English Correspondence (3 page)

His chess-playing friend, Don, had been very helpful, guiding her through the procedures of death registry and funerals. She had met him once or twice on her visits to London and he had telephoned her when George died, to offer his support. He seemed to know everything so she had leant on him slightly and his authority upheld her without either of them noticing. She felt, although she didn't touch him, as if she were holding on to an arm made of wood, bent at the elbow for that purpose, joined at the shoulder but totally nerveless. He had arranged a meeting with Graham.
Walking along to the vicarage with her, he gave an extensive lecture on the Church of England, explaining how, in its forms, it differed little from what she was used to. That at times like these the Pope and the past were irrelevant. He quoted from the Order for the Burial of the Dead in the Book of Common Prayer and advised her to be brisk with the undertaker, asking upfront about the wooziness and decrepitude of the pall bearers. That way she wouldn't be fobbed off. He advised against the outfit in the local high street and suggested somewhere in the suburbs where they were more punctilious. The wife of one of his old school chums hadn't been sufficiently incisive. His friend's dispatch had been rather dicey, made everyone nervous. Don failed, however, through lack of imagination and because he knew the man, to prepare her for Graham.

Sylvie's first mistake was to lie, which then confused her, and made Don thrust his hands deep in his trouser pockets and sway on his heels. Graham asked her how long her father had lived in the parish and she construed the question as loaded and said it was a matter of weeks. She had thought, for a moment, that he was going to refuse a funeral to a non-attender. He nodded and wanted her to tell him about her father's churchmanship. This threw her. What had George made of God, would have been better. Wild and free, she could have said, or not there at all. Certainly nothing personal. He'd had enough of that in his childhood. What sort of churchman? Words rushed through her head. Lutheran, Huguenot, Calvinist, Jansenist. She was on the wrong tack. This was England. Labour, Conservative, certainly not that, something Democrat. Liberal, she said. So am I, he said, Good.

Then he came on to the readings. Had her father a scriptural passage, which meant a lot to him? He had said scriptural. She remembered one of George's letters. He had been re-reading the Gospels in English; the Authorised Version. He had quoted St John, the woman taken in adultery. Jesus had stooped down and written in the dust with his
finger. Twice he had done it, Jesus that is. What I want to know, George wrote, was What did it say? She had thought about it. The answer might throw light on all sorts of difficult questions, or at least provide a further enigma to work on. But not to know. That was hard. Was it obscene, do you think, George had asked. It hadn't occurred to her.

She had the sense not to mention it. Even she, and in spite of the beauty of the passage, realised she mustn't mention it. He liked letters, she said. Ah, yes, said Graham. 1 Corinthians 13, that's always popular at weddings and, yes, at funerals. That's the one with a list, isn't it, she said. How can love be a list? Even the unerotic sort. Graham and Don looked at her. She'd forgotten who they were. She had been thinking of George and the sort of thing she was able to say to him.

They let themselves out. Graham was juggling with a telephone and the proofs of his Appeal brochure. He sounded displeased. As Sylvie walked down the vicarage garden path with Don, she said how sorry she was. She explained that she had no experience of clergy, or, in a way, of the English. Her half claim through blood and her ease with the language were misleading. People assumed she understood more than she did. Don was disarmed. He smiled down at her, quite genuinely, and said they could probably both do with a drink, if she didn't think it was too early. There was somewhere tolerable on the tow path by the Thames. Graham didn't understand the ladies, never had done.

IT WAS ON
the basis of that smile that Sylvie wrote to Don. She needed to write to him to thank him for his support and kindness at a difficult time, but it occurred to her thinking back over the last week, that they might keep in touch. She would find a way of suggesting it. She knew the lure of free dinners, or even reductions, to people on pensions. Not the truly old and frail; they weren't interested in eating. She would have to judge it. She wouldn't want him and his wife here on perpetual half board. Paul wouldn't put up with it and it would defeat her purpose. She wanted his letters.

She went to her desk and wrote to him. It was different from writing to George because she didn't really know him, but he had known George and involved himself in the funeral. For the first time, since coming back, she felt a bit human.

Paul's mother turned up with Lucien later that afternoon. Lunch-time at the restaurant had been quiet. A man and woman, on their way to Alsace, had broken their journey to eat. Just one couple always created hush in the dining room. Their conversation was intermittent and conducted at nearly a whisper. Once or twice one of them laughed and then cut it short. The sound in the unoccupied space was shocking. Afterwards Sylvie went to bed and lay down for an hour. She had wanted to collect Lucien from school herself. She liked standing at the top of the sloping playground and watching the children come out, with their bags neat on their backs, or trailed on the ground, like uncooperative dogs. Something about the sight of the person collecting them reminded the
children that they'd forgotten something and they ran back in again. Progress was always fitful; it was no good being in a hurry. Yvette had arranged with Paul that she would keep Lucien for an extra night to give Sylvie more time to herself. That's what they had said, though Sylvie didn't know what to do with the spare hours. There were enough without adding to them. It hadn't occurred to her to insist on what she wanted.

She set the alarm clock in case she dozed off. When it beeped, she got up and put her skirt and her shoes back on and listened out for her mother-in-law's car. As soon as she heard the tyres on the gravel she left the apartment and came out to the front entrance of the restaurant. The air was cold and Sylvie crossed her arms and rubbed her skin inside her sleeves to stop herself from shivering. Yvette, well wrapped up, inside a padded jacket, straightened herself up from undoing the hatchback and stood by, while Lucien jumped over the seats.

‘He was one of the first out,' she called, ‘and his gran was ready and waiting, having, I have to tell you, got herself the best parking spot at the head of the line, by getting there twenty minutes early. So we had none of that boring waiting around, did we, darling?'

Lucien glanced up at Yvette but didn't reply. They came up the path and Sylvie went towards them.

‘He made you a beautiful hat out of red paper, Sylvie, very cheerful it was – to cheer you up. We got it out of a cutting-up book I found in the stationer's. Origami, that's a funny name, isn't it, poppet? We've already discussed that. I meant to bring it. I told him to leave it on the hall table, but he got in a rush and he
didn't
, but never mind. Never mind, that's what we said, didn't we? I'd have been late if I'd wasted time looking for it.'

‘It wasn't for her,' Lucien said, though he kept an eye on Sylvie, as he spoke. They were all standing by the entrance and the moment for a proper greeting had passed.

‘Yes it was, darling. We said so. I was all fingers and
thumbs, but you did it so neatly from the instructions. I'm really annoyed with myself for leaving it behind.'

‘It wasn't for you,' he said to his mother.

‘I believe you,' Sylvie said. She kissed the top of his head and he ducked under her arm and ran into the hall.

‘He's been such a love,' Yvette said. ‘Any time. Really, darling. It's a treat for us and it gives you and Paul a bit of precious time together. You look cold. Let me feel your hands. You
are
cold. I'll just come in for a second and check a few dates with you. I brought my diary with me.'

Yvette saw Sylvie's face and said she'd changed her mind, she wouldn't bother her now, but she and Paul could have a little think about when suited them. Sylvie was to go in, in the warm, and no need to wave her off. She left rapidly. She always did, once she had made up her mind to go. Sylvie waved through the glass in the door and walked across to her desk. Lucien had vanished. For a few minutes it seemed to her that her mother-in-law was sitting on the arm of the armchair by the fire. She could hear Yvette talking, speculating, now that Lucien was out of the way, and they were safe indoors, about the funeral; that there couldn't have been many there – too many only children on both sides of the family to make a nice crowd. She would say, and not for the first time, that she simply couldn't understand why George had ever moved. His French friends, the ones he and Eve had made together, during their marriage, would have been such a comfort to him. They wouldn't have been able to manage the journey to London to pay their respects. Far too far to go for just an hour, and none of them young anymore. Everything was always so clear to her. Sylvie knew it was unreasonable to feel worn out by what Yvette was saying when she wasn't actually saying it. There wasn't much point in avoiding a conversation if she was going to have it in her head. But the unreal had an advantage; it tailed off once she'd got the gist of it.

She walked down the passage that led to their apartment, and listened out when she got to the corner. There was no sound but, at the far end, their door was wide open,
making a bright path on the floor. It was wedged open with a large flat book. She waited silently for a moment, then she called out.

‘Lucien.'

There was some scuffling from inside. He came running out.

‘Go back and shut the door, darling. You can bring the book with you.'

He went back and tugged at the book, threw it into the hallway of the apartment. The door slowly and automatically started to close.

‘That's not what books are for, Lucien. It makes dents in them.'

‘I don't want to read it,' he said. ‘Stupid fire door.'

‘I've got to go back to the restaurant,' she said, ‘in case people turn up, but I haven't got work to do. No computer. No telephone, unless someone calls. You can keep me company.'

‘All right.'

They walked back along the passage. The hall was still empty.

‘Look at that.' Sylvie nodded towards her chair.

‘What?'

‘The cat. It's got in again.'

Lucien smiled.

‘It's very clever,' Sylvie said. ‘It's nearly the same colour as the cushion on the chair. It thinks we won't notice. Has it been here all the time I was away?'

‘You were going to sit on it. Shall I sit on it? Gently?'

‘No. You can put it out for me.'

Lucien gathered up the cat. It hung, large and inert, from his arms, face outwards. Sylvie opened the front door. Lucien hesitated and half flung the cat from him. It ruffled and unruffled itself and walked away down the path.

The telephone rang. It was Paul on the internal line. He was asking her if she had managed to rest. ‘Yes, a bit,' she said. And when he asked her if she had got some sleep, she
said she couldn't remember. It always seemed odd to speak to him like this, when he was a couple of rooms away. The method worked for giving and taking messages, but nothing more personal. They had installed the system a few years ago but Sylvie still hadn't got used to it. She never knew what to say. She had memories of his coming into the hall from the kitchen and taking her by surprise. He asked if Lucien was there, and when she said he was, he asked if she could put him on – if she didn't have anything else she wanted to say to him.

She held out the telephone to Lucien. He listened and said, ‘Yes,' then he put the receiver across to his other ear, then back again. ‘All right,' he said, and put it down.

‘I've got to go and make chocolate tart,' he said. ‘I said I'd go as soon as I got back from school, but I forgot.'

‘That's a treat,' she said. ‘You don't often get asked.'

‘He said it was to give you time by yourself.'

She nodded. ‘I don't know that that's what I want.'

Lucien looked worried.

‘Enjoy it. You will,' she said.

‘Did you go to Grandad's funeral?'

‘Yes,' she said.

He looked hard at her for a second and ran into the dining room. She could hear him call out to Paul as he got nearer the kitchen.

Sylvie walked round her desk. She brushed the cushion with her hand and sat down. She wondered if Lucien had asked Paul questions and what Paul had told him. He wouldn't have said much about George. Bereavement without a body was how he seemed to see it. Yvette wouldn't have mentioned him either. She liked everything to be nice.

Sylvie had got through the funeral. It had been less peaceful than she had expected. The organ was robust, as was some of the hymn singing, once the small congregation had warmed up. The church was locked for most of the week and had
absorbed the late autumn damp. There were flutterings of parish activity: the notice board cluttered with lists for signing and pieces of thin coloured paper bearing information, the children's paintings pegged onto a line. Sunday, in either direction, was far off. Sylvie had chosen the flowers for their individual beauty and had seen that, from a distance, in the altar vases, they made little impact. She could remember the smell of the lilies and the sharp scent of the forced daffodils. Something about their colour had looked wrong against the altar carpet. She wished now she could do it again. Not just the flowers. She had been present but not present enough. Standing up, sitting down, kneeling. And although tradition and, in this case, the Church of England, did it for you and that had its advantages, there was a sense in which she hadn't been present and, in a way, not George either. Of course not George himself, as he was dead, but not anything of him.