'Perhaps
’
he said, not looking up.
'You know there'll be a bit of money for you now your dad's gone. Just a little lump sum. Might be enough to buy a small house.' Not in London, he thought, but said nothing.
Florence closed the door softly, reverently, and he heard her padding her way - a little more carefully than she used to perhaps -down the stairs. He felt that freezing in his spine again. His mother was really on her own now. So was he. And he did not like the way she looked at him. Responsibility - that had to change. He would need a wife to sort that side of things out - but first the funeral.
13
After the Funeral
There is nothing romantic about the Ponte dei Sospiri (Bridge of Sighs) which merely unites the Courts of Justice in the Palace with the Criminal Prison.
Grant Allen,
Historical Guide to Venice,
1898
The funeral took place, Patrick thought, like a series of scenes in a theatre. Scarcely a sentence about the qualities of the dead man was uttered by the Chapel Minister without a nod or a pursing of the
lips
and a strange and restless rustling through the crowd, all of whom, including his own mother, had a shifty look about them. And most of those shifty looks were directed towards a woman who hung back at the edge of the small group gathered around the o
pen grave. She looked vaguely f
amiliar but when he asked his mother about her - was she a distant relative? - his mother looked as if she might have a fit.
Florence was not far off having a fit anyway. Her wishes having been flagrantly,
flagrantly
flouted. For in death, if not in life, George Parker, RIP, had got his own way. He could keep more than one secret, could George. Among other things, some years ago he had talked to the Chapel Minister about the form of his last resting place and the manner of his arrival there. It was one of several conversations of a spiritual nature he and the minister had together. George having found some comfort in the piousness of the man's humility was able to lay his burden down - in part anyway.
‘I
married the wrong woman,' he said. 'And I have stuck by her . . .' (God would forgive the slight abbreviation of the whole picture.)
‘I
have had precious little chance to do what I want on this earth as a result of that, minister,' was how he put it. 'But I'd like to think that I've got some say in the going out of it.'
When it came to Florence and the minister there was quite a showdown.
Florence
insisted that she knew what her husband wanted, she hoped, and what he wanted was to be cremated. The minister, recognising his own wife in that stout bosom and determined chin, said he must demur and say, in the eyes of God, that he made a promise which he would keep. Florence railed. The minister stood firm. God was invoked and you couldn't go higher. God and the minister (and George) won. Which was why they all now stood around a gaping hole in the ground - 'the most solemn reminder of man's return to worms and the earth from which he sprang . ..'
Patrick watched with particular keenness the drama of the mystery woman. She stood with her head bowed, her thin headscarf fluttering, the puffs of yellowish-white hair that escaped from underneath it looking oddly jaunty. She sobbed and gasped her way through the ceremonials. She had a lot more tears to shed than his mother - which was not hard since, as yet, his mother had shed none. The nods and curiosity and whisperings were directed towards this deeply affected woman, who seemed not to notice, or if she did, not to care. The few left over were for Florence. Patrick, observing it closely, felt confused, with a mixture of curiosity at the event, as if he were standing outside it watching, and a sense of something else which he took to be grief. He thought about Dylan Thomas and jazz and how his father once made Meccano constructions, and he willed himself to cry, to shed even one tear, one drop of salt water - none came. He bowed his head and remembered what he could. That was all. But the memories were dim and inconsequential, like his relationship with his father - of no real substance - evaporating even as the coffin lay in the ground. He would talk to the woman afterwards - find out why she was able to mourn with tears and he was not.
The minister finished his few words. The woman stopped her sobbing. Nobody spoke. Nobody moved except Patrick who, feeling everybody's eyes upon him, bent and picked up a handful of soil. He threw the dirt onto the coffin, a gesture that was immediately followed by a strange choking noise. He looked up. The woman's head was bobbing up and down now, her shoulders were shaking, yet she stood alone. No one went to her, which was even more curious. People comforted his mother, who was dry-eyed; people comforted him - a pat on the back, and squeeze of his shoulder - but he too was dry-eyed. No one comforted her, who was soaked with her tears. Why?
He had a sudden thought - was she perhaps a professional mourner? Did they still have those nowadays? If anyone needed such a thing it was his poor old dad. He looked across at her and smiled. She smiled back, waterily. His mother moved towards him and tucked her hand in his arm. He could hear her breath, firm and heavy, as if she disapproved of what was taking place before them.
'Who is that?' asked Patrick.
'Nobody,' said Florence.
It might have been left there, set down by the graveside, just another mystery, had not Dickie (Cheffy's son) and Archie Bowles, old schoolfriends of Patrick's and subsequently workmates of his father's, smuggled a bottle of whisky into the teetotal post-funeral eats. At which the uninvited woman removed her headscarf and sat on the edge of the settee, knees together, cheeks very pink, eyes defiant and chewing very positively on a ham and cress sandwich. Not a pretty sight, thought Patrick. Tears had added to the effect of a pantomime dame, but at least she had managed to cry
...
Dolly pointed out that it was just not done to refuse a guest after a funeral. Besides, Lilly Willis looked as if one sharp word and she'd tip over the edge and then what would the minister say? Florence did not care particularly about what the minister said as she had her own words to say to him later - but Dolly was probably right. It was easier all round. So Florence sniffed once and made the best of it. In a way she had a lot to thank Lilly for. Discretion, if nothing else, and taking away an unpleasant marital burden. As long as Patrick never found out then all would be well. He was still such a boy. Steering him away from Lilly's gaze, she handed him a plate with an assortment of sandwiches.
'Don't forget to eat,' she said.
'What's her name?' he asked, pointing at Lilly.
'Lilly Willis,' she said. 'And she's nobody'
'Then why is she here? How does she know my father?'
'Because they were sweethearts at school,' said Florence, smooth as butter.
Patrick looked more kindly at Lilly. He had the vaguest idea that he knew that bit of information already. She smiled back, a little cress caught in her teeth. Patrick looked away. Such things disgusted him. When he looked again she beckoned. He stood up and Florence suddenly executed a swift turn, blocking his way. 'You haven't eaten anything,' she said with extraordinary desperation in her voice. But he moved past her. She caught up with him, shrill now. 'You ought to speak to the Boxers
...
Just over there. Doesn't Peggy look a treat?'
He nodded and moved on towards Lilly Willis. Smiling at everyone as he went, feeling that he must show dignity on his father's behalf, enjoying the status of Son to the Star of the Show even if he was starring in Death rather than Life.
He spotted Peggy Boxer across the room and bestowed his sad, grateful smile upon her but she smiled at him in a different way from the others. For a moment dignity fled in the unmistakable sensation of desire. She had a very wide smile, and very red lips and her little teeth were white and perfect. Her mother, who sat straight-backed beside her, also smiled, but a little too eagerly, and she even gave a little wave. As if this was a social event. Ruby, who had high hopes, had dressed Peggy - rather appropriately if she said so herself - to kill. Ruby Boxer might have ended up as wife to the publican but her daughter deserved - and would get - better. Let the lower set of Coventry laugh at mother and daughter's stylishness - let them say they were fools and show-offs with their fashions and their elocution lessons - let them wink, let them nudge each other in the ribs and call her A Cut Above - the main thing was to better yourself. And one very good way of bettering yourself was to avoid, at all costs, marrying a publican. Ruby was still reeling from Florence's apparent interest in her daughter as companion for Patrick - and though Peggy had cried all the way home from the Parker household at Christmas, coming here today her mother had urged her to Put It All Behind Her. They were much encouraged at the absence of Audrey. Audrey being in London, feeling very sorry for herself, sulking, and having delusions that she was being severely missed. Truth was, Patrick was relieved. Withdrawing sexual favours only works when the circumstances are right. Since arriving in Coventry and up until this moment, Patrick had not had much in the way of carnal desire - too many other things going on - but now, as he looked across at Peggy, he was reminded, very pleasantly, that he could still have them.
Today Peggy was particularly chic, particularly dashing (perhaps a Utile too chic and dashing, thought most of the gathering) in a little black two-piece trimmed with black swansdown and with a shiny cock's feather stuck in her hat. Mrs Boxer noted, with smiling satisfaction, that even the grieving Patrick could not take his eyes off her. Nor the feather. What with the swansdown riffling and the feather flouncing, it was difficult to look away.
Peggy lowered her eyes at Patrick's smile and then looked up again quickly so that the feather curved and trembled. It was, he thought with satisfaction, practically obscene. Peggy had perfected the art of peering from under the brim of a hat and Patrick liked the effect of it. He did not like himself for liking it, such foolishness being an old-fashioned foible of the median herd, but nevertheless he found himself wondering what she would look like naked except for the hat. The inappropriateness was good. He remembered his Nietzsche (always useful in his lack of convention) that man's sexuality reaches up into the ultimate pinnacle of his spirit
...
It was this very lust that produced his lusty designs. He realised that now. It underpinned him. The two were inextricably interwoven. To be bound by convention was to be lost to the Bourgeois. It was something he told Audrey over and over again whenever she showed signs of narrow-mindedness. Fling Off the Bounds of Bourgeois Principle, he quite often told her, which usually transposed into her flinging off her clothes.
Peggy and her mother were settled on the same settee as was Lilly. All three waited for Patrick to arrive - but Dick and Archie stepped out and blocked him.
'Mind out lads,' he said, and went to pass them.
They slapped him on the back, removed the plate of sandwiches from his hand, and offered him a glass of ginger ale to 'spice himself up a bit'. He took the proffered glass at face value, despite Dick and Archie winking at him. And he took a very large mouthful.
Of course he would have spat it out but just at that very moment his Aunt Bertha came up to him to be kissed and the very large mouthful felt as if he had hot needles going down the back of his throat. His eyes watered and every instinct, including the Flinging Off of Bourgeois Principle, told him not to swallow. But if he spat it out, then, in Aunt and Fairground terms, he would gain a bullseye. So he stood, tears streaming down his face while Aunt Bertha removed her little bit of black veil and leaned towards him so that he might kiss her cheek and said, 'Ah - so you are grieving after all. Well, I'm very glad somebody is
...'
They stood confronting each other in amazed stalemate - until he, knowing there was nothing else for it, finally swallowed. She watched the tears rolling down his cheeks.
'There, there,' she said. 'You loved your dad after all.' And she smiled and patted him on his way and couldn't wait to get back to Florence to tell her. But Florence was gazing at Patrick as if she was about to witness some terrible calamity Lilly.
'He's a good boy
’
goaded Bertha. 'Poor lad. He's taking the loss of his dad very hard.'
Florence said nothing
'Crying he was
’
said Bertha, triumphantly. 'Real tears.'
Florence removed her gaze from her son to stare at her sister in outrage. 'He was probably coughing,' she said, 'He has a weak chest as you know. Out there in the open with a hole in the ground instead of all neat and over with indoors.'
'No, dear
’
said Bertha. 'He cared. He cared very deeply' Florence saw that her son's cheeks were wet with tears, and she felt - added to the burden of Lilly, and George's betrayal from beyond the grave -enraged. With palpitations. If the worst came to the worst with Lilly, Florence could always turn blue.
Patrick, recovered enough to be pleasantly warmed by the alcoholic experience, took another drink of what was supposed to be ginger ale and more hell broke loose over his tonsils. In London he drank either brown ale, Guinness, the occasional cider or rough, red wine. He stared at Dick and Archie in astonishment. 'You need it,' they said. 'Can't bury your father without a man's drink inside you.' And his glass was topped up again.
It brought him to life, made him confident. It also continued to make him weep. He approached Lilly with tears still rolling down his cheeks and she looked at him with approval. She beckoned him closer. He wanted to giggle but managed to contain it. And just as he was nearly there and about to speak he trod rather heavily on Peggy Boxer's foot which seemed to have arrived out of nowhere. He sat down so heavily between them on the settee that they both bounced.
'Sorry
’
he said, feeling it would do for both of them. His voice sounded very loud.