The Past and Other Lies (45 page)

‘I won’t, thanks.’ The vicar extended his hand and beamed at her. ‘I’ve got another funeral at one.’

‘Goin’t down like flies, Vicar?’ wheezed the elderly Arthur, who had been Ted Kettley’s brother-in-law.

Charlotte stood impatiently in the driveway to the crematorium and turned up the collar of her jacket—Ashley’s jacket. Public displays of affection, no matter how mild, made her nervous. However, they’d got through the funeral and the cremation, so that just left the wake.

Was it called a wake if you weren’t Catholic? Mum had called it ‘a bite to eat’, which sounded much more secular, if middle class and much less emotional. All very Protestant, in fact.

Everyone was outside now, milling around, slapping gloved hands together in the frozen air and talking loudly. There was a distinct sense of release and perhaps relief that the formal part of the proceedings was over. The elderly folk, perhaps hardened to such occasions, congregated outside the church, glad of an excuse to gossip.

‘Ron Briscoe had Ardley Colliery Brass Band play at his funeral,’ observed a frail old man in a long raincoat who was leaning heavily on a walking stick.

‘I remember that dog at Marge Compton’s funeral,’ said his wife, a large woman with a vast flowery hat.

‘Ron Briscoe played second trombone,’ said Arthur.

‘It were a dalmatian. Do you remember, Iris?’

‘Aye, but he played trombone with the Taddlethwaite lot, not with Ardley.’

Finally, when the pleasantries with the vicar had been completed and instructions given to everyone, Mum gave the word that it was time to depart.

Charlotte saw Jennifer standing impatiently in the crematorium doorway, holding her mobile phone to her ear and trying to escape Aunt Caroline’s neighbour, which gave Charlotte time to seek out Graham and Su and make her way over to their shiny new Golf.

‘Can I beg a lift to Aunt Caroline’s? I don’t have my car.’

‘’Course you can,’ said Graham, then he fixed her with a speculative look. ‘You made it by the skin of your teeth,’ he observed, unlocking the car with an electronic beep. ‘Did you have second thoughts and nearly not come?’

‘Have
you
ever tried getting from Edinburgh to Skipton on public transport?’ she countered. ‘Hi, Su.’ She kissed her almost-sister-in-law on the cheek.

‘Charlotte. How are you? I once travelled from Margate to Paisley on public transport,’ remarked Su in her precise English. ‘Of course I was a student then,’ she added, which explained why she’d been on public transport though not why she’d been in either Margate or Paisley.

‘Direct train to Leeds then change for Skipton—simple,’ said Graham. ‘And you could go via Carlisle, too—though that would mean two changes. Oh, watch out for the child restraints,’ he warned, as Charlotte slid into the back seat and immediately got tangled up in various child-sized seats and safety belts.

‘How are the boys, Su?’ she asked, because she felt she ought to.

‘Fine. Spending February with their father.’

‘Oh. Is he still in Rangoon?’

‘No. Paisley.’

Well, that explained it.

‘And how is the university, Charlotte?’ asked Su, turning around in her seat and fixing Charlotte with such a direct gaze that she was forced to concentrate on the suburban delights of Skipton through the window in order to avoid it.

‘Fine. Well, I’m still there, that’s the main thing. They haven’t replaced me with a twenty-two-year-old PhD student—yet. And you? How are things in Bristol?’

Su worked for a merchant bank as some kind of investment analyst, which meant she worked a million hours a week and earned an absolute fortune. The Golf they were now sitting in was Graham’s. Su owned a late-model gold Mercedes, though she claimed this was only for tax purposes. Graham worked for Social Services in Bristol and worked nearly as many hours for substantially less. They lived in a three-storey terrace house near the city centre which Su owned and Graham liked to renovate.

‘As well as can be expected,’ said Su, which from anyone else would have been enigmatic and perhaps a little sombre, but Su said it with a gleam in her eye so that you had an uncomfortable feeling she was laughing at you. ‘Graham has reversed our feature walls. The feature walls are now white and the white walls are now a feature colour. Avocado.’

‘Aubergine,’ corrected Graham, as they turned into Aunt Caroline’s street. ‘The home section of the
Bristol Evening Post
is doing a feature on us next week.’

Aunt Caroline’s street had a silent, suburban weekday feel to it. Mum and Dad were already getting out of the Vauxhall and Arthur and Iris emerged from the back seat. Aunt Caroline’s front door stood open and for a second you expected to see her appear in the doorway, wiping her hands on her apron and making some announcement about scones. Instead, the neighbour who had been at the church appeared in the doorway then stood aside, smiling a welcome. Mum, who was coming up the pathway armed with the front door key, paused.

‘Mr Milthorpe. I thought you were behind us?’ It sounded like an accusation.

‘Thought I’d go on ahead and open up. Kettle’s on.’

There was going to be a turf war, that much was obvious, and Charlotte waited beside Graham’s Golf until everyone else had gone inside and terms had been agreed on before venturing inside.

In the hallway Mum was in full swing.

‘This is Iris and Arthur Pearson, dear,’ she said to Graham, indicating the elderly couple she had given a lift to. ‘Iris was Ted’s sister. My youngest, Graham, and his...Su.’

Su smiled serenely and Charlotte sighed. Mum couldn’t say ‘girlfriend’ because Su was forty-two and had two children.

‘Hello, love. And where are you from?’ Mr Pearson asked Su, picking up on her dark complexion and Oriental eyes, to say nothing of her unusual attire.

‘Bristol,’ Su replied charmingly. ‘And you?’

‘We live in Ilkley, love,’ said Iris. ‘Though I were brought up ’ere in Skipton and Arthur in Blackburn.’

‘Aye, we’ve come a long way,’ agreed Arthur, and it was difficult to tell whether he was being ironic or not.

‘And this is...’ Mum hesitated as the man with the long raincoat and the large woman with the vast flowery hat stepped into the hallway.

‘Bill and Mavis Rudley,’ announced the man, stomping his feet on Aunt Caroline’s doormat and unbuttoning his coat.

‘We live in Firth Street,’ said his wife, as though this explained their presence, then she busied herself untying her hat, removing it and looking around for a hook large enough to hang it on.

‘’Scuse me,’ murmured Charlotte, squeezing past the log-jam of mourners that had stuck fast in the hallway.

‘Oh. Dearest, this is—’

Charlotte smiled wanly. ‘Hello. Shall I serve the drinks?’ and she escaped into the kitchen.

The neighbour, Mr Milthorpe, was already there, pulling milk out of the fridge, the kettle steaming behind him, a tray of biscuits and sliced cakes on the bench top. He looked as though he knew his way around.

‘’Ello, love,’ he said, looking up. ‘Jack Milthorpe. I live next door. Me and your aunt were old pals.’ He stuck out his hand.

‘Hello. I’m Charlotte,’ and she shook his hand, wondering how he knew she was Aunt Caroline’s niece. Perhaps it wasn’t too hard to work out, if he knew as much about Aunt Caroline’s family as he appeared to know about her kitchen.

‘I’ve seen the photos on’t mantelpiece,’ he explained, as if she had asked. ‘Shall I do you a nice cuppa?’

‘Thanks, yes. Oh, let me help,’ but she didn’t move. He seemed to know what he was doing. Perhaps he was one of those people who liked to be doing something rather than just standing around. She watched him go unerringly to a cupboard and pull out a tin and spoon tea leaves into a large green teapot. Or perhaps he didn’t like to think of strangers in Caroline’s kitchen. That’s what we are, I suppose, she thought; strangers.

‘Hello? No, look I’m after—yes, can you hear me? I’m after Mr Gaspari. Is he—’ Jennifer.

And on her mobile. She must have got here soon after Mr Milthorpe as Charlotte had seen her standing on her own in the lounge when everyone else was still removing their coats and scarves in the hallway. And she was talking to her office on her mobile.

‘No. No, I’m not on the bus. I’m at a funeral,’ said Jennifer testily, as if that explained something vital. Perhaps it explained poor reception. Perhaps she earned extra brownie points if she called the office from a funeral? Charlotte could imagine Tom Pitney’s reaction if she rang him from a funeral. Tom didn’t really like you to ring him at any time.

‘I have left about four messages already... Yes, it is important. Do you think I’d be phoning from a funeral if it wasn’t?’

Yes, thought Charlotte, entering the lounge and going past Jennifer to get to Aunt Caroline’s drinks cabinet, I think you probably would.

The drinks cabinet held a surprisingly good supply of sherry—old ladies’ tipple, thought Charlotte—plus a bottle of port, one of brandy and something that looked suspiciously like cherry liqueur. The sherry seemed the safest bet and she pulled out the bottle and decided there were some advantages to taking the train after all—she could get quietly drunk in a corner and not have to worry about driving home.

‘Thank you, that would be most helpful,’ said Jennifer sarcastically and the snap of plastic on plastic, followed by a petulant sigh, seemed to indicate that the phone call had ended.

‘I’ll have one of those,’ said Jennifer in a different voice—long-suffering now, rather than angry. Charlotte studied the labels on the various bottles and did not turn around. She reached for two glasses and poured a generous quantity into each. She turned and held out one of the glasses.

‘Thanks.’ Jennifer took a sip from the glass and looked away, not meeting Charlotte’s gaze. ‘Ugh,’ she commented. ‘How old is this? Pre-war?’

Charlotte said nothing but took a hefty swig of her own glass. She winced. It really was hideous.

There was a moment’s silence.

‘So. And how’s things in the wonderful world of academia?’ said Jennifer, as though they were strangers meeting after a year apart. Which wasn’t far from the truth.

‘A lot better than things at your workplace, by the sound of it,’ Charlotte replied.

Jennifer frowned. ‘That? Oh, just some useless secretary on a power trip. They know where I am, they can contact me if anything urgent crops up.’

‘Get many urgent things cropping up, do you, in the toy department?’ said Charlotte with a wide-eyed look. ‘Teddy bear revolt? Rogue Action Man sexually assaulting promiscuous Barbie doll?’

Jennifer produced her most withering look, which was very withering indeed. ‘For your information, we don’t do Action Man and Barbie dolls nowadays. It’s all computer toys.’ Then she seemed to remember something, perhaps that they were at Aunt Caroline’s funeral, perhaps that she was supposed to have been talking about computer games on Kim’s television program. Either way, she fell silent and gingerly took a second sip of the sherry.

‘How’s Nick?’ Charlotte asked, knowing this would annoy Jennifer. Mum always asked about Nick and her questions were always a thinly veiled criticism of Jennifer’s divorce.

‘Fine. He’s fine,’ replied Jennifer, not rising to the bait, or perhaps saving herself for Mum. ‘And you? Are you seeing anyone?’

Charlotte suddenly remembered that she was wearing Ashley’s jacket, had spent last night at Ashley’s flat, that she had had sex and that Jennifer, from the sound of it, had not. Then she realised that Ashley’s contract ended in July, that she allegedly had some fiance or other awaiting her in Canada, that last night had all the hallmarks of a classic one-night stand, and—what was more surprising—that it didn’t really matter. All these thoughts skimmed across her mind in an instant. She shrugged.

‘No. No one really.’

‘Hey, that reminds me,’ said Jennifer, suddenly becoming animated. ‘Guess who I ran into? You’ll never guess!’ And before Charlotte could make a guess, she triumphantly provided the answer. ‘Zoe Findlay! On the Bakerloo line. Southbound. She was going to Elephant and Castle.’

Charlotte sighed. Not the Zoe Findlay thing again.

‘So?’ she replied.

‘So! You and her were...well,’ Jennifer shrugged, ‘best friends,’ and perhaps she meant it euphemistically. However she meant it, Charlotte was not about to enter into this discussion now. Perhaps not ever.

‘She asked about you.’

‘Look, I really don’t care about Zoe Findlay. I never did. Why are you so obsessed with the past?’

Jennifer looked surprised. ‘I’m not. I—’

‘Oh?’ She regarded Jennifer over the top of her sherry glass. ‘Kim’s TV program?’ she prompted. ‘You went on there and said...
that. Why?
Why would you
do
that?’

She hadn’t meant to say that. Hadn’t meant to speak so angrily. Didn’t want to be having this conversation at all. The glass shook slightly in her hand. She steadied it with her other hand.

Jennifer looked away. She swallowed a mouthful of sherry. ‘Yeah, sorry ’bout that.’ She paused. ‘I mean, mostly it was just a silly mistake. I went on as a favour to Kim and they told me it would be about violence in kids’ computer games. But some specialist dropped out at the last minute so they switched to next week’s topic, which was “I Saved My Sister’s Life!”. Kim said it was karma.’

Karma, was it? A silly mistake?

Charlotte experienced a disturbing rush of ground and sky all at once, not unlike what you felt when you stood on the edge of a very steep drop and felt yourself falling. She spoke slowly. ‘But... But why didn’t you say Sorry, I’m on the wrong show, and just
leave
?’

‘Kim was desperate. This psychologist bloke had dropped out at the last minute. I couldn’t let her down.’

‘Why not? Someone else obviously didn’t think twice about letting her down!’

She’d raised her voice and from the hallway Iris Pearson stared at her. Charlotte lowered her voice. ‘I mean, it’s television, it’s not emergency surgery. It’s not some military operation.
It’s just television
. A poxy television program.’

‘Oh really? And you’ve made your career out of analysing them. How’s the book going by the way?’