The Book of Other People (2 page)

‘But this is . . . outrageous . . .’

‘We can’t believe it ourselves.’

‘This is . . . well . . . your brother . . . when’s the funeral?’

‘The funeral?’

‘Olly and I were lovers, Leo! How can I not come to the funeral?’

‘I’m . . . I’m afraid we’ve already had the funeral.’

‘
Already?
’

‘This morning. Very low-key. I tipped his ashes off the Cobb.’

‘Off the what?’

‘The Cobb. The sea-wall at Lyme Regis.’

‘Oh. The Cobb. Yes. Olly promised to take me there . . . for the sunset. Tomorrow night. The sunset. Oh. This is all . . . so . . . so . . .
dead
?’

‘Dead.’

‘The very least I can do is to come and help out.’

‘Judith, you’re an angel, and Olly spoke about you in the fondest possible terms, but, if I can be frank, best not to. Everything’s very . . . intense. You understand, don’t you? There’re relatives to be told, an ex-wife, and then the business to be wound up, solicitors . . . mountains of paperwork . . . insurance, wills, powers of attorney . . . a thousand-and-one things . . . it just never stops . . .’

 

Camilla’s holidaying in Portugal with her father and Fancy-Piece. I got through to her voicemail and left the bare bones of my tragedy. Watering my tomato plants calmed me, until I spotted some green-fly. The vile little things got a good drenching with aphid killer. Then it was the turn of those ants who have colonized my patio. Kettle after kettle after kettle I boiled, until their bodies covered the crazy paving like a spilt canister of commas. Suddenly I found myself sitting in the conservatory with
Evita
playing at an unpleasant volume. Olly admitted that Sir Andrew turns out a fine tune. It was one of the last things he said to me. ‘Another Suitcase in Another Hall’ came on and suddenly my eyes streamed, unstoppably. This weekend was to have been a new beginning. Seeing Olly’s studio; meeting his family; making love with a sea-breeze caressing the curtains. After so many limp introductions and dashed hopes, here, at last, was a man whose faults could be mended. Some brisk walks to flatten that paunch. A tactful word to get him to ditch that moustache. Some musicals to oust his ‘electric folk’ tendencies. That Olly and I were intellectual equals was no surprise:
Soulmate Solutions
don’t let any old Tom, Dick and Harry sign up. But at our rendezvous in Bath, he couldn’t hide how utterly
enchanté
he was with little old
moi
on a carnal level. Once over fifty, most British women go to seed, leaving the rest of us to arise, like roses in a bombsite.

 

I swerved my Saab into the last parking space at the clinic, to the fury of some Flash Harriet who thought she had a prior claim. Water off a duck’s back. To my dismay, my bookshop was open but devoid, apparently, of all life. Winnifred was in the stock room, busy with a sneezing fit, so I manned the till and started sifting the morning’s post: three invoices; one tax form; two CVs from great white hopes after Saturday jobs; a letter informing the recipient that he has won a mansion in Fiji via the lottery - for every blatant scam, there are a thousand halfwits who refuse to understand that nobody gives money away - and a postcard from Barry from Grainge-over-Sands, the asylum-seeker’s detention centre of the soul. An Australian came in and asked for
The No. 1 Ladies’ Detective Agency
, so I got chatting, and soon persuaded Milly from Perth to buy the Alexander McCall Smith box set. She left, and Winnifred saw fit to put in an appearance. Winnifred is a lesbian myopic vegan Welsh homoeopathic Pooh Bear sort of a woman.

‘Judith! What can we . . . do for you today?’

‘Re-order the Ladies’ Detective Agency box set, for starters. We’re still a martyr to our hayfever, aren’t we?’

‘But . . . you do remember, Judith, don’t you . . . that, actually . . .’

‘That actually
what
, Winnifred?’

‘. . . you aren’t actually employed here . . . any more. Not as such.’

‘
Some
one has to keep on top of things, with Barry swanning off while the town is swimming with holidaymakers. If that last customer had been one of those gypsies - whoops, it’s “travellers” nowadays, isn’t it? - you’d have an empty shop by now. Think on.’

‘But . . . Barry’s probably not . . . expecting . . . to actually pay you.’

‘Am I
dressed
like I worry about next week’s rent?’

‘Judith . . . Barry did say that if you came in, I should ask you to - ’

‘Oliver’s dead, Winnifred.’ The words burst out of me. ‘My . . . my beau. Dead.’

Winnifred took a step back. ‘Oh,
Judith
!’

‘My soul-mate.’ A sob swallowed me whole. ‘Hit-and-run.’

‘Oh,
Judith
!’

‘Really, the irony is too much to bear. Olly was going to introduce me to his family,
tomorrow
. Show me how to hunt fossils together. Share ice-cream on the Cobb. Consummate our relationship. Such . . . dreadful tidings . . . I wasn’t sure to whom I could turn . . .’

‘Oh, Judith. Sit down. I’ll fetch a cup of tea.’

‘The theatre committee need me in thirty minutes, but I
could
find a little time for a sympathetic ear . . . Earl Grey, then, with a slice of lemon, if it’s not too much trouble.’

 

My Amateur Dramatics Society is putting on Sir Andrew’s
The Phantom of the Opera
in October, so rehearsals are well under way. Our director, Roger, gave the lead to June Nolan, wife of Terry Nolan. All Lions Clubbers together. Very cosy. Never mind that June Nolan has all the operatic elegance of a dog-trainer. I turned down a minor role, and focused on stage-management. Let others grapple for glory. My job is thankless, and hectic; like I told Olly, if Muggins here didn’t do it, the whole place would fall apart in a week.

Tears welled up again as I unlocked my little theatre. Olly was to visit me for
Phantom
’s opening night.
Everyone, this is Oliver Dunbar, a very dear friend. Runs a studio in Dorset, but he’s exhibited in New York City, no less. Oh, ignore Mr Modesty! Olly’s photography is
very
highly sought after
.

In the kitchen, silence swelled up. Butterflies fussed on the nodding buddleia outside. A divine July, but
someone
hadn’t put the window key back where it lives, so I couldn’t air the place. I began a round of pelvic-floor exercises. Somewhere nearby, a car alarm was going on and
on
and on and
on
and on and
on
, like an incurable migraine. God, I des
pise
people who can’t set their car alarms properly. I despise Fancy-Piece’s pleased-to-see-you smile. I despise liver cooked in cream.

Where the hell
was
everyone?

 

‘June, where the hell
is
everyone?’

‘Who is this and where the hell is who?’

What sort of actress doesn’t know her
who
s from her
whom
s?

‘Judith, of course. Doesn’t your mobile tell you who’s calling? Didn’t have you down as a technophobe, June. Let me show you how. Then you’ll always know who’s trying to reach you.’

‘I know perfectly well how to do it, thank you, Judith. Your number isn’t programmed in, for some bizarre reason.’

‘Well, I’m here at the theatre and not a
soul
has shown up for the meeting, and if people think they can put on a musical worthy of the name with
this
level of commitment, they - ’

‘The meeting was yesterday.’

‘I
beg
your pardon?’

‘The meeting was yesterday.’

‘Since when were
Phantom
meetings held on a Thursday?’

‘Since last meeting. Nadine couldn’t make it this Friday, so Janice switched it to Thursday. Don’t you remember?’

‘No
wonder
people get muddled, if days get swapped around at the drop of a - ’

‘Nobody else managed to get muddled, Judith.’

If June Nolan weren’t such a Lady Muck - Terry’s a big nob at the cider factory in Hereford better known for an outbreak of Legionnaires’ Disease than for cider - I’d never have let it slip. ‘Well, I
am
a tad distracted. My lover has died. It’s rather thrown me for a loop, I confess.’

‘Oh.’
That
made Lady Muck change her tune. ‘How . . . did it happen, Judith? Were you very close?’

‘A hit-and-run. The police are still hunting the killer. Oh, I’m not sure if
anyone
could understand
how
close Olly and I were. It was beyond closeness. We were one, June. One. I shall never be whole again.’

 

When June Nolan
finally
let me go, Muggins here cleaned up the needlessly made tray of coffees, locked up my theatre and headed back towards the clinic car-park. That car alarm was
still
blaring. Outside the clinic stood a young family, which sounds sweet, but this one made my heart sink.
She
was about sixteen, fat, dressed like a sporty tramp, and holding a newborn baby in one hand and a giant sausage roll in the other.
He
looked about eleven, had a lip stud, a rice-pudding complexion, and that hairstyle where strands drip over the criminal forehead. He was a two-thirds scale model of one of those English yobs you see littering European street cafés since budget air-travel came to the masses. Right outside the clinic,
right next
to his own baby, this boy-father was
smoking
. Had it been any other morning I might have passed by, but the universe, via Leo, had just sent me a message about the fragility of life.

‘How
dare
you smoke near that baby!’

The boy-father looked at me with dead eyes.

‘Haven’t you heard of lung cancer?’

Instead of yelling abuse, he inhaled, bent over his baby and blew out cigarette smoke
straight
into the poor moppet’s face.

Is
that
family the future of Great Britain?

Yes? Then perhaps eugenics is due a rethink.

 

A care home spies on the clinic car-park. Yvonne, an aromatherapist I was briefly friendly with, told me that on average its inmates last only eighteen months. The elderly wilt when transplanted. Queen Elizabeth opened this very building a few years ago. I made sure I got to shake the royal hand. She’s smiling at me, in our photograph. Thankful for my assurance that not
all
her loyal subjects think she organized poor Diana’s assassination. Mind you, I’d put nothing past that Duke of Edinburgh. Told her that, too. A subject has a duty to tell her monarch what’s what.

A janitor-type was peering into my Saab with a knotted-up face.

I realized the offending alarm was, in fact, mine.

With a crisp ‘Excuse me’, I nudged him to one side.

The janitor reared his bulk at me. ‘Is this
your
car?’

Without responding, I unlocked my car and disabled the alarm.

‘Is this’ - in the sudden silence he was shouting - ‘is this
your
car?’

‘Do I
look
like a joy-rider?’

‘
Thirty minutes
, this sodding alarm’s been going. Nobody over there’ - he gestured at the care home’s windows, each framing a pale wispy face with less than eighteen months to live - ‘could hear themselves
think
!’

‘I doubt much thinking goes on there. Shouldn’t
you
be more concerned about thieves tampering with vehicles under your very nose?’

‘Oh, I
very
much doubt there was
ever
any thief !’

Water off a duck’s back. ‘Oh, so we live in a yob-free oasis, do we? See that midget thug over by the clinic? How do you know it wasn’t him? You’ll excuse me. I’m in rather a hurry.’

Thankfully, my Saab started first time.

I reversed out of the tight spot.

 

I found myself heading not homewards, but on the road to Black Swan Green. I very nearly turned around: Daddy and Marion weren’t expecting me until Sunday. But the universe had told me to cherish my loved ones, so onwards I journeyed, onwards, until the steeple of Saint Gabriel’s and its two giant redwoods sailed closer, closer, over the orchards. Philip and I would explore that graveyard, while our parents chatted after church. How long ago? When Mummy could still go outside, so the late 1970s. Philip found a crack at the base of the steeple. A crack of black. A door to the land of the dead, Philip told me. Left ajar. Philip heard voices, he swore, crying
lonely, lonely, lonely
.

And it occurred to me that Olly wasn’t the only victim of that hit-and-run murderer, because the Mrs Judith Dunbar-Castle whom I would have become had also been slain.

No, ‘Dunbar-Castle’ sounds like a National Trust property.

Judith Castle-Dunbar was a woman in her fifties, though she could pass for her forties. She was content, and contentment is the best beautician, as Maeve, the owner of an organic shop who pulled the wool over everybody’s eyes, not just mine, used to say. Olly and I would have pooled our funds and bought a spacious house near Charmouth. The Dunbar family would have embraced me. Unlike that gold-digging Patricia creature, who bled him white. Leo would have been Olly’s best man, and Camilla my bridesmaid. Olly’s grown-up son would have wept for joy into his champagne.
I don’t think of you as a stepmother - you’re the big sister I never had.
A chamber orchestra would have performed
Jesus Christ Superstar
for us as, one by one, Olly’s friends would have let slip that my husband was on the ropes before he met little old
moi
.

Magpies loitered with intent on Saint Gabriel’s lychgate.

 

Once, I was taller than the beech hedge around Daddy’s house. Now it’s as high as the car port. When one returns to childhood haunts, one is supposed to find how much smaller everything has become. But in Black Swan Green, I always feel that
I
’m the shrinking one.