Camomile Lawn (35 page)

Richard Cuthbertson lay apart, his grave planted with spring and autumn cyclamen, fluted pink heads thrusting up through marbled leaves.

‘Uncle Richard, salute, and Ducks.’ Sophy ran her hand over the cool leaves. Richard, tap dancing with the Rectory evacuees round the hot water boiler, had overheated and caught a chill leading to pneumonia and death. ‘Putting on my top hat—’ Where, when the time came, would they put Aunt Helena? It seemed a pity to disturb the cyclamen so well established.

Sophy, holding the shawl close under her chin, observed the pit dug ready for Max, dark earth piled to one side, a pit which already held Monika, now lined with plastic grass. Was there room for three? Sophy suppressed a smile as she walked back past the Penhaligans, Boscences, Penroses, Tremaynes and Tredinnicks. Which among the many Penroses was the Penrose who had not been a proper husband, who had exposed himself to a terrified child, who had fallen or been pushed over the cliff? In the church porch Sophy took the shawl off and shook the rain from it. The lingering memory of a man’s shout flipped away with the raindrops as she looked across the fields to the cliffs and the grey Atlantic raging in from the western approaches. Replacing the shawl, Sophy moved into the church, her eyes adjusting to the semi-darkness.

The church was a blaze of colour, red, yellow, pink, orange, dahlias, lilies, chrysanthemums, michaelmas daisies, blue, green, pink and white hydrangeas, stooks of corn, stacks of vegetables, pots of jam, sacks of potatoes, bunches of carrots, vegetable marrows, pots of chutney, baskets of fungi, strings of onions, ropes of garlic, oranges, bananas. Harvest Festival tomorrow.

Outside the wind screamed and battered. The rain slanted vicious rods from bulging clouds. Rainbow weather.

In front of the altar two coffin stools waited to receive Max. Sophy sat at the back of the church to wait the hour. Soon they would all be gathering, the friends, the colleagues, the lovers, the curious, to bury the alien, the refugee, the man who had made this place his own, who had earned the right to rest among them. After nearly fifty years even Monika was forgiven her alien ways,
vide
the ropes of garlic, the baskets of fungi, mute testimony of quasi-acceptance. Sophy sneezed, breathing in the pungent smell of chrysanthemums, the earthy reek of potato sacks. Feeling chilly, she moved to the space under the tower where the bell ringers gathered, and danced a jig to whip up her circulation, her gumboots slapping on the stone floor. When she heard voices in the porch she sat down again, panting, well back in the shadows.

Three or four pressmen gathered, pushing back the hoods of their parkas.

‘Won’t take long, there’s to be a memorial service in London. Only worth a paragraph or two.’

‘Depends who comes. Won’t be many celebrities, this weather.’

‘Never know. There are two coppers to direct the traffic. I saw several faces in the pub worth a mention.’

The village came in twos and threes, middle-aged women with umbrellas, men in sober suits. They sat at the back near Sophy.

‘Looks lovely this year.’ They viewed the harvest decorations with pride.

‘I see Lorna Tremayne’s put three jars of her pickle by the font. That’s not like her.’

‘She’ll take un back after service. She’m so mean she won’t give you the drips off her nose if so be you might want them.’

‘Parson will have to look sharp if he wants ’em for the hospital.’

‘Mrs Floyer always made a list, no flies on Mrs Floyer. New parson needs a wife.’

‘He’m too high. Higher than High Floyer ever was.’

‘Ah. Miss them when they’re gone, new chap don’t seem to have what it takes.’ The voices dropped to an inaudible whisper and suppressed laughter shook the row.

More footsteps in the porch. The pressmen asked for names. A posse of well-wrapped women followed by their consorts in overcoats and hats, pausing a moment to give their names to the press, then moving in to find a seat, settle their haunches, look around, wave discreetly to friends, admire the Harvest Festival flora, peer at the vegetables.

A group of young people carrying musical instruments came in a shy rush, the girls tossing back long hair, the young men ill at ease in formal clothes.

‘His master-class,’ said a well-informed woman in front of Sophy.

‘There’s to be music then. Ah.’

Polly, followed by Iris and James. How fat Polly had grown; she looked funny wearing a brown hat, handing James her umbrella to shake, settling with her son and daughter in the third row from the front.

An elderly man, rather shaky on his pins, with a large healthy consort. Sophy recognized Brian Portmadoc. Another vaguely familiar figure, hair trained from a low parting to cover his baldness, asking fussily, ‘Where shall we sit? Which side shall we go?’ By his voice Sophy knew him. Tony Wood, brave fireman, true friend.

‘Doesn’t matter, it isn’t a wedding, sit where we can. Here will do.’ Tony’s friend: he had finally settled for a male lover. They ran an antique shop in Brighton.

Two identical figures, bald heads with a frill of white hair, both paunchy, both lame, both heavy on their feet. They looked about them, spotted Polly, Iris and James. Polly looked up and waved.

‘I didn’t know you were coming.’ Polly looked delighted, smiling her contagious toothy smile.

‘Move along a bit. We came by train. You’ll have to sit in the next row, James.’ Inflexion of parental affection.

‘No, no, it’s all right, nicer all together.’ Affection there, too.

‘Bit of a squeeze.’ Paul sat down smiling.

‘How was Vichy?’ Iris welcoming.

‘Did you do anything about a wreath?’ David vaguely anxious.

‘Of course I did. Shush—’

People came in a steady stream. The young musicians put up their music stands, one or two notes tentatively played on the organ, a scrape on a violin, a twang from a cello. Sophy, breathing in the damp smell of autumn flowers, dreamed of camomile, the dry aromatic smell of her youth. In the porch the pressmen stood aside to allow Helena, wafting into the church in an aura of whisky, to walk steadily up the aisle to the front pew, where she sat alone on the left hand side close to the coffin stools. The whispering in the church stopped; all eyes were on Helena, boring into her back. Swiftly behind her Calypso in white overcoat, black hat, gloves, stockings and shoes, her lovely face composed, Hamish beside her lightly holding her elbow. They sat immediately behind Helena. Hamish leant forward to put a cardboard box beside her. Helena nodded her thanks.

The church was full, every pew filled except for the front pews, where Helena sat on the left, the right-hand pew empty, waiting for the chief mourner.

Above the whispers of the congregation the wind bumped and buffeted the church, whining round the finials on the tower, growling over the lead roof. Helena took the flask from her bag, unscrewed the top, tipped a liberal swig into her mouth, swallowed. ‘Shall I ever be warm again—’

The congregation stood. Slow steps on the gravel path grated.

‘I am the resurrection and the life, saith the Lord—
’

The new parson’s bass voice, carrying through the gale, led the coffin up the path to the church. The newsmen drew aside as he stood for a moment in the porch, a giant wearing a black cloak billowing out in the wind to display its red lining.

‘We brought nothing into this world and it is certain we can carry nothing out.’

The words rolled out in splendid cadence.

‘You carry my love,’ Helena muttered mutinously, and Calypso drew in her breath while Hamish glanced quickly at her, wondering whether his mother prayed and what her prayers might be. She always looked particularly beautiful in church.

‘I mind, God how I mind.’ Helena watched them steady the coffin on to the stools. She did not hear the Rector’s sonorous voice, she did not listen to the service or the music played by Max’s pupils. Max’s spirit was not in the coffin, far too ornate, chosen by Pauli, Pauli who had followed the coffin into the church and now sat across the aisle alone in the right hand pew. How could he be Max’s son, how could he have been conceived by Monika, so lovely, so sweet, so good without being boring? Helena turned to stare at Pauli, who looked ahead. What business deal was he dreaming up, this financial wizard spawned by Max? ‘I bet you are never frivolous in bed,’ Helena muttered, for yes, it may have taken time, but she and Max had had many laughs. ‘What shall I do without his jokes?’ her old heart cried.

The service rolled inexorably on. Automatically Helena stood, knelt, sat and behind her, her mind straying as it always did at Mass, Calypso thought of food and sex and of Hector. The texture of his skin, his nutty smell, his laughter, his passion, his rages. Max had made jokes too. Briefly she paid attention. Max would enjoy the sight of Helena and Polly, Sophy hiding at the back of the church and herself attending his funeral and goodness knows, thought Calypso, how many more of us in here lay with him. Hector always said Max would impregnate this corner of Cornwall with a shot of musical spunk. She wished she could in decency lean forward and ask Helena for a swig from that flask. She took Hamish’s hand and squeezed it, enjoying his quick smile, so like Hector’s.

‘Soon be over.’

‘Yes.’

Helena was glaring at Pauli, Pauli risen from the dead to hate, make money, hate again, make more money. He had no love for Monika and Max, no understanding and, quite extraordinarily, no music. Max, unable to understand his lost son found again, had wept and Monika had nearly thrown herself over the cliffs, blaming herself for the accidents of fate.

‘Not again,
mein Schatz,
you cannot do it twice. For the guinea pig was enough.’

Helena smiled broadly at the parson, remembering Max’s voice, the easing of tension, the laughter. Without being drunk I could not get through this, she thought.

The parson, seeing her broad grin, hesitated in mid flow, missed a beat but carried on bravely, glad that his training enabled him to perform without much thought. He was glad too that he had put on warm socks. It would be cold by the grave.

How Helena hates Pauli, thought Calypso. How could Sophy have slept with him? Wish she had married Hamish, being older wouldn’t have mattered. The trouble with Sophy was that she thought a bit of love was a cure-all. What was it Hector said? ‘She’s deliberately wasting her gifts.’ Oh Hector, my darling, you did not waste yours, the woods you planted spell my name in spring. I wonder whether Pauli has provided any food to soak up my champagne. I should have thought of it sooner, not in the middle of the service. Her reverent expression pleased the Rector, who looked past Helena, resting his eye on Calypso with approval. Wonder what he’s like in bed, thought Calypso from force of habit. Did parsons need a little boost, as Max had before rehearsal? How he laughed in the cinema. What had been the film? She frowned, trying to remember.

‘Was Max a Protestant?’ Hamish whispered as they knelt.

‘Haven’t the foggiest,’ Calypso whispered behind clasped hands. ‘He must have been born something.’

‘If he was a Catholic this is all wrong.’

‘Too late now. Shut up.’

‘I’ll ask Helena. Helena,’ he leant forward, his head on a level with Helena’s as she sat in front of him, having found that kneeling hurt. ‘Aunt Helena, was Max a Protestant or a Catholic?’

‘Jew. Why do you ask?’ Helena’s voice rang clear.

‘This funeral service. Surely—’

‘Not practising. He didn’t practise religion, only the violin. Women too, of course.’

‘Hush,’ whispered Hamish.

‘You started it, hush yourself.’ Helena stood up as the choir prepared to sing.

‘O God our help in ages past.’

She cleared her throat, recognizing the words. There would not be many more ages, she thought with satisfaction, as she picked up the cardboard box and prepared to follow the coffin to the grave. He never minded that I am tone deaf, she consoled herself, he thought it funny.

Oliver, drenched from his long walk from the station, wished he had not come. First the shock of finding Penzance harbour, where water had always lapped in greeting by the train, filled in to form a car park. Now, arriving late, crushed in the crowd at the back of the church, having to endure the spectacle of Polly grown fat and stodgy, flanked by children who must be at least thirty. Calypso, squired by a younger version of Hector, looking so preserved. Preserved for what? He had heard she had had a stroke. She looked trim
‘tiré à quatre épingles’,
the epitome of everything he disliked: classy bitch preserved in money. Well, that was what she had wanted, she had been honest about it. What a fool one was in youth. And there the twins, couldn’t be anyone else. Those godlike giants grown stout, bald, lame. Probably had piles, all pilots had piles he had heard. Couldn’t put that in his novel, not very well. Well, why not, anything goes these days. Stupid idea, though, to think he’d get copy from Max’s funeral. Funerals in books and plays were
vieux jeux.
That fearfully old woman, could it be Helena? Must be, must be about a hundred, mummified, what a survivor and glaring at that fellow in the other pew. Pauli, of course. Pauli risen from the heap. Well, I never, so that’s Pauli. Well! Oliver remembered Max telling him of his own and Monika’s dodgy escape from the Nazis and the dismal failure of Pauli’s expected follow-on. ‘We shall always feel guilty. We shall always feel we should have died with him.’ Well, he hadn’t died. That looked like a vicuna coat. Do people still wear vicuna coats? I must check, though none of my characters wears that sort of clobber. Oliver gingerly moved his legs in their damp cord trousers, hunched his shoulders in his heavy storm-proof parka, wished he’d put on another sweater. The woman in front of him wearing gumboots, with a shawl round her head sneezed. She wasn’t dressed like all these respectables. None of them wore gumboots. High-heeled leather boots, plastic boots towards the back here with zips. No, no good for the novel, thought Oliver, so I’ll sit back and enjoy the music when it comes. Those pupils of Max look ready to play their hearts out, not that one would hear very well with the bloody gale blowing.