The Immaculate (25 page)

Walking, he felt a part of all this, part of the grand design. It was how he had always felt as a child, the only place where he felt he slotted in. Thankfully, that feeling was commonplace to him now. In London he felt he was a central piece in a jigsaw. The components of his life—his flat, his work, his relationships, London itself—fit snugly around him, forming a neatly interlinked pattern, a perfect self-contained circle. It was only Beckford and his memories of it that impinged on this circle, that scraped at the edges of it and occasionally drew blood. It was only his past that prevented him being truly happy.

He sat on a grassy bank beneath the languid trees, the winking sun, and told himself that this was the ideal opportunity to pluck the thorn from his flesh. So far he'd been backpedalling, had allowed his fear of this place to come at him. What he had to do was attack, to laugh in his father's dead face and Patty Bates' live one, to “lay a few ghosts” as both Gail and his aunt had termed it.

It was easy sitting here planning all this. The difficult part would be to defy the voice on the phone at the dead of night, to storm from room to room, throwing open doors, at the sound of footsteps. Now, in the daylight, he wondered again whether he really had seen his father. Though he'd always regarded the supernatural with an open mind, even with sympathy, he found it hard to accept the existence of a real M. R. James/Algernon Blackwood-type ghost. He actually smiled at the idea, as though it were somehow quaint. Already he felt better, equipped to face whatever challenges the day held. He stood up, brushed grass seeds from his jeans, and began to stroll back the way he had come.

Later that morning he visited the solicitor, who explained that his father had died intestate and his affairs would probably take two to three months to sort out. Jack made a note of all the documents the solicitor required and promised he'd do his best to find them. Next, he went to register his father's death, and watched as the registrar, a hunched gnome-like man with sparse stringy hair, scribbled down the details.

Jack found it scary and sad that what a life amounted to, in official terms, was simply three pieces of paper documenting details of birth, marriage and death. It all seemed so final and pointless, so unfeelingly efficient. It was a sharp reminder, if one was needed, that life was short and that there were no happy endings.

He was pleased to see Georgina at lunchtime, though she commented immediately on how tired he looked. Jack admitted that he hadn't slept well, and simply grunted noncommitally when she remarked that she too always found it difficult to sleep in a strange bed for the first time. He told her about his morning, relayed as succinctly as he could what the solicitor and registrar had said. She nodded airily, as though it was all routine, but Jack suspected she was relieved he was dealing with the legalities.

For lunch she made gammon steaks, roasted potatoes, green beans, carrots and gravy. Jack couldn't remember the last time he had eaten red meat; nowadays he found it heavy and salty. Nevertheless, he was touched by the trouble she had gone to and ate with gusto, murmuring sounds of appreciation. By the time she produced an enormous rhubarb crumble and a vat of custard, he was sated, but forced himself to exclaim, “Oh, wonderful!”

Over tea, he steered the conversation toward Tracey Bates. “I met her last night,” he said, “when I popped in to the Seven Stars for a drink.”

“Oh, yes? And what did you think of her?”

“She's . . . ,” Jack dithered an instant between adjectives, “very headstrong, isn't she?”

Georgina laughed, as if Jack had made the understatement of the year. “Yes,” she agreed, “she is headstrong. Wild, some would say. I expect you'll have found out who her dad is then?”

“Patty Bates,” said Jack, grimacing.

Georgina nodded. “He used to bully you at school, didn't he?”

“Yeah.” Jack ran a finger around the rim of his teacup. “I guess he must have changed now, though? I mean, he's grown up, hasn't he? He's got responsibilities.”

“Oh, he hasn't changed that much,” said Georgina. “He's still an oaf and a bully. I'll say this for him, though—he dotes on that daughter of his. She wants for nothing, that one, can twist her father round her little finger like a piece of string.”

“And what about Mrs. Bates?” Immediately an image came to Jack's mind of Norman's mother in
Psycho,
a mummified husk in the fruit cellar.

“Oh, she was a real beauty,” Georgina said. “She came from York, I think. Goodness knows how the two of them started courting. Whenever I saw her, even just shopping in the village, she'd be dressed up to the nines and plastered with makeup as if she had something to prove. From what I hear she and Patrick didn't get along very well—I don't expect they had very much in common. There were all sorts of stories: screaming matches in public, physical violence, even talk of her having had an affair with some businessman from Leeds. I never actually spoke to the woman, but from all accounts she was very high and mighty. She hated being referred to as a pub landlady, and she regarded Beckford as a horrible little backwater and the villagers as nothing but peasants. I think she wanted Patrick to pull up his roots and move back to York with her, and when he refused she left him.”

“When was this?” Jack asked.

“Let's see—Tracey was about . . . ten then, and she's seventeen now. I'd say around ninety-seven, give or take a year.”

“And Patty got custody of the child?”

“Yes. You see, the pub was in Patrick's name and Mrs. Bates didn't work except for behind the bar. Besides, this is where Tracey was born and bred. She was at school here, she had all her friends here, and it was not as if Mrs. Bates could provide Tracey with a stable environment. I think she went back to live with her parents. I don't know what became of her after that.”

“Tracey never talks about her?”

“I don't know her that well. She only got in touch and offered to help with the house because she heard that you were coming back to Beckford and she'd read all your books.”

Jack nodded, a little troubled. He couldn't make Tracey out. From what he had seen of her, her behaviour was erratic, and dangerously so. His aunt made it sound as if she was simply a harmless fan, all eager and starry-eyed, but in the pub last night she'd been offhand, even arrogant. Such behaviour could perhaps have been seen as a defence against shyness if it hadn't been for the incident later that evening. Had he upset her in some way to make her act like that? Or had she been trying to prove something? Maybe the business with the condom was intended to be some kind of clumsy sexual advance. If so, her seductive methods left a great deal to be desired. He thought briefly of John Lennon, of fans so obsessed that they would kill the people they adored so their names would become inextricably linked with their hero's. If the thought wasn't so alarming it would have been hilarious. Him, Jack Stone, the idol of a deranged sex kitten? Come off it!

“I expect her parents' break up was hard for her,” Jack said.

Georgina nodded. “I expect so. But it's becoming the norm, isn't it? These days people treat marriage far too lightly. I don't want to sound like an old duffer, Jack, but when I was younger, you only married someone if you were certain you wanted to spend your life with them. Divorce was a dirty word back then; there was a stigma attached to it. These days anything goes. I don't know what the world's coming to.” She shook her head, then released a croaky laugh. “Listen to me. I
do
sound like an old duffer.”

Jack laughed too. “Never,” he said. “As far as I'm concerned, you'll always be fab and groovy.”

Their conversation drifted away from the topic of Tracey and Patty Bates. Jack reminisced about people he'd known and Georgina brought him up to date with potted histories and the occasional caustic comment. Beckford was not exactly
Twin Peaks,
nor even
Coronation Street;
the general trend seemed to be for a stodgy continuity that Jack found stifling. Not that he was opposed to community life—far from it—but the place seemed drained of all colour, all innovation. It had become so introverted that it had, in Jack's opinion, disappeared up its own backside. People had got older, got ill, got married, had children, died, but none of them had actually
done
anything. No one had gone on a safari to Africa, become an Olympic athlete, had a sex change operation, robbed a bank. In Beckford, such movers and shakers were not encouraged, and indeed Jack felt as though his own achievements were generally frowned upon. He was an impudent upstart who had drawn unwelcome attention, albeit minimal, to the village in which he had been born. And now he was back like the prodigal son, come to weep crocodile tears at the graveside of a father he had never loved.

Jack wondered how much of this was in his imagination and how much was true. He looked at his watch and was surprised to find it was almost two-twenty. “I'd better get going,” he said. “I've got to see the undertaker this afternoon, make all the final arrangements.”

“I'll come with you if you don't mind,” Georgina said, pushing herself up from her chair as if Jack were already leaving. “I wanted to see your father again before Thursday.”

She made it sound like a social call. “Of course I don't mind,” he said, though in truth he was reluctant for his aunt to accompany him. She had always been such a rock in his eyes that he hated the prospect of seeing her grieve. It would be like seeing her naked, totally vulnerable, and what would make it worse would be his own inability to share her tears.

Locking the front door behind her, she asked, “Will you be wanting to see your father, Jack?”

It was a question he had asked himself. If he did see his father, it would not be to say good-bye, but merely to confirm that he was dead, and somehow that seemed like the wrong reason. “I don't know,” he replied.

“Well, it's your choice,” Georgina said neutrally. “Don't feel as though you have to.”

They drove to the funeral home in tense and contemplative silence, Georgina squeezing a handkerchief in her right hand as if in readiness. The undertaker, Jeremy Coombs, had clear blue eyes and a snow-white beard; Jack wondered whether he hired himself out as Father Christmas at children's parties. When he spoke it was softly, leaning forward so you could smell the Listerine on his breath. Perhaps, thought Jack, he was afraid that if he raised his voice it might rouse the dear departed from their slumber. He and Jack discussed the financial arrangements as Georgina sat mutely by. She had already chosen the wood for the coffin and the music for the ceremony. Jack concurred with her choice in a library-soft murmur. Final details were ironed out—flowers, cars—and then Coombs placed his hands together and asked if they now wished to view the deceased.

Jack hesitated, staring at Coombs. Then he became aware that his aunt was nodding her head and, almost grudgingly, followed her lead. Coombs led the two of them along a wood-panelled corridor, opened a door and ushered them inside. They found themselves in a tiny room that was simply furnished, austere even. A table supported two white candles and an arrangement of artificial flowers. The candlelight was supplemented by the light of a fluorescent strip along the far wall, which was itself muted by a wooden pelmet so as not to dazzle tear-spangled eyes. The coffin stood at waist height on a velvet-draped platform in the middle of the room. Jack approached it.

So this was it: death, the great unknown. He was staring down into its face for the first time and he was feeling . . . what? He wasn't sure; there was a little sadness, a little fear, there was even relief. In a way, however, he felt detached, perhaps numbed by the unreality of the situation, anaesthetized by anticlimax. He was half-aware of a studiedly detached train of thought which ran:
It doesn't look so bad. It's peaceful, it's dignified, it's painless.
And yet beneath these thoughts could other darker, more primal thoughts be simmering?

Perhaps the most surprising thing was that he felt no hatred towards his father. The old man did not look as bad as Jack had anticipated. He was a little older, a little slimmer, but Jack had half-expected something haggard and shrivelled, clawed hands drawn up, cheeks sunken, flesh ghastly pale. His earlier suspicion that his father's body had lain undiscovered for some time appeared mercifully unfounded. He became aware of his aunt standing close beside him and automatically draped an arm across her thin shoulders.

There was nothing to be learned here, no revelation to be had. Certainly seeing the body laid out in its coffin seemed confirmation that his father was actually dead, but Jack had never really doubted that fact. Nevertheless, he had to suppress an urge to poke the corpse's stomach to make sure. They stood there, the three of them, in a silence that was as awkward as it was reverential. It was Georgina who finally stirred, who slipped her handkerchief into the sleeve of her cardigan and wearily said, “Let's go.”

“Hello?”

“Gail?”

“Jack!”

“Gail, where have you been?”

“What do you mean, where have
I
been?”

“I've been trying to reach you, but you're never in, and both your answering machines have been off.”

“What do you mean,
I'm
never in?” Gail said indignantly. “I've only been working and running round after you. I've tried to call you on your mobile several times, with no result—”

“No signal,” said Jack, but she was still talking.

“—and when I
have
been in I've been like a cat on hot bricks, sitting with the phone next to me, waiting for it to ring.”

“Did you go to my flat?”

“Yes I did.
And
I got your post.”