Canvey Island (17 page)

George was always going on about her. Some people thought it was sweet but it was humiliating to me. There was nothing I could do to shut him up. Then one Christmas he blurted it out. ‘My son Martin.' Luckily Len was out of the room and I slapped him across the face and told him he had to stop that right then and there, but Lily went quiet like she couldn't keep it a secret any more and said, ‘It's true, Vi, it's true.'

I looked at George and I was filled with such hatred I couldn't describe it. I think I wanted to murder him on the spot: kill the both of them.

I decided not to tell Len. I never have. I've never told anyone. Not even Martin. Knowledge was only going to make things worse and I'd lived with it for so long. Sometimes a family needs its secrets.

Sixty-six, George was. Not old, is it? I dream about it. Sometimes I'm there, telling him to stop, shouting and shouting, but the wind is too strong and he can't hear me and he doesn't even want to hear me and he keeps on walking until he falls.

People say I could have done a bit more, but George needed such a lot of looking after. I wish they realised that. And he'd let me down so badly. I wish I could have told them what it was like. But you have to keep things to yourself sometimes. You have to have grace.

Everyone thought we'd get married. I still found Vi attractive, I always had, and we joked about it, but it wasn't right that a man had to die in order for us to be together. It came home to me at the funeral. It was one of those grey days when you're sure it's never going to get light; the sky had all the hope drained out of it.

Burial at sea
. I've always dreaded those words. The priest said we might as well take out the fishing boat but it was a bit of a squash with all of us on it and I was worried about the wind. I didn't want George's ashes blowing back in our faces.

‘How far out do you want to go?' I asked.

‘Chapman's Light,' said Vi.

‘You know it's just a buoy these days.'

‘I want to go where there's no river any more. I don't want to see any land.'

‘Hard to see anything in this,' I said.

Martin and Claire looked like they'd had another of their arguments and were still fussing over Lucy's life jacket. I don't think Claire trusted it. She kept asking about the dinghy and if the radio worked and how soon help could arrive once it had been summoned. They'd even brought special food for Lucy and some children's binoculars like it was an outing we'd organised especially for her.

‘Look,' I wanted to say, ‘this isn't about you, it's about George,' but I knew it wouldn't have done any good. As Vi said, it was like no one in the world had ever had a child before.

I let the boat idle and the priest began:
O most powerful and
glorious Lord God, at whose commands the winds blow, and lift up the waves of the sea, and who stillest the rage thereof: we thy creatures, but miserable sinners, do in this our great distress cry unto thee for help: save, Lord, or else we perish
.

I'd had a few drinks before we set off. I never normally do anything of the kind, but then it's not every day you take your best friend's ashes out. I don't know whether it was the alcohol, or nerves, or the fact that I felt for the first time that I was a bit too old for the fishing, but whatever it was I wasn't so steady on my feet. I had to cling on to the edge of the boat. I had never before felt frail, and on the boat too, where I always knew what I was doing.

We therefore commit his body to the deep, to be turned into corruption, looking for the resurrection of the body (when the sea shall give up her dead) and the life of the world to come …

The priest helped Vi unscrew the urn and I watched her cradle it with both hands and hold it over the edge of the boat and everyone line up downwind of her.

‘Ready?' she called, checking everyone was looking.

The ashes caught on the wind and swirled away from us, dust on the dark waters.

You forget how official death is and how long it takes afterwards. It's such a kerfuffle of grief and administration and you can't understand what you're supposed to be doing next. It's hard to believe any of it matters: the paperwork, the letters, the certificates and the meetings with the bank. I had to keep proving my husband was dead. Len helped but there were some things I had to do on my own, like meeting the man from the Navy who came to talk about my pension and the conditions he had to impose if I was to stay on in my house on the reduced rent.

‘We're happy to let you continue here, Mrs Lancaster, but there are a few things we need to go through. You have no dependants?'

‘I have a nephew, Martin.'

‘Visit you regularly, does he?'

‘He used to. Before he had a daughter.'

‘Ah yes …'

‘What do you mean?'

‘Sometimes, with the elderly, visits tend to diminish.'

‘He lives in Brighton,' I said, ‘and I'm not elderly.' I knew what the man was getting at: disappearing relatives who come back all too quick as soon as there is any sign of money.

‘And you have friends?' he asked.

‘Oh, I've plenty of friends,' I said.

‘But no one special?'

‘No,' I said. ‘No one special.'

The man made a note like he wasn't sure if he believed me. Then I realised where I'd seen him before. It was at the Christmas
dance in the War Memorial Hall. He was with a dowdy woman and they'd made a pig's ear out of a reverse turn in the waltz. He must have heard some of the gossip about Len.

‘So you have no plans to marry again?' he asked.

‘Would be a bit quick, wouldn't it?'

‘I only point it out because of the conditions. I am obliged to do so.'

Oh are you?
I thought.
Obliged
. ‘You mean the will?'

‘Not so much your husband's will but our provision for you here. There are conditions.'

‘I am aware of them.'

‘Then you understand my need to remind you. This is a delicate matter. If you marry again we would expect your new husband to provide for you.'

‘That would only be proper.'

‘Which means you would lose some of your benefits.'

‘This home?'

‘And the pension.'

‘You would expect a new husband to keep me?'

‘You would have to decide, Mrs Lancaster, if you preferred a new husband or an old pension. You wouldn't be able to have both.'

He smiled like he had made a joke, but I could tell it was one of those false smiles because only his mouth was animated. The rest of his face stayed still, and the smile disappeared, like he could turn it on and off.

‘Do you think this is the time to tell me?' I said.

‘I'm sorry,' he was saying. ‘This is always difficult.'

These people were quicker in cutting my pension than they were in arranging the funeral.

I knew they didn't approve of suicide but if they hadn't made him mad in the first place then he'd never have done it. ‘You'll have to go,' I said. ‘I don't feel well.'

‘I'm sorry.'

‘I'm a bit upset.'

‘Can I get you anything?' the man asked. ‘Some tea? Or some brandy? I carry a hip flask.'

I bet you do
, I thought. I wondered how they trained men like him.

‘I'll be all right,' I said. ‘I'd like some time on my own. Gather my thoughts.'

‘I understand,' the man said. I remembered that he had told me his Christian name was Gavin. He had said I could call him that if I liked or I could be formal if I preferred. Well, I did prefer. I didn't want to be on the sort of terms where he could presume to call me Violet.

He got up from the settee and then stopped by the door. He seemed to be wondering where he had left his umbrella.

‘As I said, these are difficult times.'

‘Will you see yourself out?' I asked but I could tell he couldn't leave fast enough. He was probably trying to work out whether it was worth sacrificing his umbrella in exchange for a quick exit. I imagined him sighing as he walked to his car.
Well, I may have lost my umbrella but at least that's another widow done for the day
. A bit of rain would serve him right.

As soon as he was gone I felt depressed all over again. I stared at the wall, the dark green below the dado, except there was no real dado to speak of. People had pity but I couldn't help feeling that in their heart of hearts they thought I deserved this; that I was even responsible. They were embarrassed by what had happened. Perhaps they thought suicide was a disease they could catch simply by speaking to me.

I thought about what the man had said. Gavin. I could give it all up: the house and the pension. I could persuade Len to let me live with him, even marry, I was sure, but I wasn't going to beg.

Perhaps Len wasn't being selfish in not asking me to marry him; maybe he knew or had guessed about the pension and was being practical and understanding. We would just have to carry on in our separate homes with the same standard of living. No difference. It wasn't romantic but I suppose it made a kind of sense.

But I felt a bit giddy. Len could at least have asked me to marry him and I could have politely declined. Or we could have discussed it. Now I would have to be above it all because of the money and the need to stay respectable. It was so hard to do right, to keep my dignity and think the best of people.

I wished I'd had some of the man's brandy but it was too late now.

Five o'clock. Two hours until
East Enders
.

I sat in the chair and tried to picture George as a young man. I wanted Len to come round and I wanted him to understand.

Cheer up, old girl
.

I was lonely in that room and I was frightened of growing old. Of losing my teeth. Or my mind.

I remembered my old mother. We had to put signs up all over her house. ‘This is a kettle. Put water in it first. This is a tap. Fill the kettle with water and put the lid on. This is the electricity socket. Turn it on when you have filled the kettle with water and put it back. This is a teapot …'

Then she forgot how to read and everything was hopeless. I thought of her saying the last time I visited her:
Please remind me how I know you
.

My own mother.

I didn't ever want to be like her. I didn't want to die on my own.

By 1983 Martin was travelling all over the country, working out suitable strategies for different sections of coastline, bringing back samples of rock, chalk and limestone so that the upstairs rooms of our house began to look like the lair of a Victorian fossil hunter. He kept talking about the fragility of cliffs and high-ridged sandstone, rippled and crumbling to the touch like spice, insisting that land was only loaned from the sea. He said that one crevice he was working on looked like a giant vagina. I told him that he should either keep quiet or develop a better knowledge of the female anatomy.

I was busy with Lucy, loving her with the same desperate and protective passion I had always had, but I still couldn't shift my feelings of worthlessness. There had to be more to my life than washing, baking and looking after a child. I wanted to make a difference, to do some kind of good in the world, and here I was, turning into my own mother. I wasn't bored exactly, but sometimes, out in the Lanes of Brighton, I would drift off and think about shoplifting or going missing or having vigorous sex with a complete stranger in the Royal Albion Hotel. I just didn't know who I was any more. Whatever happened to ethical ambition? Where was that Aldermaston spirit now?

Then, towards the end of the summer term, the women's group started to talk about the peace camp at Greenham Common. The installation of cruise missiles was set for November and the women there were appealing for others to join them. I heard one of them on the radio telling people not to be afraid: ‘You might think that
you are alone, sitting at home. You may think that your contribution won't make much difference, that you only have a tiny voice in the middle of this dark time in our history, but together we can shout, “Enough. Stop this insanity.” '

I was angry that common English land should be appropriated and endangered by weapons controlled from another country. What was the point in having children if the government was so reckless with their future? I had marched at university and sent money to CND but here was something I could do that was practical and immediate. I even got to the stage of thinking that if I didn't go and the cruise missiles came then any nuclear incident would be my fault because I hadn't been there to stop them.

I knew Martin would worry as soon as he discovered my plan and so I decided to organise it in secret and then break the news to him over supper in the garden. I didn't want there to be any doubt or for him to put on his dependent face that always made me feel guilty.

‘Can't you go for a weekend?' he asked.

‘That doesn't count, does it?' I said. ‘The missiles aren't there for the weekend. War doesn't break out for a weekend.'

‘But you have a family …'

‘Yes, but there won't be much of a family left if I don't do something about it.'

‘And what about Lucy?'

‘I'll take her with me.'

‘For God's sake, Claire. She's far too young.'

‘I can look after her there. There are lots of children.'

‘So you've already made up your mind. Before talking to me?'

‘I'm not doing this for me; I'm doing it for the future. Please,' I said, ‘don't make it hard for me.'

Martin picked up the plates and went back into the house. ‘I'll have to think about it, Claire.'

Don't you dare
, I thought.
Don't you dare try and stop me
.