Chapter Ten

Chapter 10

         It is almost eleven pm by the time we bid our farewells to Malcolm Dillon and share a taxi across town. Owen is unusually quiet. I stare out the window; raindrops are dragging a squiggly path down the pane like a snail leaving a slimy track. The bright lights of the city are reflecting off the puddles in the road, on the pavements, off the buildings. As we drive past Westminster, I realise Owen is crying.
          “Why, what is the matter?” I say, putting one arm around him, resting the other on his knee.
          “Oh, Sonia”, he says, but wipes his eyes without elaboration. “Never mind, you have got enough stuff going on in your own life right now.”
          “Yes, but you are part of that life, Owen. Tell me what is wrong.”
          “Another time, Sonia darling, I am not ready for this yet.”
         I withdraw my hand from his knee and place it in my lap, but leave the other around him. A few times the taxi swerves to that side or the other and we are pushed together, my stockinged leg pressing hard against his.
         He walks me to my platform and before I board the train, he squeezes my hand and says, “You were wonderful”, gives me a small wave as the train sets in motion and within seconds he is out of my view. I sleep all the way back to Weston.

~~~*~~~

         Visiting a funeral organiser isn’t, in my mind, the best way to round off an already difficult week. I am taken straight to the funeral director’s office, where I am offered tea, bourbon biscuits and words of comfort.
          “We are so very sorry for your loss”, the director, Mr Millet says, pushing the small decorative bowl of biscuits towards me. “Here at Millet & Sons we pride ourselves in excellent customer services, offering a dignified farewell to your loved ones. Now, I understand you don’t live locally?” He asks in a gentle, sympathetic voice.
          “No, in South Gloucestershire, twenty minutes from Bristol.”
          “All right”, he says, shifting pieces of paper around his desk as though looking for something.
          “Well, there are lots of things that we will take care of for you. Now, your aunt’s body will be released later today and will be taken into our care here at our chapel of rest. I think the first thing we should do is decide which date would be best for the cremation.” He checks his diary and looks up at me, “how does Wednesday sound?”
          “Yes, fine, that suits me fine.” In my mind I am wondering who to ask to come to the service, and where I could hold a wake, if at all. I don’t really know any of her friends from the home, or indeed if she had any friends.
          “Right, now, included in our package is obviously the coffin, the transport to the chapel for committal in a hearse”, he shows me a picture of a typical black vehicle used for transporting coffins, and I nod, not knowing whether I am meant to comment on the quality of the vehicle. Mr Millet, however, seems content to continue his reassuring, well-rehearsed monologue.
         Together we draw up the wording for the obituary, and Mr Millet takes me through a brief history of cremation. “The very first cremation took place in 1885 in Woking. That year, only three cremations took place although the number of deaths totalled almost six hundred thousand. Today, close to seventy-five percent of deaths in the UK result in cremation. There is no religious significance to cremation, you see, so nowadays all Christian denominations allow cremations, and it is also the customary method of disposal of the dead for Buddhists, Sikhs and Hindus.”
         “Now, would you like me to take you through what is going to happen at the service itself?”
         I nod and swallow hard.
          “Basically, the coffin will be brought into the chapel, followed by you and the other mourners”, I give a small frown, still wondering whether I will in fact be the only person present. “While the coffin is being placed on the catafalque”, he continues, “the service will continue. As the committal words are being spoken, the curtains will close around the catafalque after which you will leave the chapel. We will arrange the floral tributes for you to view outside.” He pauses as I take this information on board and it occurs to me that it is not just the words that are well-rehearsed, even the paused are perfectly timed. Years of experience, I suppose.
          “What… What happens… you know, afterwards?”
          “Well, the coffin is labelled with an identification card prepared by the crematorium. This card will accompany your Aunt until the final disposal of the remains. You may witness the committal if you wish”, but I shake my head in rejection.
         He nods and continues, “The identification card is now placed outside the cremator and remains there until the ashes are transferred to a… cooling tray. Finally, the remains are reduced to a fine, white ash, weighing around five to six pounds.”
         I spend almost an hour in the company of Mr Millet and feel exhausted as I walk up the High Street towards the hotel where my car is still parked. The ground outside is slippery and I notice a light dusting of snow on some of the vehicles on the hotel car park.

~~~*~~~

         The drive back to Upper Tillington is treacherous; the Malvern hills are covered in snow, the main roads, thankfully, clear. As I drive along the small road through leading through Andon, Lower and Upper Tillington, conditions worsen. It is now nearly seven pm, it is pitch-black, and the heavy rainfall earlier has turned the roads into an ice rink.
         I lean forward in my seat as I am driving along, clutching the steering wheel, trying my hardest to concentrate on the road in front. Although every single little bend, each little humpback bridge, every hill is imprinted in my brain, I am not prepared to take any chances in conditions such as these.
         As I turn the car down the long, windy driveway from the main road, my cottage looks dark and looming; ominous, almost. How I wish there were someone to welcome me, arms wide open, with the coffee brewing and a warm, cosy fire crackling in the fireplace, ready to take my bags off me, rub my feet and ask me about my day. More than anything, I am also longing for someone to hold me, someone to whom I can offload the trauma of the past thirty-six hours. Someone who will listen and tell me that everything is going to be all right.
         The heavy oak door creaks in as I push it open and I enter the house almost cautiously, not wanting to realise or absorb the loneliness within just yet. I switch the light in the hallway on, place my bag at the foot of the stairs and for a while I just stand there with my coat still on, as if waiting for some noise, some proof of life to jump out at me.

         Although Auntie Mildred hasn’t lived in the cottage for almost seven years and I have removed all of her belongings, remove all trace of her connection with this place, her spirit, somehow, seems to be lingering within the walls. I feel the hairs on my arms rise, and the walls which seemed solid and comforting only a few days ago, now appear to be on the brink of collapse, as though the walls are propped up by mere toothpicks rather than a concrete foundation.
         I feel a cold a chill of shame as I realise I haven’t only removed all trace of Auntie Mildred from the house, but have banished her from my life. This cold, dark house now seems to echo her voice as she stands at the bottom of the staircase shouting up at me to hurry up and get ready for school. I sit down on the sofa, the light still off, my coat still on and light a cigarette. I feel the rush of the nicotine as I inhale, and lean back into the settee, closing my eyes as the tears, finally start to trickle.

         I fall asleep, curled up on the sofa, the blanket wrapped tightly around me and wake up just after midnight. I head upstairs, change into a cotton pyjama, wash the day’s makeup off my face and brush my teeth while all the time avoiding my own reflection in the mirror. Too awake now to head back to bed, I make myself a cup of hot cocoa. I can’t actually recall the last time I made cocoa for myself; in fact I believe the last time I had cocoa in this house was just after my seventeenth birthday when I was feeling low with a head cold and Auntie brought me the hot, sweet drink to my bed, dabbled my forehead with a cold cloth before leaving the room, quietly closing the door behind me.

         The dining table is less of a mess after my tidy-up last week, however there is a stack of reference books piled up next to where my laptop usually stands. The picture on the front of the local paper catches my eye once more, and I read the short article for the third or fourth time, absorbing every small detail of the small face looking at me; the cute eyes, the long, dangly ears, the mouth which seems to be almost smiling.

         Over the past seven years I have filled the cottage with my own mementos, knickknacks gathered over years of travelling, gifts presented to me by thoughtful hosts, fans and grateful readers. Don’t get me wrong, a lot of what I have been given has gone straight in the bin. In fact, I recall being invited to a pre-Christmas party a couple of years ago at a fellow writer’s house. She had married a very nice, tall and handsome, very blonde Danish guy who wanted to introduce to Ella’s circle of friends a peculiar Danish custom of Jule-Klap.

         The rules of the game, I was told, is that each person brings a wrapped gift to the party and then a dice would be thrown; throwing a six meant you could pick one of the pile of presents. After everyone had managed to throw a six, the presents were to be opened. The slight variation on the game was that the gift had to be an unwanted present you had been given but never had the heart to throw out. I had a whole loft full of such gifts and picked a lava lamp; the worst, most hideous punishment hurled at us by people who call themselves designers.

         As the game progressed, I was excited to see who might find the shape of my gift interesting, and to my delight saw that Ella picked it. She gave me a small smile as she unwrapped it, then gave me a long stare. Later, as I was taking my leave, she whispered, “Thanks for returning it. It is by one of my favourite designers but I could never really afford it for myself.” I felt my heart sink into my shoes. After that, I had a loft clear out and gave most to a charity shop some thirty miles from Upper Tillington.

~~~*~~~

         The funeral creeps up on me at a firm, steady pace. Auntie Mildred’s obituary is printed in the paper as agreed, and over the course of the next few days, I receive a couple of phone calls a couple of from some of Auntie’s friends and acquaintances. They express their sympathy and some tell me of their favourite memory of Auntie, one even goes so far as to say she knows just how close Auntie and I were. I haven’t got the heart to set her straight. When I ask them whether they are able to make it to the funeral, all but one have prior arrangements (doctor’s appointments, a coffee afternoon, a Christmas shopping trip to London).

         In order to pay for the funeral, I am forced to dip into my ever-dwindling savings account. It is the curse of the published writer that, unless you keep churning out work at a regular rate, there really isn’t enough money in writing. Publishers will typically pay around five thousand pounds for a novel, more for established writers, but unless the sales of the novel exceed a level stipulated by the publisher, the author does not start earning royalties. Three of my novels are currently earning royalties – well, they would be if anybody would bother to buy them. Not having produced anything publishable for a while now, my funds are

         Owen calls me on Sunday afternoon to ask me how I am getting on. I tell him everything is ready for the funeral and beg him to accompany him.
          “I’m not too sure, Sonia, I am not very good with these things.”
          “Please, Owen, I really don’t want to be there on my own and I can’t think of anyone else I’d rather have by my side.”
          “But it’s such a personal, private affair…” he continues to protest.
          “I know, and you’ve met her…. oh please, Owen. I am just so worried that come the day, there will just be me an nobody else. Never mind the fact that I have ordered food at the Jolly Boatsman for twenty people, never mind that that might go to waste, but I just cannot face being in the crematorium all by myself.”
         Owen sighs heavily, eventually giving in to my pleas, “All right, then. I will come up on Monday night and we can travel down together. That will give us a chance to talk about your ideas that you never got around to tell me last week.”
          “Thank you, darling.”
         Shortly after I have finished speaking to Owen, the telephone rings. Since returning from my un-scheduled trip to Weston I haven’t heard from Anthony and I kick myself for not having been in touch with him yet to explain why I disappeared without leaving a note on the day of our first date. Each time the telephone rings, my heart jumps and I wish it were Anthony.

          “Hello, is that Miss Spooner?”
         Not another one of those phone calls, I think. Last time a conversation started off like that, it was the Hospice.
          “Yes”, I reply wearily.
          “Oh hello, my name is Paul Lowe of Lowe and Sons in Weston. I am Mildred Spooner’s solicitor.”
         My first thought is that Mr Lowe is calling to collect a debt, unpaid solicitors bills perhaps, but before my imagination is allowed to run wild, he explains that he is the executor of the estate and that he would like to meet with me.
          “I would very much like to come to the funeral if that is all right with you?” he asks in a hesitating voice, as if he fears I might bite his head off.
          “Well, yes of course”, I say, resisting to add the more the merrier. “It is on Tuesday at eleven followed by a small get-together at the Jolly Boatsman just down the road from the crematoria.
          “Ah yes, I know it well”, he says. His voice is so pleasant sounding that I cannot help but liking him, without ever having met him. I decide that it is best to have everything sorted as soon as possible, and if I have to dip further into my savings to settle Auntie’s debt, then so be it. For a brief moment I wonder whether I might be forced to sell the cottage and buy a smaller property in Upper Tillington itself, or nearer Cheltenham perhaps.
          “Will I need to bring anything at all?” I ask, hoping he won’t actually say I need to bring my chequebook.
          “No”, he says, “nothing at all. I will see you on Tuesday, then.”

         I make myself a cup of tea and sit on the kitchen table, looking into the drizzling rain. I would have like to have gone for a walk but I don’t fancy getting soaked and, who knows, contracting hypothermia before the funeral. My thoughts return to Anthony and for some inexplicable reason, I realise I would like to have him here, for companionship, to talk to him about Auntie Mildred and about my feelings for her. This is when I realise I don’t even know his last name which means I can’t look him up in the telephone directory.

         For a brief moment I consider calling the Supermarket where he works but with a blush realise that that would be something a love-struck teenager might do. Besides, I don’t even know if Anthony is the only Anthony working there. I then realise that Farmer Knowles might know his telephone number, or for sure he would know his surname. I decide to jump into the car and drive up to the farm; who knows, Anthony may even be working there today. I stub out my cigarette, put on my waterproof coat and jump into my Beetle for the quick drive to the Farm.

         The rain is coming down so hard that the windscreen wipers are having a real job keeping up; they screech and whine as heavy pellets bounce off the screen. I drive slowly up the long drive, which, with the heavy rainfall in the previous couple of weeks, is now full of muddy potholes. After crossing the cattle grid at the top of the drive, I look right up towards Willow Hill, then turn into the windy road.

         The farm is quiet as I turn into the yard and there doesn’t seem to be a soul about. I pull the hood over my head and open the door, darting for the small farm shop, hopping across large puddles while also trying to avoid the areas where cows have left their calling cards.

         I press the door handle down, hoping to see Anthony there but I find it is locked. I decide that opening hours at the farm shop are perhaps somewhat more fluid than in any regular establishment, and that Farmer Knowles has assumed nobody would be visiting the shop today. However I reason with myself in this manner, I cannot help but feel disappointed. I had hoped to bump into Anthony today, to be given a chance to explain, or at least get a hold of his phone number.

          “We’re shut at the minute, love”, I hear a voice behind me bellowing across the yard. I look towards the back door where Farmer Knowles is standing in a pair of denim overalls, woollen socks and a blue and red chequered shirt. He has a mug of tea in one hand. Rather than returning the shout across the yard, and to seek temporary shelter from the rain, I once more dart across the puddles and cow muck and head to the back door.
          “I was only after…”, I hesitate, wondering whether I should tell a white lie and say I have come for half a dozen of eggs and a pint of milk, or whether I should own up. “Some eggs and eh…. some milk. For a pie I am making”, I feel my cheeks turning bright red with unease but hope that Mr Knowles doesn’t notice.

         He looks at me for a long while, then points at me with the hand holding his mug, “You’re Sonia, right?”
          “Yeah… yes, I am”, I feel myself beginning to shiver from the cold and wet, desperate to get out of this place.
          “Well, why don’t you come on in?”
         Realising this may be my chance to ask for Anthony’s phone number, I accept the kind invitation and soon find myself sat in the large, rustic farm kitchen. It has a genuine old stoke, heavy oak furniture, and a large rug in the centre of the floor. It is cosy, I decide, warm and welcoming. Mr Knowles potters around for a while, pouring a mug of tea from the large teapot, and offers me a slice of bread with homemade jam. I accept both with a smile.
          “I heard about your Auntie Mildred”, Farmer Knowles says, placing my mug and plate in front of me. “I’m ever so sorry.”
         I nod as I sip my tea, cupping the mug in both hands and blowing hot steam onto my glasses. “Thank you”, is all I manage for I still find it difficult to accept the well-meant offerings of sympathy for the loss of Auntie.
          “She was a wonderful woman, marvellous,” he continues, now stirring in a couple of spoonfuls of sugar into his mug. The spoon knocks gently against the inside of the mug, then he taps it on the edge and places it on the table.
          “I don’t know what I would’ve done without her, after my Lizzy passed away.”
         I look up at him over the top of my bread and jam as I take a bite, with a look of puzzlement on my face. I have no idea what he means.
          “She did?” I finally ask, having finished chewing.
          “Oh aye, used to do a few hours of housework for me, every other day. Did me washin’ an’ me ironin’ an’ all.”
          “Really? I didn’t know”, I say, licking a dollop of jam off my right thumb.
          “Oh aye, right wonderful woman our Mildred was.” We both contemplate this for a while, each for different reasons. “Missed her when she went off to that home an’ all. An’ of course, me havin’ to mind the farm I couldn’t do much visitin’. I did feel guilty for tha’.”
         I listen to his voice as it sings in that typical West Country accent, but cannot help but also note a genuine hint of sadness. I am not sure whether I am expected to comfort him and briefly contemplate reaching my hand across the table to give his arm a reassuring squeeze. But I don’t. I am at a loss for words, my head scrambled with this new information; I really didn’t know Auntie Mildred had a job, she never even told me about it.
         He brushes a strand of shocking white hair across his balding head, then sits back in his chair with a heavy sigh.
          “She had lots of friends at the home,” I say, realising he is close to tears and I haven’t really shown much sympathy. “I am sure she missed your company, too, but she wasn’t alone.” Of course I don’t add how rarely I went to visit her myself, and that most of the information about Auntie Mildred’s social life at the Home has come from members of staff as they handed her personal belongings to me.
         The telephone rings in another part of the house, and he gets up to answer it, leaving me alone in the kitchen. I feel warm and comfortable now, and smile to myself as I suddenly remember an afternoon spent in this very kitchen, baking scones for the village fete with Auntie.
         Several of the ladies from the village had congregated in Farmer Knowles’ kitchen – and I think this is while Mrs Knowles was still alive – to provide each other with some moral support as they cooked for the masses. Well, in reality, masses is somewhat of an exaggeration: Upper Tillington is home to around forty houses and probably no more than circa one hundred and twenty people at any one time. If you include residents from the surrounding villages of Branford, West Finstock and Wanstow then the grand total should be no more than three hundred local residents. However, the Upper Tillington Village Fete is somewhat renowned in the area for bun throwing and cheese rolling competitions, and other such activities involving a dubious mixture of foodstuff and athletics.
          “Well, I sup’ose I’d better be getting’ on. Ta very much for comin’ down to see us.”
         I realise that I haven’t got what I came for, and decide to ask if perhaps he would be kind enough to sell me half a dozen eggs, a pint of milk and some homemade jam. He puts on his Wellington boots, covered in various farmyard spillages that I care not investigate further, and takes a large, shiny key from the ornamental teapot in the shape of a London taxi and asks me to follow him.
         As I skip along behind him, trying to keep up with his pace, I finally find the courage to ask about Anthony, and whether he still works at the farm.
          “Oh, aye, helps out now an’ again”, he says as he turns the key in the lock. “Not been round lately, mind.”
          “Really?” I ask, trying not to sound too interested but interested enough to keep the flow of information going.
          “Aye, took off, couple o’ days ago now.”
         Damn, I think, probably when I stood him up after receiving the phone call from Weston. Perhaps he couldn’t face living in the same village as me.
          “Went to see his sister down in Cornwall, me thinks”, he says as he puts my items into a plastic carrier bag, which has clearly been recycled from the local supermarket.
          “Oh I see”, I say, not sure how to progress onto the more burning issue of somehow obtaining his phone number, his surname, and finding out when he is expected back from Cornwall.
         Farmer Knowles looks up from the notepad where he is adding up the cost of my shopping. “Mentioned you a couple o’ times, come to think of it. Gave him your number, hope you don’t mind.” He draws a fat line under his sum and tells me we will call it two pounds, “seeing as it is you”, as he puts it.
          “You don’t happen to know… when he might be back?” I dare as I hand him two pound coins.
          “No, sorry love, he never said.” I must have looked disappointed at this revelation, for he then proceeds to write down a phone number. “But here you are, in case you want to phone him.”
          “Thanks very much, you’ve been ever so kind.” I chew my lip, before I continue, “will you be coming to the funeral on Tuesday?”
          “I will try me best but I can’t promise anythin’ – got the gas man comin’ around, and you know what they’re like, they never can give you a bloody accurate time of when they might come.”
          “Sure”, I nod and tell him it would be good if he could make it, and that I would be happy to give him a lift. We shake hands in the yard and he locks the door behind us, before I dart back to my car. The rain, which had ceased briefly while I was with Farmer Knowles, has returned with a fury.