by Sarah Till
'Yes. Elizabeth Nelson. Lizzie.'
'Ah, yes. He mentioned a lady. I'm sorry, I just assumed it was you from the outset. You live in Tintagel, near where Mr Thomas has lived for about four years now, don't you? Mr Thomas didn't mention any other friends or relatives who needed to be informed.'
I sigh loudly.
'OK. Thank you. Could you send someone for his clothes and belongings, only I'm quite far away and not up to two journeys. It would be good of you. I live at Coombes Cottage.'
'Yes. We’ll add your address here. Mrs Nelson, on file. Of course, Mrs Nelson. I'll send someone over this afternoon. Don't worry, we will take care of everything.'
I replace the receiver. He's been ill for a long time. Bouts in hospital. That would explain his long absences, anyway. It's funny how things often aren't how we imagine them to be. I walk back to the cottage slowly and make a cup of tea in the shed. Jer had come and gone, whizzing around on Daisy for years. Every couple of months we'd spend weeks huddled together, then, inexplicably, he'd zoom off into the distance, leaving me wondering where he was off to. Unsettling, but romantic at the same time. He'd sound his horn and rev Daisy, then do a wheel spin, and disappear into a cloud of dust. Just down the road, it appeared.
I'm the queen of misunderstanding, and, of course, I thought he was zooming off straight into another woman's arms. For all my easiness and freedom, I wanted him to stay. My life had beaten me into submission and I wasn't really that surprised when he left again. I didn't even think I was worth him staying. But when he was there, I was wildly happy, abandoning my garden and my worries and even myself to lie naked in an open-air sea bath. Freedom to do as we pleased, we called it. All our discussions about stories and legends, and I never guessed that what we had was his little piece of heaven in a life of pure hell. He'd ride into town, be with me and then, when it got too bad, go back to the hospital. Or his home just up the road. And eventually into someone else's arms. But he always came back to me, didn't he? And in the end he was mine.
My fantasies of his route around the UK may have been real once, when he was a Hell's Angel, before he became ill, but it gets us all in the end. Old age, decrepit bodies, and I laugh now because I don't blame him one bit for what he did. I misunderstood 'complete bastard', interpreting it adulterer or at least womaniser, but it was worse than that - he just meant that he hadn't told me the truth about his life. After all, hadn't he always pushed the point home that there wasn't 'the truth' just 'a truth'? And he, it turns out, had quite a few. One for me and one for the doctors. In the end he panicked and came home.
His ashtray is still beside the crate, and his tobacco sits near it. I gather them up and walk around the side of the shed, uncovering Daisy. Without Jer she looks lustreless and leans heavily on one side. I pull her up and balance her against the tree. I'm going to have to find some clothes for him, and I take the key from my pocket. I open the clothes pack and take out a shirt and some underwear. It seems intrusive, but he did give me the key. They smell of him and I hold a pair of jeans against my face. I put them in a carrier bag and see his old hat, the one he was wearing in the sea with little else the last time we skinny-dipped. I try it on, and as I take it off, there's a photograph tucked inside it. Black and white, shiny on thin paper, it's a print of me sleeping, my shoulders bare and my hair over my face. On the back he has written 'Elizabeth'.
It's dawning on me now that he did love me, or at least what I had, despite his underlying motives. In both our complicated lives, we ended up seeking each other out and sharing, even if it was only for a short time, each other. I place the picture in the bag, at least a part of me, the part he looked at most can go with him. I go around to the other side and unlock the other side box. It's mainly paper, his passport, his birth certificate, some picture of his mother and probably his grandmother. Lots of photographs of a young Jer, hardly recognisable, surrounded by bikes and leather, girls and young men astride Daisy's predecessors. I'd been afraid to peek last night because I thought they might be of his other women, all of them waiting for the Harley chug and the high horn of his arrival. Some road maps and a worn-out copy of Robert Prizigs 'Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance'. Pushed to the back were a copy of Geoffrey of Monmouth's writings on Arthurian legend, and Mallory's book 'Le Mort De Artur'.
The backpack, which was lashed to Daisy's back with thick straps, is easily released. I unzip it and pull out another tent. I put it carefully next to the extensive collection found discarded on the beach and feel inside the bag for more clues to his life. There's a groundsheet and another camouflaged net, both tightly rolled, and a large wooden box with patterns carved into it. It's heavy and locked, but I shake it and hear no sound. 'Jerusalem' is scratched into the underside, the etching dark with age and worn down with use. The box is inlaid with tiny pieces of tortoise shell forming angular patterns and I wonder if it's very old, perhaps his mother's?
I bring the carrier bag and the box into the shed and wait for the undertaker. When I hear a car outside, I rush to the gate and stand outside the front door. A man in black silently takes Jer's things from me and nods. I see a newspaper on the back seat of his car.
'Please could I have your newspaper? If you've finished with it?'
He passes it to me.
'We'll be placing and obituary for Mr Thomas on Monday. Is there anything you would like to add?'
I shake my head. How could I? I barely knew him. Most of Jer is what I've created in my head.
'No thank you. I'm sure the one you provide will be fine.'
'Would you like to say anything at the crematorium?'
Again, I shake my head. What would I say in front of the people there? Would I tell them we slept naked together outside? That we spoke about everything and nothing? That I pined for him when he wasn't there? There was nothing left to say.
'No. I'm sure someone else will say it better than me.'
He nods his understanding and leaves. I glance at the newspaper. Saturday. Of Course. Two days after the court case, which was on a Thursday. I turn to go into the house, and that's when I see it. Scrawled on the front door in red poster paint, the words 'witch'. I might not know what day it is, but even I can work out that this is Julia's work. It's not even in proper blood. No more notes and no more murders. I bring the hose pipe and spray the door, the paint running in red globules down the door. I wipe it away and it leaves a light impression. Witch. Naturally. She's keyed into what everyone else has, my fear of Morgana. Even through her warped rationale, she's managed to pull the trigger on my psyche and, right at that moment, I decide it's time to go. Time to wander off somewhere else. Time to let Mia Connelly know that whoever turns up with a piece of gold coloured metal, claiming to be in possession of the Holy Grail with a fancy story of providence involving Cadbury Castle to back it up, is the murderer. I know, of course, that someone like me, people like us, will never be accepted anywhere, but I can't stay.
I'm tired and I go inside and lie down on the mattress. I immediately roll over into the indent that Jer's body made nearest the wall and stay there until darkness. The tins in the coal hole come in handy, and I eat some baked beans cold with a fork. I watch the sun carefully, two more sunrises then I will set off for Bodmin to say goodbye to Jer.
That time comes too quickly between bouts of sleep and sadness, and I put on my black dress and shoes again. This time I leave off the tights and the make-up, but shower in the summer first light under a cold hose. My hair springs into large curls and my skin tightens, a welcome sensation besides my heart breaking. Emma and Jer were keeping me here, and every hour reminds me I no longer belong in Tintagel. I walk robotically to the bus stop and mechanically pay for my ticket in ten pence pieces. The journey passes in a blur, I'm too busy with regrets about what might have been for me and Jer, if only one of us had spoken it. Or was it perfect as it was? He would have still been ill, would have still died eventually, but I would have been there for him. If he had stayed.
I
peek around the doors at Bodmin police station, then bustle in behind a crowd of youths who are being shepherded towards the front desk. I take the bundle of notes out of my bag, wrapped in a polythene bag and tied with brown string, inside an anonymous note to Mia telling her only what she needs to know. She can work the rest out for herself; now the killer has their prized possession they will stop. They will think I've given up my treasure because of threats to my granddaughter, but Mia will never know unless whoever has been doing this tells her - and why would they? I smile to myself. Even when she doesn't catch them, haven't they been punished enough? Stupidity and greed are punishments in themselves and even now whoever's greed has driven them to spill innocent blood is slavering over a worthless trinket.
I arrive at the undertakers just in time. Jer's coffin is already in the back of the hearse, it's engine revving, eager to move. I go inside the reception area and shake the hand of the everyone who greets me, my tight smile hiding the background tears that sting my soul. Mr Lees, as it announces on his lapel badge, bows slightly.
'Hello. Mrs Nelson. We're very sorry for your loss.' I nod. No words come. He passes me two carrier bags and I laugh. How appropriate. I'm even the bag lady at Jer's funeral. 'These are Mr Thomas' belongings. His clothes are in there and we found these in his pockets. A key and some money. His solicitor will be in touch regarding any other effects, although I understand Mr Thomas was of no fixed abode having recently left his rented accommodation in Tintagel.'
I see his solemn face, his professional solemnity, drop around the words 'no fixed abode'. His suddenly high vowels act as a defence against the idea that someone could be completely free, and the question of 'how could he afford to pay for a lavish coffin and second funeral car for this odd woman' is left hanging in the air.
I nod. My vowels, unlike his, are flat and embedded in the north, and heavy with irony.
'No fixed abode. Hmm. Not really. He lived with me. I suppose I was his wife.'
I'm still defending him, just like I defended Andrew. We both glance at my left hand, where the aluminium ring remains. He looks away in embarrassment and I laugh again, inappropriately loudly for the context, but I no longer care. I walk outside and get into the car, and we set off immediately. My eyes are fixed on the coffin, and, with time to think. I realise that there are no flowers. No cards. Nothing except Jer and I. The drivers are anonymous anybody's who don't look at me. Just Jer and I. Just how I always wanted it to be. We drive and drive then we are in the grounds of the crematorium, carefully stage managed to help those of us left feel serene and peaceful. A fountain and a small pond, then the chapel. I crane my neck to see any relatives of friends. They must be inside. After all, despite the sunshine, it's cold and I'm shivering.
We grind to a halt and I get out of the car. The driver and his fellow professional mourner get out and join the two men in the hearse, and together they lift Jer and carry him into the chapel. I walk close behind, as close as I can bear, and stop as they place the coffin on the low shelf between the curtains. No music, no words because there are no other people. Just Jer and I. I got what I wanted in the end. The undertaker’s men leave, their work done, and I stand in front of Jer now, time for the final goodbye. I bite my bottom lip and touch the dark wood. He's in there, but he isn't. I touch my chest, because he's still in there to. His words come to me now.
'My mother used to stroke my hair and sing to me.'
After all, it's the least I can do. Somewhere in the crematorium, someone pushes a button to start the conveyor belt that will take Jer through the curtains. The machinery is quiet and smooth, so it's easy to hear my voice above it. I start quietly, but my voice rises to follow him. Jerusalem. His mother's song to help him sleep.
And did those feet in ancient time.
Walk upon England's mountains green:
And was the holy Lamb of God,
On England's pleasant pastures seen!
And did the Countenance Divine,
Shine forth upon our clouded hills?
And was Jerusalem builded here,
Among these dark Satanic Mills?
Bring me my Bow of burning gold;
Bring me my Arrows of desire:
Bring me my Spear: O clouds unfold!
Bring me my Chariot of fire!
I will not cease from Mental Fight,
Nor shall my Sword sleep in my hand:
Till we have built Jerusalem,
In England's green & pleasant Land
As the curtains twitch into movement and draw around Jer disappears from my life. Everyone always leaves but I stay. I launch into a second rendition, loud and bold, and I'm invigorated. I walk out of the chapel, still singing, and swing the bags as people gathered for the next funeral stare after me. He's gone but I'm not. I was all he had in the end. He was mine. The only person at his funeral. The only person he identified with. People like us. I should have known, but I'm the queen of misunderstanding. I hurry now through the tranquil grounds and back into the world, this time with a sense of purpose. Jerusalem. Of course. The battle I've been fighting isn't the war I thought it was.
CHAPTER 28
Life's a puzzle, isn't it, one that can take years to solve, if we ever do? Despite everything, I walk away from the crematorium with my head held high. I might appear to be a passive observer in my own life, but really I always come through one way or another, don't I? Even though I'd only just begun to know Jer for what he was, I knew that for once in my life I had honoured something. I'd dredged the generations of women in Jer's family and represented them as he finally slept. If his mother had ever lain awake and worried that he is eating, warm and happy, as I have with Andrew and we all have with our sons and daughters, I know that today she would know that he was. He'd been happy in his own way, carving out the life he wanted, apparently partly with me, although I hardly noticed. The perfect relationship, where we brought all the goodness, squeezed it out, and then went away for a refill. Standing in the church alone, singing my heart out, I wondered if this was just a case of 'if a woman sings alone in a church, will anyone hear her?' Another version of the tree in the forest koan.
I knew that I had been heard. For the first time I had a voice, loud and clear, and Jer had given it to me through his lies. I know things will be different from now on. I'd been so wrapped up in my not being good enough, worn down by Julia and Andrew, scared almost to death with the Kill You Next Time notes and the murders I'd almost forgotten the good. The summer sun is shining and, for the first time in years, I can hear birdsong. I've heard it in my garden, my little friends singing to me like I sung to Jer, and on the headland near Emma's gave. But everywhere else was a dumbed down version of reality, shrouded by unpleasantness. In some ways I didn't give a shit, but I'm not mad enough to disregard other people's feelings altogether. I get on the bus, and stare at the newly bright surroundings. Jer loved me in the end. For one glorious moment I was the one. I piece it all together and realise that the final part fell into place when there was no one else at Jer’s funeral. He knew; that he understood me and what had happened and knew that if he came after what he truly wanted there could only be two outcomes. His conceding was nothing short of miraculous. He's gone and I'm still here, but he left the possibility of life with me. I won. I'm no longer invisible, I'm a shining star in an otherwise dark sky.
I arrive back in Tintagel in the afternoon and hurry up the lane to the house. I open the front door and go through the house to the garden. I put Jer's clothes on top of Daisy and get two big carrier bags. Back inside, I collect all the post from behind the door. I've opened the odd letter, but most of it dates back at least five years. Most of it is bills that have been paid by direct debit, benefits notifications and bank letters. Lots of junk mail, and menus for take away meals. Right at the top of the pile are two letters that I know will change my life. One is from Kim, my sister; she's written her name and return address on the back. The other is from Mr Power, I recognise the logo. I open Mr Power's
letter first and read it carefully. It tells me that first indications are that the case will be involuntary manslaughter at the most, and I will be tried as a child, as I was fifteen at the time. It is therefore, according to Mr Power, extremely unlikely that I will receive a prison sentence, even if it does go to a trail, as the judge would be extremely limited in his sentencing.
I hesitate over Kim's letter. It was posted on Saturday. I feel through the creamy paper but it seems to be a single sheet. Eventually I peel it open and kick off my shoes.
Dear Lizzie
The police have been round to my house and told me about John and what he did. I always wondered why you left, and where you were. We all thought you were dead. Seeing as you're not dead, I wondered if we could meet up?
I wanted to tell you that there was no need for you to worry. John never touched me or our Ann. He left home just after you went, got some woman pregnant then left her. Dad went in a home and he's still there, he won't talk to anyone except our John. Oh, and his carer, who, it turns out, conned dad out of some money then went missing. I went to university, and so did our Ann. We're both teachers now, and she'd like to see you as well, if that's all right?
I know this is a shock and I wish you would have told us, even when you were married to Stan we still wondered what was up with you. We just thought you and Stan were happy and we didn't want to intrude. So sad all the time, so quiet. You could have said something. But never mind. It's never too late, Lizzie. I leave it to you to get in touch of you want to meet up.
Kim.
PS I got your address out of the paper.
John never touched them. I wonder for a minute if she's just being kind. But why would she? It sounds like he found someone else to harass. I feel a twinge of guilt; what if he's leading a perfectly normal life and he gets arrested? Then I remember Stan's funeral and his hissing in my ear. Morgana. She’s got a lot to answer for. He's got a lot to answer for. If it wasn’t for them... I tuck the letter in my handbag and pull out the key that the undertaker gave me.