by Unknown
It couldn’t just be a matter of behaving according to their emotions because they couldn’t feel those emotions any more, not when they had done it a hundred times. And why should the hundredth grieving family member not get the same treatment as the first? In reality, the hundredth probably gets better treatment than the first. When the emotion is real, you can’t handle it: it overflows and comes out in the wrong way. When it’s real, you’re not dignified and sombre: you grin inappropriately and say the wrong thing and make awkward gestures.
I wondered if it was only the doctors, policemen and undertakers who were performing. Wasn’t it a bit true of my friends as well? I thought of Gwen and Mary. When something really big happens, like a death, we play parts we’re familiar with. They were being the supportive best friends in time of crisis, using the repertoire of concerned expressions, gestures and consoling phrases, taking my hand, touching my forearm. I was the same, of course. I was in the starring role. This was another feeling that almost drove me mad, the sense that I had to act myself, that I had convincingly to impersonate emotions I wasn’t really feeling. I hadn’t played the part in those terrible seconds when I was told and must have given a bad performance, stammering, forgetting my lines; confused and shocked rather than grief-struck. But when I had entered Mr Collingwood’s office, I had been safely in the role of the widow, just as he had been in the role of the undertaker. This extended to my costume – dignified and restrained, but not black.
‘Do you have any thoughts, Ms Falkner?’
The tone remained subdued, but now he was reminding me that time was limited. Greg hadn’t left a will, let alone instructions for a funeral. He hadn’t been planning to die. I had tried to think what he would have wanted. ‘What he would have wanted’, that awful patronizing way of talking about the dead, as if they’ve been reduced to caricatures: Greg would have wanted this, Greg would have been amused by that. If Greg had planned his own funeral, he would probably have come up with something strange and homemade, a Viking pyre, ashes shot out of a cannon, buried at sea. I couldn’t compete with him there. I just needed it to be simple.
I made the decisions quickly. Cremation. A non-religious ceremony. Maybe somebody could say something, we could play a piece of music. Then there was the question of the coffin. More irrelevant thoughts kept coming to me. When we had decided to get married, Greg insisted on getting me an engagement ring and we went to Hatton Garden together. It turned out that Greg knew all about types of metal and carats and stones. Things I had never even thought of turned out to be important. I was sure he would have had strong views on the coffin. The mahogany was probably dubiously sourced. The plastic lining on the cheapest would probably contribute to global warming. Maybe all cremations did. He knew things like that.
‘Do people really buy cardboard coffins?’ I asked.
‘Absolutely,’ said Mr Collingwood. ‘Some families like to decorate them, paint them and so forth. They can look…’ he seemed to search for the right word ‘… remarkable.’
I could have done it. I could even have built the coffin. I had made most of the things in our house or, at least, restored them.
‘I think I’ll spare people that,’ I said.
I chose a coffin made from woven willow because it didn’t look like a coffin. Mr Collingwood said approvingly that it was chosen by many people who were concerned about environmental issues. For some reason that irritated me and I suddenly wished I’d chosen one made of hazardous waste. Mr Collingwood excused himself and withdrew into a small office at the back. I heard the grinding sound of a printer and he returned with a piece of paper, which he slid across the desk towards me. ‘We believe it’s important to give a written estimate,’ he said.
I looked at it and gulped. ‘Bloody hell,’ I said. ‘I’m sorry. I hadn’t realized…’ Then I stopped, suddenly ashamed. It didn’t seem a decent subject to haggle over but I had been startled. The estimate was more than we had paid for our car, and that hadn’t been particularly cheap. Mr Collingwood wasn’t disconcerted – he must have had worse cases than me. He assured me that the funeral could be as simple as I wanted.
I studied the estimate, item by item. ‘You will organize the whole funeral?’
Mr Collingwood nodded.
I took a deep breath. ‘OK,’ I said.
I meant to go straight home. There were so many things that needed doing, so many tasks and lists and duties. Instead I went into Kentish Town station, took a southbound train and got off at Kennington. When I came out of the station I felt, as I always did when I came south of the river, that I had emerged in a city in another country, even if the language was deceptively similar, as if I had arrived in New York or Sydney. I knew that the Livingstones had lived at number sixteen Dormer Road, so I went into a newsagent’s and bought an A–Z. It took only a few minutes to walk there – but in those minutes I went from one world, of high-rise blocks and dilapidated tenements, to another, of discreet wealth and cool grandeur.
The Livingstones’ house was large and white, set back from the road. I instantly disliked its pillared porch and raked gravel, and this helped me march up the short sweep of a drive and ring the bell before I had time to think about what I was doing or prepare an explanation. Only when I heard footsteps coming towards the door did I feel a tremble of anxiety go through me.
‘Yeah?’
Why had I assumed it would be Hugo Livingstone, Milena’s husband, who answered the door? The youth who stood in front of me was tall and skinny, all angles and joints. I thought he must be in his late teens. He had long, dark, unbrushed hair, eyes that were almost black. He was wearing boxer shorts and a faded T-shirt; as on the day of the inquest, he had a stud in his nose. I smiled cautiously at him but he stood blocking the doorway, arms folded over his chest, a flat, assessing stare on his face.
‘Is Hugo Livingstone in?’ I asked.
‘No.’
‘You’re his son, aren’t you? I saw you at the inquest.’
‘Yeah, that’s me.’ He gave a mock bow, knees knobbly below his boxers, quite unembarrassed by his state of undress – indeed, I thought he was revelling in it. ‘Silvio Livingstone.’
‘Silvio?’ I said.
‘Yes,’ he said, in an assertive tone, as if daring me to comment on it.
‘I’m sorry about your mother,’ I said.
‘Stepmother.’ The way he said it was so blatantly contemptuous that I was startled. He must have seen my expression change for he gave a challenging grin.
‘I’m sorry all the same,’ I managed. ‘Do you know when he –’
‘No. He works from early to late.’ Everything he said seemed to have a sarcastic ring. ‘It’s only me that lounges around.’ He was obviously imitating someone when he said the last two words – his stepmother, I guessed.
‘Right,’ I said. ‘I’m sorry to have bothered you.’
‘You’re his wife, aren’t you?’
I didn’t pretend not to understand who he was talking about, simply nodded.
‘What do you want here, then?’
‘I thought we should meet. Given everything.’
‘You want to come in?’
‘It was only if your father was here.’
‘He isn’t.’ He gave a shrug. ‘Did you know?’
‘Know what?’
‘About them, of course.’
‘No,’ I said. ‘Did you?’
‘Not about your husband,’ he said.
For a reason I didn’t understand, I found I was more comfortable with this wretchedly sarcastic, angrily self-conscious young man than I had been with anyone else since Greg had died.
‘I’ve changed my mind,’ I said. ‘Unless you think your dad would be angry.’
‘It’s my house too.’
‘Just for a few minutes, then. Maybe you could make me some coffee.’
‘And you can ask me questions about her instead of asking Dad. At least I’ll be honest. I’m not the one she made a fool of.’
>
He led me through the hall and down a corridor lined with photos. They weren’t the kind Greg and I have – had – on our walls, improvised patchworks of snapshots showing us at different stages of our lives, but properly framed portraits. I caught glimpses as I passed: there she was, white flesh glowing above a low black dress; there she was again, hair swept up and a tiny smile on her lips. The kitchen was enormous, glinting with appliances; double doors leading out into the garden flooded it with light.
‘Black coffee?’ He was filling the kettle.
‘White,’ I said. ‘So, you had no idea about Greg – my husband?’
‘Why would we?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘The point of a secret affair is that it’s secret.’ I was getting very tired of this phrase. ‘Milena liked secrets.’ He scooped ground coffee into a cafetière. ‘It was what she was good at, secrets, gossip, rumour.’
‘So it wasn’t a surprise?’
‘Not really. The dying was, of course.’
‘What about your father?’
‘I don’t know. Didn’t ask. Here, coffee. Help yourself to milk.’
I splashed in some milk and took a sip. It was strong enough to make me gasp. ‘So you’re not really sure?’
For the first time a flash of interest, no, intense curiosity, crossed his face. His eyes narrowed slightly. ‘They died together,’ he said. ‘That’s pretty intimate.’
‘Yes.’
‘So what do you mean?’
‘I mean, there’s nothing you’ve found that shows your stepmother knew Greg?’
‘I haven’t looked. Why should I?’
‘And your father?’
‘My father?’ He raised his eyebrows sardonically. ‘Dad’s been working very hard since she died. He’s been busy.’
‘I see.’
‘You probably don’t,’ he said.
‘I guess not.’ I sighed and put down my cup, then stood up. ‘Thanks, Silvio.’ I wanted to put my hand on his shoulder, tell him he’d be OK, but I didn’t think he’d appreciate that.
‘You’re not what I’d expected,’ he said, at the front door.
‘What you expected?’
‘Of my stepmother’s lover’s wife.’
‘It sounds like you’re making fun of me,’ I said.
Suddenly he flushed and seemed younger. ‘I didn’t mean that,’ he said.
A thought struck before I walked away. ‘What was she like as a stepmother?’
I thought he would shrug or say something sarcastic, but he went red and muttered something.
‘I imagine she wasn’t normal stepmother material,’ I said.
‘You shouldn’t have come here,’ he said. ‘It’s none of your business.’
He pushed the door shut so abruptly I had to step back quickly so my foot didn’t get caught.
Chapter Seven
There was one thing I knew I had to do before the funeral. I’d been thinking about it since the inquest, imagining what it looked like, and recently I’d even started dreaming about it – jerking awake from dreams of a deep pit in the middle of London, Greg’s red car hurtling to the bottom, bursting into flames there. Porton Way. I’d wake with images of his face pressed against the windscreen, his mouth open in a scream of terror. Or of his body crushed against Milena’s as flames licked them.
If I’d asked Gwen or Mary, they’d have been eager to accompany me, but this was something I needed to do alone. And so, the day before the funeral when I was supposed to be making final arrangements, I headed east. It wasn’t an area of London I really knew, though it wasn’t far from where we lived (where you live, I corrected myself fiercely; not ‘we’ any more) and I mistook the route, getting off at Stratford. It took me about twenty-five minutes to walk to Porton Way, nearly getting myself killed as I dashed across the great arterial routes that lead east out of London. The sky, which had been grey when I left that morning, turned an ominous purple-brown; a storm was coming, and occasional raindrops splashed my cheek. A bitter wind was blowing over the London streets, whipping up litter and the last of the autumn leaves, which swirled along the pavement.
The entire area seemed to have been turned into a building site. Giant cranes punctuated the horizon and swathes of land had been turned into rubble and sticky mud, scarred with wide trenches. There were Portakabins behind high fences, men in hard hats driving diggers, temporary lights redirecting traffic.
Porton Way, lying at the bottom of a steep incline, was dismal, abandoned, full of half-smashed warehouses and the remnants of old houses, which had been brought to the ground in a pile of bricks and cement blocks. One house was still standing among the ruins, though its front wall had been ripped away. Even from below, I could still see the wallpaper and the old bathtub. Once people had lived there, I thought, sat in that kitchen.
I consulted the map, tracing the route Greg had driven with a finger. What a drab, dreary, ugly place to come for a tryst. But private. Even now, in the middle of the morning, there was no one around; it looked as though work had been suspended for the time being. As I trudged towards the fatal corner, it started to rain, the skies opening up and releasing an onslaught, water streaming down my cheeks, seeping into my inadequate jacket. The bottoms of my jeans were soon soaking. Water squelched in my shoes. My hair lashed wetly against my face. I could barely see where I was going.
But there I was, at the steep corner. This was where it had happened. Greg had gone straight across and plunged down that embankment. I closed my eyes, then opened them again. Where had he landed exactly? Was there anything remaining of the car? I left the road and clambered down the slope, but the mud was like slippery clay and I half fell, putting out my hand to catch myself, ripping my sleeve on a thick bramble. I heard myself give a sob.
It seemed to take a long time to get to the bottom, and by the time I arrived I was muddy and sodden. My forehead stung and when I put a hand up, it came away red with blood, which trickled into my eye, making it even harder to see where I was going. I took off my scarf and held it against the cut.
And what was I doing there, anyway? What could I hope to prove – that Greg wouldn’t have come to this place? He wouldn’t, but he had. That he wouldn’t have taken his eyes off the road on a sharp corner? He wouldn’t but he had. That he would have worn a seatbelt? He would but he hadn’t. What did I expect to find – to feel? Some kind of – what was that horrible word the coroner had used at the inquest? – closure? Of course not, yet I knew I had to be there anyway, in some ritual that would have no effect and make no difference.
In fact, it was quite clear where the car had landed, although it had obviously been cleared away long ago. There was a charred patch of land, a small crater in the larger one of Porton Way. I made my way across and squatted. So, this was where Greg had died. I stared at the gash in the earth. I blinked away the streaming rain and pushed my hair back. Drops of blood escaped the scarf I still held to my forehead and I could taste them on my lips, their iron tang. The woman at the inquest had said Greg wouldn’t have suffered. Did he even know, as he was dying, that this was the end, or had it been too quick even for that? Had he thought of me?
At last I stood up, miserably cold and wet, my jeans sticking to my legs. There was nothing for me here. I turned my back on the site and trudged up the hill. At some point I realized I’d dropped my scarf, and when I turned I could see it, a wisp of colour on the muddy ground. The blood trickled down my face like tears, and when I finally reached the Underground station I thought people were looking at me strangely. I didn’t care.
When I arrived home, it was mid-afternoon and my fingers were so numb I could barely turn the key in the lock.
‘Ellie?’
I jumped at his voice behind me and turned. ‘Joe – what are you doing here?’
‘What do you think? I’ve come to see you. But what on earth have you been up to? You look –’ He stopped, staring at me with a kind of fascination. ‘Extraordinary,’ he s
aid finally.
‘Oh, nothing. I just went out and it started pouring with rain,’ I said feebly. I didn’t really want to talk about my day, not even to Joe.
‘You’ve got blood all over your face.’
‘Oh, that. It’s nothing. It probably looks worse than it is because of the rain. Do you want to come in?’
‘Just for a minute.’
I managed to get the door open and we stepped into the hall. I pulled off my mud-caked boots and struggled out of my jacket, then stood dripping on to the floor.
‘Here,’ said Joe. ‘It’s not important but I thought you’d want this. It was in the kitchen and we missed it.’
He’d brought me Greg’s favourite mug. It had the photograph of him finishing his marathon last year printed on it, although repeated washing had faded the image. I took it from Joe and looked at it, at Greg’s triumphant, exhausted smile. I’d met him afterwards and put my arms round his sweaty body and kissed his sweaty face and his salty lips.
‘And I wanted to check if there was anything I could do for the funeral.’
‘You probably just wanted to check, full stop,’ I said.
He smiled ruefully at me. ‘Well, I can see you’re taking excellent care of yourself. Go and have a bath.’
‘I’ll do that.’
‘While you’re at it, can I do anything for you? Tidy up a bit or make you a warm drink?’
‘That’s kind of you, but no thanks.’
‘Ellie?’
‘Yes?’