‘And Michael and Jeffery?’ asked Aunt Imelda.
Bernadette smiled at the old woman reassuringly: ‘They’re both here, and pleased to see Nathaniel. They send you their love.’
And with that she turned and left, saying that she would bring through the tea and cakes.
‘Death changes people,’ Aunt Imelda said simply. ‘Michael was always jealous, but he seems to get on awfully well with Jeffery now that they’re both on the other side.’
Her expression was one of humour and cynicism. I couldn’t believe anything the old woman said.
Two years later Aunt Imelda died. The imminence of her death had become something of a private joke between my wife and me, although we wouldn’t have ever let anyone else hear it. Whenever family matters were brought up, or Knaresborough mentioned, one of us would ask the other, ‘Do you think Aunt Imelda has got around to dying yet?’
I know that the joke meant I didn’t have to address my real concern about the arrangement that Aunt Imelda had fallen into with Cousin Bernadette. After that one visit I discussed the situation with my wife, of course, but the subject was not properly revisited until the morning of the funeral. I was going down to the crematorium on my own, putting on my best shirt and black suit. My wife was watching me go through the drawers in search of my one black tie. She commented:
‘You’re convinced that Bernadette was a fraud?’
‘Of course. But I’m equally certain that Aunt Imelda must have seen through her.’
‘And the old woman was playing along so as to have a companion?’
‘I think she must have been. But Bernadette was more of a skivvy than a companion. She was ordered around all the time, and complied meekly. You know, I’ve always felt more sorry for her than Aunt Imelda.’
‘Perhaps they deserved each other?’
‘Perhaps. But I’ve always been worried that Bernadette might not have stayed with her just because she wanted to be remembered in the Will. She might have genuinely wanted to help.’
‘Is that likely?’
‘It might be. I’ve never known her well enough to be sure. Believe it or not, some people are naturally kind-hearted.’
‘Do you think she was inventing her powers of mediumship in a silly attempt to cheer the old woman up?’
‘I wouldn’t put it past her. Or maybe such people really do fool themselves into believing they can see what isn’t there?’
‘You’d have to be pretty sad, or desperate, to do that. Is she very bright?’
‘Bernadette? No, I don’t think so.’
‘Well, they may have been a mismatched pair, but perhaps they both got something out of the relationship?’
‘I hope so.’
I did rather hope that Bernadette would have been included in the Will so that she would have earned some recompense for living with Aunt Imelda for two and a half years. As I drove to the crematorium in the rain I tried to imagine what it would have been like for Bernadette putting up with the very demanding old woman. It must have seemed like a lifetime.
At the crematorium I parked easily. There were five other cars and in a small blue hatchback sat Bernadette. I walked over and tapped on the window, making her jump. She had been staring straight ahead and hadn’t seen me arrive.
‘Nathaniel,’ she said, once she had wound down the window. ‘Get in the other side. There’s still another five minutes before we have to go in.’
‘I’m sure we can go inside early. There doesn’t seem to be any other service going on.’
‘I know. I’ve been in already and put out the order of service on the benches. I had it printed up with Aunt Imelda’s favourite hymns. But I’d rather not go back in, not yet,’ she said forlornly.
I walked quickly around and got in the passenger seat, out of the rain. Inside her cramped, stuffy little car she continued to stare straight ahead. She looked even taller and skinnier than before; gaunt even. She was wearing an oversized black shirt and her skirt was pleated and ruffled but could not hide how thin she was. Eventually she turned to me and said bluntly:
‘Aunt Imelda has left me the house and all her money.’
‘Good,’ I said, but stopped myself from saying ‘You’ve earned it.’
‘Her son and daughter are here today.’
‘How have they taken the news?’
‘They don’t know yet.’
‘Oh.’
‘Don’t say anything to them?’
‘Of course not.’
‘I’m not sure if I can face them, not until I have to. They’ve already said they’re not coming back to the house afterwards. Apparently they hate the place. You’ll come back, though, won’t you?’
‘I ought to get back home after the cremation. I promised my wife.’
‘Please come back with me,’ she implored. ‘Otherwise, well, I’ve got a horrible feeling it’ll just be me. Or, worst still, me and the women from the church Aunt Imelda used to go to.’
I reluctantly agreed and we sat in silence until I told her that the five minutes were up. We then got out and dashed across the tarmac to what was the most miserable cremation service I’ve ever been unfortunate enough to attend.
Aunt Imelda’s children, both of them, were sitting in the front pews. They were older than Bernadette and me, and they took no notice of anyone else. I guessed that the three other mourners who sat together had come from Aunt Imelda’s old church.
‘Yes,’ confirmed Bernadette. ‘She left because their views on morality weren’t as strict as she would’ve liked. She caused them a lot of trouble.’
‘I remember her lecturing me about sex.’
‘She didn’t like any contact between people.’
‘Something must have upset her a long time ago to make her like that.’
‘I suppose.’
‘I can’t imagine she let you bring boyfriends back to the house?’
Bernadette raised her eyebrows in horror at the idea and she grinned for the first time. She soon remembered where she was, though, and composed herself. We sat together, towards the middle of the draughty room; my cousin had refused to go any closer. On bench after bench around us there lay unmolested her badly photocopied orders of service.
We sang a very dispiriting ‘Why Should Our Tears in Sorrow Flow’, and then the vicar seemed to appear from nowhere and said a few words. He got Aunt Imelda’s name right, and those of her children, but only by squinting at the piece of card on which Bernadette had written them. We then sang ‘Winter in His Heart of Gloom’ and the vicar stood once more and read some forgettable passage from the Bible that didn’t seem to bear any relevance to the proceedings. Bernadette took the opportunity to open a bag of Murray Mints, which struck me as a little irreverent, but I decided that as she probably went to her church regularly she would have more of an idea of religious propriety than me.
The ordeal of the service was completed with ‘In the Black Dismal Dungeon of Despair’, and the coffin trundled out of sight. The words of the last hymn did get a little brighter towards the end, but I wondered if the strange humour of the deceased had prompted her to tell Bernadette that they were her favourite hymns.
We waited for the chief mourners to leave, then the three members of the Church. After a deep breath Bernadette agreed to move out as well, but then decided to collect up all of the orders of service. I helped her, and by the time we walked out to the small lobby the other mourners were driving past, out of the car park.
‘I’ve made sandwiches,’ she said quietly. ‘And bought cakes…Macaroons.’
‘We’ll have to finish them up ourselves,’ I said with as much feigned jollity as I could muster. ‘Now, shall I follow you back to the house?’
She nodded, and we went back out into the rain.
Bernadette drove slowly through the Knaresborough traffic and I had little trouble keeping up with her. In my car the radio was playing REM’s ‘Shiny Happy People’ which seemed more inappropriate than even the Murray Mints
had been. I turned it off and had to put up with the miserable rhythm of the windscreen wipers. I decided that by not being alive that day Aunt Imelda was not missing anything.
Back at the house I pulled up behind Bernadette’s car. I waited for her to go up to the front door and open it before I got out and made a dash for cover myself. I looked up at the impressive bulk of the building; ‘a machine for living in’ it would have been called back then. But it wasn’t quite as elegant as it might have been: a cut-price Le Corbusier. I had been prepared for a dismal gathering after the cremation, but if it had been just me and Bernadette then we might have been able to laugh at the awfulness of the situation. However, as I was about to close the front door a car drew up in the road outside and the three members of Aunt Imelda’s old church were slowly decanted. I waited for them to walk sombrely up the drive and I let them inside, taking their coats. They were not particularly talkative, although they all complained to each other that they had to climb stairs to go up to the living room. I followed them, and then Bernadette told me to stay in the living room while she made some tea.
The three women in black arranged themselves on the edge of the sofa and looked down their noses at the fresh-looking flower arrangement on the varnished coffee table. I knew that the room looked impressive on a sunny day, but the light through the long windows was grey, deepening the ugly green of the carpet.
I noticed the glasses and an unopened bottle of sherry on the sideboard and offered the ladies a drink. In turn each of them declined with a slight shake of the head which suggested that the offer was inappropriate. Next to the drink I saw the sandwiches under Clingfilm and decided to try and tempt them. I went and removed the plastic covering before carrying the large plate over and putting it down on the table. I then picked up napkins and handed one to each of the unwilling guests. They did not move.
Going back to the sideboard for the third time I wondered what had made Bernadette think that a large bowl of some violently orange-coloured puffed potato or wheat snacks would be appreciated. There was also a very large vase with celery sticks poking out of it, still untrimmed of their foliage.
I stood behind the women and suggested that they help themselves to the still untouched sandwiches. They annoyed me and I was willing to provoke them, but it was then that I saw the legs.
In front of what I thought of as Aunt Imelda’s chair were two prosthetic legs sheathed in blue tights, terminating in pink slippers. They were bent at the knee and the top halves were set over the edge of the seat as though the rest of Aunt Imelda should be there, sitting down. Bernadette had obviously forgotten to tidy them away. I sidled out of the room and down to the kitchen where my cousin was standing over a pot of tea.
‘Aunt Imelda’s legs,’ I said, quietly.
‘They were amputated,’ she said, ‘about six months ago.’
‘I guessed that. Her false ones are in front of her chair.’
‘No?’
‘They do look a little odd.’
‘But I didn’t put them there. They were in the hall cupboard, downstairs.’
‘Well, they’re now in the living room.’
‘How odd. If I make a diversion, will you take them out?’
‘What kind of diversion?’
‘I don’t know. I can’t just walk in there and simply pick them up.’
‘Why not?’
‘How would it look?’
‘Then I’ll do it,’ I said, wondering why I hadn’t taken the initiative before. ‘You bring the tea through, and I’ll tidy up the legs.’
She agreed, added cups and saucers to the tray and picked it up. I followed her down the passage and into the living room. As she walked in she screamed and dropped everything she was carrying.
It was a piercing scream followed by sobs of terror. I was thoroughly shaken and the three women were immediately hysterical themselves, jumping up and dropping napkins and sandwiches. I tried to take hold of Bernadette but she pulled herself out of my grasp and rushed over to the stairs. Without hesitating she flew down them, flung open the front door and ran out into the rain.
Bewildered, I looked around me. The women were upset and once they had brushed themselves free of crumbs they excused themselves immediately. In less than a minute I was the only one left in the house.
I looked around and decided to put the broken remains of the teapot, cups and saucers back on to the tray. The carpet was sodden and squelchy, but being such an ugly dark green I wasn’t concerned about the stain. As I squatted on my haunches, picking up the bits, my eyes were drawn to the prosthetic legs across the room from me.
I was certain that Bernadette had screamed when she had seen them.
I stood up and out of the corner of my eye I could see through the large windows my unfortunate cousin down in the corner of the garden, hard up against the fence, looking distraught. I resolved to go out to her. I would try and persuade her to return to the house, but first, I decided, I would tidy away those legs. They were heavier than I expected when I picked them up, one in each hand. I carried them downstairs and put them in the cupboard. Then I pulled on my coat, took Bernadette’s, and went out to her.
‘I’m not going back into the house while she’s there,’ Bernadette insisted. She took the coat I offered her although she was already so wet it could do no good.
‘Who? Aunt Imelda?’
‘Of course, Aunt Imelda!’
‘But don’t you see dead people all the time?’
She didn’t answer.
‘I’ll go in with you,’ I said. ‘Hold my hand.’
She clung tightly to me, her arm around my waist. She was shaking and uncertain, and took her time re-crossing the lawn. With great reluctance she entered the gloomy, echoing house with me, but there seemed to be some angry determination within her that willed her through the front door. A great battle was obviously raging in her skinny frame and she could not stop trembling. She clung to me tightly and made the great effort of climbing the stairs alongside me.
As the view of the living room on the first floor came into sight I looked towards Aunt Imelda’s chair.
‘I took the legs and threw them in the cupboard,’ I said as she slowed to a halt, just four more stairs to go.
‘She’s still there, in the chair,’ said Bernadette. ‘Without her legs.’
At that moment I was clearly struck that there were only two ways of explaining what was happening. Either ghosts or spirits existed and could be seen by people like Bernadette, or the woman holding on to me was deluded and in need of medical attention.
‘Can’t you ask Aunt Imelda to leave?’ I suggested quietly.
After a moment or two Bernadette replied:
‘She won’t.’
‘It’s not worth asking?’
‘No. You see, she wants to stay and make life as awkward as possible for me.’
‘Why’s that?’
‘I poisoned her, and she knows it.’
‘How?’
‘I used aluminium acetate,’ she said, her voice quite calm. ‘A friend told me it’s good because they don’t test for aluminium at a post-mortem.’
‘But what made you poison her?’
‘Once she’d had her legs amputated successfully she was going to live for years and years. And yet she still needed help.’
‘Why are you telling me this?’
‘To explain why she’s here.’
‘Where are Michael and Jeffery?’
‘They were never here. But she is.’
‘Then leave her here. Move out. Sell the house,’ I suggested.
I then decided to make a joke: ‘She won’t follow you. She can’t; she hasn’t got any legs.’
It was a very poor joke, in exceedingly bad taste, but Bernadette started to giggle nervously, still clinging to me. We were till standing on the stairs.
‘I never liked her, and she was rotten to me,’ she said, her shaking and quivering the result not only of cold and fear, I decided, but
hysteria. ‘I did everything I could to make her happy. I really wanted to help her. I didn’t want her horrible house or her money.’
‘I know, I know,’ I tried to reassure her. I believed her. ‘But you can see her sitting in the chair?’
‘Yes, and she’s very, very angry.’
‘That’s not unreasonable, if you poisoned her.’
‘She’s more angry that I’m holding on to you. She’s calling me a whore.’
‘Ignore her. You said that Aunt Imelda’s religious beliefs were too extreme for even her own church. She was deluded then,’ I explained, and added, for comfort, ‘And she’s deluded now.’
It was very strange. As we stood towards the top of the stairs I could not see anyone sitting across the room in the empty chair. I was convinced that I never would see anything. Perhaps it was Bernadette’s fear communicating itself to me, but it was almost as though there was a malevolent presence in the room. I could have sworn that something of Aunt Imelda’s fury was there with us. And it seemed to be increasing. The room seemed to be darkening.
‘She’s getting angrier,’ said Bernadette. ‘She’s calling me a prostitute and a fornicator. She’s telling me to let go of you. Nathaniel, you won’t let go of me, will you?’
‘No, I won’t let go.’
‘She’s calling you an adulterer. She says we’re both damned. She’s saying that it would be bad enough if we weren’t cousins. She says she won’t stay and watch such grossness.’
Bernadette looked at me, and I’ve never seen anyone look so frightened and yet so hopeful. She boldly and determinedly climbed the last few stairs, pulling me after her. When we were in the very middle of the room she implored: ‘Please kiss me.’
I really did not know what to do. She put her arms around my neck and gave me one of the most forceful and passionate kisses I have ever received. I was about to push her away, but her kiss was so deep and so fervent and I found myself responding. I clasped her to me in return but then, just as suddenly, she broke away to look in the direction of the empty chair. She laughed, and then kissed me again. Now I tried to push her away but her arms were holding me even tighter than before and I simply gave in to her.
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