Parallel Life (33 page)

‘What, love?'

‘BillyandCraig have a cat. They ran with it.'

‘To the big house?'

Daisy nodded. Not yet three, she had already learned that she was required as a second pair of eyes in the service of her mother. ‘They found it outside that door.'

‘Bugger,' said Stanley.

‘Bugger.' Daisy lined up her crayons in an orderly fashion, got down from her chair and took Stanley's hand. ‘Find them,' she said. She was used to this. She and Mam often went on long walks in search of the twins. ‘Find BillyandCraig,' she insisted.

They walked hand in hand out of the house, only to find that Will was halfway across the lane and moving in their direction. ‘Did they get away already?' he asked cheerfully.

‘They did.' Stanley's mouth was set for a moment in a grim, tight line. ‘Daisy says they've got a cat. Did you not see them coming across? With a cat?'

Will shook his head. ‘They could have gone down the other side of the house. All the gates are open. We'd better find them, because there's some sort of summit conference going on in the roof. Harrie's mother is not in the best of moods.'

On the brink of saying ‘bugger' again, Stanley bit his tongue. Daisy was too quick a learner, and he must not curse in front of her. She could already count to twenteen, and Stanley had been teaching her, with a degree of success, that it was really twenty. Counting that far at such an age meant that ‘bugger' would be just another
bon mot
to add to her increasing collection.

They entered the house and mayhem was advertised immediately by Eileen, who stood halfway up the first flight, arms folded, expression far from inviting and hugely less than pretty. ‘What are you at?' she asked her husband. ‘Three children we gave you. Just three kiddies for you to tend. The twins arrived just seconds ago at our house across the way. Can you not keep an eye on Annie's lot for a short time?'

‘They disappeared,' he said. ‘I can't keep up with them.'

‘Well,' she said. ‘You can get yourself up here now and see the mess you made of it all. I've never come across the likes in all me born days, may the Mother of God be my witness. They're here. With a cat that has no patience and no sense of humour at all.'

Daisy climbed on to the stairlift. ‘Ride,' she demanded.

Stanley pressed the switch and the ascent began.

‘Get up here now, the both of you. Will, you're a tall lad. We need a tall lad.' Eileen lifted Daisy off her throne and sat her on the second stairlift.

Stanley was fed up. He was falling behind with his gardening jobs, which paid better in the summer months. And why was he falling behind? Because of two kids and a cat. A thought struck. ‘Oh, no,' he muttered.

‘What?' Will was right behind Stanley in more ways than one. The twins were driving just about everyone to drink, distraction, or both.

‘Your dog!' Stanley shouted.

Will stood in the doorway of Hermione's living room and wondered why a person never had a camera at moments like this. The cat was up the curtains, was clinging to the pelmet like a desperate survivor of the
Titanic
. Milly, acting as jailer, was at the hem of the curtains. She was whining because she had lost her new toy. Her new toy began to spit and yowl. Annie, who was not long out of hospital, was standing precariously on the window seat. Even on the window seat, she was too tiny for the job, though the dormer was relatively shallow.

‘Get down,' shouted Hermione.

Annie got down.

Stanley, muttering oaths under his breath, dragged the Alsatian from the room. Will reached up to rescue the cat and was repaid for his trouble by the removal of skin from his left arm and the pain that accompanied this attack.

‘It's lost,' said Billy sadly.

‘Out,' yelled Will. ‘And take the other one with you. And don't let the dog in.' Said dog was now barking furiously.

‘Lost,' repeated the twins in unison.

Will glared at the twins. ‘The cat is not lost – it's too well fed to be lost. Didn't I tell you to get out? Well?'

Harrie watched as the twins slunk from the room. Will was probably good at his job in a concrete jungle populated by ASBOs and delinquent parents. He had presence.

So did the cat.

It took about twenty minutes and several towels before the feline was captured. The dog was still barking, but Stanley had shown enough sense to drag her out into the gardens. Blinded by the towels, Puss was placed in an upside-down bird cage on to which the bottom – now the top – was attached at speed. ‘Good God,' breathed Will. ‘That was nearly as much trouble as year nine.' Sweating profusely, he faced an appreciative audience. ‘You can carry on now.' He winked at Harrie, then left the room, a screaming caged cat in his arms.

Lisa was open-mouthed. The day had developed a surreal character that was not enjoyable. Everyone else was laughing fit to burst, but she was deadly serious. ‘Shut up,' she yelled. ‘Sal Potter will be here shortly. So be quiet and listen.'

‘Bugger,' announced Daisy as she left the room.

More gales of laughter bounced off the walls.

‘Will you all stop and listen?'

They shut up. Lisa meant business, and they had best take heed before she started tearing out her hair.

Milly returned and sat beside her beloved friend. They weren't going to remove Hermione, not while Milly lived. A cat was one thing, but—

‘Ah, there you are,' said the old woman as she patted the dog's head. ‘We can start now because we are a full committee.' Thus was the meeting announced as officially begun.

He had to get to the undertaker's to pass on the death certificate. There was a copy, but the nuns needed that for their records. There was also a requiem Mass to be booked – the undertaker would deal with that and with the local newspaper. In the end, Gus settled for a simple statement mentioning only Mathilda's mother, already deceased.

He was beyond tired. Walking was a chore. Even eating was an exhausting business, while dressing himself took several minutes. But he had to keep going. For Mathilda, for Katherina, he needed to do as Henry V had advised via Shakespeare – stiffen sinew and summon up blood. Which was very good advice except when meted out to a chap whose blood was useless due to chemotherapy.

Sheila was a great help. She now understood the tablets, knew what had to be taken before or after meals, before sleep, after waking. She was a pragmatic, down-to-earth woman, the sort he should have married instead of poor Lisa. Poor Lisa had fitted the bill. She had been an experienced jeweller and in good health. After Katherina, there had been no point in looking for love; he had given it all away to her, and she had taken it to the grave in Tonge Cemetery.

Sheila had just posed a question.

‘Sorry? I wasn't paying attention.'

‘Shall we take my husband's wheelchair? It's lightweight, and you . . .' She looked at him. He was becoming smaller by the day. ‘You're not heavy,' she added.

‘Five kilos,' he answered. ‘That's how much I have lost. Nothing fits me any more.'

She had a suit upstairs that might just do for the funeral, she thought. He was now about the size her husband had been when that last suit had been bought. She must remember to give it to Gus before he went home. He had no home. He should remain here, where he would be looked after and properly medicated, where his absent-mindedness would not interfere with the strict regime dictated by doctors. It wasn't simple forgetfulness any more; his condition was worsened by the terrible tiredness and its accompanying apathy. He was depressed.

‘You'll come to the undertaker's as well?' he asked.

‘Of course. Now. What about this wheelchair?'

He looked at her for several seconds before replying, ‘Not yet, Sheila. We'll take taxis and stop to buy flowers.'

‘For Mathilda?'

‘No. For her mother.' Whilst he didn't believe in an afterlife, some force compelled him to go to Katherina's resting place before it was opened up by gravediggers. He had to . . . not quite tell her, yet he needed to put in a short appearance before the funeral.

‘All right. Now, shall we go? The taxi's waiting outside.'

He nodded. ‘Yes. Let's get the unpalatable business over. I'd take you for a good lunch, but I can't seem to settle in the vicinity of food. It will be better once the course of medication is over.'

She wondered about that. ‘Will you be all right?' she asked. ‘Will this one lot of pills do it?'

‘I don't know.' He had postponed his appointment at the hospital because there was so much to do, so little time, and he had a marked lack of physical energy. Always a strong and healthy man, Gus felt as if he had been hit by an overcrowded bus. ‘I'll know more once the tests are done.'

She would have to be satisfied with that, and she asked no more questions. His wife didn't even know he was ill. Sheila was probably the only person on earth who had an inkling about his condition. The medics would be aware, of course, but his family believed him to be in New Zealand. They didn't deserve him.

When they reached the funeral parlour, Sheila remained in reception while Gus, the paying client, was taken through to the inner sanctum where he had to choose a coffin, its lining, the pillow and the furnishings, including handles for the casket and a plaque for the lid.

Mr Philip Rushton Senior invited Gus into his office. ‘There's been a slight faux pas,' he began. He went on to explain company policy regarding mobile phones and to give a reason for telephoning Gus's domestic line. ‘You were distressed when you spoke to us after the death, and we didn't get all the information we required.' He continued to tell tales of nasty neighbours who had asked for a hearse to pick up the dead next door. ‘Bestial behaviour, Dr Compton-Milne, because no one has died, you see. We thought someone with a grudge might be trying to make you suffer by imitating you, because the mobile was turned off and we could not reach you.'

‘I was ill.'

‘Ah.' Mr Rushton Senior dabbed a handkerchief against a hooked nose. With such over-exaggerated features and miserable black clothing, the man looked positively Dickensian. Yes, he would have done well as Scrooge or an evil schoolmaster. ‘The young lady seemed confused,' the man added.

‘Yes, she would.'

‘And while we do our utmost to maintain high standards of confidentiality, the unusual nature of your circumstances led to the unfortunate disclosure of your business with us.'

Gus nodded. This man even spoke in nineteenth century English. Perhaps he was one of the undead? He was very pale, terribly ugly, and his voice might have been used to commentate for Hammer House of Horror films. ‘Please don't worry. None of this is your fault. Did you speak to Harriet?'

The man in black nodded.

‘She's a sensible girl. Yes, these circumstances are odd, but don't worry. It's just another of life's twists and turns.' Gus thought for a moment. ‘I want Mathilda all in white. The coffin must be lined in white, too. White lilies on a bed of dark green. Just the one spray, but let it cover the whole top of the casket.'

‘Ah. À la Princess Diana?'

‘No. À la Princess Mathilda. She never did a wrong thing, never spoke a wrong word. Mathilda is truly pure.'

‘Quite.' The senior partner shuffled brochures on his desk. Some of them advertised what might best be described as a pay-now-die-later scheme. The room was perfumed, and soft music drifted in via hidden speakers. This was the sepulchre described in the Bible, all sin hidden behind grand facade and pretty decor, because the nuts and bolts lay beyond the scenes: where faces were straightened after strokes, where the dead were washed and made pretty for their relatives, where the quick prepared the deceased for that last journey. Gus shivered.

‘Are you still unwell, sir?'

‘Chemotherapy.' He rose from his chair. ‘Thank you, Mr Rushton. The certificate is with your receptionist. Good day.'

He went with Sheila to the graveyard after picking up lilies from a florist. While his companion stayed in the taxi, he walked the last few yards and placed his tribute on the grave. He didn't weep. He lacked the energy required. He simply stood and remembered a girl who had run barefoot through buttercups, who had abandoned a husband for him, who had loved him with a heart bigger than the revolution her elders had fled. Katherina had been a White Russian, born to a family whose members had deserted Hungary in the face of encroaching communism.

They had not liked Gus; they had blamed him for her betrayal of her husband, for enticing her away. ‘I did not do the enticing,' he whispered. He closed his eyes, pictured her in folk costume, watched her dancing to music from a country that should have been her own. She had cooked borscht, had spilled beetroot juice all over the tiny kitchen of the flat in which he had kept her. ‘I am mistress of all I survey – you included, Gustav.'

Dancing, always dancing. Laughter like tinkling bells; neck, long and white; dark hair tumbling over soft breasts when she released it from its braids. The sexual act had been glorious, since it had been accompanied by love so overpowering that Gus had been lost in her.

No God would have taken her. No infinite power based in love and goodness could have dragged the life from her in so cruel a fashion. There was no God.

‘Mathilda' had been her last word. Baby in a box, a plastic box heated and fed with measured oxygen. Running, running with that final piece of Katherina. Pleading for Mathilda to be saved, for hope to remain. Selfish, always so selfish. ‘I am sorry,' he said.

‘Gus?'

He turned and looked at Sheila.

‘What are you doing down there?'

He had not realized that he was on his knees. ‘Sheila?'

‘Yes?'

‘Make sure they heed my will. My remains go in here with theirs. I shall explain, of course. But I beg you. Make sure.'