An Enormous Yes (30 page)

‘A
H, YOU MUST
be Maria.’ A tall, grey-haired man reached out his hand in greeting. ‘I’m Richard Osborne, the minister.’

‘It’s good to meet you in person,’ she said, noting with approval his
well-groomed
appearance and freshly starched white surplice. She had no wish for Silas’s funeral service to be conducted by a slob. ‘But it still seems
disrespectful
to call you “Richard” rather than….’ Her voice tailed off. Catholic priests were ‘Father’, of course, and the vicar back home was
unceremonious
‘Ron’, but ‘Mr Osborne’ was surely more appropriate for this grave, patrician figure.

‘Richard suits me fine, as I told you on the phone.’ He gave a cautious smile. ‘But how are you feeling, Maria? I do realize what a shock this must have been.’

She could hardly admit that she felt shamefully upbeat – her elation over Cornwall still whooping and fizzing in her mind. But her sanguine mood wasn’t purely selfish, because she had come to see that Silas’s death could be for the best, since he was finally at peace; no longer prey to money worries, or fears about his cancer. And although Amy was still devastated about this final blow to her hopes, it could have actually been worse had she and Silas succeeded in establishing a relationship. Wouldn’t his death have been more distressing then, than if they’d never met at all? And at least her daughter had been spared the disappointment of meeting a father she had always over-idealized. The discomfiting reality would have offended her high standards – of that there was no doubt.

Aware that Richard was still awaiting a reply, she murmured a few anodyne words, but was spared the need of further conversation by the arrival of the hearse, which nosed slowly along the drive and drew up outside the chapel. The first glimpse of the coffin was daunting. However buoyant she might feel, it wasn’t easy to see Amy’s father shut up in a box. Yet, as Clement Codd had assured her, all the outward trappings looked
every bit as impressive as for any high-class funeral; the four bearers and the funeral director all impeccably turned out. Nor had the council failed to provide their promised floral tribute – a small spray of white carnations had been placed beside her own extravagant red roses.

After a brief word with the men, Richard turned back to face her. ‘Would you like to come into the chapel with me, just ahead of the coffin, or walk alongside the bearers?’

She opted for the latter, wishing to stay as close as possible to Silas until the actual committal, when – she hoped – a sad chapter in her life would finally be concluded.

As the bearers shouldered their heavy load and began their solemn procession, she realized that the large, high-ceilinged chapel made the lack of any congregation all the more apparent. Yet even that could be regarded as a blessing; at least there was no one present who might rouse Silas’s ire. Even in death, he was unlikely to be filled with the milk of human kindness.

Schoenberg’s ‘
Erwartung
’ was playing on the sound system – an unusual choice for a funeral, and one that brought her up in gooseflesh as the soprano’s haunted voice echoed round the chapel. In truth, it had required a lot of effort to devise a ceremony for a man whose taste in music was untraditional, to say the least. A list of Britain’s favourite funeral tunes had proved of little help. No way could Silas be buried to the strains of ‘Over The Rainbow’, or ‘All Things Bright And Beautiful’, and even the top
classical
choices – ‘Nimrod’, ‘Ave Maria’, Pachbel’s clichéd ‘Canon’ – he would have dismissed with utter contempt. Indeed, the crematorium’s sound system had been hard-pressed to find the pieces she had finally selected: not just the Schoenberg but Berg and Shostakovich.

As the bearers approached the altar, she slipped into the front pew while they continued slowly ahead and set the coffin down on the catafalque. It still took courage to look at it and she was torn between relief that her once beloved Silas had, at last, moved beyond suffering and pain, and a deep sadness for his wasted life. In fact, the time and care she had lavished on the details of this service had been her way of making amends. The choice of poetry had been as taxing as the music. Unfortunately, she couldn’t remember any of Silas’s own works well enough to recite, and the poets he liked – Swinburne, Burroughs, Ginsberg – were totally unsuitable.

In desperation, she had spent half yesterday closeted in the public library, searching through anthologies, wanting something hopeful for Silas as compensation for all he had endured. But she had to avoid facile optimism, which she knew he would simply deride. Finally, she had decided on a poem called ‘Begin’, by the Irish poet, Brendan Kennelly; warming to it
immediately
,
yet still worried it was too sanguine. But time was ticking on, so she’d had to make a decision – even an imperfect one – to give herself a chance to rehearse her reading.

Richard was already standing at the lectern and, once the bearers had withdrawn, began intoning the words of the service in his deep, melodious voice. ‘We brought nothing into this world and we take nothing out.’

Well, that was true of Silas, although she felt distinctly uneasy at the many subsequent allusions to God, the resurrection and, yes, the heavenly life to come. But she had been forced to strike a balance between his fiercely atheistic views and Richard’s role as minister; here to conduct what was, after all, primarily a religious service. She joined in the responses only warily, half-expecting Silas to rise up and rebuke her.

‘Lord, you have been our refuge, from one generation to another.…’

The words swept her back to Hanna and Theresia. God
had
been their refuge – and probably that of all Radványis. She herself had been the first one in the family ever to harbour serious doubts about the mercy, or even existence, of such a deity. Nonetheless, she still half believed; still craved to share their certainty of a life hereafter, where she would meet her father, at last, and all her other lost relations – which was the reason for her choice of poem, with its stress on a new start. Although Silas had no shred of belief in any sort of afterlife, she longed for him to live on in some fashion – however inexplicable – rather than be reduced to dust. And, after all, Felix had once told her that the world was so mysteriously complex, no mere human could ever comprehend it, which meant, in fact, that one couldn’t rule out anything, despite it seeming unlikely or arcane.

Richard was just concluding the Epistle – her cue to take his place at the lectern. Clearing her throat, she tried to copy Silas’s deep, declamatory tones when he’d read his own poems to her.

‘
Begin again to the summoning birds
,’ she recited, still feeling
apprehensive
, because the poem was so rooted in the material, secular world. Yet it pulsed with a stubborn persistence that seemed to say there were always possibilities, however great the problems or disasters. Was it too absurdly fanciful to imagine Silas, in some as yet undreamed-of sphere, becoming the distinguished poet he had always felt himself to be?

‘
Every beginning is a promise
….’ That phrase she liked in particular; its hopefulness well balanced by the sadness further on: ‘
Begin to the loneliness that cannot end
.’ Poor Silas had known loneliness for the last twenty years of his life.

Her voice gained in strength and confidence as she reached the concluding lines, which reiterated hope again.

And, as she returned to her seat, her former devout Catholic self sent up an unspoken prayer that Silas’s end might become a new beginning in another, better – if admittedly unfathomable – life.

‘I’m so grateful, Richard. You made it a beautiful service.’

‘We both did,’ he said, with a smile. ‘But I’m afraid I have to leave now. Can I give you a lift to the station?’

She thanked him but declined. Having just watched Silas sink down, down, down, on the catafalque, soon to be burned to ash, she needed a chance to recover, especially as she was going on to the life class, where the mood would be joltingly different. (Felix had bought champagne for them all, to celebrate the end of term.)

Walking slowly round the Garden of Remembrance, she was glad of the serene and sunny weather. The balmy air and deep blue sky helped to lift her spirits, as did her constant memories of Cornwall; some of them
blushingly
inappropriate for a crematorium. Indeed, she had to repress an unseemly instinct to broadcast to the silent dead Tuesday night’s cavortings in the sea; that electrifying blend of midnight dark and moonlit bright, of fiercely cold and blazing hot. However, sexual thrills apart, what afforded the most profound relief was having come to a decision, at last. Readymoney Cove would now always be more than just a beauty spot; it had become their marriage bed and wedding chapel.

She stopped to read some of the inscriptions on the plaques, but even they had no power to upset her, as they would have done just days ago.

Love is forever …

Being loved by him has enriched my
heart
…

Beloved husband and devoted father
…

No way could such sentiments apply to her and Silas, but at least now she could accept the fact, accept that no one was to blame – it was simply a matter of malignant Fate. And even Fate itself had become benign, as proved by Carole’s phone call last night. Her friend had rung to say that, against the odds, the stolen Treasure Box had actually been retrieved; found by a local farmer, stuffed into a hedge, all its contents miraculously intact.

And surely, Maria thought, as she sauntered towards the crematorium gates, that symbolized an important change in her fortunes, from loss and privation to abundance and fulfilment. In fact, she halted in her tracks, with a jolt of mingled pleasure and surprise, as she realized it wasn’t only Silas who was finally at peace.

A
S SHE ALIGHTED
from the train at Charing Cross, she made a conscious effort to leave Grove Park behind. Her ties with Silas were cut now and her future lay with Felix, yet the new life they planned together wouldn’t need to exclude her daughter. After her six-month stint as nanny, Amy, Hugo and the baby could come down for frequent holidays in Cornwall, and her grandchild – maybe grandchildren – could be introduced to George’s community and imbibe a little art and culture, along with the sea air. The only thing still troubling her was how to persuade her daughter to see the plan in a positive light and not as a defection.

She was still wrestling with the problem as she descended to the
underground
. Probably best not to bring up the subject too soon. If she left it for a week or two, Amy would have recovered from the shock of Silas’s death – to some extent, at least. And she would certainly be more relaxed and thus more receptive to the news, yet they would still have plenty of time to make arrangements for a successor.

A train was already standing in the station. She dashed in through the closing doors and, as it rattled on its way, sat musing on the dilemma of how to find a first-class nanny without it costing a fortune. Suddenly, however, she was distracted by her reflection in the window opposite. The smart black outfit she had worn in Silas’s honour was hardly suitable for the life class, but since there wasn’t time to go home and change, she would have to rely on Felix to provide some sort of cover-up to protect her from the charcoal-dust.

She suppressed a smile of pleasure at the thought of them making love this afternoon. Although forced to be on their best behaviour during the actual class – no meeting of each other’s eyes, or exchanging meaningful glances – the minute the others had left, they instantly stripped naked and passionately embraced. And their passion was still greater now they had made a solemn commitment to each other.

The train lumbered into Oxford Circus, where a crowd of people pushed into the carriage, making the already oppressive stuffiness still worse. One man in particular, perspiring in his business suit, gave an audible sigh as he slumped into a seat, then immediately began working on his laptop. His tense, frowning face reminded her of Hugo, and she couldn’t help but feel relief that her son-in-law was in Dubai. His bad temper had increased of late, on account of the implications of the court case, which appeared, worryingly, to reach far beyond the financial. Amy had dropped further hints that he had been personally involved in some oversight or even outright negligence, which he feared would come to light.

Despite her deep concern about the matter, she was enjoying the fact that she and Amy had the house to themselves. And, of course, they would have more mother-and-daughter time throughout the whole of Amy’s maternity leave. She intended to make that period as special as she could, as a tiny compensation for the fact she planned to leave in February. Although,
actually
, for all she knew, Hugo might prefer a proper professional nanny; someone he could treat as a subordinate, rather than feel a need to relate to, purely for his wife’s sake. Sometimes, she suspected he had never wanted her to live with them in the first place, but simply gone along with Amy to avoid the risk of argument. So, when she left for Cornwall, he, at least, might be secretly relieved.

But she had spent long enough on the problem. The rest of today was devoted to pleasure and, as the train pulled into Maida Vale and she emerged into brilliant daylight from the tube, she felt something of the sun’s own skittish exuberance as it flung its golden beams on pavements, houses, shop-fronts. She might be wearing black but, strolling the short distance to the studio, her mood changed to rainbow-coloured.

She was surprised to see a woman standing right outside the house – not one of the students, but someone considerably younger than most of those in the class, and much more stylishly dressed.

All at once, the girl stepped out in front of her; deliberately barring her way. ‘Are you Maria Brown?’ she demanded.

‘Well, yes, but—’

‘Right, we have to talk.’

Maria stared at her, astonished. How did this stranger know her name? Or
was
she a stranger? The woman’s features and face-shape did seem vaguely familiar. ‘Do I know you?’ she asked, mystified.

‘No, and I’m not exactly keen to further the acquaintance. But I
do
need to speak to you – now!’ The voice was harsh, peremptory; the whole manner overbearing.

‘I’m sorry, I’m due at a class and—’

‘Oh, yeah, I know all about your classes. That’s just the half of it, of course, but—’

‘Look, I’m sorry,’ Maria interrupted, ‘but I’ve no idea who you are and I don’t intend to be late for my class unless you can give me some
explanation
, or at least introduce yourself.’

‘My name’s Felicia Fullerton. Does that mean anything?’

It took a moment to register. Felix’s name … Felix’s name twice over, the feminine equivalent.

‘I’m Felix Fullerton’s daughter,’ the girl said, in confirmation.

Maria felt a shiver of unease, and also felt somewhat disconcerted, having assumed his daughter would be a woman in her forties, not a girl of twenty-five or so. But she could see the likeness now: the same grey-blue eyes and square-jawed face.

‘I know full well what’s going on between you two. There’s just one tiny problem. My father happens to be married.’

Maria was unable to suppress a gasp. ‘
Divorced
,’ she corrected, almost pleadingly.

‘No, married,’ the girl insisted. ‘But we can’t talk here, in public. There’s a recreation ground just round the corner, so I suggest we go there, OK?’

Maria made no move, torn between shock and disbelief. ‘I … I thought you lived in America,’ was all she managed to blurt out.

‘I do. And I’m thoroughly pissed off at having to keep flying back and forth. If it wasn’t for my father …’

Felicia broke off as Barry and Rosie arrived arm in arm, for the class, stopping when they saw Maria.

‘Are you coming in?’ Barry asked.

‘Er, yes … In a sec.’ No way must any of the students overhear some compromising discussion, so she allowed Felicia to steer her along the road, in the opposite direction from the studio. Once they reached the recreation ground, it looked even less private than the street, being crowded with
boisterous
children on holiday from school. But Felicia walked purposefully towards the furthest end, found an empty bench, some distance from the swings and slides, and, with barely suppressed resentment, pulled Maria down beside her on the bench.

‘Right,’ she said, ‘you need to know the situation. But we haven’t time to waste, because I’m flying up to Scotland early this afternoon.’

‘Scotland? But I thought you said—’

‘My mother lives in Scotland,’ Felicia cut in. ‘Dad moved her up there, ages ago, because he was keen to join some damn-fool artists’ community.
The place was completely wrong for Mum, but Dad’s twenty-one years older, so he always makes the decisions. Anyway, to cut a long story short, he buggered off when I was nine – shacked up with another woman, an older one this time.’

Maria gripped the arm of the bench. Felix had never divulged the fact that he had deserted his own daughter when she was still so young and vulnerable.

‘Mum just fell to pieces and
I
was pretty shell-shocked, too, but I did my best to help, even at that age. And I resolved to stick around until I’d finished university, so she wouldn’t be alone. But once I’d graduated, I was offered my dream job, at one of New York’s top advertising agencies. Fortunately, Mum was OK with that, especially as I paid for her flights over, so she could visit quite a lot. Anyway, it was all going pretty well until, three years ago, she was diagnosed with breast cancer. Dad just didn’t want to know – especially once he’d heard she was having a mastectomy. Damaged goods, I suppose he thought.’

The malicious remark only caused Maria to spring to his defence, despite her perturbation and reeling sense of shock. ‘I’m sure he wouldn’t think that and, anyway, if he’d left your mother all those years ago and was living with someone else, then—’

‘He wasn’t. The woman he ran off with didn’t last that long, and neither did the next two. He’s not exactly marvellous at commitment.’

‘I’m sorry, but I still don’t follow. He told me, several times, that he’s divorced.’

‘He
was
divorced when he met Mum, but that was thirty years ago. I reckon he was simply trying to fool you; deliberately hiding the fact that he married again and is still married to this day. That’s typical of Dad! In fact, I think it actually
suits
him to stay married, because it gives him the perfect let-out if any girl he meets wants him to settle down, or – worse – make babies with him. He’s not the world’s best father. He gave me his name, but not much else.’

Maria’s overwhelming instinct was to take to her heels and run, to prevent her having to hear another word. Yet the insistent, rancorous voice kept her there, a prisoner.

‘In fact, after he’d walked out on us, we very rarely saw him and even when he did visit he’d sometimes have a woman in tow. I mean, how cruel was that to Mum? My loyalty’s to her, and always has been, so when she had the cancer, it was me that held the fort, even though it meant giving up my job
and
my snazzy apartment in Manhattan. I spent eighteen months as her carer, and I can tell you, Maria, it wasn’t exactly
a picnic, so when the doctors said she was in remission I felt I’d done my bit and was free to leave. My firm agreed to take me back, thank God, so things were pretty good until just this month, when Mum found another tumour. Of course, I’m absolutely gutted, but, however rotten I might feel, I simply can’t be there for her this time. I’ve already flown over twice this month, but if I stay in Scotland for the whole course of her treatment that’s the end of my job. I can’t expect any more favours from my boss, especially in a recession. It’s Dad’s turn now to help. He doesn’t even
have
a job, for Christ’s sake – apart from his so-called art. He put that first in 2008, so he needs to get his finger out and put Mum first this time. I mean, what about those vows he made – “in sickness and in health”, and all that stuff?’

Maria sat in silence, her outward stillness concealing a fierce inner agitation. Felicia’s phrases were stinging in her mind:
keen to join some damn-fool artists’ community … shacked up with yet another woman
…
not exactly marvellous at commitment
…
deliberately hiding the fact he
married again
. Could this be the Felix she knew; the one who seemed so decent and supportive? Yet, although appalled to have her idyll shattered, she was still not sure if Felicia could be trusted. It did seem peculiar that, having travelled all the way from the States, the girl had made no attempt to see her father; had actually stood outside the house where he was teaching, yet failed to go in and find him.

‘I have to say—’ Maria adopted a cool and distant tone ‘—I dislike the way you’ve sneaked behind your father’s back and tried to blacken him in my eyes. And I still don’t understand why you’re talking to
me
, instead of him. Can’t you have this out with him directly?’

Felicia all but snorted. ‘Anything I say is worse than useless. Once he’s involved with a woman, he’s like a man possessed. Frankly, I find it disgusting, at his age. But I suppose he’s desperate to prove his virility; brag to his mates that he’s still capable of pulling girls, even though he’s ancient. Admittedly,
you’re
not a girl, Maria. In fact, if you don’t mind me saying, you look years older than most of his other women. But, as far as I’m concerned, that gives me a bit of hope. Because I want you to break it off with him, and you’re more likely to listen to reason than some ditzy babe who’s too selfish to think of anyone but herself. My mother needs help – and badly – so his duty is to her now, not to you. And
I’m
in a fix, because I have to be back at work by next Monday at the latest. Which means Dad must get himself to Scotland at least a day or two before that, so I can be absolutely sure there’s somebody around when Mum comes home from hospital.’

Maria was struggling with a maelstrom of contradictory emotions: compassion and resentment for the mother; a tangled snarl of pity, guilt and anger towards Felicia herself; splenetic rage with Felix – rage tinged with shaming lust. ‘Look,’ she said, trying to control her voice, ‘I do understand how worried you must feel, but if your parents have lived apart for so long, it does seem a bit unreasonable to expect Felix to return now and pick up where he left off. Doesn’t your mother have any relatives?’

‘None that could actually help.’

‘Well, friends, then?’

‘Of course she has friends, but that’s not the point. Dad’s her legal husband, so he bloody well
should
be there!’

‘Well, I doubt if he’ll agree. I happen to know he’s just put in an offer for a property in Cornwall.’

Felicia gave a derisive laugh. ‘Oh, Cornwall is it now? Yeah, great – that figures! He chooses the furthest possible point from Edinburgh and
imagines
he can hide away and no one will track him down.’

Maria could feel the broken slats of the bench, uncomfortable and hard beneath her silky skirt.
Everything
was broken; splintering and fraying; smashed beyond repair. Yet suppose Felicia was vilifying her father simply out of spite? She certainly sounded bitter and vindictive. And there were several things in her account that didn’t quite add up. If Scotland was so wrong for the mother, why had she remained up there for years, and wouldn’t she herself, the abandoned wife, have sued for a divorce once Felix had upped and left? There was also the issue as to how she managed financially. As a cancer patient, she was hardly likely to work, so perhaps Felix still paid her maintenance. Most baffling of all, however, was Felicia’s claim that he had deliberately stayed married, to excuse himself from subsequent relationships, since he had shown no hesitation in inviting
her
to share his life.