A Rather English Marriage (2 page)

‘Ah. Yes. Not at all. Very good of you. Well, well. Comes to us all. Nice weather, eh?'

‘My dear wife Grace passed away as well, just a few hours later. I know how you feel. Very sorry.'

‘Ah. Really? Rotten show.'

Dear wife Grace, he thought. Bloody silly name. Sounds like that - what was that cat book he used to have to read to his great-nieces? Da-
da
-da and his dear wife Grace. Orlando, that was it. Orlando and his dear wife Grace. The fellow was still looking at him.

‘You got any offspring? You know, children?' said Reginald abruptly.

‘Our girl's in Australia. Sydney. She's flying home for … well, for the funeral … We had a little lad, but he … well, he … How about you?'

‘No, no, nothing like that,' said Reginald, and he turned pointedly back to his newspaper.

The door of the social worker's office opened.

‘Mr Southgate? Do come in. I'm so sorry to keep you waiting. And you must be …?'

‘Squadron Leader Conynghame-Jervis.'

‘Of course you are. Oh dear. Give me quarter of an hour and I'll be with you' - she paused - ‘… Squadron Leader.'

Roy Southgate sat upright in the hard chair, wearing a shiny suit with wide lapels that could almost have been his demob suit. His shoes were highly polished, the laces securely tied in a double knot. He was attentive and perfectly composed; only his eyes were red, and his face looked as though a tracery of cracks and mould had spread across it, like the glaze on a fine old plate.

‘Now then,' the middle-aged woman was saying in a weary voice that struggled to remain kind. It was a well-rehearsed formula. ‘I can give you a very useful check-list of things that have to be done. Not just the obvious - you say you've already
been in touch with a funeral director - but things like getting your pension book altered; cancelling subscriptions to magazines - those sort of details.'

‘Grace liked a good book now and again, but not those women's weekly things,' said Roy Southgate. ‘And the post office - well, they'll know straightaway, being so local. They've been ever so kind, asking after her.'

‘What about a home help? I dare say you'd like me to arrange for someone to come in temporarily, just to start you off, show you the ropes.'

‘There won't be any need for that,' he said. ‘I can look after myself. I'm no stranger to dustpan and brush. And I can cook. What with Grace not being well these last months, I looked after the both of us and kept the house spick and span. There's many another must be needing home help more than me.'

The woman smiled. He's not a helpless little old man at all, she thought; how wrong it is to judge by appearances. He'll manage splendidly, if he does his grief-work properly and doesn't try to repress it.

‘What about… counselling?' she asked.

‘I beg your pardon?'

‘Grief - bereavement counselling. It can be very helpful, you know. Help to let your feelings out. I could give you some phone numbers. CRUSE, for instance: they're not just for widows. Someone you can talk to.'

His faded eyes filled with tears, which ran out at the corners and made a shining line through the furrows beside his nose.

‘Grace and I always talked. I don't think I could get the hang of it with anyone else. There's others maybe, calling for that sort of thing, but not me. Thanks all the same. I appreciate the kind thought.'

He reached into his pocket for a handkerchief and tidily wiped his face.

‘You can come back to me any time, any questions, problems, just give me a ring or pop in.'

‘I'm much obliged,' said Mr Southgate with dignity. ‘If I
could just collect her things, I needn't trouble you any longer.' He nodded and smiled at her, took the photocopied list which she extended towards him across the desk, and left the office.

Reggie was on the telephone. ‘I'm going to spell that for you,' he said, with his habitual mixture of pride and exasperating slowness. ‘No, not CUN: it's C-O-N-Y-N-G-H-A-M-E and then the hyphen and then pronounced Jarvis but spelt J-E-R-V-I-S. Old family name and all that. Read it back to me, would you, there's a clever girl, so I can make sure you've got it right?'

He nodded, tightening his lips at each letter as she read them out…

‘
I
don't know how it's supposed to be worded!' he expostulated, frowning into the telephone. ‘Not allowed to say “died”, eh? Thought that's what Deaths columns were all about. Never done one of these things before. Mary took care of all that kind of nonsense. Conynghame-Jervis, Marigold - no, she'd tell me off - better make it: Mary, wife of Reginald, and then the date, I suppose …

‘
Where
she died? What difference does that make? Oh all right … Flowers? Well of course people will send flowers. Look here, I'm not paying your chaps any more money. Just the name and date and place, d'you hear? Oh, and where the funeral will be. People will want to come and pay their last respects. Put King Charles the Martyr. It's very well known in Tunbridge Wells. They'll find it…

‘
My
address? It's not
me
that's died … The bill? Ah yes, of course; got to make sure you collect your baksheesh.'

The young woman in the classified advertising department of the
Daily Telegraph
was patient. Deaths were always the worst. Either people broke down in floods of tears and told her what a marvellous man he'd been and how much everyone had loved him; or she got this disoriented, unfocused anger. Slowly, she repeated the address back to the poor old fogey, thinking, Fancy still calling himself Squadron Leader! The war's been over for fifty years or whatever.

‘The Cedars, Nevill Park, Tunbridge Wells, Kent. Yes, I've got that, Squadron Leader, thank you. And you don't want “dearly loved” wife or anything? Very well. Please accept my condolences.'

A few days later, Roy Southgate slipped into the church of King Charles the Martyr and chose a seat in the upper gallery where he would be unseen but could look down on the congregation. From that high vantage point he saw that the grey and white marble tiles on the floor of the old church were exactly like the vinyl tiles on the floor of the hospital ward; and this piercing memory — for every detail of Grace's last surroundings stung cruelly - made his eyes fill with tears. He creaked to his knees and bent his forehead on to his knuckles. ‘Look after my dear wife Grace, and this woman, Mary,' he prayed, adding ‘Of thine everlasting goodness, Amen.'

The church was not crowded. There were barely enough people to fill the first two pews at the front of the church. Above their heads the magnificent plasterwork ceiling was a riot of curving, scrolling tracery. Fruit and flowers, angels and cherubs cavorted joyously around its deep inlaid ovals, like dolphins in a brilliant sea. Above that, from the octagonal tower, the church bell tolled its monotonous single note. At eleven o'clock the coffin entered, borne upon the shoulders of four pall-bearers, followed by the vicar in a white surplice, behind him the minimum complement of the choir, and behind them, straight-backed, eyes fixed rigidly ahead, expressionless, the Squadron Leader. The organ had switched to ‘Fight the Good Fight'. The choir sang, the congregation quavering in its wake.

‘Let us pray,' said the vicar, and with a soft rustle the people in the front pews sat down.

Roy Southgate sank unseen to his knees, letting the tears pour down his face yet again. The healing words drifted like snowflakes over him: ‘Man that is born of woman hath but a short time to live, and is full of misery.' Well, she'd been lucky. She hadn't been full of misery, his Grace, except for
that awful time when the baby had died. They'd shared that and come through it, though they'd never understand; but now he was grieving alone. They had loved each other, till death them did part.

He tried to pray for this other woman, glimpsed through the door in the little room off the ward, unknown; but his thoughts would keep stealing back to Grace.

‘Stand up! Stand up for Jesus!/Ye soldiers of the Cross!' bellowed Reginald lustily at the front of the church. ‘Lift high his royal banner,/It must not suffer loss.' He knew all the words and, conscious of being the centre of attention, he squared his shoulders, threw back his head and roared through his favourite hymn. Jolly good show, he thought to himself, that's what they'll say. Good old Reggie, put on a jolly good show. Taking it well. Still a fine figure of a man. Marry again, I dare say. They'd better not say it to my face – he jutted his chin a fraction higher - or start any of that damned matchmaking. Women yammering and fussing around. The last words he could remember Mary saying to him had been, surely, ‘Are you still all right for clean shirts, dear?' Not much there for a chap to hang on to. He'd taken the last clean white shirt to wear today. He glanced down. Funny to think that her hands had ironed it; well, hers or Mrs Whatsit, Murphy, and now … He lifted his chin again. Brace up! he thought sternly, you're on parade!

After the cremation people hung around expectantly for a bit before shaking his hand or clapping him on the back, looking rather harder into his eyes than felt comfortable, and drifting uncertainly away. ‘Be in touch, old man,' the men said; and their wives murmured, ‘Dear Reggie, now remember, give me a ring
any time
you need cheering up!'

No fear, thought Reginald. Just as I expected, matchmaking already. Some unmarried sister to foist off on me, some miserable old spinster looking for a husband. Not bloody likely. He stuck out his hand to ward off a peck on the cheek.

‘Jolly good turn-out,' he said. ‘Mary'd have been pleased. Good of you to come. Long way. Appreciate it, very much.'

A few yards away, just out of earshot, the vicar hovered obsequiously at the edge of a family group. ‘Er, excuse - if I might — forgive me, Lady Blythgowrie?' he inquired.

Susan turned, icily, and, seeing who it was, bestowed a perfectly modulated smile. ‘My dear vicar! What a very moving service. You knew dear Mary well, of course … that was obvious from your tribute. Just the right words. We were so fond of her - the girls especially.'

‘We
adored
Aunt Mary,' said one of the girls, with real warmth. ‘We're going to miss her dreadfully.'

Ah, thought the vicar: good sign. He pressed on.

‘I did just
wonder
whether, you know, anything had been
planned?
Next, I mean? People are starting to drift away …'

‘Oh?' she said, with a sound that encompassed four out of the five vowels. ‘You mean,
drinks?'

‘Well, yes, and perhaps something to nibble,' said the vicar.

‘
I
haven't organized anything,' said Susan Blythgowrie, thinking, Reginald's an infernal nuisance. Isn't he capable of doing anything right? Little enough to ask, one would have thought. Plenty of local hotels, presumably. All it takes is a quick call to the catering manager. ‘I haven't been told of anything. Vivian, darling, why don't you go and ask Reginald what's been laid on next?'

‘Wake, you mean?' said Vivian. ‘Oh don't look like that, Susan. I was only teasing. Right-ho. Girls! Is one of you going to come along and make this easier for me? Flicky?'

Poor old Uncle Reg was standing by himself, looking, his nephew thought with a pang, more than a little disconsolate. Maybe it
was
up to Susan to have checked that something had been arranged.

Reginald hadn't given the matter a thought. Had he done so, he would have assumed that Vivian or that tiresome second wife of his - never could remember the woman's name, why did he have to marry again and confuse matters? – Susan, that was it: Susan would have organized something afterwards.
He
couldn't be expected to do it - chap on his own. Woman's job, all that – making out lists, ringing round, organizing
victuals. Might have given him a tinkle, swung into action, offered to take over.

He looked up civilly as Vivian and his daughter approached, both entirely proper in deepest black. The two girls had blubbed like babies. Never cared that much about Mary while she was alive, surely?

‘Uncle Reg,' Vivian began. ‘Deepest sympathy. All went off splendidly, I thought - good service, lovely old church. Vicar spoke well, thoroughly decent chap, he seems. What have you got in mind now? Some sort of a gathering? Up at the house, a hotel, anything like that?'

‘Hadn't thought about it,' Reginald said, biting back the automatic response: That kind of thing's Mary's department. He frowned at his nephew. No good looking at him like that. Too late now. ‘Afraid not.'

‘Not to worry,' Vivian reassured him. ‘Not a drama. Care to come back to London, join us for dinner tonight? Shouldn't be left on your own, should he, Felicity?'

‘I shouldn't have thought so. Come on, Uncle Reggie, we'd really like it if you did,' the girl urged, nicely enough.

‘Not this evening, thanks all the same,' Reginald said.

They turned away, duty done. ‘Well, we tried,' Vivian told Susan, as the chauffeur pulled away smoothly in the company Rolls. Reginald watched them go with resentment. Bloody cushy number, he thought. All the gubbins. He turned as a tremulous hand was laid on his arm.

‘Dear,
dear
Mary …' said Mrs Thing, Mary's friend (bloody woman, what
was
her name? one of the Pennys), and the black flowers nodded tremulously in the brim of her hat.

The last of the small group made its way past the tranquil pool and across the crazy-paving that surrounded the crematorium, back to where the cars were parked. Reginald would have liked to say ‘Care for a snifter?' to old Harry, whom he hadn't seen for - what? Must be a good ten years, more, probably; but Harry was in a wheelchair, and, after expressing the bare minimum of condolences, Harry's hatchet-faced wife had steered him purposefully away.