Cooee (39 page)

I glare at Dominic, who pretends that he does not notice, and will not meet my eyes. He says one or two more things, to which I do not listen, and steps down.

How dare he? I am thinking, the question pounding through my head with the force of an elephant stampede. I am so furious that I can sense the urgent particular throb of the blood in my temples. I am so furious that I could strangle Dominic.

Why should he have done this? Why impose upon me a wish I do not feel, a love I do not acknowledge, an obligation I deny? And, if he was going to say anything of the kind, why should he have made it sound as if the generosity was all on her side? It wasn't easy to be loved by Zoë, to be perpetually battered by her powerful zeal and her strident self-righteousness. What about
my
generosity of spirit? Why doesn't that rate a mention?

I am only dimly aware of the rest of the service, but sooner than I expect I find to my relief that it is over and the front pews are dispersing.

I am surprised, when I turn around, to see how full the church now is. Again I think I see Frank at the far corner of my peripheral vision; it turns out to be some innocent person with no great resemblance to Frank on any count. We all file out into the uncertain weather, where a few cold drops are starting to fall, and two or three people whom I distantly remember approach me and say trite and hypocritical things about what a shock it is and how much we are all going to miss Zoë.

Speak for yourself
, I feel like saying, but do not. I excuse myself as soon as I decently can, and look for Dominic; but he is caught up with other groups and I can dimly sense by now that it's not going to be a good idea to stalk up to him and demand an immediate explanation.

A private cremation follows the service. I consider absenting myself, but in the end I decide to be generous and I go. Kate (who hasn't asked my advice on this matter) brings Sophie, who is too young for such a thing, and I am infuriated by her insensitivity.

I buttonhole Dominic at the end of it, as we trail towards our cars.

‘Why did you say that?' I ask. ‘About me, about me wanting to join in the tribute.'

He looks down at me. It's annoying, that he's so much taller than I am.

‘I did ring you about it,' he says, sounding bored. ‘You weren't home, or at any rate you didn't answer, and I thought I could surely assume you'd want one of us to say something. Henry said you didn't want to speak. I presumed you were too distraught to do so.' (He draws out the word ‘distraught', accentuates it, makes of it an insult.)

It is probably true that he rang. I often ignore the telephone, especially if I've been drinking. But it is no excuse.

‘I gave you no permission to say anything on my behalf.'

‘Isabel, I'm trying to explain that it wasn't up to you. Henry wanted you to be included. He knew Zoë would have wanted you included, somehow, and so it was important that this was in fact achieved. Kate and I discussed it. The most significant thing appeared to us to be that Henry have the sort of ceremony he wanted, the sort he thought Zoë would want. That's all there is to it.'

‘You should have asked me.'

He shrugs and starts to move away. ‘I'm sorry you should feel like that. I must say, I don't see what the fuss is about.'

So cold, so formal! If only he had put his arm around my shoulder, given me a squeeze, said:
Hey, Mum, c'mon.
If only he would come halfway to meet me, only condescend to give the faintest impression — just sometimes — that he cares about me. I'd melt in a moment. I'd be so loving.

I turn on my heel and stride to my car. It's hard to stride in the black patent high heels I'm wearing, but I manage it pretty well. Out of the corner of my eye I catch the expression on his face as I move away. It's quite blank.

It's that blankness, I think, that finally pierces my armour, triggers the reaction I turn out (to my surprise) to have been suppressing all along.

As I drive home I think about Dominic's blank face, about Dominic's refusal ever to engage with me, to talk with me, to love me. It comes to me that the blankness will last forever, that it will never be replaced by concern or responsiveness or even friendliness. My only son will stare blankly at my face for the rest of his life. He will never love me. I discover that tears are slipping down my face, slowly at first and then faster and wetter and heavier until I can scarcely see the road, the traffic.

By the time I get home my face is smeared with mascara and snot and my sobs are out of control, causing me to shake violently. Somehow I park my car and I stumble inside my house where I weep and weep and weep. I weep for my son, for the relationship I will never have with him. I weep for my love, who lies dead because I killed him. I weep for my sister, whose absence I suddenly feel like a cavernous and painful rupture in my heart. I weep for my lostness, for my aloneness, for the final disappearance of hope from my wilted life.

Later that evening I sit alone, sipping my brandy. I wonder wearily what Frank is doing; in some sense I realise that I am waiting for Frank, that now I am always waiting for Frank. I feel exhausted, depressed, betrayed beyond all bearing.

Who has betrayed me? I don't know, but I am sure it is the sourness of betrayal on my tongue, the flat acrid taste of the disappointment betrayal brings, a taste like wine gone bad.

I also feel guilty. It is my fault that Max has never had a funeral, never been farewelled, celebrated, squabbled over. Max has had no decorous grave, no purifying flame, no sober headstone. Nobody has played Vivaldi for him; nobody has shown photographs of his childhood to an appreciative and tearful congregation; nobody has delivered a eulogy. There he lies, or what's left of him, in a hole of rubble. Does he know, I wonder? Does he care?

As always, the brandy helps. It dulls the edge of the pain. I know it dulls the edge of thought, too, but there is nobody now to care whether my thoughts are muddled or not. Its consoling warmth is miraculous; miraculous, too, the steadiness and ease with which it seeps through my body. It comforts and pillows me; it insulates me from my own loneliness.

And still I am listening for the knock on the door, the knock of a man who will tell me that he knows what I am guilty of, a man who will neither compromise nor negotiate, who will arrest me and deprive me of everything.

Perhaps Borrow will die before I have to desert him. He is an old dog. He creaks; he totters, a little, especially on the left rear leg, where he had the operation a few years ago. His eyes are clouded. He'll die, soon: he'll die, selfishly, and leave me all alone.

And Sophie will grow and become different, and — perhaps, probably, certainly — love me less. Already I have alienated her. For God's sake, I think, I've snapped at her
once
— after years of love and devotion and gentleness and constancy. But that one lapse was enough: already, her disengagement has clearly started.

As we both grow older, I suppose I shall have to try to retrieve the relationship. I'm not certain that's possible. I'm still angry with her. I have the right to be angry with her. As she grows into adulthood, as she becomes a mother herself, it seems inevitable that we will drift from each other. It requires so much energy to remain close with people, to have quarrels with them and forgive them and reconcile with them.

Maintaining relationships is like maintaining cars: you have to keep servicing them, repairing parts, mending tyres, polishing and replacing and tightening. Not enough people care about their relationship with me. Not enough people love me, or love me enough. Nobody wants to polish up the screws, the nuts, the bolts. Nobody cares about making sure the components are tight enough, making sure everything's in working condition.

Maintaining bodies is problematic, too, of course. My own body is starting to give way. I'm only in my mid-fifties, but I can feel it through me, the grim loosening, the start of the slow vicious collapse. I grow old. Nothing is left for me but growing older. I'll mutter, when I'm old, like a witch, and my great-grandchildren will be frightened of me, especially if I'm in prison. And it's quite likely that that's where I'll be.

I'll grow hairs on my chin. My body will weaken and creak, its bones slowly corroding, disintegrating until they snap like celery, and my mind will fray and crumble like old lace. And then I will be dead, too. All quite deadybones.

Surely, surely, I have deserved better than this. Haven't I?

Title Page

Copyright Page

Dedication

Part One

Part Two

Part Three

Part Four

Part Five

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