January 2012 Short Story, Marking Time.

Marking time

Margot had found it rather comforting, after the turmoil of the previous few days, to lie awake in the dark, waiting in the pause before the weighty inevitability of the funeral. It had been restless night: her sleep interspersed with vivid dreams and it was pitch black when she woke, no light yet edging in around the curtains.  Once awake she had just lain there inert, but acutely alert, with every cell of her body tuned into the emptiness beside her in the large double bed. Eventually she had reached out into the chill air for the light, and peered at the clock. Not yet five.

But now there is only half an hour before Andrew will arrive to take her to the church and still she has not decided what to wear. She has filled her time since her first foray downstairs, where she put on the heating and made a pot of tea, by starting the clear out. Evidence is all around her – the bed is completely stripped of its florally patterned, pastel coloured, matching linen; it is now dumped in an untidy pile on the floor. There are large black plastic sacks standing in a row, stuffed to over flowing with men’s clothing, and one side of the double wardrobe has its doors flung open, revealing nothing but empty hangers. Two badly packed cardboard boxes stand next to the empty shelves of the bookcase.

She stands at the bedroom window in her dressing gown, looking out onto the garden, icing-sugar dusted with last night’s snowfall, now frozen to a crunchy crust by a hoar-frost. The leaves of the variegated ivy which form a frame around the window have a delicate crystallised edging, and the fog in the distance has not yet fully cleared, so that the trees across the fields show only as grey shadowy silhouettes.

So beautiful, she thinks, but how inconvenient.

“Bloody funerals,” she says, under her breath.

She stiffly moves over to the dressing table and sits down, selects her lotion from the ordered collection, then applies the moisturiser pulling the skin of her fine boned face taut and grimacing at her self in the mirror as if experimenting with the idea of a face lift. She adds just a smudge of blush to her high cheekbones, a touch of lipstick to her pale tight lips. Her hair is short and dark, lightened with a little grey around the temples and it has dried naturally into waves. She puts on her watch, checking the time, but only a few more minutes have passed, nudging the hands forward, slowly and relentlessly. She wills them to move on and yet, simultaneously, wishes they would stop still: wanting the funeral over and done with, dreading it, wanting it never to happen.

She stirs herself. What to wear? Trousers: it will have to be black trousers she decides, and a jumper, with warm underwear, thick socks and her black ankle boots. No heels. Not very elegant for the grieving widow, she muses, but I’m damned if I’m going to freeze. She pulls the clothes she needs from their hangers and lays them on the empty bed.

She is just putting the finishing touches to her attire when Andrew arrives. A silk scarf is the only splash of colour she has allowed herself. Her reflection had looked so drained without it and the muted terracotta and gold at least adds a warmer tone to relieve the monotony of black. She shrugs on her long coat with its faux-fur collar and pulls it up to frame her face. She can see the admiration in his eyes as Andrew reaches forward to pick off a stray silvered hair from her shoulder.

“You look so calm, Ma,” he comments, “how do you feel?”

“Oh, not so bad,” she answers, “but I’ll be glad when it’s over.”

It’s not as though she’s unused to funerals. This will be the third husband she has buried.

Andrew had been only three when his own father, Angus, had died in a car accident. Margot had been completely distraught, wearing black for a whole two years before she had unexpectedly fallen head-over-heels in love again, this time with Graham.  Graham had been a kind husband and a wonderful step-father, though significantly older. But he, so sadly, had abruptly died at sixty-five from a heart attack, even before he had retired, when Andrew was nearly nine. Again Margot had been left as a single parent. She had risen to the occasion, everyone said so.

Then there was Neville. Neville, the newly deceased.

Margot had been introduced to Neville by Roger years later, after Andrew and the girls had left home. Roger was an old friend and local GP who had often taken her along to the golf club as his partner for the evening.

“Roger’s a dear,” she remembers saying to her sister after a few drinks, “and a good friend, but not, as you might say, ‘lover material.’ Not a flicker – whatever he might wish!”

With Neville it was different. Neville had swept her off her feet.

He was gallant, debonair and such fun. He held everyone in the palm of his hand. Well, nearly everyone. She knew Andrew had never taken to him and did not quite trust him. Initially she could not understand why. But slowly the real Neville was revealed to her. He was a heavy drinker and his bullying technique entailed a gradual build up of mental oppression, undermining and controlling, damaging to her self confidence; but it alternated with his thoughtful, kind persona, so she would never quite know what to expect. Margot had found herself bending to Neville’s every whim and making excuses for him in order to maintain the peace and to keep up appearances. So although Neville gave no concrete grounds for Andrew to distrust him, she knew Andrew had detected the change in her, knew he suspected, but nothing had been said until her fall.

The loud ring of the telephone makes both of them jump.

“Margot?” it is Roger, “…Do you need anything, shall I come round?”

“I’m fine, Roger. Andrew’s here. I’ll see you in church.” Margot laughs as she put down the phone, “Will he never give up? He’s always trying to look after me,” she said as she pulls on her gloves, “the old fuss pot.”

Andrew looks at his watch.

“The drive is treacherous,” he says, “I left my car in the road. Come on; let’s walk down.”

She holds onto his arm as they step outside, wincing as she nearly slips, gasping an involuntary intake of breath.

“Ma?”

“The old ribs are still sore. It’s alright, don’t fuss.”

“Did you take enough painkillers?”

“Andrew! I said don’t fuss. You’ll turn into Roger if you’re not careful.”

They walk for a while in silence down the tree lined driveway. The low fog is dispersing, the sun now a diffused brightness behind the still heavy clouds.

“Ma, Roger’s a good sort you know,” says Andrew.

They reach the end of the drive. She points out a cluster of snowdrops hiding their faces under the hedge.

“Oh, look. A sign of Spring at last,” she says, then, “Oh, Andrew, I do so hate funerals.”

Andrew looks at her steadily.

“After the way he treated you, Ma – well, you’re better off without him.”

Andrew opens the car door for her and she settles herself, taking off her gloves, loosening the scarf a little, and takes a deep breath. Andrew gets in beside her.

“That’s what Roger and I both thought,” he says, quietly, as though there had been no break in the conversation, “the best solution all round.”

“What, darling?” she is distracted, but Andrew’s words filter through, so she pulls herself back to the moment and she turns to look at him. “What did you say?” there is a slight rise of tone in her voice, as if what he has said has alerted her to something. Margot looks at him, her Mummy’s boy, and smiles gently. No one could hope for a better son. Andrew squeezes her hand.

“Nothing, Ma.”

The journey continues in silence. Margot reflects on her marriage. She knew it had been a mistake, even before things had started to go wrong. Now she feels a guilty release.

She leans back into the leather seat, slides her eyes over to watch Andrew as he drives. He had been so marvellous after her own fall down the stairs a few weeks ago. The fall had been the result of having a row with Neville, who was drunk of course. They had been on the landing. She couldn’t even remember clearly what the row was about. Something about what vegetables she had planned to cook for lunch. He hated cauliflower. She was not convinced that Neville had meant her to fall: he had pushed past her roughly and she had stumbled, unable to stop herself from tumbling. Afterwards he had been quite solicitous, settling her in bed, calling Roger for advice, making light of ‘a slip on the stairs.’ After Roger had arrived and assessed her, Neville had gone out; off for a round of golf. Roger had muttered about broken ribs, and had given her something for the pain, then had rung Andrew who arrived in a state a couple of hours later.  That was when Andrew confronted her. Why did she stay with him? Such a bully. There was no need, he would look after her. Roger had pulled him away.

“Now is not the time,” she had heard him say, “Let her rest. What I have given her will make her drowsy – ” Afterwards she had slept till late in the afternoon, but that evening Andrew had crept back into her room carrying a supper tray laid with cheese and crackers, a few grapes and two glasses of white wine. At first he skirted around the subject, then he tried to talk with her about the way Neville was treating her. Still drowsy she had attempted to reassure him; things were not as bad as he feared, and the fall had, after all, been an accident.

It was ironic really that a fall on the same stairs three weeks later was the cause of Neville’s demise. She had been away for the weekend, a rare treat, visiting her sister, but despite her absence and his antipathy towards Neville, Andrew had decided to stay over in his old room.

“Lots of work to do, Ma, and an appointment in Oxford early on Monday,” he had explained.

So it had been Andrew who had found Neville at the bottom of the stairs. In the telephone call afterwards Andrew had told her that he had found Neville in a crumpled heap and then called on Roger, but that it had been too late and that Neville had died even before he had reached hospital.

Andrew parks the car a little way from the church and they wait for the hearse to arrive. A gathering of black clad mourners are milling around, huddling in small clusters, filtering into the church. The foggy day has cleared, the sun is bright, and the frost is melting patchily. Then the black car slides into view. Andrew gets out and helps his Mother to her feet. They are met by Roger, his face pinched and tense.

“Holding up?” he says quietly in Margot’s ear as he kisses her cheek.

“I’m fine, Roger. Thank you. Andrew’s here. You go and do your ushering duties.” She pushes him gently away. “Come on Andrew; give your old Mother your arm.”

But Andrew is not listening. He is staring at the coffin.

“Dead – ,” he whispers. “Dead and gone.” It is as though he is telling himself something he has not fully realised until now. “Roger -” he glances round. But Roger has moved away, does not hear him. Margot looks at her son; he looks straight back at her, speaks quietly.

“Ma, this was my fault.”

“What do you mean, Darling?” She leans forward to hear what he is saying.

“I heard Neville fall in the late evening – he was pissed.” He rubs his hand over his tired face, sighs deeply, “So I just left him there, all night. Serve him right, I thought.”

“And?”

“Well, he didn’t look too good in the morning. It was only then I called Roger.”

“What did Roger do?”

“Well, it was more what he didn’t do really. Neither of us did anything.”

“What-?”

“Roger said he would have died anyway if I hadn’t been there. Later, after he stopped breathing, we did call the ambulance – ”

As understanding floods through her she is thrown off-balance just for a brief moment, and closes her eyes, steadying herself on the car. Then it passes.

“Come on,” she says, “Let’s get this over. Roger looks terrible. So do you for that matter.” She smiles him. “Give me your arm, and we’ll walk over to the church.” She takes his arm and can feel the nerves jangling through him. As they reach the lynch gate she smiles at the few mourners not yet inside. It costs her a huge effort so to do. Leaning her slight black frame on Andrew’s larger, taller one, she then walks towards the church. At the door she rests a moment.

“I’m sure,” she says quietly as the organ starts up and they walk forward, arm in arm to the reserved space in the front pew, “you’ll both feel better after he is buried.”

Bright coloured patches light up the church as the sunlight streams in through the stained glass windows, and despite everything it seems to her as though Spring is just around the corner.

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