The Secret Intensity of Everyday Life (28 page)

You’re the best friend I ever had, Perry.

The day passes. So long as she doesn’t leave her chair she still has him. She wants to die too, go with Perry wherever he’s going, walk after him as he runs through eternal valleys.

Elizabeth comes and says what she can but it makes no difference.

‘He can’t stay here, Mummy. Victor can dig him a grave in the garden.’

Later the rector comes. Someone has told him. He kneels down by Perry’s chair and for a moment she thinks he’s going to say a prayer over Perry but he’s only looking. She avoids meeting his eyes, not wanting to bring upon herself his clumsy attempts at consolation.

‘I’m so sorry, Mrs Dickinson,’ he says. ‘But you will see him again, you know.’

She frowns, caught by surprise. No other statement could have held her attention as this does.

‘There is a theory that animals don’t have souls.’ The rector speaks in a ruminative way, as if to himself. ‘But of course, we can’t know that. They live and die, as we do. I don’t see why they wouldn’t have souls, if we have souls. And if they do, then their souls must live on after death, just as ours do.’

She listens in some perplexity. No one has ever said such a thing to her before. People think because she’s an old lady that she must be a believer, but all she believes in is loss and loneliness and knowing you’ve done it to yourself. If there was a God in heaven Rex would have suffered in punishment for the pain he caused. Instead he’s living his comforted life in Maidenhead.

‘I don’t think so,’ she says.

‘Who’s to say? It’s a matter of humility, I tend to think. A matter of accepting how very little we truly know. Once you take that step, you open up a universe of possibility.’

‘I’m sorry,’ she says. ‘I don’t understand what you’re talking about.’

‘No, I’m not good at making myself clear. I think the thing is we have a way of not allowing ourselves to believe what we would so dearly like to believe, because it seems somehow too easy. Too convenient. But the truth is what it is, quite independently of our wishes. Just because you want so much to see Perry again, that does not in itself mean you won’t.’

But I don’t deserve to see him again. One more loss in a life of loss.

‘He may live on somewhere. He may be watching you now, hearing your voice, feeling your grief.’

Oh, too sweet, too easy. If only it were so.

‘If you close your eyes and think of him as he was when he was alive, maybe you’ll feel his spirit.’

Oh, Perry. My only friend.

Mrs Dickinson closes her eyes and remembers. She hears Perry’s snuffling yelps from behind the front door when she comes home. She feels his paws on her legs, bouncing up at her, making those little squeals that were his way of talking. She puts her hand to his face, his cold nose, his licking tongue.

Oh, Perry. Don’t leave me.

‘Talk to him,’ says the rector.

To her own surprise she hears herself begin to speak, her eyes still tight shut.

‘Dear Perry. I’m sorry I shouted at you. You’re the best friend I have. I miss you terribly. The house is too quiet without you. Please come home. Don’t leave me here on my own.’

Silly old fool, what am I saying? But it’s good to cry at last. Warmth of tears.

‘Does he seem closer now?’

‘Yes.’

‘You can talk to him any time you want.’

‘But he doesn’t hear me. He can’t hear me.’

‘We don’t know. We know so very little. It might be so.’

Let it be so. The need too great. Rather an old fool than the silence of for ever. She bows her head. A kind of acquiescence.

‘Do you think you can let him go now?’

He means the body. Yes, let him go. This isn’t Perry. Perry was always in motion, always under her feet, always running in circles, bounding, twitching, alert even when seeming to be asleep, a passing cat would have him springing from his chair, yipping at the closed window.

My defender, my guardian, my companion.

‘I don’t know what to do,’ she says.

She looks to the rector with a new humility, newly respectful of his wisdom.

‘A burial, I think. A headstone, if you wish it.’

Because he says ‘a headstone’ she thinks he must mean in the churchyard. The notion pleases her.

‘I’d like that,’ she says. ‘A simple service first.’

‘A service?’

‘Before he’s buried in the churchyard.’

‘Ah.’ He hesitates. ‘I’m not sure that’s possible.’

‘But if he has a soul, like us?’

She can’t quite say why, but this idea is taking hold of her. If Perry is buried in the churchyard, with a church service and a headstone, then he must have a soul. And if he has a soul, she will see him again.

‘You don’t think a grave here in your garden, near to you?’

‘People aren’t buried in gardens.’

‘No, no.’

She can see his reluctance. People aren’t buried in gardens. Pets aren’t buried in churchyards.

‘It doesn’t matter,’ she says. ‘What difference does it make?’

But he’s looking at her thoughtfully, and she knows he understands. It makes all the difference in the world.

‘After all,’ he says, ‘why not? We don’t need to make a fuss about it. Why don’t you come to the churchyard tomorrow morning, quite early, perhaps eight o’clock? We can say some prayers, and find a quiet corner of the churchyard, and lay Perry to rest.’

After this he departs. Mrs Dickinson sits in her chair by the fire as before, but something has changed. It’s a matter of humility.

‘We don’t know, do we, Perry? We don’t know anything, really.’

33

The cameraman is called Ray. His assistant is called Mo. The sound man is Oliver. The sparks is Pete. The make-up girl is Rowan. Then there’s Milly, Henry’s PA, and Christina, his researcher, and Decca, their abbey minder. So throw in the director and the star, currently pacing the flagstones under the abbey walls, and there’s eleven of them gathered in central London, ringed by the traffic forever roaring round Parliament Square, tracing the footsteps of the iconoclasts of 350 years ago.

It should be a time of excitement, or at least satisfaction, for Henry. His project is finally under way. But he is too anxiously aware of all that can go wrong to enjoy the moment. Oliver is not happy with the spikes of sound from the passing buses. Ray tells him the light is too flat. The crew vehicles are parked by Church House and Milly isn’t completely sure they have permission. Rowan wants to spray Aidan Massey’s hair with fixative to stop it blowing in the wind, but Aidan says hairspray makes him look like Margaret Thatcher. A crowd is gathering on the pavement to stare at their activities, and Christina is talking to them, keeping them from calling out, but all it takes is one idiot. Once these exteriors are done it’ll be much easier shooting inside the abbey, though then there’ll be ten times the hassle with lights.

Big Ben strikes the hour. The bing-bong-bing-bong goes on for ever.

‘We don’t like that,’ says Oliver.

‘Losing light,’ says Ray. ‘I’m down a stop since we set up.’

A woman in the crowd of onlookers has spotted the star.

‘It’s Aidan Massey! Look! Over there!’

Clouds rolling in from over the park. If it starts to rain we’re fucked. Ray’s telling Pete to walk a light-fill during the track and now Pete has to run a new cable. A road digger starts up somewhere in Victoria Street.

‘We don’t like that,’ says Oliver.

This is the moment Aidan Massey chooses to make some changes to the script. Henry beckons Christina to join him for moral support, and the three of them huddle by a buttress and look at Aidan’s changes. He’s added two words. Or rather, he’s added one word twice.

‘The spoken word thrives on repetition,’ he says.

The added word is ‘sexy’. He’s only had this script for three weeks. He’s only let them set up and lay tracks and rehearse and do his make-up and agree the camera moves, and now that at last they’re ready for the take he’s actually giving some attention to the words he’s going to say.

‘That’s fine, Aidan. You do that. No problem.’

One fucking word. Jesus! He catches Christina’s eye.

‘And on the subject of sexy,’ Aidan says, ‘those are very tight jeans you’re wearing, Christina.’

The poison dwarf thinks he’s a ladies’ man. He truly does.

‘Losing light,’ says Ray.

Henry looks up at the gathering clouds. Not that there’s anything he can do about it except worry. He can’t lose today’s shoot, the budget’s too tight.

‘Let’s go everybody. You good for a take, Aidan?’

‘Ready when you are, maestro.’

The machinery of filming grinds into action at last. Preparation is everything. When it’s time to roll there’s nothing to do but watch and listen.

My lines coming from his mouth. My ideas projected by his handsome head, filling the camera frame, making it bulge at the edges with Thatcherite hair. A little knot of highly focused professionals trotting slowly along one wall of Westminster Abbey on a dull day in May.

‘Back in the seventeenth century people took idols seriously,’ Aidan confides to the camera. ‘We’re not talking golden calves. We’re talking our innate human desire to see what we worship. An image. A picture. A beautiful face. A beautiful body. Yes, this is all about sex. Idols are the sexiest of sexy images. Back then they called idolatry “spiritual fornication”.’

Cut. Thank you, Aidan. You were great. Fabulous. How was it for you, Ray? Oliver? But we can live with that, can’t we? Well done everybody. Once more for luck.

Christina whispering.

‘You’d almost believe he understands what he’s saying.’

Share a quick smile. At least one other person knows the truth. Aidan’s right about the jeans. Run the track again. Traffic wardens peering at the minibus. Big Ben groaning towards a bong. Crowd getting boisterous.

‘Hey, Aidan! I’m your number one fan!’

Who was it thought he was sexy? Oh yes, Belinda Redknapp. Christ! Takes all sorts.

Re-set by the north wall. Get the exterior sequence done by lunch. Knock off the piece to camera, send Aidan back to his hotel or is it club? Buckle down to the cutaways. The fun starts when the presenter leaves. A bit of real directing.

‘So I’ve got my added word, Henry. Still okay?’

Jesus, one word. Why’s he so excited over one fucking word? Who am I fooling? He knows and I know that this one word is symbolic, it stands for authorship. Aidan Massey has spoken. In the beginning was the word, and the word was sexy.

Rowan retouches the star’s nose and brow, and he walks the talk.

‘Here on the north side of Westminster Abbey you see an empty niche. There used to be a statue here, of the Virgin Mary. In May 1645 a mason called Stevens was paid by a committee of MPs to hack it out and smash it to fragments. Images, the iconoclasts believed, do the work of the devil. Give us too many sexy images to incite our lust, and we’re on the fast track to hell.’

Henry circles the cropped grass with Ray to locate a camera position for the mute wide cover shot. Aidan crouches over the monitor as Mo runs him a playback of the take. The abbey towers over them all, living history as they say, even though it’s made of stone. The earth beneath my feet is living history, thinks Henry. Who else has stood where I’m standing, through the long centuries?

Raised voices round the camera. The star is throwing a hissy fit. He’s calling for Ray.

‘I want the camera moved! I want another angle!’

He’s telling Pete to give him more light, he’s snapping at the make-up girl to fix his hair all over again. The crew look to Henry, hesitating, unsure who to obey.

Henry joins Aidan.

‘What’s the problem, Aidan? It’s looking great.’

‘It’s looking like shit, Henry. Wake the fuck up and do your job! You’re supposed to be the director. Let’s see some fucking directing.’

Henry turns red. All this in front of the crew.

‘Maybe we should have a quiet word.’

‘Losing light,’ says Ray.

‘It’s not rocket science,’ says Aidan. ‘Camera here, me here, a simple track, then lose me on the tilt up. End on abbey towers against the sky.’

‘One big beast of a stop pull,’ says Ray.

‘Okay, Aidan,’ says Henry. ‘This is my job.’

‘So why aren’t you doing it?’

‘I am doing it.’

‘Then you don’t know your job.’

Henry struggles to control himself.

‘You think you could do it better, Aidan?’

‘Damn fucking right I do!’

Christina steps in.

‘We’ve not got much time,’ she says, touching Aidan’s arm. ‘Why doesn’t Aidan go back to the bus, have a coffee, Rowan can take a look at his hair, while Henry sets up the shot?’

‘Thank you,’ says Aidan. ‘At least there’s someone here who gets it. That’s all I ask.’

He stomps off to the bus. Henry draws a deep breath.