The Queen's Margarine (2 page)

‘Yes, I'm fine,' he mumbled, gritting his teeth. ‘In fact, I'm going to have a little nap.' Naps were actually more difficult than managing to sleep at night. If he lay down in the morning, in the hope of forty winks, he became miserably aware of just how long the day was, without Pearl to give it point and shape. ‘So if you wouldn't mind getting on downstairs….'

‘But I can't find any Windolene. And I'm not sure what you want doing with all them sympathy cards. It's difficult to dust, you know, with every surface cluttered.'

Burn
them, he all but said. They'd been there a whole two months now – ghastly things, with lilies on the front, or disembodied praying hands. And the words inside were bogus through and through: ‘sharing your sorrow', ‘holding you in my heart', ‘bringing a message of comfort'. There
was
no comfort, and no one could share his sorrow. Well, a son or daughter might have done, or perhaps a sister or brother, but he and Pearl were both only children, and, many of their genuine friends had, sadly, died already. Besides, despite the hand-written messages scrawled beneath the
printed ones – ‘don't hesitate to ring if we can help in any way', ‘do count on us for support', etcetera, etcetera – no one had been near for the last few desolate weeks. The cards were so much flummery; a pertinent reminder that his old school motto, Actions not Words, still had force and point.

‘Can I come in?'

Before he could reply, Marilyn had barged into his sanctuary, expostulating, as ever. ‘Good gracious me! Those sheets look none too clean. Would you like me to start up here?'

‘I thought you'd already started.'

‘I need to get my bearings first,' she pointed out, ignoring his sardonic tone. ‘See what's where, if you know what I mean. And, actually, I think I'd better pop back home and fetch a load of cleaning stuff. It's not just Windolene you're out of, but Cardinal Red, for the step, Fairy Liquid, Sparkle, and even …'

He closed his eyes. The products sounded like the names of yet more figurines. Pearl had never gone in for Cardinals, in fact, but Windolene was not that far from Gwendolene – one of the Pretty Ladies – and, as for Fairy Liquid, fairy liquidation was more what he had in mind.

‘And if you want this bedding laundered, I'm going to need detergent, and probably some Vanish.'

Vanish, he thought – perfect word.

‘In fact, while I'm about it, I'll take myself to Asda and invest in some new dusters and a decent mop and broom.'

‘Yes,
vanish
,' he screamed silently. ‘Vanish into the bowels of Asda and leave me in blessed peace.'

‘I hope I'm not disturbing you.'

‘Not at all,' Aubrey fibbed. Strange how bereavement sharpened up one's lying skills, whilst other talents atrophied. True, he wanted company, but not, repeat not, the vicar's.

‘Come in,' he muttered listlessly, eyeing the black-garbed reverend with a mixture of distaste and apprehension. Everything about the fellow was skeletal and skinny, bar his bulgy eyes and prominent Adam's apple, which seemed all the more protuberant in contrast to his concave figure. He was never very comfortable around pious, churchy people – Pearl excepted, of course. But then
Pearl's religion had been rather like her figurines, with its emphasis on the positive and its mostly surface appeal. No Crucifixions for her or Agonies in Gardens; only simpering Madonnas and goody-goody saints. He himself kept well away from the church and, in fact, had never met the vicar until Pearl's demise had made it more or less inevitable.

‘Do sit down.' He forced a smile. ‘Can I get you a cup of tea?'

‘No, no. I shan't stay long.'

Thank God, thought Aubrey – not that he believed in Him.

‘I just wanted to see how you were.'

‘Fine.'

‘I hear Marilyn did a good job.'

‘Excellent.'

‘But she, er, said you seemed a little … down.'

Down
? His wife of forty-seven years now rotting in her coffin. Why should he be down?

‘That's only natural, of course. But what you must remember, Aubrey, is that she's gone to a better place.'

He had a sudden vision of his wife surrounded by porcelain figurines – a whole heavenly host of cherubim and seraphim, with the usual fulsome names: Paradise Beauty, Celestial Bliss, Love Is All Around. ‘Yes, just as you said at the funeral,' he muttered, shuddering at the memory. He had loathed that mawkish service – an overlong concoction of denial, hypocrisy and cant. ‘I'm sure she's in her element,' he added, quickly tacking on a ‘Reverend', to sweeten any sarcasm.

‘Please do call me Frank.'

A vicar could never be frank. If doubts crept in (which inevitably they must), how could a Man of God admit to them without losing all respect and credence, not to mention his livelihood? Anyway, it was hardly frankness to suggest that, despite her marble-cold and waxen corpse, Pearl wasn't really dead, but had simply migrated to a Royal Doulton heaven, along with a myriad other Pretty Ladies, International Beauties and Princesses. He wondered about the Mermaids. Would
they
qualify for entry?

‘Do mermaids have souls?' he asked the vicar, suddenly.

‘I beg your pardon?'

‘Mermaids. I mean, as far as God's concerned, do they count as
human beings, to be damned in Hell or saved in Heaven, according to their vice or virtue, or should they be classed with fishes and thus barred from either place?'

The vicar was looking distinctly uneasy, although he did his best to rise to the challenge. ‘Aubrey, my friend, I know from long experience that grief can manifest itself in many different ways. These sorts of speculations may point to the fact that you're beginning to doubt God's essential goodness, as a result of your present grief.'

He had doubted it since childhood, in plain, unvarnished fact. Would any halfway decent God have created parents like his – a violent mother and an alcoholic father? And the recent cyclone in Burma, earthquake in China, and rash of teenage stabbings had done nothing to shake his decades-long belief that one lived in a random world, with no benevolent deity to prevent disaster, pain and cruelty.

‘Perhaps you could try to change your perspective and focus on that fact that your wife is now released from all her dreadful suffering.'

Yes, true enough, he conceded, gazing at their wedding photo. Pearl had never looked more beautiful in that white meringue of a dress, topped with the whipped-cream froth of the veil.

‘And when the good Lord sees fit, you'll join her in that same happy realm.'

If there
were
a Heaven (a gigantic if), he knew he'd feel an intruder there. Tipping the scales at sixteen stone, he just wasn't the right size or shape to be deemed appropriate company for ethereal angels and lean, ascetic saints.

‘It sometimes helps to remember, Aubrey, that this life is just a preparation for the next. Looked at in that light, it's easier to bear one's cross.'

Aubrey cast a glance at the sympathy cards (which, unfortunately, Marilyn had left unscathed). Even
they
denied death. He had snorted in derision at one of their pat rhymes:

The words were so close to Frank's, he wondered if the vicar had a sideline in penning verses – the trashy, sentimental stuff you saw in every card-shop. The fact that sympathy could be purchased made it still more spurious. Just grab a card, toss a few coins on the counter and – lo! – empty, flowery phrases could be sent to the bereaved, to save you the embarrassment of having to broach the subject personally, or think up something meaningful to say.

There was silence for a moment, filled by the steady ticking of the clock. That clock was like his wife: dependable, meticulous, never running fast or slow, but providing a consoling sense of order and regularity. He was just the opposite – or had become so since her death – unstable, unpredictable, wayward and shambolic.

The vicar cleared his throat, although the pesky man showed no sign of going. He was now leaning back in his chair, as if ensconced for the whole day. ‘And we mustn't forget,' he quavered, ‘to give thanks for the many happy years you and Pearl enjoyed together.'

Oh, so it was counting-blessings time now, was it? His parents had been good at that. When he broke his leg, aged ten, his mother had informed him that he was lucky to have legs at all, since he could easily be a double amputee. And earlier on, when their house was bombed in the Blitz and he was sobbing from the shock, his father had snapped, ‘Shut up and stop snivelling! At least we're safe in the fucking cellar.'

‘I wonder if it would help, Aubrey, if we said a prayer together?'

Aubrey moderated his spontaneous ‘No fear!' into a mumble of assent. With any luck, once the prayer was over, Frank would make a move.

The fellow sat up straighter in his seat; assuming an elevated tone, to match. ‘Eternal Lord, we beseech Thee to look with mercy on Thy suffering servant, Aubrey, and to grant him peace and acceptance in his …'

Aubrey's mind had strayed to M-Theory – not that he understood it, nor, for that matter, much else about theoretical physics. All he'd managed to grasp from the recent TV programme was that it was an attempt to reconcile the various superstring theories, and that there were probably eleven dimensions, instead of the more familiar three. The presenter had even suggested that there might be
multiple universes – maybe an infinite number – and had dismissed our own universe as small and insignificant and something of a sideshow. Indeed, he'd said in humbling conclusion that it might actually be beyond the grasp of paltry human beings ever to fathom the true nature of reality. Yet, in face of such dizzying speculations, most God-men clearly thought that their own trifling brand of Popery or Anglicanism constituted entire and absolute Truth.

‘Amen,' the reverend murmured, eyes still closed; hands still piously joined.

‘Amen,' repeated Aubrey, although more to the TV presenter than to any Eternal Lord.

After a brief pause, the vicar rose to his feet. ‘Well, it's been a pleasure to see you, Aubrey, despite the sadness of the occasion.'

Trying not to seem too eager, Aubrey accompanied him to the door, but, once in the hall, Frank started on a new tack, apparently still reluctant to leave.

‘Have you any plans at the moment? I wondered if you intend to sell the house?'

Aubrey shook his head. It was very much Pearl's house: neat, compact and shiny-bright (at least since Marilyn's onslaught). When they'd first married and were looking for a home, they had viewed a ramshackle cottage, with peeling paint, a dodgy roof and a rampant garden overgrown with weeds. Although he'd fallen totally in love with it, he had let himself be overruled by Pearl, who wanted something bandbox-fresh and manageable, without so much as a crack in the ceiling or a daisy on the lawn. In fairness to her, she had always kept both house and garden pristine, and it would seem disloyal to sell the place that had been her home for close on half a century. Besides, if he moved to a small flat, there wouldn't be room for her china collection, and it would be tantamount to sacrilege to dispose of the host of bosom friends she had cherished for so long. Although, in truth, he could do with the cash. Ever since he'd lost his pension when the firm he'd worked for all his life went into liquidation, life had been something of a struggle. Being six months short of retirement age when the crash occurred, he hadn't received a penny in compensation. Things had deteriorated further with Pearl's cancer diagnosis, which had forced
her
into retirement, too.

‘Well, if there's anything you need, Aubrey, don't hesitate to ask.'

He smiled politely, although uncomfortably aware that the things he needed were unlikely to be provided by the vicar: a chef to cook his meals, a phial of morphine to sort out his insomnia and Marilyn Monroe to remind his ageing loins of the long-lost joys of sex.

‘Oh, no,' he muttered, grimacing as the doorbell rang.

The Reverend Frank must have decided to earn more Brownie points by calling in again. He was tempted not to answer – except suppose it was the postman? He was expecting his first package from Book Club Associates, who, as part of a special promotion, had offered a range of science books at amazingly low prices. The books, he hoped, would help him get to grips with M-Theory, which he'd decided to explore, if only as a distraction from his grief. The M, he'd learned already, constituted a problem in itself, since no one knew exactly what it stood for. Many suggestions had been posited, from Membrane, Mathematical and Matrix, to Mother (as in the mother of all theories) and Master (as in master theory), whilst the cynics had suggested Missing, Murky and Mystery, on account of the fact that the theory was more or less impenetrable. But, whatever the M might signify, it would be safer altogether than the double M of Marilyn Monroe. Randy old men were utterly pathetic, as he already knew to his cost.

Opening the door, half-nervous, half-expectant, he saw neither Frank nor the postie, but a middle-aged bloke he could only describe as faded spiv. The tie was vulgar, the dark suit worn and shiny, the fixed smile unctuous, the handshake smarmy.

‘Vincent Grundy. I left my card yesterday.'

‘Your card?'

‘Yes, I put it through the letterbox. I'm interested in buying silver, gold, jewellery, china—'

‘Sorry,' Aubrey said, interrupting the list. ‘But I don't do business at the door.'

‘I offer extremely favourable prices, sir. You won't get a better deal – that I can guarantee.'

Well, at least he was sir, and not Aubrey. And although he had
no silver, gold or jewellery (Pearl's few rings and bracelets having been left to her favourite nurse), there was a hell of a lot of china going spare. Would it really hurt to sell a couple of the figurines? Who would even know?