The Love Song of Miss Queenie Hennessy

by Rachel Joyce

  I heard sobs. Your sobs. From the wetness of the sound, and the abandonment and the tiredness too, I could tell you’d been crying a long time. I knew exactly where to find you.

  Quickly I moved away from the light of the staircase, towards Napier’s locked office. The ground beneath my feet changed from hard tiles to carpet. The walls were now wood-panelled. Turning the corner, I saw you. I stood to one side.

  You were rattling at Napier’s door handle, beating the panels with your fists, kicking them with your foot. Sometimes you pressed your head to the door and leaned there, worn out with grieving. Other times, you jumped back and only flailed at the door. Then you must have had a new idea, and you took a few backward steps in order to charge at the door with the full weight of your shoulder. The door gave a splitting crack and you flew out of my vision, into Napier’s office. I crept closer.

  For the first time I could make out your face, though the moon at the window was curtained with cloud.

  You were more animal than man in fawn. Your mouth was stretched into a scream, and shadows cast deep gouged-out lines in your forehead. You held your hands above your head in fists and you moved in disjointed swaggers up and down the room. There was no logic to your movement. It was as if your grief didn’t know where to put itself. The cloud outside passed away from the full moon and Napier’s glass clowns glittered briefly, stirred to life. I caught sight of them the same moment you did. I cried out to stop you but it was too late. You didn’t hear.

  You lifted two of the glass figures. One in each hand. You held them high, the way a parent pulls up a child on a swing so that the child will get the full swoop, and then you hurled them towards the ground. They smashed at your feet and you picked up another two, another two. You didn’t stop until all twenty of them were gone. You stamped on them. You kicked them. And all the while, you roared.

  I didn’t stop you. How could I? You didn’t want to let your son go gently. You wanted to rage.

  Besides, you were in a place of your own. After a few moments of this wild thrashing, you stopped very suddenly and took in what you’d done. Caught in the cold flood of moonlight, you buried your head in your hands.

  I was about to step forward when you staggered towards the door. You passed right by me. We were almost touching, Harold. Your foot was by my foot. Your hand was by my hand. But you lumbered past me as if I were no more than another part of the wall. I smelt the drink on you. As I heard you crash out of the building, I moved to Napier’s window. You passed like a shadow across the brewery yard. You paused once and glanced back up at the window, and, not seeing me there, you got into your car.

  I swept the pieces into one place, trying to make the best of things. Then I returned to my office and waited for the morning.

  *

  When Napier entered the building and saw the damage, he screamed. I tell you this because you weren’t there. You won’t have heard him crash through the building. He fired the cleaner before I could get to him. Gangs of reps quickly began to scour the brewery. It was as though you could be safe or innocent only if you were actively on the lookout for the one person who was not. There were whisperings in corners. Whisperings on stairs. At least one suspect was escorted from the canteen for questioning and emerged later from the yard holding his arm.

  I kept a lookout for you all morning. As soon as I caught sight of your car, I hurried down to meet you. Do you remember this?

  I said, ‘Something happened at the brewery. It was in the night.’ I pulled at your sleeve because you couldn’t even stand straight. I didn’t dare go the whole way and hold your hand. You lifted your eyes to mine. They looked like two lychees. They were that raw and that fragile.

  I said, ‘Are you listening? Because this is serious, Harold. It’s very serious. Napier won’t let it go.’

  Fear whitened your face. Your guilt was stamped all over you. Your tie hung loose round your neck like a necklace. Your top shirt buttons were undone. And your hands. Harold, you hadn’t even bothered to wash or plaster them. What were you thinking of? They were covered in nicks and cuts. And it dawned on me that of course you wanted Napier to find you out. You were back because you wanted him to see you and do his worst.

  ‘Go home,’ I said. ‘Let me deal with this.’

  ‘You don’t understand.’ Your words were barely audible.

  ‘You shouldn’t be here, Harold. It’s too soon. Go home.’

  Slowly you turned your back on me. I watched you make your way along the wood panelling, bumping it sometimes with your shoulder as you lost your balance, your knees weak, your head low. You muttered something I didn’t hear. I wish I had called out to you as you moved away. Goodbye. Forgive me. I love you. But I didn’t know this was the last time. I was certain I would see you again.

  You turned the corner and – snap. You were gone from me. I took a deep breath and headed towards Napier’s office.

  The mystery man

  THREE DAYS ago, the Pearly King failed to appear. A parcel was delivered but he was not in his chair to open it.

  ‘I have sad news,’ said Sister Philomena.

  ‘Aw no,’ groaned Finty. She began to cry. ‘No, no. Not him. No.’

  ‘A true gentleman,’ said Mr Henderson.

  This morning we were sitting with several of the volunteers in the dayroom when the sound of hooves clip-clopped into the silence. A horse-drawn glass hearse passed the window and drew up beside the DO NOT PARK HERE sign. The black horses were adorned with purple plumes. The hearse was glass-domed, so clear that it sparkled in the summer sun. It was packed with white wreaths. The undertaker got out and fed the horses something from his pocket.

  ‘Well, I never,’ said one of the volunteers.

  Finty watched with her hands to her mouth.

  During the course of the morning, many mourners arrived to thank Sister Philomena and her team at St Bernadine’s. There will be a procession from here to the church, where the Pearly King will be buried. The nuns tried to look after the guests in the garden, but it began to rain, and what with the vigil leaders blocking the pavement outside and all the new patients and their families in the private rooms, there was no space for anyone except in the dayroom.

  The nuns brought tea, and the mourners talked loudly. They were dressed in the style of the hearse. Feathers and black veils and top hats and morning suits. The first they knew about the Pearly King’s illness was when they got the news he had died.

  ‘Why didn’t he say? Why didn’t he tell us?’ said a woman with a voice like a growl whom we assumed to be one of his daughters.

  ‘He didn’t want us to worry,’ said one of the men.

  It turned out that the Pearly King had told his friends and family he was holidaying in Malta.

  ‘I loved the fool,’ said Finty.

  She has not worked on her banner.

  It was my fault

  ‘YOU DID what?’ Napier screams. The veins stick out in his neck like purple rope. I am standing at one end of the room. He stands behind his almost-empty desk. Between us lie thousands of coloured glass pins. He hasn’t allowed Sheila to touch them. Until he finds the culprit, no one is going home.

  I grip hold of my handbag. My head throbs. I am exhausted with the lack of sleep. ‘I am saying it was my fault.’

  He screams again. He slams his fist on the desk. ‘The clowns? My mother’s glass clowns?’

  ‘It was an accident.’

  Napier turns the colour of cream cheese. ‘It is the only thing I have of hers.’ He snatches something from his desk, and a moment later it is shooting towards my head. I duck, and whatever it is smashes into the wall opposite, landing with a thud on the floor, where it spins several times and then falls dead. A heavy glass paperweight. I wonder how you missed that?

  There is an onslaught of abuse. He calls me many names. They froth and spit from his mouth as he takes off and paces the room with his fingers clenched stiff. He can’t keep still. When he releases that right arm of his, it
will jab out and punch me. I’ve never been hit by a man. But I will bear this. I will do it. An eye for an eye.

  I speak slowly. ‘I stayed on late, doing paperwork. I delivered it to your desk before I left the building. But my foot slipped. And I fell. I am sorry. I am so sorry.’

  I can’t stop saying it. I don’t know who I am talking to any more.

  Napier pauses. He twists to face me. He remains still, giving the calm smile of the powerful, and flicking dust from the shoulders of his jacket. I have no idea which is more terrifying, his stillness or his fury.

  ‘You slipped?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And you broke every one of my glass clowns?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Then what? You stamped on them? You trod them into the ground?’

  I can’t look at him. I can only repeat what I’ve already said. ‘It was an accident. I am so sorry.’

  Napier advances closer. He reeks of sweat and smoke. He is almost touching me. ‘If you weren’t a woman, I’d fucking tear you apart.’ He speaks through his pointed teeth. ‘Get out. I never want to see you again. Do you understand? I don’t want to hear you. I don’t want to smell you. I don’t even want to pass you on the street. Understand me? Leave tonight if you know what’s good for you.’

  He lifts his hand and I flinch, anticipating a blow, but he bows his head and grips the chair beside me. His knuckles turn bone white as he shakes.

  ‘Harold Fry’s job?’ I whisper. My pulse is in my mouth. ‘Will he keep it?’

  Napier gives a sigh like a snarl. I wonder if he’s about to throw another heavy object, though in truth there is little left. Not unless he picks up the chair or hurls the table. Then, without moving his head, he grunts, ‘Get out.’ The words are tight, squeezed from his throat.

  As I walk away, the floor cracks and pops beneath my feet. I am reaching for the door when I notice the splintered hole in the doorframe where you ripped the lock open with the force of your shoulder. Just as I touch it, Napier stops me with one last question: ‘You didn’t do it, Hennessy. Did you?’ My spine freezes over.

  I close the broken door carefully behind me. It is like marking the end of a sentence with a silent full stop.

  I fetch my handbag from my office. I say goodbye to Sheila. What will I do next? she asks. I tell her I need to find Harold Fry.

  That is the last time I see the brewery.

  There was a woman once who visited my sea garden. She was in Northumberland on holiday with her husband and she was taking a walk along the clifftops while he played a round of golf. It turned out the couple lived near Kingsbridge and knew the brewery. She had a kind face, I remember that, very soft eyes, and I believe she thought she’d upset me. ‘No, no,’ I said, wiping away tears. ‘It’s just a long time since anyone has talked to me about the brewery. Please, stay.’ I served tea in the green cups and we sat on cushions on the stone boulder. She mentioned Napier too. A motoring accident, she said. And it struck me as strange that you must have known all these things, while I didn’t.

  She sipped her tea. ‘Such a kind man,’ she murmured.

  For a moment I thought she was referring to you. My teacup trembled in my hand.

  ‘I knew his mother, Agnes. He couldn’t do enough for her.’

  ‘Are you talking about Napier?’

  She smiled. ‘Yes, of course.’ Apparently he had rung his mother every day until the night he died. Once a year he hired a minibus and drove his mother and her friends for tea in Plymouth. He couldn’t have been more charming, my visitor said.

  So you see, people are rarely the straightforward thing we think they are. Even the villains in a story can turn round and surprise us.

  I liked the woman who stopped by my garden and told me about Kingsbridge. I gave her a burnet rose cutting to take home. And sometimes, yes, I imagined you passing that small white rose, and getting the sweet scent of it.

  A dinner engagement

  A FURTHER SURPRISE, Harold, last night at the hospice. It began like this:

  ‘Bon appétit, Miss Hennessy,’ said Mr Henderson. The dining room was full and the windows open. Several patients were eating with their families. The nuns wore plastic aprons to protect their robes and the volunteers had gone in search of more chairs. I had been watching a soft June rain pattering on the pink roses outside so that they shivered a little and emitted a sweet, clean scent like linen napkins.

  At his table next to mine, Mr Henderson lifted his glass of water as a toast but the glass wobbled in his hand, and Sister Catherine had to rescue it. ‘Stupid fool,’ he grumbled.

  ‘I’m sorry, Mr Henderson.’

  ‘No, no. I am the fool. Thank you, sister.’

  Slowly he turned his face towards mine and gave a series of nods, as though he were agreeing to a number of criticisms being levelled against him. I shook my head to say no. No, you are not foolish, Mr Henderson. We all make mistakes.

  ‘I didn’t think I’d live to see the roses,’ he said. ‘Maybe your friend Harold Fry has saved me after all.’

  Sister Catherine lit tea lights for the tables, though for health and safety reasons she had to leave out the patient with the oxygen tank. She gave each of us a small vase of sweet williams from the Well-being Garden. She helped me to open my napkin and spread it over my lap. When the starters were carried through, I saw that Mr Henderson managed to swallow down two grapefruit segments. I had half of one.

  Over chicken broth, Mr Henderson told me about his career as a teacher. He saw, in hindsight, that he had been too hard on his pupils. He believed he had projected on to them his disappointment in himself. His hand shook with the spoon, and some of the soup splashed his chin. ‘Pardon me, pardon me,’ he said. I could manage mine only with the help of Sister Lucy. Even so, I swallowed very little. As Mr Henderson spoke, she murmured words like ‘Ah’ and ‘Well, now.’

  He said, ‘Years ago, I’d have chosen a good steak. Fine-cut chips. I imagine you’d have asked for the fish of the day, Miss Hennessy.’

  I smiled. I’d have had kippers from the smokehouse at Craster and a slice of brown bread. We’d have sat in my sea garden with plates on our laps and helped ourselves to a crisp Sauvignon. I might have lit candles in turquoise glass lamps and hung them in the branches, so that everywhere in the garden there were deep blue eyes.

  ‘I don’t like fish,’ said Sister Lucy. ‘It’s the faces that get me. I can’t look. They give me the shivers.’ To prove it, she shuddered and the plastic of her apron gave a rustle.

  Mr Henderson told us about his ex-wife, Mary. It had been an unhappy marriage. Their divorce was difficult. Mr Henderson represented himself in court; Mary hired the services of a solicitor in London who was also his best friend. ‘It would have been so much easier if she’d picked someone I disliked. As it was, they took me to the cleaners.’ Here he paused to take his medication. ‘I lost them both. My wife and my best friend. I fear this has made me a bitter man.’

  ‘That’s too sad, Mr Henderson,’ said Sister Lucy.

  ‘Ah,’ he said. ‘It’s the way life goes.’

  ‘What are you two up to down there?’ shouted a ghost in a wide-brimmed straw hat. ‘Making plans for Harold Fry?’ She pointed to an embarrassed-looking young man beside her with a microphone. ‘I’m on local radio tonight!’

  ‘It’s all getting a little overwhelming, isn’t it?’ said Mr Henderson quietly. And I nodded to show that yes, it was. ‘I assume Harold Fry meant a great deal to you?’

  Before I could answer, Sister Catherine interrupted with her trolley to offer a choice of desserts.

  ‘I will take the green jelly, sister,’ said Mr Henderson. ‘Miss Hennessy, what can I tempt you to?’

  I pointed to a small glass bowl.

  ‘And Miss Hennessy will take the custard.’

  ‘Squeezy cream?’ asked Sister Catherine.

  ‘Squeezy cream?’ repeated Mr Henderson.

  I shook my head.

  ‘Her cup overflowe
th,’ said Mr Henderson.

  ‘Her cup does what?’ said Sister Lucy. She checked hurriedly beneath the table.

  Mr Henderson passed me a fresh napkin. ‘Years ago,’ he said, ‘I would have suggested a fine pudding wine, Miss Hennessy, followed by coffee and mints. Afterwards we might have had a walk along the estuary to watch the sunset. Did you do such things with Harold Fry?’ Such was the disquiet in my mind, I could not lift my eyes though I felt him study me, long and hard, as if he were seeing right inside my heart. ‘Oh I see,’ he murmured at last. ‘I see. That must have been very hard for you.’

  ‘Desserts!’ announced Sister Catherine, passing our bowls. ‘Ding-a-ling! ’

  Mr Henderson managed even less of the final course than I did. He could take his jelly only in small spoonfuls, and he swallowed little. In the end he mashed it with his spoon and draped the bowl with his napkin. Briefly he dozed while I finished what I could of my custard.

  ‘I wish you and I had met years ago,’ he said. ‘We might have enjoyed ourselves. But such is life. And maybe, years ago, you and I would not have noticed each other. We must be content with this.’ He indicated to Sister Catherine that he was ready to leave. He lifted a sweet william out of his vase and placed it on my table.

  I wrote in my notebook so that Sister Lucy could show him the message. Thank you for having dinner with me, Mr Henderson.

  ‘Please,’ he said. ‘Call me Neville.’ Sister Catherine wheeled him back to his room.

  This morning Neville did not sit in his automatic recliner chair in the dayroom. He was not there this afternoon.

  The undertaker’s van—

  Well. You know the rest.