“Perhaps it was.”
The priest nodded, packing his things away in a small black bag. “Whatever it was, she’s sleeping now. She’s at peace.”
Maudie never regained consciousness. The doctors said she must have suffered a further stroke, but Mavis preferred to believe that the chaplain’s visit had, as it were, given her permission to go. Her small sins forgiven, her poor exhausted body anointed, Maudie was ready to be with the God she had worshipped so faithfully all her life.
Mavis was at her bedside until the end, and wondered at the smallness — the unimportance — of her mother’s life and of her death. Her passing would go largely unnoticed, as though the world she had lived in had closed gently over her, leaving only the slightest of ripples to show where she had been. And yet she had made her contribution: she had lived a good life, been a loving wife and mother and a loyal and entertaining friend.
Some lines of a poem came to Mavis — something she had learnt at school and that she had always remembered: lines about another small, unimportant woman, who had lived, like Maudie, “among the untrodden ways,” but who had nonetheless been deeply missed when she died.
“But she is in her grave, and oh,
The difference to me!”
“Oh, the difference to me,” Mavis whispered, gazing at that still, beloved face. “Such a difference!”
And sitting by the bed, still holding her mother’s hand in her own, she buried her face in the counterpane and wept.
The Funeral: December
Finn wanted to go to Maudie’s funeral.
“I’ve never seen a funeral before,” he said.
“It’s not the Tower of London or Star Wars,” Alice objected. “It’s not something you have to see. There’ll be enough funerals in the future, believe me.”
“But I want to go to this one.” Finn spoke with his mouth full. Why was Finn always eating? What was wrong with him?
“It’s not as though you knew her that well,” Alice said.
“I found her when she got lost, remember?”
“You helped to find her.”
“Same thing.”
“Look, Finn. A funeral is — personal. Mavis is terribly upset. It needs sensitivity.”
“I can do sensitivity.” Finn poured himself another bowl of cereal. “I liked Maudie. She was good fun.”
“Well, that’s the first sensible reason you’ve given.”
“And Trot wants to come, too.”
“Oh no. Oh no.” If Alice suspected Finn’s motives, she suspected Trot’s even more.
“Trot rescued you all that time,” Finn said. “You’d probably still be rolling around in the park if it wasn’t for Trot.”
“Now you’re being ridiculous. Look. If you promise to behave and if Mavis doesn’t mind, you can come. Oh — and if you can find something suitable to wear. You can’t go to a funeral in jeans.”
“Why not?”
“Finn, I’m warning you.”
“Okay. No jeans.” Finn drank the last of his milk from the bowl. “Great. I’ll go and tell Kenny.”
Alice herself wasn’t looking forward to the funeral. It was the last thing she needed at the moment. Last week she had finally said goodbye to Jay.
It had been one of those increasingly rare occasions when Jay had been able to get away for an evening, and as soon as they had arranged it, she had known that that night had to be the night. She couldn’t put it off indefinitely, and the time had come to bite the bullet. There would never be a good time, just perhaps a least bad time, and she had wanted to do it properly; she didn’t want rushed goodbyes in some dingy pub or car park.
“Come to the house,” she’d said to him.
“Are you sure?” Jay had sounded surprised.
“Yes. Finn’s staying with a friend. We won’t be disturbed.”
Jay had brought flowers, as though he knew what was coming, and for perhaps the first time ever, they seemed awkward with each other, like two shy strangers. Alice poured wine, and they sat talking about small, safe things: Alice’s job, a patient of Jay’s who had had a bad reaction to his treatment, even the weather. But while they chatted, all Alice could think of was that this was it. This was the last time she would sit beside Jay, feel his hand in hers, smell the faint smell of soap and hospitals on his skin, hear his voice.
“Why do you keep looking at me like that?” Jay asked later on as she prepared supper.
“I’m just — taking you in. I don’t want ever to forget what you look like.”
“Why would you do that?”
“Because — because this is it, Jay.” Alice put down her glass. “The last time. This has to be the last time.”
There was a long silence, then Jay looked away and nodded. “I know,” he said.
“How do you know?”
“The way you sounded on the phone, the way things have been going recently. And now, the way you look this evening. That top I’ve always loved, my favourite perfume.” He ran his fingers through his hair. “I just know.”
“I’m sorry,” Alice said. “Oh, Jay! I’m so sorry.”
“No. I’m the one who should be sorry. I’ve — got you into all this.”
Alice came over and put her arms around him. “We got ourselves into this. Both of us. And I have no regrets. No regrets at all.”
“Really?”
“Really.”
“Oh, Alice, I don’t — didn’t — deserve you, deserve the time we’ve had together. You’ve been so good about everything, so accommodating, so…” He gave a small, helpless gesture. “You’ve just been — amazing.”
“Jay, I’ve been an absolute cow recently, as you well know.”
“That too.” They both laughed. Jay picked up his glass, and then replaced it on the table. “Can we — may I make love to you? For the last time?”
“For the last time,” Alice repeated. “How sad that sounds.”
She had often wondered what happened to the sex lives of people who were properly together — married couples, people who had lived together for years. Did the sex gradually fizzle out as they grew older, until they were left just holding hands because they hadn’t the energy to do anything more? Or were they aware that the last time was just that: a final episode in a lifetime of sexual encounters? And did they miss it, or did they accept it as inevitable? Of course there was much more to marriage than sex, but because she and Jay had had so few opportunities, sex had acquired a greater importance than it might have had they been married.
That night, they made love with a passion verging on desperation, as though they were trying to cram into that one hour all the years of lovemaking that would be denied them in the future and afterwards. Alice buried her face in Jay’s neck and wept.
“Don’t cry.” Jay stroked her hair. “Darling Alice, please don’t cry.”
“I can’t help it. I know what we’re doing is the right thing, but it’s so hard. So hard!”
“I know.” There were tears in Jay’s eyes, too. “I guess this is the price. We knew we’d have to pay it one day. This is our — well, our day of reckoning, I suppose.” He attempted a laugh, but the laughter sounded flat and hollow, and Alice realised that she would probably never hear him laugh again.
For a long time, they lay holding each other, talking quietly. I shall never forget this evening, Alice thought. I want to remember every last detail. Jay’s pale blue shirt (now discarded on the floor); the five o’clock shadow on his cheeks, because he’d rushed over straight from the hospital; the fact that he’d been wearing odd socks (had he noticed? Probably not. Alice knew that he often got dressed in the dark to let Angela sleep in after being up with the baby); the enormous bouquet of roses and freesias (her favourites); the smoked salmon that neither of them had been able to eat. Like a series of precious photographs, she wanted to preserve it all, for while she knew the memories would cause her pain, she also knew that what she and Jay had had together would always be an important part of who s
he was, and she didn’t want to forget even the smallest detail.
“I — slept with Trot,” she said suddenly. (Where on earth had that come from?)
“When?”
“The other week. I’m so sorry.”
Jay sighed. “It doesn’t matter. Sweetheart, it really doesn’t matter. It can’t spoil what we’ve had, and besides, we all need a bit of comfort.”
“That’s what Trot said.”
“Wise man.”
“I wouldn’t say that.” Alice laughed. “Trot may be many things, but I’d never call him wise.”
“But I do envy him,” Jay said. “Because he’ll go on being a part of your life. He’ll be able to see you whenever he likes.”
“Well, he is Finn’s father.”
“That’s what I mean.” He turned to kiss her. “Darling Alice, what am I going to do without you? How am I going to — to be without you?”
“You’ll be all right. We — we’ll both be all right. Eventually,” Alice said.
“But not yet.”
“No. Not yet.”
Jay pulled her closer into his arms. “The worst thing will be missing you so much but not being able to talk to you about it. Not being able to share it with you.”
“I know.”
“Do you think — I mean, could we keep in touch? Just occasionally? Just so that I can make sure you’re all right.”
“I’ll be all right. And no, I don’t think we’d better keep in touch. It’ll only make things worse. For both of us.”
“A clean break, then?”
“A clean break. It’s the only way. For us. And for — for your family.”
Jay’s family. For the first time that evening, Alice realised that she hadn’t asked about the baby, and Jay hadn’t mentioned her. It was as though for this one evening, they had both agreed to shut the rest of the world out, leaving the two of them to say their farewells undisturbed.
“I want you to go now,” she said, moving out of Jay’s embrace. “Before we have any more time to think about it.”
“What — right now? Just like that? You really want me to go without — without a proper goodbye?”
“I’d like you to go right now. Quickly, please. I’m going to go and have a shower, and when I come out, please — just don’t be here. I’m not going to say goodbye. I can’t bear it.”
Jay took her face between his hands and gazed at her for a long moment, then kissed her gently on the lips. “If that’s what you want. I guess the very least I can do is to do this the way you want.”
“I don’t want any of this,” Alice said, fighting back more tears, “but I can’t think of any other way.”
And that was how they had done it — the clean break. Afterwards, Alice wondered whether they should have managed it differently; whether she should have seen Jay to the door, or at least waited until he’d gone before she had her shower. But the idea of watching his departure — of waving him off, seeing him drive away down the road — would have been even worse than returning from the bathroom to the empty bedroom and the rumpled sheets and the smell of him lingering on the pillow.
Trot had guessed what had happened and was being very supportive — in some ways, a little too supportive.
Ever since they had been to bed together, he had assumed a different relationship between them. He had taken to phoning more often, and not just to speak to Finn, and had even suggested a weekend away together.
“It was fun, wasn’t it, Alice? You enjoyed it? Why not a repeat performance?”
“That’s hardly a romantic way of putting it,” Alice had told him.
“No. But you know what I mean.”
“Trot, we’ve slept together twice. Just twice. I have no recollection of the first time, and my memory of the second is pretty hazy.”
“Then let me refresh it,” Trot said.
“No, Trot. Maybe one day, but not now. Not yet. I’m not —”
“Ready?”
“Yes. That last time was — fine. Perhaps even what I needed. And I really value your friendship. But I love Jay. I think perhaps I’ll always love him. Not seeing someone doesn’t stop you from loving them. I only wish it did. Things would be so much easier.”
Trot sighed. “Such a shame. You’ve got a beautiful body, Alice.”
“Thank you, kind sir. But that’s hardly a basis for relationship.”
“Maybe not. But it’s a start.”
But Alice wasn’t ready for a new start of any kind. She needed time to herself, to lick her emotional wounds and to grieve both for what had been and for what could never be. Trot could — and did — continue to be a good friend; someone who understood the situation and someone she could talk to. But that was all. Maybe one day — who could tell? — there might be a future for them together, but Alice would rather be on her own than settle for second best. Besides, Trot was still determined to have his gap year, with or without Finn, and Alice doubted whether she was sufficiently important to him to be allowed to get in the way of his plans.
Alice and Gabs had been doing a lot of rallying round since Maudie’s death, for Mavis really didn’t seem to have anyone else. There had been vague talk of distant relatives who might or might not come to the funeral, but otherwise Mavis seemed very isolated. Alice was grateful to be able to concentrate on someone else’s problems for a change, but she did wonder how anyone as basically nice as Mavis could find herself so alone, and she privately blamed Clifford. It seemed that Clifford had stolen not only Mavis’s body, but her whole life as well. At least Alice had never allowed Jay to do that (to be fair, he would never have wanted her to). And she had Finn as well as her many friends. In that, compared with Mavis, she could count herself lucky.
It had been agreed that Alice would drive Mavis to the funeral. Mavis had said that she didn’t fancy travelling in “one of those big black shiny things,” and Alice had sympathised. Once — only once — she had had to travel in one herself, on the occasion of her father’s funeral, and it had struck her as particularly cruel that at a time of such distress, one should have to parade one’s grief so publicly. People in the street had stopped and stared as the cortège made its stately progress through the town, and one old man had removed his cap and bowed his head in respect. She agreed with Mavis that the anonymity of an ordinary car was far better, and Alice’s car was nothing if not ordinary. Gabs had offered hers, but even she had understood that if Mavis wished to be inconspicuous, a bright pink mini was not the answer.
Mavis was much exercised over the matter of the food for “afterwards”.
“Mother always said there should be ‘funeral meats,’” she said. “What are funeral meats?”
“I’ve no idea,” Alice said.
“Do you think ham sandwiches would do?”
“I think ham sandwiches would be fine.” After all, it was a funeral, and ham was meat. “I’ll do them if you like. And egg and cress. They usually go down well.” Alice herself was of the view that cress was tickly and tasteless and served no useful purpose except, perhaps, when grown by children on blotting paper for fun, but most people seemed to like it.
“Oh, would you?”
“Of course. How any people are you expecting?”
“Well, that’s the trouble; I’ve no idea. Mother did have a lot of friends, but many of them have died, and those that are left are old and pretty frail. I’m not sure they’ll want to turn out in this cold.”
“Never mind,” Alice said. “Finn will hoover up any leftovers.”
“I’ll make a cake,” Mavis said. “Or do you think little cakes would be better?”
“Funeral fancies,” murmured Gabs, “or perhaps coffin and walnut?” But fortunately Mavis was out of earshot.
Gabs herself was bringing wine.
“Wouldn’t tea be more suitable?” Mavis had asked.
“Tea and wine. In this weather, we’re going to need it,” said Gabs. “Don’t worry. My treat.”
Alice could see that M
avis was puzzled at the idea of alcohol at a funeral being a treat, but on this occasion, she was with Gabs. She reckoned that by the time Maudie was safely interred, they would all need something stronger than tea.
Now, getting ready to go, Alice wondered whether she should have bought something black. Mavis was quite conventional, and she had forgotten to ask what would be appropriate. The nearest she had was a dark navy coat, so that would have to do. She had always wondered that the characters in television soap operas, many of whom were supposed to be strapped for cash, invariably turned out to funerals kitted out from head to foot in black — shoes, hat, the lot. She found an old pair of black boots at the back of her wardrobe and dusted them off.
Finn was wearing his suit. It had been bought for a wedding a year ago, and he appeared to have grown several inches since.
“Oh dear,” Alice said, looking him over and tweaking a cuff. “You’ve grown.”
“Yeah.” Finn grinned. “That’s what kids do. We grow. I told you you should have let me wear jeans.”
“Perhaps we should have borrowed one from Trot.”
“Trot hasn’t got a suit. He doesn’t believe in them.”
“Now why doesn’t that surprise me? Well, you’ll have to do, I’m afraid. But you can’t wear those trainers.”
“I’ve only got my school shoes. I can’t wear those!”
“Oh yes, you can.”
“But, Mum —”
“Finn, shut up and do as you’re told. I’m tired, and we’re going to be late. I haven’t got time to argue.”
Gabs avoided funerals. They always reminded her of her mother’s funeral — of her thirteen-year-old self sobbing at the graveside, fearing for her beloved mum in that cold, dark earth, and fearing even more a future without her. Her father had been so drunk he had had to be half carried from the churchyard, and she and Steph had clung to each other like the Babes in the Wood.
“What’ll we do?” she had whispered to her sister on the journey home. “What’ll become of us?”
“We’ll survive,” Steph had told her. “That’s what we have to do. And we’ll look after each other.”
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