Birthday (22 page)

He put on the light, and lit a cigar. The page of a penny exercise book (at least that was their price when he went to school) was half spent with dialogue, but at the end of a scene he wondered what could be done with the three dustmen, holiday luggage in the cab, and the stolen bank money concealed in the rubbish, which would be difficult to find when they got to France and wanted to pay the bill for their posh hotel at Le Touquet. In their panic they would throw the scummy detritus of England all over the neat
chaussée
.

Their vehicle, parked among the Volvos and BMWs and Mercedes, would bring even more laughs when they crunched a vintage Rolls (or maybe a Bentley) in the forecourt, and tried to pay the damage with bundles of pristine fifties, joking that they supposed the ink to be dry and Her Majesty's head the right way up.

At the moment their dustwagon, brand new GB plates back and front, was waiting to embark. They hoped their papers were in order, and a vinegar-faced emigration official provided amusing repartee when they said they were making the trip for charity, before being allowed on board.

A young woman hitch-hiker came with them to France, being promised Chanel Number One from the duty free and a day in Le Touquet. The plot was easy, but speech elusive, though it would come if he sat long enough before the lined page.

The driver of the wagon was an earringed and tattooed ex-jailbird ready for any foray into unfamiliar areas. His loudmouthed humour was laced with cunning, so the possibilities of surreal chitchat were limitless, especially since the gentlemanly (though even more ruthless) Rodney, known as the Admiral, an ex-public school boy with impeccably false credentials, stayed with them to be sure of getting his payout at the end. Such a putrid mishmash promised mayhem.

He ran his finger along the nearest bookshelf, as when rattling palings with a stick as a kid, wondering what books to glance at, restless as ever before writing the first quips. The lit match to light a cigar fell on the carpet. He picked it up, tamped the flame with his fingers, and sat down to strike another. His pen went over the page, ideas pushing into order, dialogue like back and forth balls at Wimbledon.

The phone sounded. It often did at this point, and the shock to his body brought a mouthful of curses. He recalled how Jane used to interrupt him twenty – no, thirty – times a day, and wondered whether that had been the cause of their divorce. If it hadn't, it fucking well should have been. Any further ideas went over and out like the carriages of the train toppling apart on the collapsing bridge over the River Tay. He snapped off the receiver. ‘Yeh?'

‘Hello, Brian, it's Arthur.'

He could tell something was wrong. Arthur wasn't talking from outer space: ‘She's still in hospital, but they're sending her home, because there's nothing they can do. The doctor told me just now. Two months at the most. She knows it, and said she didn't want to die in hospital. I don't blame her. I saw them dying when I looked in a side ward once.'

‘What a killpig. You're going to look after her on your own?'

‘A nurse'll look in every day.'

‘You must have been expecting this.'

‘I have, but it's different when you know for sure.' His tone was level and restrained. ‘There's nothing to be done. Not a thing.'

‘I'll come up as soon as I can.'

‘I don't mind if you can't.'

He wanted to be alone with Avril while she was dying. Or perhaps she couldn't bear anybody to see her. ‘I'll phone tomorrow. I'm just sorry.'

‘I know,' Arthur said.

He didn't want to end the talk abruptly, but there was nothing except pain from Arthur, and on his side no mood for the usual talk. The crows were out in such force they hid the sky, and neither could make their voices heard above the noise. Repeating what they had already said would only bring them against the same full stop. ‘I'll call you,' Brian said, ‘as soon as I know what time I'll get there. Anything I can do in the meantime, just pick up the phone.'

‘Yeh, all right.'

‘So long, then. Give my love to Avril.'

‘She might not be able to take it in. She comes and goes, out of sleep doped up with painkillers.'

‘Bye, then.'

‘Bye.'

‘Bye,' a declining syllable from both till each put down the phone.

His pen rolled aside, no more to be done. On his next visit he would stay with Derek and Eileen, because Arthur would want to be alone with Avril, no one to disturb their farewell silences or final pledges.

He tapped out the number. ‘Have a word with Avril,' Arthur said, after their greetings. ‘I've just made supper, and she's coming down in a few minutes to have hers with me.'

He didn't ask how she was, assuming there'd be nothing new. ‘I'd love to.'

‘I can't keep her in bed. She keeps getting dressed when she can. It's a terrible effort, and I have to help her, then get her downstairs. It breaks my heart, but she's determined to act normal.'

‘Put her on, then.'

‘Hello!' Her voice was weaker than when they had talked over the years, and he wondered whether such determination to stay alive would draw down a miracle, or whether a miracle was more likely when hope lost its hold and there was nothing left but to stick up two fingers – if you still had the strength – and tell fate to do its worst. ‘I hear you're having supper downstairs.'

‘The duchess has to eat some time.'

‘What nice thing is he giving you?'

‘Some chicken, he says.'

‘I hope you enjoy it.'

The ever toneless laugh may now have had a grin to go with it. ‘I eat what I can.'

‘Don't let him get you drunk. You know what he's like.'

‘Oh, I do. He's a devil. I have to watch every move. But that's why I love him.'

The pause called for a change of topic. ‘I'd come up to see you, but my car got bumped into yesterday.'

‘Not again. That car's always in the wars.'

‘It wasn't my fault this time. It got hit by a bus at the traffic lights. The driver must have been asleep. He saw the lights go green before I did, and slammed into the back of me. He went a bit pale when I made him get down from his cab to have a look at the damage. He thought I was going to clock him one, but I kept my temper.'

‘Were you all right?'

‘I was, but the rear lights got crunched, and part of the bumper. I wouldn't like to drive up the motorway with no brake lights.'

‘We'll be glad to see you. Arthur loves it when you're here. But I've got to go now. If I'm not at the table on time he'll shout at me!'

‘You'll have to shout back, then.'

‘Oh, I would if he did, but I've never had to. He's always been as gentle as a kitten with me.'

Nothing wrong, you might have thought, but nothing right either, because she had the courage to keep her worst fears to herself. He couldn't go back to his desk, everything he wrote would be a mockery of her condition, as she stood with grace against the odds before going into the dark.

Part Three

FOURTEEN

Brian hoped never to drive over Basford Crossing again, at least not for the purpose he was set on now. The people you think will be the last to die are too often the first, and even when you've expected it for so long there's no denying the shock. Many obituaries in the papers were about people younger than him, often with so few years they could be his children which, though not dispiriting, sometimes made him wonder how long his luck would last.

A glum and nondescript road over Sunrise Hill took him on to the dual carriageway and through more cheerful estates. He pulled in beyond the constabulary headquarters to look at the map and make sure he wouldn't miss the turnoff to the cemetery. Rejoining traffic, a hooter screamed at his near miss, but he was too set on his errand to curse back.

‘It was a terrible way to go,' Arthur said on the phone. ‘If I'd been able to get my hands on a gun I'd have put her away. Out of love I would have done it. She wanted me to, near the end, knowing she had to die, and suffering as she was. But there was nothing I could do. She was like an animal in pain, and life's no longer precious when it comes to that. But I didn't have a gun, and no poison either, so what could I do but watch? I helped her to the lavatory because she was too proud to do it in bed, and I wiped her – did everything I could. I kept on trying to get her to eat, but by then she'd stopped fighting to stay alive, and I could only wait for her to go. It's awful when you have to be glad that the person you love most in the world is dead.'

He filtered by traffic lights on to the main road, put on his blinkers and cruised so as not to miss the inlet. Even so, typical for him, who always took turnings too soon, he drove into a cul-de-sac of newish houses, noting a twitch of the curtains from someone wondering who the cheeky devil could be, straying into their haven to rob them of their happy savings. Maybe she was waiting for her fancyman, and was disappointed at his three point turn back to the main road. A hundred yards further on, the cemetery was clearly indicated.

Cars were parked opposite the chapel not much bigger than a mountain refuge hut. He embraced Eileen by the door. ‘What a terrible time it is,' Derek said. ‘I hoped it would never happen, and now it has.'

‘It's a blessing she's gone, that's all I know.' Eileen looked grim and concerned. ‘But I can't tell you how sorry I am for Arthur.' Pale and silent, she had nothing more to add, or let go of beyond tears. The weather wasn't too cold for January, not the usual pissing down funeral scene. He was pulled from his drowsiness after the drive from London on seeing Jenny's son Ronald holding the door open for her and his icily attractive wife Sylvia to get out.

‘It's gone eleven, so the hearse is late.' Derek looked at his cold pipe, but decided it would be disrespectful to light up. ‘They're usually punctual to the minute.'

‘It should have left the house at half past ten,' Eileen said, ‘and it's only ten minutes away, so there's no excuse.'

‘In that case,' Brian nodded, ‘I'll nip over and say hello to Jenny.'

Who smiled: ‘I knew you'd be here. But isn't it awful for poor Arthur? I didn't guess Avril was that badly when she came to my party. I know what it's like though, having someone die.'

She had dragged out her widow's weeds to get togged up in, a black that made her look much younger. He kissed her, and regretted that on shaking hands with Sylvia she too didn't put her face forward for a kiss, but stood apart even from Ronald, as if they'd had their usual early morning bicker. ‘I'm glad you came,' Brian called to her.

‘Couldn't not, could I?' She smiled, and he wondered how much wooing he would have to do, how much patience show, and persistence need, lies to tell and humour to spend before getting her to shed those clothes and come to bed where, once the sackcloth of reserve had gone, she would be as frisky as a Tasmanian kitten. ‘Don't you find funerals just that little bit sexy?'

She looked stern, then laughed, the unusual sound bringing her husband across to find out what might be the matter.

Brian forestalled him. ‘I'm glad to see you.'

Ronald, wearing the same suit as at the party, shook his hand. ‘The lad needs support at a time like this. I've left a good chap in charge of the firm.'

Sylvia smiled as he shook her warm hand again, her eyes showing there was little call. ‘I'm sorry about your brother's loss. Jenny wanted us to come, and in any case someone had to bring her.'

‘She'll have to take up driving again,' he said. ‘It'd be good for her to be free and mobile, though I expect you'd have to watch her when she went out on her own. She might meet a bloke and get married again.'

Sylvia was wondering how to reply, when the first car of the cortège came up the drive, heavy tyres crunching the gravel. Brian went with Derek and Eileen to greet Arthur.

He got out of the car and stood alone, straight-backed, head in the air, and stark with sorrow, as if he would remain through rain and snow in that stance for the rest of the winter until, recovering from his grief and realizing where he was, he would go home to as much of a normal life as could be made.

He looked around, knew he was by the chapel, that Avril's body lay in a long box in the car, and that everyone was here to see her put out of sight forever. Sorrow was the common feeling as they placed arms around each other, squeezed hands, put pressure at the shoulders, nothing too violent with Arthur in case he crumbled, all regretting that his misfortune could not be shared, so much bereftness beyond the power to placate.

Brian didn't know whether the ache in his heart and stomach was for Avril (who had been dead a fortnight because of the Christmas holidays) or for Arthur living in his vacuum of pain, or even because he was hungry after the drive from London. But he registered anguish for his brother who was trapped into a state he could hardly imagine, since he hadn't experienced it, and hoped he never would.

Four men from the burial firm slid the coffin out of the hearse, and pulled it on a fragile trolley into the chapel as if afterwards they would drag it to the South Pole like one of Captain Scott's crew. People filed in behind, and Brian took a place at the back from which to look at the ceremony.

Arthur sat at the front, next to Harold dressed in a suit like the other men; his hair was cut short. On the other side of Arthur was Melanie and Barry, then Avril's son Jonah, a slim man with a moustache, and now the foreman at an electrical components firm. Avril's daughter Rachel, who had come from London, sat by her brother, while behind were Jenny and her family, and a stocky elderly man Eileen pointed out as Oliver, Arthur's friend from his allotment days. A few other acquaintances almost filled the little chapel.