by Ruth Hogan
The gratitude in her eyes is heartbreaking. Looking at the choppy sea she manages a fragile smile and even jokes, ‘I don’t think I’ll be tempted to go for a dip this morning!’
Mum has alopecia – another legacy of Gabriel’s death. It started on the day of his memorial service. She was getting ready and one brushstroke pulled out a handful of hair. By the end of the week she was completely bald. Endless treatments have proved futile and as Mum is definitely not the kind of woman who can rock a Sinead O’Connor coiffure with any confidence, wigs have been the only solution. The latest is a recent purchase named the ‘Raquel’, according to the saleswoman. It is a stylish, dark blonde creation and almost completely indistinguishable from the real thing. Mum looks lovely – I just wish I could get her to believe it.
The burnt-out West Pier is still visible above the sea, its scorched and twisted frame clinging on, like a desperate and exhausted swimmer battling to escape inevitable drowning. In the arches beneath the iron balustrades, the little shops and cafés are opening – the cafés first, to provide steaming cups of tea and coffee to the early-morning dog walkers and tourists. Madame Petulengra, the fortune teller, is not yet in residence, and the little art galleries are still shut up, but buckets of whirring windmills and postcard stands are beginning to appear as the small traders lift their shutters and unlock their tills. As we retrace the steps of the teenage Kitty Muriel, swinging her hat in her hand and contemplating abandoning her stockings for the deliciousness of an unseemly paddle, I stop for a moment and stare out at the glittering, grey waves. I wonder if this could be the very place where Valentine, ‘The Great Mercurio – Thaumaturge Extraordinaire’, had set up his pitch, and charmed her with his magic.
Further on, the sky blue pillars that support the balustrades are framed by intricate iron crochet work, softening the right angles with arches of wrought-iron doily. The turquoise metal is beautifully mottled with deep orange rust, and the shadows it casts are a carpet of charcoal grey lace on the walkway below. The Palace Pier is waking up now. The siren slot machines are ready to gobble up the coins of those mesmerised by their flashing lights, music, bells and buzzers, and teetering piles of ten-pence pieces. Already the smell of frying onions and fresh crêpes is tainting the sea air. The carousel of galloping horses is my greatest delight. Gabriel would have loved it too, and it is just a single entry on the long and painful list of things that I never got to share with my son. But I shall ride for him. The dappled grey horse called Peter is my favourite, but his groom has not yet arrived, and so my ride will have to wait. We shuffle through the crowded Lanes with their dwindling number of antique dealers, and their increasing number of gift and novelty shops, but eventually tire of the constant jostling, noise and smell of fast food.
‘Shall we go for a coffee?’
Mum likes coffee, but what she likes more is to ‘go for a coffee’. That is, to find a café or bistro, be seated at a table and have someone ask you which kind of coffee you would like, and then bring it to you with froth and chocolate powder on the top. She always pretends to consider the choice, and then always has a cappuccino. She especially likes it if the sugar comes in several varieties packaged in little paper tubes. She always slips a couple into her bag to take home because ‘they might come in handy’. Handy for what exactly, I don’t know. I’ve seen piles of them in her pantry, and some of them have been there for years. We find a quiet little Italian place just off the main street. There are already quite a few people in here (I shall know exactly how many any minute now) as it is fast approaching lunchtime.
‘Would you like anything to eat?’
‘Are you having anything?’
She always does this. It is as though she needs to be in step with those around her. If I have a cake, she will. If I don’t, she still will, but I shall have to persuade her first that it is okay for her to have one even if I don’t. It seems she has spent her life trying to blend in, and I have spent mine doing the opposite. I order two cappuccinos and a sweet pastry for Mum, and slip off my long velvet coat. It feels very warm inside after the biting wind along the promenade, and our cheeks and noses are flushed a deep cherry red. I tell Mum that we look like a pair of ladies who enjoy their drink, and suggest that we order a bottle of wine as well. But she is only half listening as she has begun the serious business of counting.
I glance around the tables that are now almost all occupied. Sitting just a few yards away from us, two women are deeply engaged in conversation. Their heads are bent closely together and their intimacy is unmistakable. The woman facing me is disconcertingly familiar. She is small and trim, in her mid-fifties, and her dark brown hair is cut in a stiff, no-nonsense style. She is tastefully dressed in a navy suit and knee-length boots. Her companion looks to be a much larger woman, with a more flamboyant sense of style, judging from her boldly patterned satin blouse and dangling earrings. Our coffees arrive along with the pastry and a little bowl of assorted sugar tubes.
‘Forty-nine. This pastry’s delicious.’
Now it is my turn to be only half listening. The identity of the woman is really bugging me. I start listing all the compartments of my life in my head, and the people who live in them. She is a work person. I know her through work. But who the hell is she?
‘I’m so pleased you’ve finally found a boyfriend.’
I almost spill my coffee in surprise. I haven’t told her anything about Gideon. Mum has relaxed a little now, and is smiling at me knowingly.
‘So, when were you going to tell me about him? And it’s no good denying it, because I bumped into Epiphany and she told me that you were seeing someone.’
I can’t help but laugh. I’m fairly certain that Gideon has been the only topic of conversation amongst my friends ever since they found out.
‘Well, I was going to tell you. Soon. But we’ve only been out a couple of times and it might not be anything serious . . .’
‘That’s not what I’ve heard. Edward told Epiphany that he’s very handsome, a lovely man and that the pair of you are a perfect match.’
Mum takes another bite of her pastry while she waits for me to answer. I have a feeling that she is enjoying this.
‘Does he like Haizum?’
She knows me well. Finally, I surrender.
‘Yes, he adores Haizum. And yes, he’s gorgeous and lovely and I like him very much. There! Are you happy now?’
Mum reaches across and takes my hand. Her face is suddenly serious.
‘More than you can imagine.’ She pauses for just a moment before continuing, ‘We all loved Gabriel, but you were – no, are – his mother. I can’t imagine what it was like for you. But as well as losing my grandson, I have had to watch all these years while my only daughter muddles on with gritted teeth, as though her own life has become something simply to be endured. There have been so many times when I have wanted to say something, do something to shake you out of your misery.’
She takes a sip of her coffee, but doesn’t let go of my hand.
‘Do you remember when you were a little girl, that time we took you to visit that stately home? The one with the maze?’
I do. I was a wilful little tyke of about six and I pulled free of my mum’s hand and ran off into the maze on my own. Needless to say, I got lost, and by the time Mum and Dad found me I was furious with frustration and sobbing with fear. I can still remember the panic at being surrounded by those tall, dark walls and the terror that I would never escape.
Mum puts down her cup. ‘I used to have nightmares about that day for years afterwards. I could hear you screaming but I could never get to you. And that’s how I’ve felt for all this time since Gabriel died. In the end, all I could do was trust that one day you would discover the strength and courage to find your own way out of the maze that mourning for Gabriel had trapped you in. And now, when I look at your face, I believe you have.’
My face now has tears running down it, and Mum hands me a paper napkin. This is the longest speech that
she has ever made about our lives after Gabriel died. We have never been the kind of family that shares these sorts of emotions easily. These were always the kind of conversations that other people had. But now I am so glad that we finally got around to having one of our own. We finish our coffees and Mum slips off to ‘spend a penny’ while I settle the bill. When she returns, she tells me in the manner of a child sharing a naughty secret that the woman I think I know is holding hands with her ‘friend’. As we are leaving, Mum’s bag catches the taller woman’s coat, which is hanging on the back of her chair. I bend to pick it up and as I stand up apologising, I find myself looking into the fully made-up face of the Deputy Chief Fire Officer.
‘How lovely to see you. You’re looking well. Are you enjoying Brighton?’
Lady T would have been proud of me. I don’t miss a beat, and poor Bob is so flummoxed that all he can do is smile and grip the hand of his companion so tightly that her fingertips begin to turn white. And speaking of his companion, I’m on a roll now.
‘And Mrs Lewis, how are you? Let me introduce you to my mother. Isn’t the weather wonderful? Especially lucky for us as we’re only here for the weekend.’
Mrs Rosamund Lewis: magistrate and member of the Police Committee, known for her strong views on traditional family values, and self-crowned queen of the moral high ground. Devoted wife to Howard and mother of two teenage boys. Long suspected in some circles of being a closet homophobe. Apparently residing in a different sort of closet altogether.
Once outside, Mum asks me how I know Bob.
‘He’s the Deputy Chief Fire Officer now, but I knew him as a station officer when I used to work for the council.’
She thinks about it for a moment.
‘So, is he a lesbian then?’
I don’t know, Mum. I really don’t know.
Chapter 54
ART
Sally stole my funeral.
Except she wasn’t Sally, she was Phoebe – after her mother, Lily Phyllis Phoebe, whose initials are on my ring. The last time I saw her was the week before I went to Brighton, in the park as usual, late one afternoon. It was drear and chilly and the sun had almost set, but Sally was rosy-cheeked and smiling. She greeted us with an enthusiastic wave when she saw us approaching, and threw Haizum a couple of pieces of bread. I stood with her while she finished feeding the crows, and then she took my arm and I walked with her to the café, now shut up for the winter, and down to the bandstand. Conversation was not possible as her scrambling switch was on, but neither was it necessary as we strolled in comfortable silence. When we reached the gate, she gave me an affectionate hug and told me to ‘Fuck off and die’. And then she had.
Her obituary was in the local paper along with a short article about her life. It began, somewhat predictably, with ‘Local eccentric’, followed somewhat surprisingly by ‘and former opera star dies peacefully in her sleep’. Sally, or Phoebe, as I should now call her, had apparently had a successful career performing as a soloist in operas all over the world in the late 1960s and 70s. She had sung the roles of Mimi at La Scala, and Violetta at the Royal Opera House. She had never married, but had had a long-term lover – which was pretty racy back then – who had died suddenly in an accident in 1979, leaving Phoebe heartbroken and quite suddenly afflicted with a mysterious condition that put an end to her singing career. The stark, black words on the page drew a picture of a sad, old woman, whose life, which had once glittered with promise, had been irrevocably tarnished by the tragic death of her lover, leaving her to withdraw from the world and skulk in the shadows of madness until she eventually died frail and alone. This was supposedly the story of my friend, whose life I knew virtually nothing about. It was a worthy plot for an opera, but did no justice to the Phoebe I had known.
Her funeral, however, did.
It was the first week in December and it was snowing. Not the wet, grey, half-hearted apology for snow that we usually get in this part of the country, the kind in which the promise of snowmen, sledging and Christmas-card scenes dissolve before it hits the ground. This was real, winter wonderland snow. Pure white-feather flakes floating down thick and fast, cloaking the grubby, grey mud and tarmac of the church’s drive with a sparkling, soft white carpet ready for the arrival of the show’s leading lady. Phoebe arrived in a gleaming, glass-sided hearse drawn by a pair of magnificent black horses crowned with ostrich plumes, who were prancing and puffing steam from their nostrils. Her small coffin was covered in white arum lilies and wreaths of holly, ivy and mistletoe. It was very quiet as the horses jostled to a halt outside the church. The snow had hushed life’s everyday soundtrack, and all that could be heard were the horses snorting and champing on their bits, and the cackle of two crows who were observing the scene from their perch on top of the lych-gate. Phoebe would have been pleased that they were there to see her off.
The church was a monument to the glory of gothic architecture and the pews were filled with people. I was happy to see Kitty Muriel amongst them and sat down next to her. The pallbearers, wearing immaculate tailcoats and top hats, bore Phoebe to the altar while the sublime melody of ‘Casta Diva’ filled the church. (I noted that Phoebe showed sufficient restraint to forgo the Gaultier model in the sailor suit – or perhaps she simply didn’t fancy him.) I had chosen my outfit carefully, and hoped that Phoebe would have approved; black velvet opera coat, deep-red silk rose corsage and, obviously, dark red satin tango shoes; not great for walking in the snow, but fabulous for dancing.
The vicar was certainly divine, and clearly one of God’s finest men. He was tall, dark and dignified, with a voice like Irish coffee and a coffin-side manner that made me weak at the knees. He spoke of Phoebe’s life as an opera singer; her rare talent and her love of music. He told of her beloved Charles who died when she was just thirty-nine, and how she became ill and hid away. But that was only half the story; only half a life. After several years lost in mourning for her love and her music, Phoebe built a way back into the world. She walked out of her front door and joined in again. In the community where Phoebe lived, everyone came to know her. She said ‘Good Morning’ and ‘Good Afternoon’ and ‘Fuck Off’ to everyone. She arranged the flowers in the church. She volunteered to help at the local old people’s home, and continued to do so until she died, by which time several of the residents were younger than her. She provided entertainment with singing evenings; less ‘O Mio Babbino Caro’ and more ‘I’m Forever Blowing Bubbles’, but hugely popular nonetheless. If the lyrics were, on occasion, a little unusual, most of the residents were happy to put it down to a dodgy battery in their hearing aids. She gave dancing lessons: the waltz, the foxtrot and even the rumba for the more young-at-heart, slinky-hipped pensioners. She cooked hot suppers for neighbours when they were ill, fed pet rabbits when their owners were away on holiday, and took in parcels for people when they were at work. And every afternoon she took the bus to the park to feed the crows.
Far from being frail and lonely, she was a very lively and much-loved member of the community that she embraced and enriched with her enthusiasm, affection and expletives. She also threw water over any Jehovah’s Witnesses who knocked at her door, picked flowers from other people’s gardens, and let the air out of the tyres of any yellow cars parked in the street where she lived. But no one really minded (except perhaps the Jehovah’s Witnesses), because on balance, Phoebe gave more than she took. All she asked was to be accepted for the woman she was, and allowed to live her way in her eccentric clothes and red shoes, dancing to her own tune. Lady T says that ‘refinement lies in the heart and the spirit rather than in outward appearance, but it is by what we do and say that we prove that it exists within us’. It clearly existed in Phoebe. In spades.
Phoebe had made detailed arrangements for her funeral several years before she died. She had no family to second-guess her wishes and clearly wanted to make sure that her last show was to die for. We sang an emotional ‘How Great Thou Art’, an exuberant ‘Bread of Heaven’, and ‘Non,
Je Ne Regrette Rien’ surprisingly well in French.
Phoebe had rekindled friendships with several of her colleagues from the world of opera, and one of them, a former tenor and more recently a musical director, gave an affectionate speech about Phoebe’s more memorable performances both on and off the stage. It seems that as well as a beautiful voice, she had a prodigious talent for mimicry, and was forever using this particular skill to make mischief.
I learned far more about Phoebe’s life at her funeral than I had ever discovered during my friendship with her, but all the additional details merely served to confirm and embellish what I already knew: that she was an exceptional individual who had lived life with gusto, courage and enormous generosity towards others. I was lucky to have had her as a friend.
The congregation rose to bid their last farewell as the coffin glided through the gold-fringed, purple damask curtains, and I knew with absolute certainty that the next music I should hear would be the song to which I had danced with Phoebe in the cemetery. As the final notes of ‘La Vie en Rose’ faded, everyone sat back down and gathered their handbags, gloves and glasses cases. But although Phoebe had taken her final curtain, the real show-stopper was yet to come. The sad, shuffling silence was suddenly exploded by the opening bars of a song that goes straight to every disco diva’s feet. Soon the joyful chorus of Abba’s ‘Dancing Queen’ filled every dark corner with life. The mourners were smiling as they left the church.
The divine vicar told us that Phoebe had made it clear that all those who attended her funeral should honour her wishes by moving on to a nearby hotel and toasting her life and memory with what she called ‘after-show’ drinks and nibbles. Everybody went and drank pink champagne, and ate tiny, crustless sandwiches filled with cucumber, salmon, egg and cress, potted shrimps, and cheese and pickle. As I was leaving, one of the waitresses handed me a large paper bag containing the crusts that had been removed from the sandwiches.