by Ruth Hogan
Kitty fetches me another drink. ‘It’s a double,’ she tells me, ‘for the shock.’ And I am shocked. Not by the fall – but by my reaction to it. There are several reasons why I would normally be mightily pissed off by what has just happened. Firstly, my aversion to strangers – particularly those who physically touch me. Secondly, the public embarrassment of not being good at something. Kitty Muriel’s skating skills have been a revelation, whereas I am as stable on my skates as a newborn giraffe on its spindly legs. And thirdly, the rudeness of being abandoned on my bottom, while my fleeting companions buggered off to the bar. But, actually, I’m fine. In fact, I’m grinning. And I’m pretty sure it’s not just the vodka. Kitty Muriel, however, looks upset.
‘I’m so sorry, my dear. It’s completely my fault. I should never have dragged you here. I can be such a selfish old fool sometimes. Perhaps it’s time I learned to behave with a little more decorum.’
This time it’s me who downs my vodka, grabs Kitty and pulls her back onto the dance floor.
‘You must be bloody joking! The night is young and . . .’ At that moment, blasting from the speakers, Annie Lennox finishes my sentence for me: sisters are doin’ it for themselves!
Chapter 46
ART
Here comes the bride. All dressed in . . . swathes of sunshine-coloured chiffon, scattered with sequins over a silk moiré corseted sheath dress.
Still not exactly traditional, but a good deal more cheerful than the brown bombazine model.
There is a sudden hush from the assembled guests, and then a collective gasp. Kitty Muriel looks absolutely radiant as she waltzes down the aisle of the impressive Grand Hall in vertiginous diamanté-studded stilettos to the velvet tones of Elvis’s ‘The Wonder of You’. Kitty moves slowly, taking in every sight and sound of this precious day, smiling warmly at all the friends who have gathered here to share it. I know everyone says that the bride looks radiant; it’s a matrimonial maxim like the ‘Wedding March’, or the big, white, exploding marshmallow frock. But today, for the first time ever, I’m witnessing an incandescent exemplification of the cliché. Elvis is waiting for her at the front of the room, handsome and distinguished in a double-breasted pinstriped suit, black and white brogues, and just a hint of eyeliner. Kitty is carrying a glamorous bouquet of darkest red Grand Prix roses, and Elvis has a single large rose pinned to his lapel. As he turns to watch his bride approach, I can see that his eyes are brimming with tears. Bugger. I hope I’ve brought a tissue. I think I may have got an eyelash in my eye. The woman seated next to me notices my discomfort and offers me a tissue from the packet that she has very sensibly brought with her, and which I gratefully accept. In case of eyelashes. I was a little early and kicking my lovely patent heels for a while in the reception area of the town hall, where civil marriage ceremonies take place, dressed rather obviously for a wedding in one of Kitty Muriel’s mother’s tea dresses, when the same woman approached me and asked me if I was waiting for Kitty Muriel’s wedding. She introduced herself as Rosie Bottoms, an ex-colleague and still friend of Kitty’s. Rosie is an eminently sensible-looking woman with a broad smile, silver grey hair cut into a neat bob, a smart A-line skirt suit, and low-heeled court shoes. She looks like my old geography teacher.
‘Kitty and I taught together at the same school.’
I learned a little more about Kitty’s past from Rosie while we were waiting. After Valentine’s death, Kitty went to college and trained to be a teacher of dance and drama. She and Rosie both started at the beginning of the same term at the local girls’ school.
‘Kitty was very kind to me, back then. I was a rather timid thing, a bit wet behind the ears, and of course my name didn’t help. I have no clue what my parents were thinking, or indeed if they were thinking at all. The girls picked up on it straight away, and made my life hell for the first few weeks. But Kitty helped me tough it out. “Show no fear!” she used to say, and then take me out for a couple of gin and tonics after school. By the end of the first term I was more than a match for any of them. They may not all have liked me, but they certainly respected me, which was a good start.’
Rosie continued her story as the doors were opened to the ceremony room and we made our way in to find our seats.
‘Of course, all the girls adored Kitty Muriel. She was glamorous, confident and charming, and a damn good teacher too. She knew exactly how to ignite their enthusiasm. Ruffled a few feathers amongst the rest of the staff though.’
‘Why was that?’ I had a pretty good idea, but I wanted to hear the details. Rosie sat down and placed her bag neatly on her lap before answering with a smile.
‘She wasn’t exactly what you would have called a conformist. Her outfits were responsible for raised eyebrows and coffee spluttering in the staff room; and her debut production of Romeo and Juliet with real boys and actual kissing resulted in an extraordinary meeting of the Parent Teacher Association. Only Kitty Muriel could have got away with it. She soothed away any objections with that seductive charm of hers, which is of course reinforced with formidable intelligence and determination.’
As Kitty Muriel joins Elvis in front of the registrar, she takes his hand and squeezes it tightly. The registrar welcomes us all, and the ceremony begins. Kitty and Elvis promise to love and care for one another forever and I know they will. There is a reading by one of Kitty Muriel’s old pupils from The Velveteen Rabbit by Margery Williams about how you become ‘real’ when somebody loves you. Cole Porter’s ‘You Do Something to Me’ is played and dedicated to Kitty Muriel by Elvis, and the newlyweds process joyfully out of the room, arm in arm, to the sound of Barry White’s ‘You’re the First, the Last, My Everything’.
We follow Kitty and Elvis outside, into the unseasonably warm, bright sunshine of an early October day. A shiny black car is waiting outside to take them on to the reception. It is decorated with yellow ribbons, and yellow and white flowers, and a huge bunch of yellow and white balloons is tied to the gleaming chrome of the rear bumper. In amongst the yellow and white is a single red balloon. If anyone is in the least bit surprised that the car is Elvis’s hearse, no one shows it. The reception party is being held, much to my delight, at The Cock and Curtain, which is only a ten-minute walk from the town hall. Rosie Bottoms and I stroll there together, with Rosie telling me more about their teaching days along the way. It seems that many of Kitty Muriel’s old pupils have kept in touch, and several of them are here today.
‘And are you still in contact with any of your old girls?’
Rosie smiles.
‘Absolutely. Teaching eventually became my life. After a rather unprepossessing start, I did rather well at it. I finished up as headmistress, and since I retired I’ve been secretary of the Staff and Old Girls’ Association.’
When we reach The Cock and Curtain, Kitty and Elvis are there to greet us. Elvis introduces us to a sprightly old gentleman, smartly dressed in a suit, with a dark red satin waistcoat and matching tie, and a natty trilby. He has a silver pocket watch in his waistcoat and its fob chain sparkles as it stretches across his generously flesh-cushioned ribcage.
‘This is my father.’
‘You’d never believe that I’m ninety-two.’
We agree that indeed we wouldn’t if it weren’t for the fact that we’d heard it from his own lips. There is a pianist playing more Cole Porter songs on the old but well-tuned piano in the bar, and the whole pub is decked out in flowers, balloons and ribbons. Even the horrid Damien Hirst/Laura Ashley stuffed-birds-and-flowers monstrosity is sporting a jaunty crown of yellow and white chrysanthemums. There are speeches from Elvis and his father. Lady T advises that ‘long speeches are always boring on social occasions’ and she would therefore have been perfectly satisfied with the exemplary concision of Elvis senior and his son. One thanks us for being there, and Kitty Muriel for blessing him with more happiness than he had ever dreamed of. The other declares Elvis and Kitty to be a perfect match, like stew and dumplings; and we wouldn’t hardly believe it
, but he’s ninety-two.
We are offered delicious little canapés and tiny crustless sandwiches to eat, accompanied by chunky chips, mini sausages and little punnets of cockles in vinegar. To drink there is a choice of champagne, snowballs and Guinness. After an unholy mixture of all three, I vaguely recall the Cole Porter segueing into ‘Knees up Mother Brown’, ‘Underneath the Arches’, and Madonna’s ‘Like a Prayer’, which we all sang with commendable enthusiasm but questionable musicality, holding on to the piano for support. We serenaded the bride and groom with an emotional and enthusiastic reprise of Elvis Presley’s ‘The Wonder of You’ as they left the pub for their honeymoon. My final and abiding memory of the evening was that of Rosie Bottoms singing ‘(Is This the Way to) Amarillo’, wearing a chamber pot on her head and waving a yellow chrysanthemum, as I crawled into a taxi and went home to prepare myself for a stupendous hangover.
Chapter 47
ART
The rocking horse is a lonely plaything, in a cold and empty space. But now the time has come to make the space a proper room once more. I have ordered furniture. I push on the dapple-grey neck with my hand and set it rocking, making one of the floorboards beneath the motion creak. Once again it is Día de los Angelitos, but this year it will be different from all the other years. This year Edward and I will not be remembering Gabriel alone. It was Kitty Muriel’s idea. ‘Any excuse for a party is a good one’ she joked, before gently telling me that sharing this day with my friends and family would be a gift to them and one that they might treasure. At first I wasn’t so sure, but Kitty Muriel can be very persuasive and how will I know unless I try? This afternoon she and Edward are going to help me prepare for the party. Everyone coming tonight is bringing with them a photo or a keepsake to place on the ofrenda of someone they want to remember, and tonight we shall all remember – and most importantly celebrate together.
Looking out through the bedroom window, I am satisfied that all my hard work has paid off and, despite the time of year, the garden is looking presentable. A few bedraggled chrysanthemums still make splashes of colour in the flower beds, and I am glad that they are orange – the perfect colour for Day of the Dead. Luckily, it is a fine day – cold but bright with silvery sunshine – as there is a big bonfire waiting to be lit. It is fenced off with chicken wire to deter any wandering hedgehogs who might decide to make it their winter quarters. I certainly don’t want it to become a funeral pyre, or for roast hedgehog to be on the menu tonight. What there will be is plenty of pan de muerto and sugar skulls that Edward and Kitty Muriel have agreed to make. They met quite recently through Marcus at one of the amateur dramatic society events and immediately bonded over Michael Bublé. I still can’t say if I’m more surprised or delighted, but they are fast becoming firm friends.
I keep Gabriel’s things in a suitcase on top of the wardrobe in my bedroom. Not the photographs, which are displayed all around the house, but the other things. As I leave the empty room to go and fetch it, I give the rocking horse a final push and suddenly I can hear Gabriel’s laughter just as clearly as if he were here. He loved the horse. He would cling onto its neck with chubby little fingers as he rocked back and forth. The horse is Haizum’s namesake. According to Islamic tradition, Haizum was the Archangel Gabriel’s horse; a white, flaming steed with wings given to Gabriel by God as a reward for pleasing him. I christened the rocking horse Haizum, but Gabriel called him ‘Azey’.
Gabriel’s favourite rabbit toy is always on my bed, and despite his fondness for furry, fluffy things Haizum has never touched it. In the weeks that followed Gabriel’s death I used to cuddle it close to my face when I went to sleep, and imagine that I could still smell the sweet, baby scent of Gabriel in its soft, white fur. It will be on the ofrenda as usual, but today I want to put something else on there as well, so I need to bring the suitcase down. It is covered in dust, which makes me sad, as though the memories it contains are just as neglected. But when I click open the metal lock, the lining of the case is bright and clean and my mementos of Gabriel are as fresh as if I had placed them there only yesterday. Haizum has followed me upstairs and is sniffing the suitcase with interest. I am looking for the blue sandal and Haizum helps by sticking his nose into the case and rummaging through its contents. Gabriel would have loved him. The sandal is carefully wrapped in pale blue tissue paper. It was found by the police on the riverbank, the day Gabriel drowned.
The Victorians often used a pair of small, empty shoes on gravestones and in pictures to signify a life cut short in childhood, and for me this single shoe is the last remaining link left in the loving chain that bound a mother to her son before it was so cruelly broken. It is his final relic and my most precious talisman, and it is, therefore, the thing that hurts me the most. It’s so small. It fits into the palm of my hand, no bigger than the duckling that I cradled there. Dark polka dots splash onto the soft leather and I realise that I am crying. Without bothering to wipe my tears, I snap the suitcase shut and turn to pick up the photograph of Gabriel from my bedside table. Of all the many photographs I have of him, this is my favourite. He sits astride his beloved rocking horse and is not just smiling but laughing. Full of joy.
I am fortunate to have so many photographs. The families of the children that I visit in the cemetery may not have been so lucky. For them photographs were still an expensive luxury reserved for important milestones and special events. And death. So many children died before a photograph was warranted that the first picture made of them would also be the last. Post-mortem. The most important occasion of their short life was their death. But a photograph of your dead child was better than no photograph at all, because memories are not enough. The pictures in our heads are unreliable. They shift and fade and scatter like broken reflections on restless water, and one day they may disappear completely. A paper picture is insurance. I found some once, at a flea market, and of course I bought them. The stallholder was pleased to be rid of them.
‘Horrible things they are,’ he said with a theatrical shiver. ‘Downright ghoulish!’ But he gladly took my money. And he was wrong, because in a heartrending way they are very beautiful and were clearly made as an act of love. They have a quality of exquisite tenderness that makes the stallholder’s revulsion seem both prudish and ignorant. Trying to get Gabriel to pose for a photograph was like chasing a butterfly. Almost all of the pictures I have of him are best described as ‘action shots’. He was always on the move, impossible to capture. Which is why I love the one on the rocking horse. The Victorian photographers who specialised in post-mortem pictures had no such problems with their subjects. There was no fretting over best sides or blinking at the wrong moment. They simply had to prop their corpses up, plump a few pillows, and fold their hands in a peaceful position across the chest. Scatter a few flowers around the bed or coffin and the job was done. The children wouldn’t fidget or whinge. They would simply recline peacefully, clutching a favourite toy, pretty as a picture. Sometimes the photographs would try to mimic life and disguise the dead as sleeping. A mother would hold her baby or small children would pose with a sibling. But you can always tell that one of them is dead, because no one is smiling.
I take the blue sandal and the photograph and go downstairs. As I reach the hall the doorbell rings and Haizum flings himself at the door, tail wagging frantically. Standing on the doorstep are a small dog and a man and woman laden with bags and smiling broadly. It is Lord Byron, Edward and Kitty Muriel.
‘It’s a wonderful party!’ Edward gives me a delighted hug. We are sharing a cigarette, huddled up to the warmth of the dying bonfire. From here the ofrenda is a magical sight, illuminated with lanterns and fairy lights. This year it is much bigger, to accommodate everyone’s memorials, and we set it up on the terrace close to the house. There are lights, too, in the pergola over the terrace, and we can see Elvis dancing a salsa with Epiphany, and Kitty Muriel sashaying seductively in the arms of a rather nervous-looking Albert. Mum is dancing with Marcus, and Dad, Stanley and Helen
are watching the festivities from the open doors of the garden room, drinking tequila sunrises and feeding tidbits to Haizum and Lord Byron. Georgina was invited, but she is on an adventure weekend with her Brownies.
‘And what about the Olympian?’ Edward tosses the butt of the cigarette into the flames and raises his eyebrow questioningly in my direction.
I shrug my shoulders, desperately feigning innocence or ignorance. Or both.
Edward wags his finger at me.
‘It’s no good,’ he says. ‘Kitty M told me all about your paramour at the pool.’
‘He’s not my paramour!’
‘But you like him?’
I sigh. ‘Kitty wanted me to invite him tonight, but how could I? I barely know him. I’ve only spoken to him once.’
Edward takes my hand and gives it a squeeze. ‘Well, get to know him, then! Trip over in front of him, or drop your glove or spill your tea over him.’
‘I don’t even know if he’s single.’
‘Well, I do.’
‘How can you possibly know that?
Edward laughs. ‘Because Kitty M asked him! Now, come and dance with me.’
We join the others on the terrace and the music changes. Michael Bublé invites us to sway . . . As Edward twirls me round in a carousel of lights and music, Sally’s words whisper in my ears: ‘When the music ends for someone you love you don’t stop dancing. You dance for them as well.’
At last, I am dancing for Gabriel.
Chapter 48
ART
Today’s pool temperature is 7.8 and I really enjoyed my swim this morning once it was over. Now I am skulking in the entrance hall pretending to read the noticeboard. I am dried and dressed and even sporting a touch of mascara. It’s so embarrassing and I can’t quite believe I’m doing this. I’m trying to ‘bump into’ the Olympian. I have taken Edward’s and Kitty Muriel’s advice, but now I’m beginning to feel foolish. What if I do bump into him? What exactly am I going to do or say? At least when I was fourteen the dating playing field was more or less level between the boys and the girls. We were all as embarrassed as each other; floundering through our fledgling relationships as best we could. All equally afflicted with the purgatory of puberty; the girls longing for breasts and periods, and the boys desperate for muscles, moustaches and more to their sex lives than wet dreams. I bet if I were to ‘bump into’ the Olympian now I would either say something stupid or fail to think of anything to say at all – but he, of course, would be as distinguished as Denzel Washington. It’s a cruel irony that I can only channel my inner Audrey Hepburn when faced with a Jim Carrey. I last precisely two minutes before giving up and heading off to the café. As soon as she sees me, Flo starts grinning.