A Rather English Marriage (7 page)

The bell chimed its double note, like a church bell in countertenor, and Roy Southgate flicked the switch on the kettle before going to the front door. It was the social worker whom Grace and Roy had met earlier, when Billy and little Joe had come and spent a few weeks with them over Christmas, about the time their Dad was sent away. She had visited him a couple of times since Grace's death; not, Roy believed, out of necessity let alone to check up on him, but out of friendship. Charity he could never have accepted; kindness was different.

‘Afternoon, Roy! Oh, I've had such a day of disasters, you'll have to cheer me up. How are you?'

‘Come in Miss Hope –'

‘Come
on
– Mandy,
please.'

‘Tea's on and I'm warming some scones in the oven.'

‘Music to my ears. Where are you taking me? Not the front room? Why bother, when it's much cosier in the kitchen?'

She glanced in at the door of the spotless room and exclaimed, ‘Oh
look
! How lovely. What is it?'

‘Well, up at the cemetery, you see, there's been a lot of vandalism. It's those lads with nothing to do with themselves, they spray paint all over the place, and take flowers out of vases.'

‘Roy - do they really? I didn't know about that. I'll mention it. How awful for you.'

‘Well, you know … the devil finds work … Anyhow, I thought to myself, the answer is to
plant
things on her grave, that way they're less likely to be nicked, and I can put in some lovely bulbs for the next spring, but till then I've made her this - well, I call it her shrine.'

The dining-room table was polished to a high gloss; not the plastic gleam of aerosol sprays dizzy with chemical scent, but the deep, loving shine that comes from hard work and elbow grease. Arranged along its length were a number of lace mats, on each of which stood a vase spilling over, brimming, jubilant with fresh flowers. The centre one held rosebuds, drowsy with their enclosed perfume; soon the petals would open out and release it into the still air of the room. On either side were tall delphiniums, foxgloves and sweet Williams. A whole cottage garden was assembled in the cramped front room.

In front of the flowers stood a collection of family photographs, including one silver-framed snapshot of Grace South-gate taken in the Forties. She was remarkably pretty, even in makeshift wartime clothes. The nipped-in waist and elaborate hat of the time suited her well; the laced platform-soled shoes had a kind of stoic chic. Her shoulder-length hair was rolled back from her forehead in a shining curve, her mouth was juicy with dark lipstick and her expression was one of the utmost relief and joy.

‘How smart she looks!' said Mandy Hope.

‘There's my little sweetheart,' said Roy proudly. ‘That was taken on VE Day. May, you know, the eighth of May, 1945. I wasn't there, of course: still in Germany, but Grace was up in London waiting to hear Mr Churchill make the announcement
on the wireless, and afterwards she went and stood in the crowd outside Buckingham Palace, to see him on the balcony with the King and Queen. She paid half a crown to a street photographer to get this picture taken for me. She was ever so glad the war was over, and me coming back safe and sound. We both were, of course.'

Next to the black-and-white photograph stood a printed card with the Order of Service from her funeral, and, neatly cut out and framed, the notice of her death that he had inserted in the local paper.

‘Can I read that?' she asked.

Enclosed within a black border, it recorded that Grace Edith Southgate, dearly beloved wife of Royston Southgate and mother of Frederick, Vera and Alan, had passed away on 2 June 1990 at the Kent & Sussex Hospital. It thanked the nursing staff for their devoted care. Below were four lines of verse:

All you good people that now stand by
As you are now, so once was I.
As I am now, so shall you be.
Remember death and pray for me.

Mandy Hope was surprised. She looked up.

‘We saw that on a tombstone in Ireland once,' said Roy. ‘We were on holiday there with the children, hired a caravan, went all over the place. She copied it down from some old abbey churchyard. She liked it. Said it made you stop and think.

‘And you wanted people to stop and think about
her
death?'

‘Yes I did. Right – ready for that cup of tea?' he asked, and let her precede him through the door, closing it gently behind them.

‘Roy, forgive me,' said Mandy Hope, after she had praised the warm scones and Grace's homemade jam; ‘but you know, of course, that I have access to your Social Services records?'

His face seemed to cave in on itself and grow shadowy, like a room in which the curtains have just been drawn.

‘Yes,' he said.

‘From which I understand that - well, perhaps you'd like to tell me about your son, Alan?'

‘Why?' he said.

‘He couldn't be at the funeral?'

‘No.'

‘And did his … wife come?'

‘No.'

‘Not the boys, either?'

‘No point in upsetting them. They're too young.'

‘It isn't anything you'd care to discuss with me? There might be something I could help with.'

‘Some other time, perhaps,' said Roy Southgate, his tone flat and weary.

‘Some other time, then,' she agreed.

The telephone rang, and he walked out to the hall to answer it. Vera, his daughter, was ringing from Australia, and Mandy, professionally responsive to tone and body language, noted the gallant lift in his voice. Instantly he was cheerful, inquiring about the grandchildren, laughing at some anecdote.

‘What about you, pet?' she heard him ask. ‘Bearing up? … Good … Grand. Don't you worry about me. I'm like the electric message about King George the Fifth.'

The what? thought Mandy; and Vera evidently did so too, for her father explained, ‘When the old king was dying – you must know the poem? “Along the electric wire the message came:/He is not better - he is much the same.”'

Mandy Hope looked around his kitchen. Modest, orderly, functional, it looked just as it had done when his wife was alive, with a pot of parsley on the kitchen windowsill and the dish-mop stuck into a little vase hand-painted with the words ‘A Souvenir from St Agnes'. He'd be all right; habit and self-respect would keep him going - which was not to deny the pain. It was too soon to try and find out about his son. One thing at a time. She drained her cup of tea.

At the other end of Tunbridge Wells pools of sunlight basked
in the desert shades of old rugs. Reginald was upstairs, peering at his bared teeth in the bathroom mirror. Like an old horse, he thought, yellow and crumbling. At least they're my own. He swung open the mirrored door of the cabinet above the basin. Inside was an ancient bottle of A Gentleman's Cologne. Trumpers: that'll do. It stung his newly shaved skin, but he patted it bravely on to his jowls. Funny old pong; still, women liked that sort of thing. He twitched the cravat in his shirt collar. Come off it, Beau bloody Brummell, what you need is a nip before take-off.

Minutes later the door bell rang and the heavy thud of the lion's-head knocker resounded through the house. Reginald threw the door open with a grandiose gesture.

‘Ah!' he said. ‘My guardian angel. Come in, come along in, just in time for a char and a wad.'

‘A what?' Mandy Hope asked, smiling. ‘Mmm, you smell just like my father!'

Bad start, thought Reginald.

‘Char and a wad. Cuppa tea and a piece of cake. RAF lingo. Or can I tempt you to a proper drink?'

‘Certainly not,' said Mandy. ‘It's only five o'clock.'

‘Just trying it out for size,' said Reginald. ‘Come on, then.' He led the way down to the kitchen.

Mandy assumed he had tidied up, since there was little to suggest neglect apart from a grubby milk bottle full of dead flowers. But when, unable to find a teaspoon in the drawer, he swung open the front of the dishwasher, a sour smell of rotting food emanated from it and she saw that it was full of dirty dishes. She made no comment. From the cold pantry Reginald brought out the remains of a cake, crumbling drily at the edges but evidently homemade.

‘Mrs Thing made this,' he said. ‘Try a slice?' Carrying the tea-tray, he led the way upstairs to the drawing-room.

Reginald was bluff and cheery, spreading enough
bonhomie
to fuel a party. His way of making her acquaintance was to boast about himself, so she had already gathered - as though anyone living in this house needed to labour the point - that
he was well-connected, his wife had been well-connected, his nephew was titled, and his wealth would have been beyond most of her clients' dreams of avarice. He then disarmed her by saying, ‘I'm shooting a line but pretty girls always bring out the worst in me, and you're the prettiest I've seen for a long time.'

Plenty of her old boys took her through a blow-by-blow account of every twinge and ailment, every detail of diet and bowels, feeding on sympathy, looking for pity, interested only in the gloomy catalogue of their own physical decrepitude. I'll say this for him, she thought, he doesn't complain. He's got a lot of spirit, still works hard to be good company; you have to admire that. He doesn't talk about his wife, but he's not the domesticated type and coping without her can't be easy.

Her social-work training had alerted her to the danger signals in the initial case report. These old men were much harder to deal with once they'd got into the habit of neglecting themselves. Either they were self-reliant from the start, or they went into a pretty rapid decline. Finding herself visiting another case on the council estate where his cleaner, Mrs O'Murphy, lived, Mandy had gone to see her.

Elsie began by saying loyally that Reginald was managing fine. She ended by admitting that he was driving her mad. ‘Now that he's emptied the freezer and eaten up all Mrs C-J's lovely stews and puddings, when he's not round at his local - you know the one, Broker's Arms - he's living off cornflakes and TV dinners, judging by what I find in his waste-bin;
and
more gin and whisky than's good for him. It's not my job to cook for him, whatever he may think. I've got my hands full as it is, running round picking up his shirts and worse, dropped on the floor or anywhere else he happens to undress. My seven-year-old's better trained than him! Mrs C-J would turn in her grave, God rest her soul, if she could see the state of that bedroom.'

‘You're doing a marvellous job, Mrs O'Murphy,' Mandy had soothed. ‘I'm sure he's very grateful. I don't know where
we'd be without you. I don't suppose TV dinners will do him any harm. But he needs a bit of showing how. You know what widowers are like.'

‘Useless. He can no more look after himself than a toddler. He was that rude to my poor lady while she was alive, always making fun of her, even in front of me. He told me once she didn't know how to change a toilet roll! Was I supposed to believe she was that stupid? A
loony
can change a bloody toilet-roll, pardon my French. She were that mortified, poor Mrs C-J, but she never contradicted him. Let him say whatever he pleased, she'd just smile and say nothing. Now she's gone, God rest her soul, he's like a baby what needs its nappy changing.'

‘Mrs O'Murphy, you've been very patient.' Mandy had interrupted the indignant flow. ‘It's just while he gets used to being on his own …'

‘I'll give him another month,' Elsie had concluded through lips pursed with self-righteousness. ‘After that, if he can't pull himself together -
and
keep his hands where they belong - I'll be giving my notice. If my husband knew what he tries on, he'd be round there with a horse-whip, not but what it isn't what he deserves. I don't know how she stood for it all those years.'

At the team meeting Mandy had suggested that she should visit Reginald once or twice more before leaving him to his own devices. Discreet questioning had revealed him to have remarkably few friends. He had relatives living in London, but they had not been down to see him since his wife's death. It was the usual story: wives organized the social life and had close friendships with other women while their husbands tagged along. She hoped the vicar might drop in. He could take a firmer line; perhaps even put other members of his congregation in touch with Reginald. Give it another month, they'd said; they were short-staffed in the Social Services Department, and even fortnightly visits to check out the Squadron Leader put an unnecessary strain on resources. It was hard to justify devoting much more time to his self-inflicted problems.

Mandy Hope sat forward in the plump chintz sofa, crossed
her legs deliberately and looked across at Reginald to signal that it was her turn to speak.

‘How's the cake?' he inquired bluffly. ‘Not bad, eh? Better than that Kipling rubbish.'

‘I've been thinking, and there's a suggestion I'd like to put to you …'

‘More tea? Help yourself.'

She laughed. ‘Don't worry, I'm not about to tick you off. You're doing pretty well. But there's something I want you to think over. I'd just like you to
consider
having a chat with your vicar.'

He sighed deeply, and composed himself like a naughty boy to be rebuked. When she had finished he said, ‘I'll do a deal. I've never been much of a one for God-botherers, but I'll think it over if you'll come out one evening and have a drink with me; better still, dinner. No, you don't have to answer straightaway. I'd just like you to
consider
it.'

She laughed at his parody of her own careful phrases, and at her laugh he beamed complicitly, so that for a moment she glimpsed the charmer he must have been.

Then he said, ‘Have a snifter? Sun's over the yard-arm, as they say in the senior service. Sherry? Or will you join me in a pink gin?'