An Enormous Yes (27 page)

Having kissed his hand, she rose to her feet, letting the undertakers take her place. With almost callous expertise, they positioned themselves, one at Silas’s head and one at his feet; took him off the toilet and manipulated his body into a large, heavy-duty, zipped black bag.

‘Look away,’ Yvonne advised.

Ignoring the advice, Maria continued her silent witness, as Silas was lifted onto the stretcher and wheeled towards the door. She followed at a respectful distance, but deliberately turned her back before the trolley was manoeuvred through the door and out into the passage. She had no wish to see Silas’s goggling neighbours inflate a tragedy into some vulgar tabloid drama.

‘The body will be taken to Lewisham Hospital Mortuary,’ Mike informed her, as he and Yvonne returned to the sitting-room. ‘As it’s Friday today, the post mortem may be postponed till Monday, or performed tomorrow, possibly. One of our officers who works for the coroner will phone you on the Monday, anyway, to introduce himself, then phone again a day or two later, to give you the result. I understand you’ll be away next week, so be sure to leave your contact details with us.’

Away
? How could she go anywhere? Cornwall seemed a mere diversion compared to this catastrophe.

‘And what I suggest now,’ Yvonne added, ‘is that I take you back to the police station for a cup of tea or coffee. Mike will stay here until the
premises
are secured, but
you
need a chance to recover.’

What she actually needed was a chance to be alone. ‘I’d prefer to go straight home, if that’s all right.’

Home. My God! For the last few hours Amy’s birthday simply hadn’t featured in her thoughts, but now the whole scenario came whirling back in a turmoil of anxiety. How could she cook party food, or play her part in a joyous celebration, when she was sick with shock and grief? And if she
mentioned Silas’s death this evening, it would shatter the mood at a stroke. Yet how, in God’s name, could she hush it up, when her whole demeanour was bound to reveal her frantic state?

But as she moved towards the still gaping door, some instinct seemed to tell her what to do: she must ignore her own emotions and carry on as planned, although perhaps with a few short cuts when it came to the actual cooking. Her duty was clear and simple: she must call on those reserves of strength that had got her through today and extend them into the evening – right on till midnight, if necessary.

Amy had lost all chance of meeting her father, so her mother must be there for her, whatever courage that demanded.

‘H
IS DRAWINGS ARE
so varied – that’s what strikes me most.’ Felix moved in closer, to study a sketch of a lightning-blasted tree. And, according to this—’ He waved the information-sheet ‘—he takes inspiration from artists as different as Gainsborough and Jackson Pollock, so that’s probably why they’re so eclectic.’

Maria could barely concentrate. Indeed, she wondered what she was doing here at all; struggling to show some interest in an exhibition by an unknown Latvian artist, in a more or less deserted East End gallery. In her present mood, she would prefer to be at home, sitting by the phone, in the hope of further news about Silas’s funeral arrangements.

‘And this one has a real sense of movement,’ Felix continued, once they’d moved on to the next work. ‘The lines almost seem to dance! In fact, it reminds me a bit of oriental calligraphy.’

She knew she ought to take an interest, if only for Felix’s sake. Fortunately, the next drawing was a life study, which made it easier to comment. ‘It’s amazing how he achieves the effect of a solid, living body with just a few
delicate
lines. Actually, it reminds me of how Rosie draws, at the class.’

‘Yes, it’s a pity you missed the last two. She did some really stunning work, both weeks.’

‘I could hardly come when I’d just found Silas dead,’ Maria retorted, her annoyance mixed with jealousy. Rosie (pretty, blonde and fortyish) had joined the class a month ago – although, in fact, if Felix felt attracted to a younger, more attentive woman, she had only herself to blame, having more or less ignored him since Amy’s birthday supper. Even her phone calls had been rationed, despite his frequent offers of help. In truth, she was baffled by her own behaviour, aware only at some vague and troubling level that she was acting self-destructively. On the other hand, it was surely wrong to involve her present lover in her past lover’s tragic yet unpalatable affairs. ‘And the following Friday wasn’t much better.’

‘OK, OK.’ Felix sounded tetchy, too. ‘Let’s not go into all that again. I just hope you’ll be there tomorrow.’

She gave a vague murmur of assent; knowing Felix simply couldn’t grasp how much Silas’s death had affected her. All the pain and sadness of her
first
loss, in 1971, seemed to have come flooding back again; along with the depressing sense that men never stayed around, be it Amy’s father, or her own. Nor had she yet recovered from the hideous shock of seeing Silas’s stinking, flyblown corpse. However, that was no excuse for treating Felix so unfairly, especially when he was always so supportive.

‘It’s just struck me, Maria, you might find it interesting to have a go yourself at this ink-and-wash technique. And maybe also aim to copy Petrov’s spare, ethereal style. His use of monochrome and his blurred, amorphous lines are so different from your own full-blooded exuberance, I reckon it would make a good experiment.’

‘Funnily enough,’ she said, trying to engage with what he was saying, ‘I did attempt something new in that painting for Kate’s husband. When things have quietened down a bit, I’d love you to come round and see it. I think you’ll be surprised by how restrained it is.’

‘It’s fantastic you have a paying client. That’s more than many artists do, even when they’ve been slaving away for decades. I reckon, once you’ve established yourself in Cornwall, the buyers will be queuing up!’

She tensed at the mention of Cornwall. The subject was taboo, at least until lunchtime, when she would be forced to break her news, since she simply couldn’t leave it any longer.

‘I admire the way they’ve hung this show,’ Felix commented. ‘The pictures are well lit and properly spaced, which makes me all the more annoyed about the mess they made of
my
show. One great thing about Cornwall is that I’m sure I’ll be taken on by a new gallery.’

Every reference to Cornwall increased her agitation about how to soften the blow, and the remaining works passed her by in a largely meaningless ink-and-wash blur.

‘You seem tired,’ he said, once they’d toured the whole room, she
proffering
the occasional lame remark. ‘Or maybe you’re just hungry? I’m ready for lunch if you are.’

She nodded; forced a smile.

‘I noticed several places when we were walking from the tube. What do you fancy? Mexican? Italian? Or a nice, fierce vindaloo?’

‘Not Indian,’ she said. ‘Anything else is fine.’ She knew her stomach would revolt at any sort of curry.

They eventually opted for a starkly simple bistro, mainly because
there was plenty of room for them to spread themselves at a table at the back.

‘I think we’re in need of some wine,’ Felix said, looking up from the menu. ‘White or red?’

‘
You
choose.’ She seemed incapable of even the smallest decision and, anyway, it felt wrong to be drinking at all, with Silas still in the mortuary. She’d been having literal nightmares at the thought of what his captive body had endured at the post mortem. Sometimes, she woke screaming at the image of some callous butcher slitting it from top to bottom, as if it were a lump of meat; maybe gutting it like a chicken – even whistling while he worked, for all she knew.

‘Well, I intend to have a steak, so shall we go for the Shiraz?’

‘Fine. And I’ll have steak as well.’ These last two weeks, she had lost her appetite but, having neglected Felix all that time, it was imperative to make an effort now. And she certainly wouldn’t broach the subject of Cornwall until they were feeling more relaxed, after a glass or two of wine.

Once the waitress had taken their order, she glanced around at the sombre walls and ultra-modern chairs and tables. There was no hint of colour in this place – everything as lacklustre as her mood. And, like the gallery a few blocks away, it lacked any sense of buzz or bustle; being empty save for one old fellow huddled over his plate and eating in a furtive, almost guilty fashion. And she herself was hardly a lively companion. Normally, she was never lost for words with Felix, but today every topic seemed perilous: painting, Cornwall, Amy, Silas …

It was he who broke the silence, reaching for her hand across the table and giving it a loving squeeze. ‘This time on Saturday, we’ll be on the train to Cornwall! I just can’t wait, can you?’

Unable to meet his gaze, she stared down at her lap. He had pre-empted her; scuppered her plan of finishing their meal before she weighed in with bad news. ‘Felix, I … I’m terribly sorry. I don’t know how to tell you this, but I’m afraid I have to postpone our trip again.’

‘Not a
third
time?’ he exclaimed. ‘What the hell am I meant to say to George? He’s already changed that supper party from last Sunday to this, and he only arranged it in the first place for you to meet the crowd down there. But forget the party – what’s far worse is losing the chapel. The owner’s getting ratty and says if the other prospective buyers make an offer, he’s going to have to accept.’

‘But I thought that couple dropped out.’ The waitress had brought their starters, but no way could she eat.

‘They did. This is a different pair and they have cash up front,
apparently
.’

‘But why on earth didn’t you tell me that, when I had to cancel our trip last week?’

‘I didn’t want to worry you when you were so upset and shocked and, anyway, what good would it have done? You couldn’t go, so that was that.’ He glanced down at his paté, as if surprised it had arrived. ‘Look, you mustn’t think I didn’t realize how devastating the whole thing was,
especially
coming out of the blue like that. And I also understood that you didn’t want to see me for a bit. But Silas died a fortnight ago tomorrow, so surely by now, you—’

‘Felix,’ she interrupted, ‘I had simply no idea how long everything would take and what a hassle it would be arranging a local-authority funeral. I deliberately haven’t told you much about it, but you need to understand how complex it is. You see, first they have to be absolutely sure that the dead person hasn’t any means to pay for it himself. So they’ll do a search of Silas’s flat, looking for a will, and, if they find one, that’s proof of an estate, so the council won’t cough up. They also check every single scrap of paper – old bills, address books, letters, diaries – anything that might reveal the existence of surviving family members, who might have funds themselves. And, of course, they snoop around for valuables – a gold watch, or real gold cufflinks, say, which have to be sold, to go towards the costs.’

‘But Silas didn’t own things like that – or not from what you’ve told

me.’ ‘No, but they’re hardly likely to take my word for it. Anyway, what I’m trying to say is that it seems to take an age even to arrange the search. But it appears I’m getting somewhere, at last, because they phoned first thing this morning and informed me it’s scheduled for tomorrow.’ In fact, she hated the thought of heartless strangers riffling through Silas’s possessions, and felt stricken that he should have no cash or savings; no family to foot the bill.

Felix sat silent for a moment, ignoring both his paté and his wine. ‘Tomorrow’s Friday, Maria, and there won’t be any funerals over the weekend, so couldn’t we go on the Saturday, as planned?’

Before she could reply, the waitress bustled up to their table. ‘Is
everything
all right?’ she asked, noting their untouched plates.

‘Fine,’ Maria murmured, wondering how to answer Felix. Yes,
technically
, they
could
go on the Saturday, but emotionally she was in no state to make a decision on a property that would affect the rest of her life. ‘I … I need to be here, on the spot.’

‘But you said that last week, too. OK, you were in the thick of it, at that point, but what else is there to do right now?’

‘Well, the death hasn’t even been registered yet.’

‘Couldn’t you do that tomorrow morning? Or even this afternoon? We don’t need to linger over lunch, and I’ll come with you, if that would help.’

‘No, it’s not me who does it. I’m not allowed, by law, because I’m not an executor or a relative.’

‘Who, then?’

‘The same guy that does the search – an Access Benefits Officer, called Clement Codd, of all names! But it seems he can’t register the death until he’s completely certain there isn’t any will, or any living family members.’

‘I’m sorry to seem thick, darling, but if it’s this Clement fellow’s
responsibility
, why do
you
need to be around?’

‘Because he may phone me over the weekend.’ She wasn’t even sure if that were true. There had been so many phone calls, she’d become
increasingly
confused: calls from the police, the coroner’s office, the Access Benefits Office. Even a local journalist had rung, hungry for a story.

‘Well, if you gave him your mobile number, couldn’t he ring you in Cornwall? I mean, it does seem rather extreme that you can’t get away just for two or three days. That’s all it need be, Maria – enough time for you to see the chapel and the village and a good stretch of the coastline, so you can make up your mind about us living there.’

She took a spoonful of soup and forced herself to swallow it. That was the whole problem: making up her mind. Whichever way she decided, there would be guilt, regret and worry, and she couldn’t face any more upheaval until all the grim procedures concerning the disposal of Silas’s body were finally complete.

‘Felix, darling—’ This time she met his eyes; gripped his wrist in a gesture of almost desperate affection ‘—I just can’t decide about the chapel, let alone socialize with George’s friends, while all this is going on. Once I have the date of the funeral, I’ll feel more settled altogether. But it may take a while to arrange, because if the council decide they
are
liable for the costs – which I’m pretty sure they will be – they’ll probably put Silas right at the end of the queue. Obviously, if the crematorium’s busy, the free funerals can’t take precedence. Actually, I was tempted to pay myself. Oh, I know I don’t have the funds, but I thought of taking out a loan or—’

‘Maria, that’s insane! It could cost you literally thousands. Silas never did a thing for you, so why bankrupt yourself for him?’

Because she wanted Amy’s father and the baby’s grandfather to be buried
with a modicum of style; not palmed off with a pauper’s funeral. However, Felix would hardly sympathize with that.

‘Couldn’t Amy pay herself?’ he suggested. ‘It’s her father, after all.’

‘Felix, she’s never even met him! And, anyway, she’s no idea how hard up he was. I’ve always wanted her to see him in as good a light as possible.’

Felix gave no answer beyond a grunt.

‘Look,’ she said, flustered by his attitude, ‘I really do feel dreadful, messing you about like this. But everything’s so uncertain at the moment, I feel I just
have
to cancel – or at least postpone the trip – until things have moved on a bit.’

‘OK,’ he said, tersely, making no attempt to conceal his disappointment. ‘We’d better wait till you’re ready.’

The rest of the meal was strained, although they both put on a pretence of normality; discussing Petrov’s drawings, and the gallery scene in general, over their soup and paté. And, even after they’d finished their main courses, they continued the charade of having enjoyed the food.

‘Excellent steak!’ Felix’s show of relish, as he swallowed his last mouthful, was very nearly convincing.

‘Yes, and I liked those crinkly chips. Chips may sound simple to cook, but it’s actually quite an art to get them crisp on the outside and soft and floury inside.’

‘You’ll have to teach me to cook. I can manage omelettes and fry-ups, but not much else.’

Glad of so unthreatening a topic, she promised to show him the secrets of some of her grandparents’ native Austro-Hungarian dishes. ‘When my mother first married, she was trying so hard to be English, she tended to avoid them – and even more so once we were evacuated. And, anyway, the war was on and everything was rationed. But, later in her life, she’d
sometimes
try her hand at goulash and Wiener schnitzel and apple strudel and suchlike, although that wasn’t really her style. On the whole, she preferred plain and simple food.’