by Anne Doughty
To my surprise, he promised quite firmly he would make sure she didn’t. From that moment on, we were able to be easy with each other and make the decisions that had to be made before he rang my mother to break the news.
‘It’ll probably be late morning by the time I get up home, Jenny. Can you manage till then?’ he ended.
‘I’ll manage somehow, Harvey,’ I said gently. ‘I think you’ve got the rough end this morning.’
‘No, not a bit of it. I’ve ducked out of it for too long. ‘Bye for now,’ he said hastily, as he put the phone down.
I finished my calls, said my thank you to the sister, and began the long march back to the entrance. The corridors were already full of people, sunlight streamed in through the windows and skylights, and somewhere, beyond the clatter of breakfast trays, I heard a voice singing. Once again, I felt my spirits rise. I walked out into the fresh air, felt the sun on my face, and hailed a taxi as if I were greeting an old friend.
* * *
I blessed Ernie as I sat back in the large, black, city taxi. He had refused to take any money last night when he noticed how little I had in my purse. ‘Ye might need that in the mornin’,’ he’d said. He was in no hurry, he’d see me again. And so he would. But now there was another job to do. I collected my thoughts as best I could as we negotiated the traffic round the City Hall and made for Queen’s Crescent.
It was only a few minutes after eight o’clock, but the elderly school secretary was already at her desk. She frowned when she saw me. Staff were a trial to her. They only appeared when they wanted something. And that invariably meant more work for her and her assistant. Even Miss Fletcher, the vice-principal, thought twice about asking her to duplicate her world maps.
I took a deep breath and said that I would like to see Miss Braidwood as soon as she came in.
‘She’s in already, but she’s busy,’ she said sourly, looking me up and down. ‘What about lunchtime?’
‘I’m afraid I can’t be here at lunchtime, or at three thirty. That’s why I need to see her.’
‘Oh.’ She rose from her chair, glared at me, and walked out of the office in the direction of the head’s study. I took a few deep breaths. I was so nervous, the lines I’d rehearsed in the taxi had gone completely. I knew there were four things I had to say, but at this moment I could remember only two.
‘Miss Braidwood will see you,’ she said shortly. ‘But she’s very busy.’
I picked up my briefcase and tapped along the bare wooden corridor. When she called, ‘Come in,’ I opened the door and saw her move a pile of papers from a chair on to her already crowded desk.
‘Do sit down, Mrs McKinstry. You have a problem,’ she said briskly.
‘Yes,’ I said. ‘I have a number of things to tell you and some of them may cause problems.’
She shifted uneasily in her chair and glanced at the pile of papers she had just moved.
‘My father died this morning in the Royal Victoria. I shall need some time off, but I don’t know what the rules are.’
‘Was this expected, Mrs McKinstry?’
‘In some ways. He did have a severe heart attack two years ago, but he’d made a reasonable recovery. He was in good spirits yesterday when I saw him. The attack came at bedtime and he died at five twenty this morning.’
‘So he did not suffer?’ she said, her tone softening.
‘No, he didn’t. It helps me,’ I said quite steadily, though I had to swallow afterwards.
She paused. It gave me time for another good deep breath.
‘When I saw you on Friday, Miss Braidwood, you offered me the job of Head of the English Department. I made my decision at the weekend and I should like to accept.’
‘Good. I’m pleased that you have. You made the decision before your father was taken ill, did you?’
‘Yes, I did. I was able to tell him yesterday afternoon and that helps me too. He was very pleased about it.’
To my surprise, she smiled. ‘You were clearly close to your father, Mrs McKinstry, and I think I understand why he was so pleased. You are really rather young, you know, for such a position, but we’ve been very impressed by the impact you’ve made. We’ve not had as much enthusiasm for your subject in many years and Miss McFarlane is the first to acknowledge it. I expect your father was very proud of you.’
I nodded, but I didn’t dare say a word in case I dripped. ‘The third thing is to do with Millicent Blackwood,’ I said quickly, a wave of relief sweeping over me as I remembered. ‘I know Miss Fletcher is coming to see you about her at lunchtime. I think you should know that her mother has left the family. Millie has four brothers and she’s doing all the washing and ironing and most of the housework. I think the problem with her work is simply exhaustion. She’s not getting enough sleep and certainly not enough time for proper study. She’s an able girl but just can’t manage.’
‘And her father?’
‘He seems kind enough, but thoughtless. I don’t think it ever crosses his mind that this will wreck Millie’s chances of getting to university. It’s probably never occurred to him in any case, because she’s a girl.’
‘You think she is university material?’ she said, surprised.
‘Yes, I do. Before this happened, her work was really very good indeed.’
She made a note on a pad and looked up at me. ‘And the fourth thing?’
I hesitated a moment and then decided the best thing was to put it as plainly as possible. ‘I have left my husband, Miss Braidwood. From today, I shall be staying with friends until I find a home of my own.’
She nodded sharply and considered. ‘Has the question of your job precipitated this?’
‘Yes, I think it has. But it’s only pulled out the underlying problems which could not have been resolved in any case.’
She smiled slightly and stood up. ‘The rules about leave are discretionary,’ she said abruptly. ‘If you can return in a week I shall be very glad indeed. You know our limited resources only too well. But if you do need longer, please telephone me and we’ll discuss it. Don’t trouble to come in. Have you been up all night?’
‘Yes. Yes, I have.’
‘I appreciate your coming in. If you leave now you’ll avoid having to speak to your colleagues. I can tell them about your father for you. Would that help?’
‘Yes, it would indeed.’
She reached a hand across the table and shook mine firmly. ‘I shall see the funeral details in the newspaper and I shall think about you at that time,’ she said in a businesslike voice. Then she sat down again and took up her papers.
The staffroom was empty, as I expected, so I was able to unload most of my briefcase on to my shelf, leaving it a lot lighter to carry. I hurried along Queen’s Crescent and into Botanic Avenue, just as the first cluster of brown figures appeared from the platform of an Ormeau Road bus.
I was about to turn into University Street when I suddenly saw the gates of the Botanic Gardens were wide open. Moments later, I was walking past the huge circular bed opposite the tropical greenhouse.
‘Morning, miss.’
‘Beautiful morning, isn’t it?’ I replied easily as the elderly gardener bent again to his task.
The summer bedding was gone and boxes of winter pansies sat on his trolley, one or two of them already in bloom. A deep, rich blue. And I thought of Debbie, my lovely, soft-spoken Jamaican friend who had taught with me in Birmingham. Once, in a Wimpy bar, following a theatre visit, we had talked about loss. After her mother died, she had left the hospital by bus, and looking down she’d seen a woman sweeping her front doorstep. ‘How can she do that?’ she’d asked herself. ‘My mother has died, and she just goes on sweeping her doorstep.’
Debbie had loved her mother, as I loved my father, but only now, as I stood and watched the bent figure tap the pansies from their pots and firm them into the soft earth, did I really understand what she was trying to say. Life goes on regardless, season by season, whatever one’s grief or joy.
I walked on slowly, found a seat in the sun and sat down. I drew up my collar against the sharp edge of the breeze. My eyes blinked and half closed against the brilliant light. My heart was breaking with unassuagable longing, a longing for a life of love and security which I knew none of us ever actually have.
Although I got very cold, I went on sitting there till after nine. I wanted to be sure my mother had returned from her neighbour’s house before I set off up the Stranmillis Road. The ten-minute walk helped to warm me, but did nothing to ease my growing anxiety. My mother would be expecting me by now. Harvey would have broken the news and told her I had to visit school first. Then he would have to contact whatever undertaker she chose. But he still wouldn’t be free to come to Rathmore Drive until he had dealt with the death certificate from the Royal and its registration.
I was about to put my key in the door when it opened and revealed my mother immaculately dressed and made up.
‘Jenny, my poor Jenny, you must be exhausted,’ she exclaimed, more warmly than I had heard her speak to me for years. ‘And you look frozen. Come in quickly and get warm.’
A wave of Helena Rubenstein’s Apple Blossom enveloped me as my mother drew me into the sitting room where a bright fire already burned. Two women rose from their armchairs and made leaving noises, but my mother would have none of it.
‘Jenny, you know Mrs Allen. She’s been so kind. I don’t know what I’d have done without her when your poor Daddy was taken ill last night. And this is Mrs Brownlee. You don’t know Mrs Brownlee, dear. She’s from Balmoral Presbyterian. Jenny used to be in the choir, Mrs Brownlee, and she taught Sunday School too, you know, before she was married,’ she went on, smiling her bright public smile, as Mrs Brownlee shook my hand and said, ‘I’m sorry about your daddy, Jennifer.’
I sat by the fire as I was bidden while my mother went to make coffee. I smiled to myself as Mrs Allen and Mrs Brownlee made the kind of gentle and inconsequential conversation the rules prescribed for the situation. My mother’s extraordinary behaviour suddenly fell into place. Custom provided the role of widow nobly bearing up under her sudden loss. I knew it was a role my mother would play for all it was worth.
‘Your mother’s taking it very well, isn’t she?’ said Mrs Brownlee gently.
‘Yes, indeed, she is,’ I agreed, as I spread my frozen hands to the blazing log fire. ‘Do you think it’s likely the Reverend Bryson will be able to call to see her sometime today?’
‘Oh yes, indeed, Jennifer,’ she answered, patting my hand to reassure me. ‘He’ll be here quite soon now. He’ll want to say some prayers with both of you,’ she added, her voice lowering confidentially.
Somehow I managed to keep a straight face as I nodded, but inside me a bubble of gaiety bounced up and down so energetically I thought I should burst. But I didn’t. I just said a few more of the polite and irrelevant things expected on these occasions while I offered up a prayer of my own. ‘Dear Lord, thank you for these ladies and for the said Reverend Bryson, and for all those others who will come and go this morning and keep me safe from harm. Amen.’
If my mother had been an actress, the morning of my father’s departure must surely have won her an Oscar. With a fluency that amazed me, she held centre stage all through its interminable length. As each caller appeared, she greeted them, set them where she wanted them, placed them for the other persons with a few neatly turned epithets, and issued them with the script she considered most suitable for the occasion. Karen’s father from across the Drive provided the trial run.
‘Ah, Mr Pearson,’ I heard her say sadly in the hall. ‘Do come in. You and dear George were such good colleagues when you served together on the Churchyard Maintenance Committee,’ she continued as she led him into the sitting room. ‘He always used to say how knowledgeable you were about lawnmowers. You will have some coffee, won’t you? Mrs Allen has just offered to make some more. How very kind.’ She dismissed Mrs Allen with a nod.
‘Now I think you know everyone here,’ she ran her eye round the room. ‘You won’t have seen Jenny for some time, such a busy girl with her teaching and a home to run. And Mrs Brownlee, she came round as soon as I phoned the Reverend Bryson so I would have someone from the church with me right away.’
I sat and watched the performance, came in promptly on my cues, and began to make a collection of the sayings attributed to my father. As the morning wore on, I noticed how they became ever more fulsome, but only at one point did I have to take my life in my hands and intervene.
The Reverend Bryson had been given his opportunity to pray. The coffee cups were parked reverently and the dispatch of yesterday’s chocolate cake suspended. I half opened my eyes and had a good look at him as he launched forth in fine style. Small and rather plump, he had a loud, bass voice which he had cultivated for the benefit of his profession. After his first two sermons, delivered in a tone much less agreeable than the one he presently employed, Daddy had resigned all his church offices and ceased to attend services. ‘That man,’ he declared, ‘stands in the long tradition of bigots who will wreck this Province in the end if they ever get their way.’
Now, ‘that man’ was well into his stride. He implored the Almighty to take care of the funeral arrangements, ensure the wellbeing and good order of our beloved Province, and assist the bringing of the Good News of the Lord Jesus to every nation and every tribe, however lowly. He announced that we must strive to fill the whole world with the Glory of God, as did our dear brother George who had been so committed to the work of the church, even if illness made it difficult for him to be present at worship in recent years.
After a few more flourishes, he amened, the coffee cups were refilled, and I heard him ask my mother about hymns for the funeral service.
‘Oh indeed, Mr Bryson, my husband so loved music. He loved all hymns. And psalms too,’ she added quickly, just to be on the safe side.
‘I made a little list, Mummy. I thought it might be useful to the Reverend Bryson,’ I said quietly, my eyes directed modestly towards the Axminster.
‘Well now, Jennifer, that was indeed thoughtful,’ said Bryson. I couldn’t say he boomed like William John, for the note was lower, more bass and less treble. What he most reminded me of was Tubby the Tuba. But I tried to put aside such thoughts as he glanced down the list of Daddy’s favourite hymns.
He nodded in a knowing way and I had to suppress a smile as my mother craned her neck and tried to read it sideways. Without her glasses, she couldn’t see much, so she contented herself by saying, ‘Well, really, all hymns are lovely, aren’t they?’
‘And, no doubt, burial afterwards in your family plot?’
‘Of course,’ said my mother, pressing her hands together in a gesture of sincere agreement.
That was when my stomach did its quick somersault. Before it landed back in place, I had already spoken. ‘Mummy, I think perhaps you’ve forgotten in all the distress that Daddy wanted to be cremated.’
‘Cremated?’ For one moment, she nearly lost her script, but she recovered herself and picked up the prompt just in time. ‘Oh, Jenny dear, your Daddy didn’t really mean it,’ she began, confidingly. ‘He was so concerned about land and the use of land,’ she went on, turning to the Reverend Bryson. ‘A conserv – ationist, I think, is the correct term. But he certainly would not want burial without the full blessing of his church,’ she went on firmly. ‘Look how hard he worked on the Churchyard Committee. Why, he raised the money for the new lawnmowers almost single-handed.’
Bryson laid a pastoral hand on her shoulder. ‘My dear Mrs Erwin, a cremation is not inconsistent with the full rites of the church. All it involves is a slight delay between funeral service and interment of ashes. We normally do that privately about a week after the church service.’
Before I had time to breathe a sigh of relief, she had turned to me again. ‘Are you sure, Jenny, that was what dear Daddy wanted?’
I reassured her and restrained myself. For one wicked moment I
had thought of quoting my father’s actual words as confirmation: ‘Well, Jenny, when I go, I don’t want to take up six feet of good earth. Just pop me up to the crem and get me turned into a wee plastic jar of rose fertiliser.’
I had just finished drafting the obituary notices for the Belfast Telegraph and The Newsletter at a small table in my old room when I heard the Jaguar stop. I opened the window, leaned out and waved silently, but Harvey didn’t see me. I watched him get out of the car, go back for something he had forgotten, and walk up the garden path with his eyes firmly fixed on the crazy paving. I was shocked to see how pale and distressed he was.
I hurried to the stairs. Halfway down, I heard my mother begin her routine for the benefit of those neighbours who could now reasonably depart, their duty done.
‘Where’s Jenny?’ he said abruptly as she released him from her embrace.
I came across to him, smiled at the small queue patiently waiting for their exit visas, and said, ‘Mummy, could I possibly borrow Harvey for a moment? I need to check the notices with him before I take them into town.’
Harvey followed me upstairs and sat down hurriedly in the chair I’d just been using. I propped myself on the window ledge and waited, as he covered his face with his hands. It was hardly grief for my father, but whatever it was, it was real.
‘Harvey, you look dreadful. Can I get you something? Water, whisky?’
He looked up, shook his head and smiled feebly. ‘You don’t look half bad, Jenny, to have been through what you’ve been through.’
‘I’m a dab hand with make-up, Harvey,’ I said easily. ‘You look as if you’ve been through the wars yourself.’
He nodded. ‘Mavis spelt it out last night. She knew Daddy hadn’t got long. She said she’d been patient with me, she’d waited and waited, but I’d got to get free of Mummy before he went. She wasn’t going to have Mummy messing up our family the way she’d messed up you and me, and she’s seen signs of it already in Peter. She said if I didn’t sort it, she’d leave me.’
For the first time in my life, I considered giving him a hug. But I thought better of it. He looked so upset I was afraid he might cry, and he hadn’t got time for that. A couple more minutes and we had to be on parade.