Funeral Music (22 page)

CHAPTER 25

AS THE TAXI drove off, Derek let himself in through Cecily’s front door. She came into the narrow hall to greet him, and not kindly. It was too dark to see his creased and exhausted face properly.

‘You’re exactly’ – she peered at her watch – ‘seven hours and eighteen minutes late.’

‘Don’t,’ he said faintly, leaning against the wall with his briefcase in one hand, holding up the other in submission. ‘Please, Cec. I’ll explain. I’ve only just got away. I’ve been with the police. About the Sawyer murder. They grilled me, then they made me stay while they checked everything I told them. Took hours. Chief Inspector Poole says I’m lucky there’s an insomniac in Camden Crescent who saw my car being ransacked. It wasn’t my fault. Don’t start. Please.’

To his surprise she did not, not straightaway. She turned away.

‘I had a takeaway,’ she said, ‘and now I’m going to bed.’ At the foot of the stairs she said,
‘I don’t know if you’re hungry. There’s nothing in the fridge. You said you were cooking. I don’t know where you were, I don’t know why you were late, I don’t know why you didn’t phone. I don’t know why I don’t throw you out. In the morning I would like an explanation. And some decisions. About us. Don’t wake me when you come up.’ She turned and went upstairs.

Derek’s aching heartburn had subsided and a headache pulsed in its place. Although he was starving, going out again for something to eat was unthinkable; he felt too exhausted even to stay upright much longer. Dumping his briefcase on the sofa, he wandered into the kitchen, collected a glass, a corkscrew and a bottle of Chianti and took them back to the sitting room, opened the bottle and swigged heavily from it before filling his glass. He prised off his shoes, returned to the kitchen and opened the fridge. She had been inaccurate. There was not quite nothing in the fridge. There was low-fat spread, oil-free salad cream, two tomatoes, half a lettuce and a soft cucumber end. Derek’s personal view of salads was that about five times a year, and only when in Italy or France, a few choice leaves served as useful little boats for a good oil and garlic dressing. In all other circumstances his contempt for salads extended to the people who ate them. In the door of the fridge he found a plastic tub containing the curdled watery remains of reduced-fat cottage cheese with (which only added to his disgust) pineapple. Cottage cheese he did not even regard as a foodstuff. Deep inside him his annoyance, thick, hairy and foul-smelling, yawned, got up, stretched, turned round and lay back down like a dog before a roaring fire. He shut the fridge and went back to the sitting room to damp down the flames with Chianti.

Stretched out on the sofa he sipped his wine and thought hungrily and wistfully of the fridge at home. Pauline always kept their fridge well stocked. There would always be good cheese, probably pâté or decent ham, olives, butter. Eggs. Bacon. Bread. Tins of anchovies in the cupboards. Chocolate biscuits in their tins.
Chocolate
. Suddenly, he remembered. Oh, may blessings rain upon Sharlene Hanrahan and Darren Harper, whose two boxes of Quality Street were in his briefcase. With trembling hands he whipped round the numbers of the combination lock and the catches snapped open. Taking a box in each hand he tipped their contents onto the carpet in front of him and spent a relaxing minute or two hunched over his hoard, picking out the ones he did not much like and then, with the toffees, coconut fudges and coffee creams safely de-selected, he set to.

Later he carried the empty bottle, his wineglass and about three dozen sweetie wrappers out to the kitchen. His headache was no better, but his blood-sugar level and consequently his temper had improved. He felt just about communicative enough to tell Cecily all about his terrible afternoon and even worse evening as a murder suspect, in at least as much detail as it would take to arouse sufficient sympathy for her to countenance the advance of his slightly chocolaty fingers between her thighs. She might even want a Quality Street, he thought wildly, picking up the leftover sweeties and dropping them in one of the boxes on his way upstairs. He clicked on the bedside light and sat down heavily on the bed. He undressed as noisily as possible. She could not be asleep now.

‘Fancy a toffee, Cec?’ he said, shaking the box. No answer. Obviously she did not like the toffee ones either. ‘Coffee cream?’ He waited. She did not stir. ‘Coconut fudge?’ he sniggered. Oh, she was so picky. He climbed clumsily in beside her motionless form, which remained quite still as he rubbed himself perfunctorily against her wrinkly bottom. She clearly intended to keep up the pretence of being asleep, and she was wearing seersucker pyjamas. Damn her, he thought, popping the last four toffees into his mouth and chewing lasciviously before dropping the wrappers on the floor and turning out the light.

IT WAS still dark, and he was at once aware that what had woken him up was pain. Pain in, or near, his chest, where he could feel his heart hammering. Turning slightly he felt it again; the tearing, raw sensation in his left side, near his armpit. Oh, God, a heart attack. Please, not a heart attack. He stirred and he felt it again.
Pain
. Blood was thumping through his temples and banging in his throat. He tried to move his left arm and the pain came again and left him panting. His arm was pinned to his side, and now he was not sure if it was really dark, or if he simply couldn’t see. He knew that even if the pain allowed him to sit up he would drown in a giddy, sick and swimming whirlpool. He cried out with what felt like his last breath, which was now coming in frightened gasps. Oddly, even while Cecily’s white and tousled face was staring over him, during her agitated talking into the phone and as she was struggling into clothes, there was a detached and unsurprised part of him watching, knowing that he’d been heading for this. And all day he’d thought it was indigestion. He tried to turn and raise his head and the pain swept round him again. No mistaking it now. How long would it take? He couldn’t move his arm. As he lay, the faintness in his head came in waves and his fifty-year-old heart clamoured beneath its flesh cloak of seven surplus stones. Oh, God, is this dying? Keep breathing. Don’t try to talk. Oh, God, a heart attack. No wonder, no bloody wonder, right at the end of the year, and after a day like today. He would not be able to keep on breathing. He shifted his weight and the pain in his left side tore at him again before he lost consciousness.

CHAPTER 26

BEING SUE’S LISTENING ear had begun to feel like a heavy responsibility. Really, the proper and only substance of telephone calls around midnight, unless between lovers, should be hospital admissions, stranded travellers, and breakdowns. Automobile, not nervous, unless absolutely in extremis. Calling at ten to midnight with an invitation to meet for coffee in town next morning had not fallen into even the last of these categories, however brave the sentiment and brittle the voice.

‘I’ll tell you all about it when we meet,’ Sue had said last night, and then proceeded to tell Sara most of it there and then. ‘You weren’t in bed, were you? Oh look, I really
hope
you weren’t having an early night. I had to talk to someone. I’m here at Aunt Livy’s, but she’s not here, not down here with me, I mean. I think she must have gone to bed. Well, look, I’ll just tell you briefly. I went round to Paul’s when I’d finished work tonight. I was going to wait for him. But he was there, there was a light on, and the curtains were all shut. He
never
shuts the curtains. So I went up to the French windows and he’d locked them. And he
never
locks them. So then I banged on the door and he came, and he said he was ill. Well, he was trying to look ill, but he wasn’t. He wasn’t ill earlier on. He wasn’t ill at all. And you won’t believe this, but he wouldn’t let me in. He actually refused to let me in. He’d got someone there.’

She had paused to give Sara room to absorb this and produce the appropriate outraged response.

‘
No
. Oh, Sue, I am
sorry
.’ Sara was thinking, the
bastard
.

‘He’d
got someone there
, I’m sure of it. So that’s it, Sara. I mean it. That’s
it
. And do you know what? I’m not even angry. I’m calm. I’m really, really calm. And that’s
it
. He’s had it.’ She took a deep breath.

‘And so I came here, and I’ve had a proper think now, and I thought what I’ll do is, tomorrow I’ll go shopping in town and do Something for Myself. I’m going to get a new tracksuit and I’m going to get it tomorrow and get really fit and take proper care of myself and sod him. I’ve got this book my landlady lent me, how to treat your inner celebrity. You just decide what your type is and then you do all these things it tells you. Makes
tons
of sense when you read this book. So I’m going to make tomorrow the day I drink eight glasses of water, to clear the body of toxins. And I thought it’d be really nice to see you and have coffee – well, water probably – and just have a nice day and not think about him at all. Do you know, I’m practically over it already. I’ve
decided
, Sara, I’ve really decided. And I’m
really
calm.
Stuff
him.’

A slight screech had come into her voice and Sara heard her start breathing slowly in through her nose and out through her mouth, the way therapists tell you to.

‘Well done. You have a good night’s sleep and I’ll see you tomorrow. Pump Room at eleven,’ she had said.

AND SO now here she was, pleased to have secured a table in the Pump Room, albeit one rather too close to the trio pounding out a reduction for piano, violin and cello of the Trout Quintet, and waiting for Sue. She had walked down through Northend before it got too hot, caught the Badger-line bus into town, browsed in the music shop and bought a rereleased CD of one of Edwin’s early recordings with a hilarious early photo of him, lugubrious and slick-haired, on the front, which she was looking forward to teasing him about. She had strolled round a watercolour exhibition in the Victoria Art Gallery. It was pleasant to feel unencumbered by the car-parking deadline, a little like being on holiday in a foreign city. She pushed the sudden thought of Paris from her mind as she saw Sue coming towards her, laden with the spoils of a morning’s fearless shopping. She was beautiful, aglow with the triumph of acquisition. Sara thought benignly that she looked so great striding across the Pump Room in her expensive sunglasses that she could be forgiven for not taking them off before she got to the table.

‘Hiya! Mmwaw! Mmwaw!’ she exclaimed, leaning over and bestowing extravagant air kisses on either side of Sara’s face, before landing theatrically in the chair opposite.

‘Whoof! Sorry I’m late. Look at
this
.’ She stretched into one of her bags and pulled out a fistful of pale grey fleecy cotton. ‘New tracksuit. Maroon piping,’ she said. ‘I got fed up without one. I had another grey one, but I lost it somewhere. I thought it was at Aunt Livy’s, but anyway, it wasn’t. I lose track, I’ve got stuff all over the place. I should get it sorted out. Maybe I will now. I may have left it at Fortune Park. Anyway, it’s not there now. It could have been nicked, only you don’t like to think of stuff getting nicked from there, do you? Meant to be a bit classier than that, really, isn’t it?’

She burbled on as Sara ordered coffee. ‘You see, the Paul thing, and the tracksuit. They’re kind of related. I mean, I’ve just gone along wondering if any of it’ll turn out. I’ve done everything Paul wanted. Didn’t matter what he wanted, I did it. Anything. I just believed whatever he said.’

She reflected. ‘I can see now how wrong I was. He’s just strung me along, you know? And suddenly I’ve got fed up, see? Just so fed up I’m thinking, right, enough. If he wants to get someone else to do everything he wants, I’m thinking, well, Paul, you just sod off and I’ll just go and buy myself another tracksuit. And I just wish I’d done it earlier. Seen it. It’s all to do with self-esteem. Empowerment. Celebrating You. Know what I mean?’

The newfound power within her was making her babble. Coffee arrived.

‘I’ll pour, shall I? Are you having anything to eat? I’m starving. Screw Paul, I’m going to get fat.’

She craned round looking for a waiter, but instead her eyes rested on some point of interest near the door. She turned back to Sara confidentially.

‘There’s a bloke in the queue,’ she said in a quiet, puzzled voice, her chin inches from the tablecloth. ‘No, don’t look now, I’ll tell you when. I recognise him from a photograph. I’m sure it’s him. Remember Cecily, my landlady? He’s the boyfriend, only he’s married. He’s supposed to be spending the weekend with her, that’s why I went to Livy’s. Only he’s here with someone else. Him in the shirt and suit trousers and brand-new trainers. He does look strange.’

‘That’s extraordinary,’ said Sara, when Sue allowed her to look. ‘It
is
him. I saw him that day we went to the Healing Arts. Before I met Cecily and you in the Tea Room. He doesn’t look too well, does he?’

Derek and the dark woman had made their way up the queue and were being shown to a table just behind and to one side of Sue, affording Sara a perfect view of Pauline’s back and Derek’s face, which was tired and unshaven. He looked ravishingly unhappy.

‘Must be the wife,’ Sara mouthed across to Sue, as the dark woman, without looking at the menu, gave her order to the waiter who had pulled back her chair and was helping her into it. The trio’s unvarying mezzoforte made eavesdropping out of the question, but from the frequent nodding and jerking movements of her head and Derek’s mute middle-distance staring, it was clear that she was finding plenty to say, and in a vein that was deeply wounding to him. He was further sobered by the arrival of lemon tea for him and whipped hot chocolate and a Bath bun for her. In hushed, clipped tones Sara related all that she could see to Sue, who had no idea what to make of it but knew where her duty lay.

‘Look, I think maybe I should go over to Larkhall. Do you mind? He was definitely meant to be with Cecily this weekend. I’m sure of that because she checked with me to make sure I wouldn’t be there. Well, he’s here, and that means Cecily’s probably on her own. Look,
do
you mind? We could do a run on Monday morning; will you be up for a swim? Right, see you then. I
am
sorry, but I owe it to her, I know how she feels. I should just check.’

She stood up and with a weak grin gathered up her bags. ‘And, er . . . Paul might have rung.’

Sara dismissed her generously and only afterwards noticed that her lovely Ray-Bans were still sitting on the tablecloth. She could give them back to her on Monday. She sat on, slightly numbed by the sensation of having been caught up and dropped in the passing of Sue’s emotional maelstrom. She tried to feel indignant. She had never exactly invited herself into Sue’s confidence in the first place, but realised that she must have sent out the signal that she was prepared to be confided in. And she realised too that in this she had not been generous, but had herself been the needy one. She had indulged some need of her own to observe, since she could herself no longer feel, that tension that was stretched taut between these two incompatible people, the pull of their inarticulate wranglings and their Byzantine misunderstandings. It had been like watching two people, one blind and the other deaf, trying to knit with one needle each. And there was something else, something even more obvious and pitiful in this realisation, which was that no amount of vicarious interest in the furies and passions of others could ever restore the vital kick to her own life, in which it seemed the death of feeling had been so final. It really could not matter to anyone if she sat on and drowned her innards in another quart of coffee, discarded by someone with places to go and people to see.

The trio’s last chords straggled into welcome silence and they trooped off the platform to a clatter of applause. Derek was using this little diversion to break off from listening to his wife, sitting back and clapping unnecessarily. The woman was looking round blankly, clearly not having heard a note. She was intent on resuming her monologue which, with the trio gone, Sara could now hear. So what
did
it matter if she had become an emotional parasite, feasting on the eavesdroppings of other people’s agonies? She fixed her eyes on the folds of the pink and green window drapery and listened hard.

‘...own fault because no one would be surprised to see you have a heart attack . . . gross . . . her all the way there, in fact...sorry for her, sitting there all miserable...black eyeliner, tears . . . down her face . . . ring me up at five a.m. humiliating...both of us . . . half the night...that place . . . oh, well out of it . . . comfortable cubicle.’

Derek’s wife paused to spoon up some of the froth on her hot chocolate and Derek seized his chance.

‘It wasn’t comfortable. It was frightening. I was on my own in there and when I woke up there was no one to explain what was going on. I thought I was dying. I didn’t dare move and I called out and nobody came. What
was
I supposed to think?’

‘Don’t ask for my sympathy. What about me? First
I
know is being called into the cubicle . . . young doctor... smug little...next bit would make me laugh if I hadn’t been so
humiliated
.’

Derek sat back, looked over his shoulder then back at his wife and hissed, furious and imploring, ‘Shut
up
.’

She had no intention of shutting up. She went on, raising her voice in a cruel impersonation. One or two people turned to look.

‘Oh, you were brilliant. “Please be frank, Doctor. How bad is it? No euphemisms. I want the truth.” Remember saying that? Remember me and what’s-her-name and the doctor round the bed? And him smirking,
smirking
and saying what you had was so rare they’d never seen another case in the entire hospital? But if you “followed advice”
you need
not fear a recurrence
? Remember? God,
I’ll
never forget it.’

Derek’s head was in his hands.

‘Oh, and then the next bit was good. Your frightened little face and one hand creeping up to your armpit. “Oh, my God, what’s happened? Have you operated? Why have you shaved my armpit?” ’

She laughed without mercy. People at several tables were now listening more or less openly.

‘And in comes the nurse with that kidney dish and says, “I’m afraid we’ve had to remove a lump, Mr Payne. It’s big.” Your face! And the registrar saying, “Oh, yes, I’m afraid it
was
big. But fortunately not malignant. A benign lump. A big, benign lump of toffee, in fact.” Grinning all over his face! God!
To fee
! A lump of chewed toffee in a kidney dish! I could have
killed
you.’

She stopped for breath and looked round. Her audience, trying to look nonchalant, were instantly shamed into resuming their own conversations. Sara studied the chandelier closely and a nervous peace was restored. Derek was scowling with concentration at the remains of his wife’s bun while she produced a handkerchief and patted impatiently at her nose.

‘Derek, I had a long think, sitting in that place half the night, and I’ve decided a few things. I’ve decided that I
will
stay with you, on the following conditions. First, and starting right now, you will lose weight. Second, after the way you’ve been carrying on, you owe me something, starting with a decent weekend. This one. So you are going to go to that silly little tart
now
and finish it once and for all, while I go and book a room at the Royal Crescent and have a rest. Then you can pick me up and take me to lunch at the Olive Tree. Salad for you.’

She paused, no doubt searching for the means to inflict maximum damage. ‘And then you can take me shopping starting’ – and for the first time a smile came into her voice – ‘at Droopy and Browns. Yes. And then? Well, tea perhaps. Nothing to eat for you. And later, dinner at, hmm, I think probably the Hole in the Wall. And then we’ll see.’

Derek stared past her, trying to convey a lofty disassociation from his surroundings. His face had the faraway, otherworldly look of a defecating Labrador.

But she had not finished. She raised her voice again. ‘Because, Derek, I have had to drive for three hours in the middle of the night and sit for another two in Accident and Emergency, and
then
be ridiculed in front of the entire medical staff, all because my husband is a bloody idiot who has a panic attack and
hyperventilates
and
faints
and has to be
sedated
because when he’s asleep in some floozy’s bed a lump of toffee falls out of his mouth and gets stuck in his bloody
armpit
.’