The Four Last Things (24 page)

‘Did you see my mother last night?’

‘No.’

‘So what happened when we got back?’

‘Nothing. I imagine she must have been asleep. I took you upstairs and gave you some aspirin. You went out like a light. So I covered you up and went to bed myself.’

‘You’re sure?’

Angel stared at him. ‘I’m not in the habit of lying, Eddie.’

He dropped his eyes. ‘Sorry.’

‘All right. I understand. It’s never easy when a parent dies. One doesn’t act rationally.’

She paused to pour water into a coffee pot which Eddie had never seen before. He sniffed. Real coffee, which meant that it was Angel’s. His mother had liked only instant coffee.

A moment later, Angel said in a slow, deliberate voice: ‘We had a pleasant meal out last night. Your mother was asleep when we got home. We went to bed. When I got up this morning I was surprised that your mother wasn’t up before me. So I tapped on her door to see if she was all right. There was no answer so I went in. And there she was, poor soul. I made sure she was dead. Then I woke you and phoned the doctor.’

Eddie rubbed his beard, which felt matted. ‘When did it happen?’

‘Who knows? She might have been dead when we got home. She was certainly very cold this morning.’

‘You don’t think … ?’

‘What?’

‘That what happened yesterday might have had something to do with it?’

‘Don’t be silly, Eddie.’ Angel rested her hands on the table and stared down at him, her face calm and beautiful. ‘Put that right out of your mind.’

‘If I’d stayed with her, talked with her –’

‘It wouldn’t have done any good. Probably she would have made herself even more upset.’

‘But –’

‘Her death could have happened at any time. And don’t forget, it’s psychologically typical for survivors to blame themselves for the death of a loved one.’

‘Shouldn’t we mention it to the doctor? The fact she was … upset, I mean.’

‘Why should we? What on earth would be the point? It’s a complete irrelevance.’ Angel turned away to pour the coffee. ‘In fact, it’s probably better
not
to mention it. It would just confuse the issue.’

The dreams came later, after Thelma’s funeral, and continued until the following summer. (Oddly enough, Eddie had the last one just before the episode with Chantal.) They bore a family resemblance to one another: different versions of different parts of the same story.

In the simplest form, Thelma was lying in the single bed, her small body almost invisible under the eiderdown and the blankets. Eddie was a disembodied presence near the ceiling just inside the doorway. He could not see his mother’s face. The skull was heavy and the two pillows were soft and accommodating. The ends of the pillows rose like thick white horns on either side of the invisible face.

Sometimes it was dark, sometimes misty; sometimes Eddie had forgotten his glasses. Was another pillow taken from Stanley’s bed and clamped on top of the others? Then what? The body twitching almost imperceptibly, hampered by the weight of the bedclothes and by its own weakness?

More questions followed, because the whole point of this series of dreams was that nothing could ever be known for certain. What chance would Thelma have had against the suffocating weight pressing down on her? Had she cried out? Almost certainly the words would have been smothered by the pillow. And if any sound seeped into the silent bedroom, who was there to hear it? Who, except Eddie?

There had not been an inquest. Thelma’s doctor had no hesitation in signing the medical certificate of cause of death. His patient was an elderly widow with a history of heart problems. He had seen her less than a week before. According to her son and her lodger she had complained of chest pains during the day before her death. That night her heart had given up the unequal struggle. When he saw the body, she was still holding her glyceryl trinitrate spray, which suggested that she might have been awake when the attack began.

‘Just popped off,’ the doctor told Eddie. ‘Could have happened any time. I doubt if she felt much and it was over very quickly. Not a bad way to go, all things considered – I wouldn’t mind it myself.’

After Thelma had gone, 29 Rosington Road became a different house. On the morning after the funeral Angel and Eddie wandered through the rooms, taking stock and marvelling at the possibilities that had suddenly opened up. For Eddie, Thelma’s departure had a magical effect: the rooms were larger; much of the furniture in the big front bedroom, robbed of the presence which had lent it significance, had become shabby and unnecessary; and his and Angel’s footsteps on the stairs were brisk and resonant.

‘I think I could do something with this,’ Angel said as she examined the basement.

‘Why?’ Eddie glanced at the ceiling, at the rest of the house. ‘We’ve got all that room upstairs.’

‘It would be somewhere for me.’ She laid her hand briefly on his arm. ‘Don’t misunderstand me, but I do like to be by myself sometimes. I’m a very solitary person.’

‘You could have the back bedroom.’

‘It’s too small.’ Angel stretched out her arms. ‘I need space. It wouldn’t be a problem, would it?’

‘Oh no. Not at all. I just – I just wasn’t quite clear what you wanted.’

There was a burst of muffled shouting. Eddie guessed that it emanated from the basement flat next door, which was occupied by a young married couple who conducted their relationship as if on the assumption that they were standing on either side of a large windy field, a situation for which each held the other to blame.

‘Wouldn’t this be too noisy for you?’ he asked.

‘Insulation: that’s the answer. It would be a good idea to dry-line the walls in any case. Look at the damp over there.’

As they were speaking, she moved slowly around the basement, poking her head into the empty coal hole and the disused scullery, peering into cardboard boxes, rubbing a clear spot in the grime in the rear window, trying the handle of the sealed door to the garden. She paused by the old armchair and wiped away some of the dust with a tissue.

‘That’s nice. Late nineteenth century? It’s been terribly mistreated, though. But look at the carving on the arms and legs. Beautiful, isn’t it? I think it’s rosewood.’

Eddie remembered the smell of the material and the feeling of a warm body pressed against his. ‘I was thinking we should throw it out.’

‘Definitely not. We’ll have it reupholstered. Something plain – claret-coloured, perhaps.’

‘Won’t all this cost too much?’

‘We’ll manage.’ Angel smiled at him. ‘I’ve got a little money put by. It will be my way of contributing. We’ll need to find a builder, of course. Do you know of anyone local?’

‘There’s Mr Reynolds.’ Eddie thought of Jenny Wren. ‘He lives in the council flats behind. The one with the geraniums.’

Angel wrinkled her nose. ‘So his wife’s the bird-watcher?’

‘He’s nicer than she is. But he may be retired by now.’

‘I’d prefer an older man. Someone who would take a pride in the job.’

Angel decided that they should leave a decent interval – in this case a fortnight – between Thelma’s death and contacting Mr Reynolds. She spent the time making detailed plans of what she wanted done. Eddie was surprised both by the depth of her knowledge and the extent of her plans.

‘We’ll put a freezer in the scullery. One of those big chest ones. It will pay for itself within a year or so. We can take advantage of all the bargains.’

She examined the little coal cellar next to the scullery with particular care, taking measurements and examining the floor, walls and ceiling. There was a hatch to the little forecourt in front of the house, but Stanley had sealed this by screwing two batons across the opening.

‘This would make a lovely shower room. If we tile the floor and walls we needn’t have a shower stall. We can have the shower fixed to the wall. I wonder if there’s room for a lavatory, too.’

‘Do we really need it?’

‘It would be so much more convenient.’

At length Eddie phoned Mr Reynolds and asked if he would be interested in renovating the basement.

‘I don’t do much now,’ Mr Reynolds said.

‘Never mind. Is there anyone you’d recommend?’

‘I didn’t say I wouldn’t do it. I like to keep my hand in, particularly when it’s a question of obliging neighbours. Why don’t I come round and have a shufti?’

Ten minutes later Mr Reynolds was on the doorstep. He seemed to have changed very little in all the years Eddie had known him. He found it hard to keep his eyes off Angel, whom he had not previously met. They took him down to the basement.

‘We were thinking that we might let it as a self-contained flat,’ Angel told him.

‘Oh aye.’

‘There’s more that needs doing than meets the eye. That’s the trouble with these older houses, isn’t it?’

Mr Reynolds agreed. As time went by, Eddie realized that Mr Reynolds would have agreed to almost anything Angel said. Soon they were discussing insulation, dry-lining and replastering. Angel said that the tenants might be noisy so they decided to insulate the ceiling as well. They touched lightly on plumbing, wiring and decorating. Neither of them mentioned money. Within minutes of Mr Reynolds’s arrival they both seemed to take it for granted that he would be doing the work.

‘Don’t you worry, Miss Wharton. This will be a Rolls-Royce job by the time we’re done.’

‘Please call me Angela.’

Mr Reynolds stared at his hands and changed the subject by suggesting that they start by hiring a skip. Neither then nor later would he call Angel anything but Miss Wharton. His was a form of love which took refuge in formality.

Mr Reynolds did most of the work himself, subcontracting only the electrical and plumbing jobs. It took him over two months. During this time a friendship developed between the three of them, limited to the job which had brought them together but surprisingly intimate; narrow but deep. Mr Reynolds worked long hours and, when reminded, invoiced Eddie for small sums. Angel paid the balance with praise.

‘I’m not sure I can bear to let this room, Mr Reynolds. You’ve made it such a little palace that I think I might use it as my study.’

Mr Reynolds grunted and turned away to search for something in his tool bag.

The weeks passed, and gradually the jobs were completed. First the new floor, then the ceiling, then the walls. A hardwood door was made to measure, as was the long, double-glazed window overlooking the back garden.

‘Beginning to come together now, isn’t it?’ Mr Reynolds said, not once but many times, hungry for Angel’s praise.

If Mr Reynolds was curious about the relationship between Angel and Eddie, he never allowed his curiosity to become obtrusive. Almost certainly he guessed that Eddie and Angel were not living together as man and wife. Nor did Angel behave like a lodger: she behaved like the mistress of the house. Eddie came to suspect that Mr Reynolds did not ask questions because he did not want to hear the answers. Mr Reynolds was never disloyal to his wife, but from hints dropped here and there it became clear that he did not enjoy being at home; he liked this job which kept him out of the wet, earned him money and allowed him to see Angel almost every day.

When he had finished, the basement was dry and as airless as a sealed tomb. The acoustics were strange: sounds had a deadened quality. It seemed to Eddie that the insulation absorbed and neutralized all the emotion in people’s voices.

‘It’s perfect,’ Angel told Mr Reynolds.

‘Tell me if you need any more help.’ The tips of his ears glowed. The three of them were sitting round the kitchen table with mugs of tea while Eddie wrote another cheque. ‘By the way, what did happen to all those old dolls’ houses?’

Eddie glanced up at him. ‘My father used to raffle them at work for charity.’

‘Which reminds me,’ Angel said. ‘Some of his tools are still in the cupboard downstairs. Would you have a use for any of them, Mr Reynolds?’

The flush spread to his face. ‘Well – I’m not sure.’

‘Do have a look. I know Eddie would like them to go to a good home.’

‘I remember your dad making those dolls’ houses,’ Mr Reynolds said to Eddie. ‘Your mum and dad used to ask our Jenny round to look at them. She loved it.’ He chuckled, cracks appearing in the weathered skin around his eyes and mouth. ‘Do you remember?’

‘I remember. She used to bring her dolls to see the houses, too.’

‘So she did. I’d forgotten that. And look at her now: three children and a place of her own to look after. It’s a shame about Kevin. But there – it’s the modern way, I’m afraid.’

‘Kevin?’ Angel said.

Mr Reynolds took a deep breath. Angel smiled at him.

‘Kevin – Jen’s husband. Well, sort of husband.’ He hesitated. ‘It’s not general knowledge, but he’s a bad lot, I’m afraid. Still, he’s gone now. Least said, soonest mended.’

‘I’m so sorry. Children are such a worry, aren’t they?’

‘He ran off with another woman when she was expecting her third. What can you do? My wife doesn’t like it known, by the way. You’ll understand, I’m sure.’

‘Of course.’ Angel glanced at Eddie. ‘You and Jenny were friends when you were children, weren’t you?’