Camomile Lawn (36 page)

‘What are they going to play?’ he asked a neighbour. ‘D’you know?’

‘Mozart, I believe, and Bach while they go to the grave. We could move up the church when the front pews empty.’

‘Thanks.’ Oliver realized he had not been attending to the service. A white haired man was finishing the reading:

‘—and all the trumpets sounded for him on the other side.’

Oliver felt furious. Trumpets. How did they know? How outrageous! They are fooling us, how do they dare think of trumpets? There is earth. I saw it in Spain. I saw it in the desert, earth, earth, no bloody trumpets, just holes in the ground. I don’t write these illusions, I write about uncomfortable things, that’s what sells. Oliver felt a jet of pleasure douse his bitterness, glad that from callow boy he had evolved to successful writer.

The church part of the service was ending, the splendid parson in his theatrical cloak preparing to lead Max out to his grave. It would soon be possible to move up closer to hear the music. Oliver, looking over his half-moon spectacles, watched the procession form, Pauli behind the coffin, broad, plump, Monika’s eyes, lardy cheeks, no trace of Max’s whippy body or humorous face. Helena shrunken, all her weight in the middle, carrying a cardboard box, her blue eyes vague, hair faded to dust colour. Calypso in vivid white coat, eyes shaded by black hat, Hamish a new version of Hector. The twins stoutly limping with sticks and their middle-aged children. Polly in spectacles, her hair a sort of quasi-henna. Elizabeth, surely that woman was the girl Elizabeth who had loved Walter and married Brian Portmadoc. Walter would laugh at this crew. And there Brian talking to Tony Wood, must be, couldn’t be anyone else, and all these people, who were they? Where did they come from? Oliver felt hysterical laughter rise in his chest as the procession passed him. Soon he would be soothed by violins and cellos. A man he recognized as probably the best music critic in the business laid his hand on Helena’s arm.

‘Dear Helena. Just to say I am so sorry that Max, that—so sorry about Max’s death.’

‘There’s a lot of it about.’ Helena focused old eyes on the man for an instant and walked steadily out into the porch. Calypso, Hamish and the twins closed round her. Forgetting the violins and cellos Oliver followed the little group, pushing his spectacles further up his nose, pulling his collar round his ears. The rain had stopped and shafts of afternoon sun struggled through the hasty black clouds.

‘There will be a rainbow.’ A boy’s voice broke through the sound of shuffling feet.

‘Mind where you put your feet, never mind the rainbow.’ An anxious mother snatched at her son as he trampled on to wreaths and sheaths of expensive flowers heaped near the path by undertakers’ minions, their beauty blinded by cellophane wrapping. ‘You clumsy lout.’

The woman in gumboots sneezed despairingly, ‘Aaachoo, aaachoo.’

‘D’you need a handkerchief?’ Oliver offered.

‘Got one, thanks.’

They were lowering Max into that bosom of green plastic.

‘Man that is born of woman hath but a short time to live.’

Good Lord, thought Oliver, the sneezer is Sophy. What a surprise.

‘
—of whom may we seek for succour but of—’

When had he last seen Sophy? Years and years. He racked his brain. She sneezed again, pressing her handkerchief over her nose to drown the sound. The parson’s rich voice rolled on and from the church a burst of Mozart.

‘—I heard a voice from heaven saying unto me “Write”—’

All very well, thought Oliver, saying ‘Write’ like that. Writing is damned hard work without voices from heaven interfering. And now the Lord’s Prayer. Oliver muttered with others, resenting as he always did the ‘Lead us not into temptation’ bit. If God were God, supposing he existed, he wouldn’t do anything so damn stupid.

‘The grace of—’

Oliver looked across the grave at Helena. What was she up to? What was that box?

‘Be with us all evermore. Amen.’

‘Amen,’ said Calypso and Hamish, crossing themselves. Of course, he’d heard she’d gone over to Rome, old Hector was some sort of Papist.

‘Amen.’ Helena opened the cardboard box and with a hand bony and veiny with age, mottled with brown death marks, began dropping its contents into the grave: violets, their scent, as they fell down on to the coffin, filling the wet air.

Hamish and the twins threw token clods of earth then followed Calypso and Polly, who walked slowly on either side of Helena to shake hands with the parson in his cloak, and wander towards the cars.

Oliver came up behind Sophy, took hold of her elbow.

‘Can you give me a lift?’

‘Of course.’ Sophy looked at Oliver, startled, her oriental eyes taking him in, stooped, thinning hair, spectacles, very tall, very thin, wet, perfectly recognizable.

‘I walked from Penzance.’ He held her arm.

‘A long way.’ She moved away from him.

‘They’ve filled in the harbour,’ he said angrily.

‘Yes. A very long time ago.’

Pauli standing by the gate. Impossible to avoid him.

‘Sophy. You will come back to the house, of course.’ A command.

‘Well—I—’ Sophy looked distressed.

‘You must come. Calypso has provided drinks, Polly food.’

‘This is Oliver Anstey.’

‘I have of course heard of you. You will come too. Helena will be there, I suppose—’ Pauli had authority, confidence.

‘Yes, we’ll come.’ Sophy walked quickly to her car, followed by Oliver.

‘He looks so pleased,’ she burst out.

‘What Uncle Richard would call a bounder.’

‘The camp
didn’t
do him good.’ Sophy burst into nervous giggles. ‘Oh my God, my feet are freezing. I must change my shoes.’ She pulled off her boots and sought shoes. ‘They’re on the back seat. Oh, thanks.’

Oliver stared at her. ‘You haven’t changed. All the others—’

‘We’ve grown old.’ She was keeping her distance.

‘It’s not that, it’s—’

‘Aunt Helena is drunk, we’d better get to the house.’ She started the engine. ‘I think I’ve caught a cold.’

‘I noticed you sneeze.’

‘Inviting her to her own house—’

‘Is it still hers?’

‘She sold it to Max years ago but she was constantly here. She just happened to be in London when he died.’

‘So it’s not Pauli’s?’

‘Technically, but—’

‘What?’

‘He doesn’t belong. Max was ours, not Pauli’s.’

‘You don’t like him?’

‘I don’t think he likes us.’ Sophy stalled the engine. ‘Damn.’

‘Listen.’ Oliver put a hand on her arm. ‘Roll down the window.’

A lull in the storm, a burst of sound from the church as violins and cello reached their climax. Oliver put a finger to catch the tear rolling down Sophy’s cheek.

He licked his finger. ‘How salt your tears are.’ She started the engine and drove following the procession of cars. ‘I suppose we have to go to this wake.’

‘I want to see that Aunt Helena is all right.’ Sophy was anxious.

‘Aunt Helena is made of sterner stuff than us, she’s tone deaf. D’you know,’ Oliver leant back in his seat, stretching his legs, ‘a friend of mine watched her read the whole of
War and Peace
during a performance of
The Ring.’

‘Bully for her. Where on earth shall I park? I’d no idea so many people would come. Look at all those cars.’ Sophy sounded desperate.

‘Leave it here. Let’s walk.’ Oliver was calm.

They left the car by the side of the road and, climbing a stile, approached the house from the cliff path.

‘I haven’t been here since our last holidays before the war. Where was it we ran?’ Oliver peered over the edge.

‘The path was wired up during the war and became overgrown. This path is a new one.’

‘I had vertigo. I was terrified.’

‘I was frightened too. I ran to show off, to gain attention.’

‘Let me give you a hand.’ He helped her up the bank on to the lawn. ‘Does it still smell?’

‘Of course.’ Her voice was distant. She was looking towards the house. She let go of his hand and he watched her run across the lawn to the French windows, tapping on them for admittance, slipping in, a little dark shadow as James let her in, leaving him outside. Oliver felt a rush of emotion and wondered what it could be. Fear. Am I afraid? he questioned. In which case what am I afraid of? She ran off, she left me. Why the hell did she do that? He stood on the lawn while the wind rose again, lashed him, clouds covered the brief sun and the rain poured down aslant. Hamish opened the French windows and waved a champagne bottle.

‘You’ll get soaked. Come in, for heaven’s sake, come in and have a drink before it’s all gone.’ Hamish had had a few drinks and his careful nature was expanding.

‘Is Sophy married?’ Oliver peeled off his wet anorak.

‘Good Lord, no, of course not. Not for want of—’

‘I wondered. I’ve been abroad so long I’m out of touch. Oh, thanks.’ Oliver accepted a glass thrust into his hand by a stranger.

‘I’m a great admirer of yours. I’ve read all your books.’ Hamish beamed at Oliver, pinning him against the window. ‘I suppose you can’t come home because of tax—’

‘Tax?’

‘Income tax.’ Hamish still beamed.

‘I’m not that kind of a writer. Surprised you can read.’ Feeling suddenly hurt, Oliver wished to wound. ‘Are you Calypso’s son?’

‘Yes. Yes I am.’ Hamish looked wounded.

Oliver felt perverse pleasure. ‘Saw your father run over by a tank in the war. Didn’t kill him, though. I was upset at the time, seems a joke now. I liked your father, a man of imagination. When Calypso married him I thought, we all thought—’

‘Thought what?’ Hamish stared at Oliver through an alcoholic haze. The rush of champagne on an empty stomach was having a malign effect.

‘We thought she was wrong to marry for money—’

Hamish aimed a blow at Oliver and hit the curtain beside him. As he strove to regain his balance Oliver put out a hand to steady him.

‘Now, now, what’s going on?’ Calypso appeared beside them. ‘Are you two squabbling? Can’t have that.’

‘He said—’ Hamish tried to speak.

‘I said you married for money,’ said Oliver.

‘So I did.’ Calypso spoke lightly. ‘Wisest thing I ever did. Married for money.
Then
fell in love.’ She looked from Oliver to Hamish.

‘Why did you never tell me?’ Hamish suddenly roared at his mother. ‘Why did you keep it so bloody secret? Why did you never let on? Why did you let me suffer?’

‘You are drunk. Go and eat something oily, you are making an exhibition.’ She waved Hamish away. ‘Have you got any children, Olly?’

‘No.’

‘But you married.’

‘Twice.’

‘Twice. Goodness, I’d forgotten. Are you married now?’

‘No.’ Oliver’s eyes searched the room.

‘Are you happy?’ She watched him. He looked lean but had worn well.

‘Are you?’ His eyes came back to her face. ‘What’s happened to your face?’

‘I had a little stroke. Yes, thanks, I am happy. Well, as happy as it’s possible to be. Where do you live?’

‘Abroad.’ Oliver was noncommittal.

‘All right, don’t tell me.’

‘Polly’s grown very fat and respectable.’

‘Spread. She’s happy, too—’

‘Who is the father of—’

‘James and Iris? I’ve never asked. Why don’t you? We don’t dare.’ Leaving him apart Calypso moved back into the crowd, most of whom now held glasses of champagne. Oliver stood by the window watching the pattern of the party, two moving circles, the nearest moving up to and round Pauli, greeting, not lingering. The second circling round Helena sitting in an armchair, Polly and her children posed protectively, filtering, without seeming to, the guests who wished to speak to her. Calypso in white moving through the crowd. Corks popping and laughter from the kitchen where the twins opened bottles to fill glasses carried on trays by the young musicians who, offering with shy smiles, received congratulations on their performance, thanked with the kindness of youth the compliments of the old.

‘Fancy you turning up.’ Tony Wood shook Oliver’s hand. ‘Remember me, Tony Wood? We first met on the doorstep of Polly’s house.’

‘Yes, I remember.’ Time had done something terrible to Tony Wood.

‘We’ve all changed, of course. Old age has crept up on us.’ Tony noticed Oliver’s expression with malicious pleasure.

‘Yes, indeed.’

‘Have you seen Sophy? Helena wants her.’ Iris kindly enquiring.

‘No.’ Oliver realized that what his eye sought was Sophy. ‘She was here. We came back from the church together.’

‘Oh, did you?’ Tony Wood’s bright eyes investigated. ‘What an exquisite girl child she was, one almost—’

‘Almost?’

‘Succumbed. Ah, here you are, have you met Peter? Peter and I have a shop in Brighton, antiques and objets. Peter, this is Oliver Anstey, you love his books.’

‘Do I, darling?’ pouting at Oliver.

‘Yes, you do. What about another drink and some of that lovely nosh Polly brought?’ Peter allowed himself to be led away by Tony. Oliver elbowed his way after them through the crowd. ‘Didn’t think then you’d become a writer.’ Tony looked at Oliver over his shoulder.

‘Didn’t think you’d turn into an elderly poof.’

‘Oh, screw you.’ Tony let out a high gleeful laugh.

Oliver paused to listen to Pauli, who had succeeded in buttonholing a stranger.

‘If I add a wing for a restaurant and build a pool it will sell very well as an hotel in this situation.’

‘Oh,’ said the stranger. Oliver stopped to listen. ‘Of course.’

‘My father’s name will attract people. He had his master-classes here, you know.’

‘Yes, very wonderful.’

Pauli waved his twisted fingers. ‘As I say, the situation above the sea is unique now the National Trust try to buy the whole coast. One heats the pool, it goes without saying.’

‘Of course,’ the man agreed, smiling.

Oliver thought the man did not look like a friend of Max. Was Pauli merging business with funeral meats?

‘Dig up the lawn, pave it with those warm-coloured slabs, have a terrace.’ Pauli gestured out towards the lawn saturated and discoloured by the storm.

‘Put fake plastic chairs and tubs of flowers.’ Oliver shouldered into the conversation. ‘Something that doesn’t smell.’