No! I Don’t Need Reading Glasses! (35 page)

I just sat, speechless, absorbing this appalling piece of information. He
respects
me? But I thought he felt quite differently about me!

Then the bell rang and I felt a great wave of relief. But although Louis gave me a perfunctory kiss, and his mother a hug, saying, ‘Sorry I'm late! Got held up! But great to see you've had time to get to know each other!' he barely stayed more than ten minutes chatting before he got a text and said he was sorry but he had to do some more work and would we excuse him. I felt like saying, ‘No, actually, we won't! Come back here and have a proper conversation! We've waited long enough! Where are your manners?' and then I remembered that only last week we were clasped in a long embrace after our walk. And I'd called him darling.

After half an hour he came downstairs, head bent over his mobile. He stood for a moment at the door, and then immediately went into the corridor to reply. When he finally
came back into the sitting room he complained that the tea was stewed. He threw me an affectionate smile, but that was about it.

‘By the way, you haven't put me in Dad's study, have you, Mom?' he said to his mother, rather sulkily. ‘You
know
I can't sleep there …'

‘Oh, I'm so sorry, have I taken …?' I stammered.

‘Sweetheart, just for a couple of nights,' said his mother, soothingly, tousling his hair as she rose to make yet another pot of tea (and I noticed he didn't flinch, as Jack would have done, which seemed a bit odd). Then, from the kitchen she called back ‘You can't expect Marie …'

‘Oh, I'm only staying the one night,' I said hastily. ‘Please don't worry. I have to get off to see my friend's daughter … the funeral …' And while Joan and I chatted on about death and funerals and losing a loved one, Louis picked up a paper and starting reading it. The lazy and adored son. It wasn't a pretty sight.

After supper (‘I've made your favourite, darling,' said his mother, as she helped him to a giant portion of frankfurters, beans and coleslaw, which he wolfed down without a word of thanks) he left us both to do the washing up – which took ages because Joan was one of those loopy people who rinse the dishes before they put them in the machine. (What's the point?) And she was also one of those people who washes the saucepans by hand instead of bunging them in too. Then we reassembled briefly in the sitting room, where Louis was working on his laptop, and I left them so I could nip to the
loo. By the time I'd got back, Louis was just gathering his things together to go upstairs to bed, turned, gave me a warm hug, and left. As we heard him walking upstairs, his mother suddenly put a finger to her lips. ‘He's just told me that Masani's back on the scene!' she confided in a happy whisper at the bottom of the stairs. ‘Fingers crossed it's The One! Sleep well, my dear!'

I passed the night in an orgy of rage and misery. I should never have come. Louis was totally useless, totally selfish and totally horrible. I'd been a fool to think there might be anything in it. I felt utterly humiliated and completely idiotic to have believed a single word he'd said. Having left my temazepam at home, I spent the entire night punishing myself for my naïvety and raging at Louis in my mind for what seemed like wanton cruelty. And when I finally got to sleep, I dreamed that I was on holiday with the family and a huge tsunami came and washed everyone away. I could see Jack and Chrissie carried off by the waves, and then I spotted Gene. I reached out to get him and I held his hand, but he, too was swept away, and there was nothing I could do. I woke up, shaking and tearful.

I got up before dawn and left a note with a feeble excuse on it, explaining I'd had an urgent call from London and thanking Joan profusely and, before either Louis or his mother got up, I leapt into the car and sped back home as quickly as I could.

I didn't want to see Louis ever again. It was all too complicated and I felt I'd been used. I missed Archie more than I
can say. Maybe, I wondered, for all his faults Louis had been right about my feelings for him. Maybe I
was
trying to cling on, in some wretched way, to the loving feelings I felt for Archie by transferring them, randomly it now seemed, to another person. Any person. Someone I sat next to on a plane. But now Archie had died, and I'd just had that horrible experience in Oxford, my feelings had changed dramatically.

The moment I got back, put my key into the lock of my own front door and entered my own house I felt better.

After a long bath to wash every vestige of that loathsome slimeball and his beastly brainy mother completely off me (I know she was actually very friendly, but at that particular moment I loathed the whole family), I made myself a cup of tea and sat in the garden, wrapped up warm in a coat. It was one of those wonderful crisp, bright December days, and Pouncer was leaping about the grass in the cold blue sunshine. My life wasn't really so bad. And in a way it felt all the better for having made a decision about Louis. I could get on with things now, and not have that yearning all the time, wondering when or whether Louis was going to ring.

Last night's dream crept back into my mind, and I realised how much I longed to see the family again. Perhaps I could move to the States? Perhaps …? But get Christmas over and then make a new plan, I thought.

Daily Rant
: ‘GAY SHAME OF CELEBRITY COCAINE CHEF'. Honestly, if you believed everything the
Rant
said you wouldn't think there was a single pleasant, hard-working or reasonably intelligent person in the whole of the country. And yet the place, as far as I can see, is thronging with them.

Got up and had my bath in a pleasant rage.

Tomorrow is Archie's funeral. I'm driving down early so I can help Sylvie – there're having a do back at Archie's old place after it. She asked if I could bring down maps of how to get from the church to the house to distribute in the church because their printer has gone wrong, so I've printed off two hundred. Nice to know I'm needed, even in such a small way. I'm also taking down all the tree tackle to give back to Harry.

Sylvie's asked me to read that poem of Archie's I found. I'm not sure how well it'll go down, but I think she's brave and decent and kind to ask me. It shows how much he wanted to die, when he was old and ill, and not linger on, half alive. That will be a comfort to some people, I know.

I got out all my clothes from my wardrobe – again – and put them on the bed. What a sorry sight! This New Year my resolution will definitely be to get some new outfits! There were piles of washed-out jerseys covered with those little bobbles (‘pills' I think they're called), skirts stretched out at
the bottom, and dresses with all the colour bleached out. I thought I'd wear black – no one wears black to a funeral now, so I thought: why not? And it made life easier because there's a really lovely designer black cocktail dress which I got for a song at a charity shop, and the most brilliant felt hat from a craft fair which collapses into a flat shape so you can put it into your suitcase. Once I'd got myself togged up, I was surprised to find I looked really much more than pass-muster presentable. A spot of make-up and bingo – quite fancied myself! That facelift? I must say, it was the best thing I've ever done!

I was just trying on a necklace when it fell on the ground. As I groped around to pick it up, I remembered an old joke of Archie's: ‘Now we're old, whenever we reach down to pick something up, we wait a bit before straightening up in case there's anything else we can do while we're down there.'

I found myself laughing by myself in my bedroom. Lovely when you make yourself laugh, I think. All by yourself.

Text from Louis:
Sorry not to have a chance to see you properly! What happened? Miss you! Big hit with Mom! Meet soon? xxxL
.

But it didn't matter how many ‘x's there were on his texts any more. I felt nothing.

It was a really charming country funeral. And the church was absolutely packed with people I'd never seen before.
That's the thing about the country – people from all over Devon who'd known Archie since he was four all crammed in. It was a much more social occasion than it would have been in London. Sylvie had done the flowers, a great mass of white lilies, and the slow movement from Mozart's concerto in C was playing softly as we all filed solemnly in. Oh dear, another coffin. It all reminded me so much of Hughie's funeral. And of course that reminded me of my mother's funeral and that reminded me of my father's – when you get older every funeral rings old bells of past losses until in your head there's an endless peal of bereavement going on.

Sylvie read a passage from the Bible and some elderly cousin played something on the cello, and when I read the poem (with difficulty: I nearly broke down) – there wasn't a dry eye in the house. Even Hardy played his part, sitting mournfully by the coffin and whimpering occasionally.

The only blot on the landscape was the female priest. Am I the only woman on earth who finds women vicars a bit creepy? They always look like some ghastly old aunt one used to know when one was a child and was forced to kiss. They never have their hair done or wear lipstick because they think the scrubbed, unadorned look will make them look more pious. Somehow male vicars always have an air of mystery about them. Particularly when they're wearing a long wafty dress, which on a woman just looks normal. Men look more mysterious anyway, not just because of the dresses but because they're so peculiar and unlike oneself. But women – I can't really see a woman as
holy
, in a mysterious way, because she's
too familiar – a woman who has periods, and has had children, and cooks scones. At the least the old saints or saintesses or whatever they're called never had kids or drove cars, and were virgins. They were a pretty peculiar bunch of women to start with. But of course I take rather a dim view of holiness anyway. I remember Archie, who didn't like women priests either, said the reason we feel uneasy around them is because they remind us of pagan times, and we associate them with witches.

Something in that, I think.

Afterwards there was that usual shuffling around outside the church in the cold with no one knowing what to do and everyone keeping their heads down and saying how sorry they were. And then we sped off to Sylvie's and had a drink and everything cheered up.

Well! At breakfast Sylvie came down looking pretty exhausted, I must say. But she said how strange it was to be a fully-fledged orphan now, and be in the front line as far as death went. And she said she could smell Archie and hear his voice, still, and wasn't it all odd? And of course what was so strange to
me
was hearing her say all this as if she'd stumbled across something that no one else had discovered – when of course I remember feeling exactly the same when my parents died. Sometimes I read these confessional pieces in the
Rant
by celebs who write really movingly about a
parent's death, and it touches me to think they imagine they're the very first people to have experienced all these feelings, when in fact other people have had exactly the same feelings, all over the world, for generations.

However, just after the scrambled eggs, she suddenly reached across the table and squeezed my hand.

‘Marie!' she said. ‘I've just remembered. The will. Daddy left everything to me, but he did leave a list of wishes. He's left something to Mrs Evans, obviously, and he wanted you to have something, too. He thought that you should have £10,000 and perhaps something to remember him by? I know this is very embarrassing. How does that sound to you? It's what he would have wanted. I know it's not a lot when you look at the whole estate, but most of that will go on death duties … and … and if there's anything you want from the house, you know something, just a little something …'

I was completely taken aback. Despite my earlier vile and unworthy speculations, I really had no idea that he wanted to leave me anything at all! I stammered out my gratitude and said it was absolutely wonderful, and thanked her very much. And I said I'd look in on Mrs Evans at the house on the way back – she was just clearing up there before the estate agents come round to value it.

How lovely of him to remember me! I drove off feeling a huge surge of warmth and love towards Archie, which made his death even more poignant.

I hated going back to the house. But there was dear, loyal Mrs Evans – and I could see that though she was sad it was
a great relief to her, knowing that everything was settled and she had a new job at Sylvie's.

‘She's been ever so kind to me,' she said. ‘They're a lovely family. And the funeral. Weren't it beautiful? And that poem – weren't it sad? Oh, of course you know about it, you read it, Mrs Marie, so silly of me. I shall miss this house, though. Now – Mrs Sylvie told me you was going to choose something so I'll let you look around and decide on your own and then I'll have a cup of nice hot coffee waiting for you.'

Going from room to room wondering what piece of furniture, picture or ornament would best remind me of dear Archie, I felt like a vulture. I could almost feel the great claws on my feet and practically had to check my nose to see it wasn't an enormous beak. It was so odd, but each room, though when I entered it seemed full of promise, turned out to be surprisingly empty of anything I actually wanted.

What I wanted was the light coming through the curtains. I wanted the smell of the apple logs burning in the grate. I wanted the birdsong in the garden. The feel of the wornout towels on my back when I got out of the bath. The sound of a distant lawnmower. I wanted the smell of Archie's cigarettes in the library. I wanted to hear his voice calling to me from the vegetable garden. I wanted the sound of his laughter, and the touch of his hand. I wanted the smell of damp in the hall and the creak of the boards in the dining room … even the cold in the kitchen.
Especially
the cold in
the kitchen. And just to take a
thing
didn't seem at all satisfactory. The important things in life aren't things.