There appeared to be no one in the shop, but from somewhere in the back came the sound of a radio playing, and she stood for a moment, listening. It was an old song her brother had played often on the piano. She could picture him sitting at the piano in the parlour, his face bright in the lamplight, his fingers fiddling the keys. He had been melancholy, one of those people who always seems to be disappointed by the world, but when he played the piano something—a tight mask he always wore; a wince almost—fell away and she had liked to see his face slacken that way.
A young man emerged from the back room. For a fleeting moment she thought it was her brother, and then remembered he was dead. The young man greeted her and walked past her to the door, which he locked. And then he flipped the sign from OPEN to CLOSED. He turned back to her. “I forgot to close up,” he said.
He had an odd brown shock of hair and a narrow face. He wore a pink shirt with the sleeves rolled up, a Fair Isle vest, and brown corduroy pants with very wide legs. He had a sort of kerchief tied about his neck. Despite this odd costume she still associated him, somehow, with her brother.
“Oh,” she said. “I’m sorry—I thought—”
“It’s all right,” he said. “What would you like?”
She had meant only to step inside out of the rain, not to buy flowers—they were a luxury she could not afford—but she felt obliged now, and then she thought of her cold little attic room in the house, of how a jug of flowers on the dresser would make it almost nice, and so she said, “Some flowers. Something small.” She could not say “cheap.”
“Is there an occasion?”
“Oh,” she said, “no—just a little bouquet—of anything, really, I can’t afford much.” She had never bought a bouquet of flowers and had no idea what they cost.
“Well, come back here,” he said. “I’ve got some nice lilies I could give you cheap.”
She followed him into the back room, which was brightly lit, two large tub sinks and a long worktable covered in flowers, and another table with rows of glass vases in which identical bouquets were being assembled. It was bright and cheerful and there was a heady scent of elsewhere in the air.
“Oh, it’s lovely,” she said. Coral had never seen so many flowers. It seemed impossible to her, this many of a thing so beautiful. She felt in some way that all the life and warmth of the cold, drab town, of her life, had collected in this room—that she was in the hot golden centre of the world.
And then she thought how soon all the flowers would be wilted, dead, all this beauty rotting on sodden trash heaps in the back alleys.
“I’m doing the flowers for the Page wedding tomorrow,” the man said. “Are you going to the wedding?”
“No,” she said. “I’m just in town for the day. I don’t know anyone here.”
“Well, Page is the mayor and his fat cow of a daughter Marjorie is being married tomorrow and half the town is invited and they want flowers on every table. I’ll likely be up all night.”
She didn’t know what to say. There were some flowers on the floor, yellow flowers, lilies, she supposed, and she bent down and picked them up and put them on the table.
“Those are no good,” he said. “They’re tired.”
“They look fine,” she said.
“Well, they won’t do for Marjorie Page,” he said. “You’re welcome to them if you want.”
“They’re beautiful,” she said, but then she noticed there was a thin edge of brown on some of the petals. But they were beautiful. She held them up to her face and smelt them. It was a sweet, unlikely scent.
“Well, take them,” he said. “But they won’t last long.”
She picked a few more of the discarded stalks off the floor and attempted to arrange them.
“Here,” he said. “Give them to me.”
She handed them to him and he went to the sink and cut the long stems with a penknife, wrapped wet newspaper around the amputated stalks, and then tied them together with a lilac ribbon he unfurled from a huge roll. “Here,” he said, and handed them back to her.
“Thank you,” she said. “They’re beautiful.”
“Just don’t look too close,” he said, and laughed.
“No,” she said, “they’re beautiful. Thank you.”
“Where are you from?” he asked.
“I’m nursing the old woman out at Hart House,” she said. “And I’d better go. I don’t want to miss the bus.”
“It runs late on Saturdays.”
“Yes, but I’ve got to get back,” she said. “Thank you for the flowers.”
“Oh, you’re welcome,” he said. “They’ll rot by morning.”
“Well, I shall enjoy them tonight,” she said. She walked back through the front room to the door and tried to open it, but it was locked. He came up behind her, touched her back, and then reached past her, turned the lock, and pushed the door open. It was still raining. “Good night,” he said.
She said good night and passed through the door, which closed quickly behind her. She heard the bolt fasten and turned round to see him walking towards the back room of the shop. The lights in the front went out. She stood for a moment in the sheltered doorway, watching him in the lighted back room, moving back and forth between the two tables, carefully filling the vases with flowers.
* * *
It was raining hard when Coral got off the bus, a hard, lashing rain. The long road to Hart House was flooded and she waded through dark ankle-deep puddles. The first moment she glimpsed the house, she knew there was something wrong, for it was all lit up, throwing light out of almost every window into the darkness. The house was kept dark because Mrs Hart, like so many old ladies, couldn’t bear to spend money on anything that she considered a luxury. For a moment, upon glimpsing the glowing house, Coral had the absurd idea that they had turned all the lights on for her, to help her find her way, to welcome her in from the dark, wet night.
A car was parked on the gravel drive. The front door was locked and no one answered her knocking. She walked around to the side of the house and entered through the kitchen door, and sat at the table removing her wet clothes and shoes. The kitchen was dark and the house was eerily quiet, as if all of the energy it had had gone into illuminating it, and none was left for anything else. There was a bowl on the table half-filled with a cold, congealing stew. A glass was overturned beside the bowl, and there was a puddle of what smelt like beer on the floor. Coral was disturbed by this odd still life, and for a moment she considered fleeing, running back out in the wet night and never returning. For surely something had gone wrong.
Suddenly the overhead light snapped on and Mrs Prence ran down the stairs. She stopped when she saw Coral sitting at the table.
“There you are!” she exclaimed. “Of course it would all happen when you’re away. I’ve had to deal with everything myself!”
“What’s happened?” Coral asked.
“She’s dead, that’s what’s happened. I went to take up her tea and she was cold as a post. I told you you shouldn’t have left her.”
In fact Mrs Prence had said no such thing, but it was clear she was creating her own version of the day’s events.
“I’m sorry,” Coral said. “I came back as soon as I could. In fact, I’m back early.”
“Well, not early enough,” said Mrs Prence.
“I’ll go up now,” she said, standing up.
“You’re no use now,” said Mrs Prence. “Dr Caldecott’s with her. And look at my supper, and the beer all over the floor. Did you do that?”
Coral didn’t answer. She righted the glass.
“And what’s those?” Mrs Prence asked, pointing to the flowers on the table. “What are you doing with flowers?”
“Nothing,” said the Coral.
“Nothing! You’re out picking flowers while Mrs Hart is gasping for her last breath! That’s a pretty picture.”
Coral leant down and put her wet shoes back on. She stood up and attempted to push her damp hair into place
. Then she walked towards the stairway.
“It’s as like you killed her,” said Mrs Prence. “At least, that’s how I see it. If you’d’ve been here you could have done something. There’s no use going up there now. It’s all done and over with.”
* * *
Later, when Coral came downstairs to show the doctor out, Major Hart was waiting in the front hall.
“Ah, Clement,” the doctor said, “my condolences. But it’s a blessing really, you know—she was in such pain, and now her suffering is over.”
“Yes,” said Major Hart. “Thank you for coming out on such a miserable night.”
“No need to thank me,” said the doctor. “I’ll send Mr Carmichael out tomorrow morning for the body. And you can make your plans with him. You’ll want Carmichael’s, I assume?”
“Yes,” said Major Hart.
“Well, good night,” said the doctor. He turned to Coral. “I’m sorry to have met you under such sad circumstances, but that’s often the way, isn’t it, in our profession?”
“Yes,” Coral said. “Good night.”
The doctor patted Major Hart on his shoulder. “She’s in a better place now,” he said.
Major Hart agreed that she was. And then the doctor opened the door and closed it quickly behind him, for it was still raining.
Coral and Major Hart waited silently for a moment. They listened to the doctor’s car start and then drive away. After a moment Mrs Prence emerged from the basement. She glowered at Coral and turned to Major Hart. “Is there anything I can get you, sir? I’ve got some of my Finnegan’s stew I can heat up for you.”
“No, thank you Mary,” he said. “I’m not hungry.”
“I’m sorry about your mother, sir,” said Mrs Prence. “She was a fine lady. I shall miss her terribly.”
“Thank you,” said Major Hart. “Good night.”
Mrs Prence paused for a moment, as if she expected something else to happen, and then pushed through the door.
“I’m sorry I wasn’t here,” Coral said.
“It was your afternoon off,” said Major Hart.
“Yes, I know. But I’m sorry I wasn’t here.”
“Well, these things always happen at the worst times, don’t they? Although the doctor’s right. It’s better she’s dead.”
Because she felt it unprofessional to agree with such a statement, Coral said nothing.
Major Hart covered his face with his hands for a moment and said, “What a miserable day.”
“Would you like something?” Coral asked. “A sedative, perhaps? It would help you sleep.”
“I’ll have a brandy, I think,” said Major Hart. “Will you join me?”
“I think—I had better finish upstairs, and then I’ll go to bed. I’m tired.”
“Oh, please join me for a brandy. It’s the one thing you can do. You must understand that I don’t want to be alone.”
Coral followed him into the library. He poured them both brandies and then sat beside her in front of the fire. For a moment neither of them said anything. Coral marvelled again at the warming and restorative powers of brandy. It made the world seem almost safe.
“Your own mother is dead, you said?” the Major suddenly asked.
“Yes,” said Coral.
“Do you know, I never liked my mother,” he said. “She was never warm or kind to me. I’m sure she did not love me, or even want me.”
“I’m sorry,” said Coral. She had heard this before: people speaking ill of the dead before they were even buried. It was a way of dismissing them, she supposed, a way of assimilating the loss.
“God only knows what she wanted,” he continued.
“I’m sure she loved you,” she said. “In her way. All mothers do.”
“Oh, I don’t think so,” said the Major. “Did yours?”
“Yes,” said Coral. “In her way. And I loved her. And my father.”
“I liked my father,” said Major Hart. “He was a decent man. He died when I was eleven. I had a sister, too—Charlotte. But she is dead.”
“I’m very sorry,” said Coral.
“Charlotte took her own life,” said Major Hart.
Coral had never heard this expression and for a moment was bemused. Then she understood. “Oh!” she said. “How awful. I am sorry.”
Major Hart stood up and leant against the mantel. He disturbed the coals with the poker. “I’m sorry to be so gloomy,” he said.
“You’ve every right to be gloomy,” said Coral.
“I suppose,” he said. “But I still don’t like it. It can so easily overtake one … It feels odd, though, to be finally all alone in the world.”
“You have no relatives?” she asked.
“Oh, distant ones … none to speak of. Have you?”
“No,” she said. “Well, I have an aunt, my father’s sister, but I’ve never known her. She cheated my father out of an inheritance, or so he claimed, so we never saw her.” Coral looked into the fire, which glowed brighter as a result of the Major’s interference, and a memory suddenly returned to her from somewhere deep within herself: the gold necklace. Without thinking, she said, “I remember she sent me a little cross. It was very pretty and I had nothing like it; no one in my family had any jewellery. I remember how fine the chain was, as thin as could be. It seemed a miracle to me: How could anyone make something like that? I thought God perhaps had created it. But my father made me send it back to her. He said it was barbaric.”
A hiss from the fire brought her back to herself. “Oh,” she said, “excuse me. I didn’t mean to—”
“How could a cross be barbaric?” asked the Major.
“I don’t know, but it’s what he said. At least, what I remember. Perhaps my aunt was Roman Catholic. It’s papist, isn’t it, to wear a cross?”
“As far as I know, anyone who believes may wear a cross,” said the Major. “Or any one at all, for that matter. There are no laws forbidding it.”
“It was ‘papist’ that he said, not ‘barbaric.’ I remember that now. My father hated the Catholic Church. I suppose only because he hated his sister, and she was Catholic.”
“Were you raised in the Church?” asked the Major.
“No,” she said. “Neither of my parents was religious. They were both very practical. My brother went to church sometimes, but I think it was for the music. Do you have faith?”
“No,” said the Major. “I did, a bit, until the war. It’s funny: war brings some men much closer to God. Others it separates. I lost my faith—what I had of it—in the war.”
They were both quiet for a moment and then he walked over to the table and picked up the decanter of brandy. “A little more?” he asked.
“No, thank you,” she said.
“Would you mind if I do?” he asked.
“No,” she said. “Of course not. But I should be getting to bed. It’s late and—” she began to push herself up, out of the low-slung club chair, but he reached out and touched her arm.
“Just sit for another minute. Please.”
“Yes,” she said. “Of course.” She sank back into the chair, and he returned to his.
After a moment she said, “Your mother prayed, you know. Often, at night.”
“Did she? I wouldn’t have thought it. She was only religious in the most conventional, unspiritual way. Are you sure she was praying?”
“Yes,” said Coral. “I’m sure. I heard her.”
“And what did she say? What did she pray for?”
“I don’t know,” said Coral. “I couldn’t really make it out. But I knew it was praying. She wept sometimes, too. I’m sorry. Perhaps I shouldn’t tell you these things.”
“No, no,” said the Major. “You’re right to tell me. It just surprises me.”
“Were you with her when she passed?”
“No,” he said. “She was alone. Mary—Mrs Prence—took up her tea and found her. I should have spent more time with her, I know, but I couldn’t bear seeing her like that, and
sickrooms rattle me. Did you think it odd that I never came to her? You must think me unfeeling.”
“No,” said Coral. “No. I understand.”
“My mother blamed me somehow for my sister’s death. Or not blamed, perhaps, but she thought it should have been me.”
“I’m sure she did not,” said Coral.
“She did,” said the Major. “She told me so, quite clearly.”
“People sometimes say things when they are mourning that they don’t really mean,” said Coral. “I’m sure she did not mean it.”
The Major put down his glass and held his head in both his hands, his face downcast. After a moment he began to sob, and shook with an effort to hold it inside of himself.
Coral watched him for a moment, curiously, as if she had never seen a man cry like that, and found it somewhat distasteful.
“I’m sorry—” the Major sputtered. “Forgive me—”
Then Coral stood and moved around behind his chair and put one of her hands on each of his shoulders, as if to hold him down, as if his sobs might cause him to levitate. She said nothing. Her gesture seemed to comfort the Major. She felt his large shuddering body quieten beneath her clasp.
He reached one arm back over his shoulder and placed his hand on hers. His hand felt warm and strangely soft, and she thought, Everyone is touching me today: the man in the cinema, the boy in the flower shop, and now Major Hart. She pulled her hands away from him and stood back.
He rose quickly from the chair and turned to her. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I didn’t mean to— It’s only that—”
“You have nothing to be sorry for,” Coral said. “I shall say good night to you now. Are you sure you wouldn’t like a sedative? I could give you a mild one.”
“Thank you, but no,” said the Major. “I shall rely upon the brandy. Thank you for sitting with me, for talking to me.”
“You’re welcome,” she said.
Coral Glynn Page 3