Last Friends (Old Filth Trilogy) (22 page)

‘Anna, stop. You have taken the leathery old scales from my eyes and I love you both.’

‘Why?’

‘Well, I’ve rather gone in for romantic secrets in other people’s lives. “Romantic” is not quite right. It’s a dirty word now, meaning sexy and silly. But, for me, it has always meant imaginative and beautiful and private. By the way, did I tell you that poor Fiscal-Smith is dead?’

The car swerved and swung in an arc from the fast lane to the central to the slow and stopped with a screech of brakes on the verge. Traffic swore at them.

‘Dulcie!
What
—?’

‘Yes. Fiscal-Smith is dead. I heard up at the house. A rather awful man has bought it. He shouted it at me.’

‘Oh, Dulcie! It
can’t
be true. He was perfectly all right at Old Filth’s party—I mean memorial service. Who the
hell
are these morbid northern lunatics? I’ll e-mail Hong Kong. Where’s he staying? The Peninsula, of course,’

‘Not if he was paying the bill himself. No, Anna. It would have been the Y.M.C.A. He liked it there. Maybe I should go out there. At once.’

‘You do not
stir
, Dulcie. Not till we have the facts.’

‘I think I may. I think you’ve given me the urge to travel again, Anna. Oh, I do hope that at least some of my letters got there in time. I’m afraid I was very outspoken though. I apologised rather pathetically—I don’t really know why. I said too much. But actually—I don’t think one
can
say too much at my time of life, do you? Or ever. About love.’

‘I’m sorry, Dulcie. I just don’t believe he’s dead,’ and they drove on for many miles.

‘Life,’ said Dulcie, south of Birmingham, ‘is really ridiculous. Why were we thought worth creating if we are such bloody fools? What’s happiness? I wish I could talk to Susan like this.’

‘Well, you can’t. The idea that mothers and daughters can say everything to each other is a myth. But I know she loves you. In her way.’

‘That makes me feel better. But, Anna—why does it
have
to be “in her way”?’

* * *

They turned off at last into the unlikely lane off the A30 towards the Donheads and Dulcie felt herself pointing out to dear, dead Betty Feathers the tree in the hedge that looked like a huge hen on a nest. And the funny man—look he
is
still there!—who wanders about with a scythe. (‘He won’t go into Care you know. I can’t say I blame him. I’m going to stick on as long as I can at Privilege House, even if I have to sell the spoons.’)

‘Here we are Dulcie. I’m going to stop here and wait for the ambulance. It’s not far behind. Here it comes. Marvellous!’

‘And I’m getting out here,’ said Dulcie, ‘if you’ll get my pull-along out of the back. Yes—yes I mean it. You must go with Henry. I’ll walk to my front gate—you can see it from here, look. Don’t go on until I turn and wave.’

‘I’ll ring up in half an hour,’ said Anna. ‘And I’ll watch you in. We’ll bring you some supper. Soon.
Now don’t forget
, turn and wave at the gate.’

Dulcie trailed her case on wheels to the wrought-iron gate, which she was surprised to see open, and turned and waved.

Then she turned back towards the courtyard where Fiscal-Smith was standing surrounded by an enormous amount of luggage.

It was Easter Day. St. Ague’s bells were clanking out and the steep church-path was at its most slippery and dangerous. Filth’s magnificent legacy was still being discussed. And discussed. What first? Heating, roof, floor, walls, glass, pews,
path
? In the meantime, in spring, the clumps of primroses would go on growing like bridesmaids’ bouquets in the nooks and crannies of the old railway-sleeper steps. Dulcie and Fred were proceeding cautiously towards the Easter Eucharist and on every side around them tulips, and daffodils and pansies graced the graves for Easter, in pots and jars and florists’ wreathes.

‘It’s like a fruit-salad,’ said Fiscal-Smith, ‘I don’t care for it. Never did. Pagan.’

‘Oh, “live and let—”,’ said Dulcie. ‘But no. That’s not very apt.’

‘I want these railway-sleepers out,’ said Fiscal-Smith. ‘They’re black and full of slugs. We can get good money for the Church for them. Install proper steps! There’s a church I’ve heard of in south Dorset where they’ve put in a lift and an escalator. I’ll have to get on with it.’

‘You’re a Roman Catholic, Fiscal-Smith. St. Ague’s is nothing to do with you.’

‘Wait til I’m on the parish council,’ he said. ‘Dulcie! Stand clear. Here’s that Chloe.’

‘On, on,’ he said. ‘End in sight. Doors wide open. Or we could construct a sort of poly-tunnel.’

A gold haze hung inside the church door. Lilies. Tall candles, a glinting Cope. ‘Don’t fuss—they can’t start without us,’ he said and Dulcie said ‘What rubbish.’

They had to pause again. Up in the porch they could see the gleam of one of the twins’ walking-frames and the Carer skulking round the back of a tomb-stone having a quick drag on a gauloise.

‘The gravestones are a disgrace too,’ said Fiscal-Smith. ‘Tipping about. I can see to that. The most useful thing I’ve learned in my long career at the construction-industry Bar is the importance of a reliable builder.’

‘I like them tipping about,’ she said.

‘I knew a man
killed
by a gravestone tipping about,’ said Fiscal-Smith.

‘I expect it was trying to tell him something. Just listen to Old Filth’s rooks! They’re back again.’

‘Were they ever away?’ he said.

‘Fred—the organ! It’s
roaring
. The Procession’s gathering up for “The fight is o’er, the Battle done”—. Come
on
. Wonderful! Hurry!’

‘Reminds me of old Eddie’s wedding day in Hong Kong,’ he said. ‘I don’t know if you remember, Dulcie, but he chose me to be his best man.’

‘Were there no
girls
in your life, Fred?’

Arm in arm, they tottered.

‘Just you, Dulcie. Otherwise I’m afraid it was only trains.’

Singing mingled with the flooding thunder of the organ. ‘Calm, my dear,’ said Fiscal-Smith. ‘Calm.’

And so they made their way towards the Resurrection.

* * *

The End

Jane Gardam is the only writer to have been twice awarded the Whitbread Prize for Best Novel of the Year (for
The Queen of the Tambourine
and
The Hollow Land
). She also holds a Heywood Hill Literary Prize for a lifetime’s contribution to the enjoyment of literature.

She has published four volumes of acclaimed stories:
Black Faces, White Faces
(David Higham Prize and the Royal Society for Literature’s Winifred Holtby Prize);
The Pangs of Love
(Katherine Mansfield Prize);
Going into a Dark House
(Silver Pen Award from PEN); and most recently,
Missing the Midnight
.

Her novels include
The Man in the Wooden Hat
,
God on the Rocks
(shortlisted for the Booker Prize),
Faith Fox
,
The Flight of the Maidens
and
Old Filth
, a
New York Times
Notable Book of the Year.

Jane Gardam lives in England.