‘You know what your mother would say, don’t you?’ Susie nodded. ‘She’d say it was all your own fault.’
‘I know she would. But I really did like him to start with. He’s into stuff that’ll get us both in trouble sooner or later. You won’t say anything, will you – about what I told you the other week?’
‘What are you talking about?’
‘Come on – don’t tell me you’ve forgotten.’
‘I said then, I didn’t want to hear.’
‘It isn’t that simple, Dad. I could get into real trouble, if you don’t help me put a stop to it. It’s getting too risky. To start with, he just made me pilfer a few things. Nothing too terrible, just prescription pads and—’
‘Just prescription pads!’ Sid hissed, in horror. ‘Don’t tell me any more. I will not have any daughter of mine mixed up in anything like that. The sooner you’re shot of him the better. I’m out this evening, but I’ll see if I can track him down tomorrow. Where d’you think he’ll be?’
She shrugged. ‘He drinks at the Blue Lion mostly. Can you lower yourself enough to go there?’
‘Don’t get sarky, my girl. A pub’s a pub. I only go to the King’s Head ’cause it’s closer.’
‘Thanks, Dad. I didn’t think you’d do it. I should have had more faith.’
‘Faith is just about what you need,’ he agreed. ‘If you just went to church a bit more—’
She waved a silencing hand at him. ‘Don’t start that, either,’ she pleaded. Then she looked curiously at the coffin, which she was still using as a support. ‘Is this for Jim Lapsford?’ she asked.
‘That’s right,’ he nodded curtly.
‘People seem to be getting into quite a sweat over him,’ she commented, deliberately casual. ‘Your Daphne phoned Dr Lloyd again yesterday. Has someone been asking questions about the papers, or something?’
Sid frowned. ‘Not that I know of,’ he said. ‘Why should they?’
‘Come on, Dad. Dr Lloyd pushed it through when he never should have done. It was only because he’s scared of annoying the Coroner again that he did it. You can’t blame him – he’s absolutely sure it was a heart attack.’
‘That’s what it looks like to me,’ Sid nodded confidently. ‘He’s the fourth man of his sort of age we’ve had here this year. They weren’t all Dr Lloyd’s, were they?’
‘Three of them were.’ Susie was evidently in no hurry to leave. She leant over the coffin earnestly, as if trying to make a point. ‘And don’t you remember me telling you at the weekend about Mr Lapsford not seeing a doctor for twelve years?’ she went on. ‘No wonder people are talking.’
‘People will talk about anything,’ Sid told her. ‘I’ll be glad when he’s well and truly burnt.’
She stood up straight and walked the length of the coffin to where Sid had remained all along at the head end. She kissed his cheek, and he put a brief arm around her, pulling her close. ‘Thanks for listening, Dad. And if you can get Craig off my back, I’ll be eternally grateful.’
‘Anything for you, my darling,’ he said.
Drew had stowed the dead dog in the bottom of the chiller, and gone back to the workshop. Both Georges, Pat and Vince were there, engaged in minor tasks. Vince and Little George were itemising coffin handles, crucifixes and name plates, at the same time as tidying up the boxes in the store cupboard as they went. Big George came up to Drew. ‘Hey, Andy – there’s a big memorial to come off a grave, in the cemetery,’ he said. ‘Daphne thought you might like to come and help.’ George was given most of the heavy jobs, including removing headstones from graves preparatory to a second burial. His muscles stood out on his upper arms, and his neck would have done a bull proud.
‘Fine,’ Drew agreed. ‘When do we go?’
‘Now, if you’re ready. Looks as if it might rain later on.’
Both the Georges were proving more resistant than the others to Drew’s attempts at friendship. Little George was a surly individual, inclined to detect insult or malice in the most innocent comments. At the same time, his sharp tongue made him readily offensive to others. Drew had quickly decided to give him the widest berth he could, and the decision appeared to be mutual. Big George, the oldest of all the men, was more affable, despite the tedious ‘Andy’s. Given to reminiscing about the old days, he had witnessed every kind of funeral from Hindu to Humanist. His memory was legendary; even Daphne consulted him on family histories. Drew was quick to grasp the opportunity of an hour alone with this fount of information.
‘Daphne said we’d done another Lapsford funeral, ages ago,’ he began, as they rode in the old van kept for such jobs as the headstone removal.
‘That’s right,’ George confirmed. ‘Must have been in the seventies. I’d say at a guess 1976. Yeah, it was that hot summer. Remember?’
Drew laughed. ‘I was only seven, but I do remember we had the paddling pool out in the garden, and even my mum would get into it with us, because she was so hot.’
‘Well, it was a bad time for funerals. Or good – depending on how you look at it. The heat finished them off like flies, and we couldn’t keep them cool. The fridges weren’t as good as they are now. We had this woman, quite young she was, as I recall. She died of MS, went off just like that. Her name was Lapsford. I remember her mother came to view, and we had to spray air freshener everywhere to cut the stink.’
‘What relation was she to this chap, then?’
‘Well, that I’m not too sure about. I didn’t go on the funeral. I guess he’s her nephew, maybe, or a cousin. Daphne said she’d look up the records, but she’s probably forgotten.’
As they reached the cemetery and located the grave in question, it began to drizzle. ‘Look, there’s that woman – the one we were talking about this morning,’ George remarked. ‘What the hell’s she doing here?’ Drew followed his gaze and saw a wide-shouldered woman with a frizz of dark hair, bending over a patch of long grass close to the boundary of the cemetery.
George answered his own question. ‘Gathering herbs for one of her potions.’
‘You mean the woman they say was having it off with Lapsford?’ Drew ventured. ‘The one from the caravan?’ He remembered the blue pill in his pocket, and fingered it delicately. Lapsford’s use of Viagra didn’t strike him as particularly unusual, in the circumstances. He simply needed to find out whether it could have somehow contributed to the man’s death.
‘That’s the one. Roxanne Gibson. Her sister is Pauline Rawlinson, and her son is Craig, who goes out with Sid’s Susie. Got it straight now?’
Drew shook his head in wonderment. ‘It’s amazing,’ he laughed. ‘Bradbourne’s got a population of twenty-five thousand people, and somehow they’re all related to each other.’
George rested on the large granite headstone. ‘Twenty years ago, you know, this was a very small town. Say eight thousand, at the most. Then the developers moved in and added all those new estates, one after the other. That made it seem like a much bigger place – but the real Bradbourne, which is the bit along the river, and up to the church, is much the same as it always was. Even if folks have moved into the new houses, and their kids get flats out on the city road, they’re still all connected.’
‘But there�
��s loads of newcomers like me, surely?’
‘Yeah, but a lot have got family here already.’
Drew picked at a tooth thoughtfully. ‘It makes a big difference if people work locally, I guess,’ he concluded. ‘That’s where the hospital comes in. They employ a thousand or so, all told.’
‘And the supermarket soaks up all the rest,’ added George.
Drew watched the dark-haired woman so intently that she turned towards him, as if she felt his eyes on her. She was thirty or forty yards away, so he couldn’t see her face clearly, but he was sure she was beautiful. He let out a long, unconscious sigh. She wore a long blue cotton skirt and a skimpy purple singlet, apparently careless of the cold and damp. Her arms were strong and brown, and as she bent down again to pick another leaf or stalk, he could see heavy breasts swinging braless inside the top.
George echoed Drew’s sigh. ‘Lovely, ain’t she,’ he said softly. ‘Every man’s dream. Like some sort of goddess.’
Drew looked at him in surprise. He was unaccustomed to such poetry from George. But he nodded agreement, and his eyes returned to the woman. It was true – she had a kind of magical quality, something special about her. He remembered the rosy, self-satisfied look on Lapsford’s face. Lucky bugger, he thought.
They wrestled the hunk of granite into the back of the van, stuck a marker in the grave, and drove off. They had to pass the woman, where she stood tall against the hedge. Drew met her eyes for a second or two, aware of tawny depths. He could see now that she was older than he first thought, and less conventionally beautiful. She smiled at him, self-mocking as she stood in the drizzle with bare shoulders and a large basket at her feet. Even as he felt a stab of attraction, he shivered a little, too. She was dangerous, he sensed. He very much hoped that he would see her again soon.
* * *
‘What can I do for you, Jack?’ Monica asked wearily. This was turning into a very long day, and it was still barely two o’clock. The thought of a nice rest with her feet up and something mindless on the telly made her impatient to get the visit over with.
‘Well, we were wondering—’ he began, in some confusion, ‘whether you might want some sort of service sheet printed. For the funeral. Or some cards for people – thanking them for writing, or sending flowers. I … we thought it would save you some trouble, if we could do that. And Jim’d like it. Printed on his own machines. Don’t you think?’
‘Jack, that’s a lovely idea,’ Monica gushed, while her heart sank at the prospect of composing all-purpose thank you messages, or hymn sheets for a funeral she still couldn’t begin to imagine. ‘And how are you managing at the works, without Jim? It must be very strange for you. I know how much he put into it. You were his second family, in many ways.’
‘We’re managing,’ he said shortly. ‘I know you saw Jodie this morning. She said something about David. The lad’s not ill, is he?’
‘What?’ The sudden change of subject caught her unawares. ‘Oh, well, you know David. Always some drama.’ Even as she spoke, she felt disloyal. The problem of David lay on her chest like undigested plum pudding, and she knew she’d have to make another attempt to have a serious talk with him, before long. Not that it was any of Jack’s business.
‘It must be a great loss to him – Jim going so suddenly.’ The sympathetic words were halting. ‘And to his brother, of course.’
‘Yes, of course. But they’re grown up now. They’ll be all right. Once David gets over this latest crisis and the funeral’s all done with, it’ll all settle down again. Their lives won’t change. Though I suppose there’ll be a bit of money coming to them, from the life insurance. It’s only fair that I should give them a share.’
Jack seemed ill at ease. She hadn’t asked him to sit down, which now seemed rather rude. He rested his knuckles on the back of the sofa, and faced her over it. She could see the man from the undertaker’s standing outside on the pavement, talking to Sarah and Dottie from next door. Doubtless they were sticky-beaking again. She tried to keep her attention on her visitor, wondering if he had anything else he wanted to say. Almost idly, she remarked, ‘Jim was with you on Monday night, wasn’t he.’
Jack blinked. ‘Well, yes. We had a game on the computer for a bit, and after that we just chatted. He didn’t fancy watching a flickering screen, he said.’
‘Was that because he had a headache? Did he feel poorly? You see, you were very possibly the last person to talk to him.’
‘But, surely—? He must have got home before ten. Didn’t you see him?’
‘Yes, sort of. Just briefly. Just enough to know he’d come home. But I didn’t look at him. We didn’t have a proper conversation. I’ve no idea how he was feeling. I thought you might have taken more notice.’
He paused, as if trying to remember. ‘He was a bit quiet,’ he offered. ‘And he didn’t really have his mind on the game. That’s unusual for him; he just seemed to lose interest in it.’
‘Jack, you’ve known Jim for a long time. Longer than I have, even. You work with him all day, and see him at least one evening every week. Would you tell me, honestly – did you like him?’ She spoke in a rush, as if the question had forced itself out of her against her will.
Jack cocked his head, first one way then the other, examining the question. Then he sat down on one arm of the sofa, and gripped the edge of it tightly. ‘We were like brothers,’ he said. ‘You don’t ask yourself whether you like your brother. You just take him on as part of your life.’
‘But there were people who didn’t like him – isn’t that right?’
He nodded. ‘Loads,’ he agreed. ‘But I don’t think you need worry about that. They won’t take it out on you.’
She flapped a hand impatiently. ‘That’s not what I meant. It’s just – well, I know it’s stupid – only somebody suggested that just possibly Jim didn’t die of a heart attack after all. And if he didn’t, then there’s a chance that something else happened. I mean, there is just a faint chance that he was deliberately—’ She couldn’t say it. Especially not to the man who had been the last to see her husband.
‘Garbage!’ he said fiercely. ‘The sort of thing people say just to stir up trouble. The doctor was happy enough, wasn’t he? Now, you forget that sort of talk.’ His eyes, distorted by the glasses, bored into her. There was a sheen of sweat on his brow, and a tic at the corner of his jaw.
‘I know,’ she capitulated weakly. ‘It’s just silly.’ She cleared her throat. ‘Why don’t you and Jodie compose something for the front of the service sheet – name, place, date – and when I’ve sorted out the rest with the vicar, I’ll let you have it. Tomorrow, probably. Or I’ll get the undertakers to fax it to you. Okay?’
He took the signal, and stood up slowly, saying nothing.
‘Thanks very much for coming, when I’m sure you’re busy,’ she babbled.
Jack bristled. ‘Jim and I were best mates,’ he reproached her. ‘Something’s wrong if I can’t come to offer my condolences.’
She let him out with as much dignity as she could muster. The undertaker’s vehicle had gone. With a belated pang, she realised that she would miss Cassie more than she’d admitted to herself. The house was going to seem very empty that evening.
Lorraine couldn’t sit still. She’d done the shopping, put the holiday clothes in the wash, watched TV with Cindy and made supper for the three of them. Cindy was now in bed and there were two hours or more before Lorraine could decently follow suit. ‘I’m going to get some cigs,’ she said suddenly, not waiting for Frank to argue. ‘I’ll be ten minutes.’ And she was out into the darkening night, the late summer evenings closing in, still warm, but with a sense of things ending, in the air. They lived just around the corner from
The King’s Head, where Jim had played darts. Unhesitatingly Lorraine walked in, knowing that half the people there would be her friends. And Jim’s …
‘Hi, Lorrie!’ said a voice from the table inside the door. ‘Where’s Frank?’
‘Babysitting. I just came to get some fags. How are you, Sid?’
‘Can’t grumble. Waiting for Brenda to finish in the Ladies, then we’re off home. First time we’ve been out for ages.’
‘That’s nice.’ Did you hear about Jim? She wanted to scream. She looked round, wondering who else might be there. No familiar faces caught her eye. Then she remembered. ‘Sid? You work at the undertaker’s, don’t you? I was just catching up with the paper. We’ve only just got home from Cyprus. I saw …’ Something in her throat, like a huge ball of cotton wool, prevented further words.
Sid looked at her closely and said nothing. She thought she detected suspicion in his eyes.
‘Hi, Lorrie!’ came a second voice from behind her. Brenda stood there, dumpy and self-satisfied. ‘I suppose you heard about Jim?’
‘I was just saying,’ she managed to stumble. ‘Awful. So sudden.’
‘Sid says he looks just as if he’s asleep. Like they do after a heart attack, apparently. When they’re youngish, like him. Poor Monica. It’s her birthday next week, you know. Jim was planning a celebration. Not that we would have gone. Monica is my sister-in-law’s cousin, actually.’
‘Oh. Right.’ Lorraine edged away. ‘Well, must get back. Good to see you.’ A throbbing headache began, switched on by an invisible hand. This was going to be unbearable. People were going to talk about him and she’d have to pretend only a passing interest in a man twenty-five years older than her. She and Jim had been so fantastically careful; she was sure nobody had suspected at all. Ever since that first afternoon in May when they’d met by accident on the footpath beside the river, got talking and fallen in love. They’d been able to devise times and places to meet which went completely unobserved. As manager at the printer’s, Jim had been his own boss, popping out easily, claiming to be visiting suppliers, consulting with customers. Lorraine, with a five-year-old daughter, was yet to return to any sort of paid job. From nine to three every day she was free to go where she liked. Even when Cindy was on holiday from school, there had been chances. The school ran summer activities; little friends invited her to spend the day.