The Keeper of Lost Things(55)

Freddy leaned back in his chair looking rather pleased with himself and his explanation. Laura sighed and slumped back in her chair despondently.

“So what you’re saying is that Therese is actually worse off now than before he died, because at least then she knew where he was? Well, that’s just marvelous. We could be stuck with her for years. Forever. Bugger!”

Freddy came and stood behind her and placed his hands gently on her shoulders.

“Poor Therese. I think you should put the record back in the garden room.”

He kissed the top of her head and went out to work in the garden. Suddenly Laura felt guilty. It was probably all nonsense, but just supposing it wasn’t? She had Freddy now, but what if, after all this time, Therese still didn’t have Anthony?

Poor Therese.

Laura got up and went to the study. She fetched the record from the drawer and took it back to the garden room, where she placed it on the table next to the gramophone player. Picking up the photograph of Therese, she gazed at the woman, now blurred and distant behind splintered glass. She saw, perhaps for the first time, the person behind the paper picture. Freddy might think that they were alike, but Laura could see the differences. She had already lived fifteen years longer than Therese, but she had no doubt that Therese had lived her short life harder, brighter, faster than Laura ever had. What a waste.

Laura gently ran her fingertips over the face behind the cruel mosaic. What was it that Sarah had said? “It’s time to stop hiding and start kicking life up the arse!”

“I’ll get you fixed,” she promised Therese.

She took up the record again and placed it on the turntable.

“Play nicely,” she said out loud to the room. “I’m trying to be on your side.”





CHAPTER 35


Eunice


1994

Eunice would never forget the scent of sun-warmed roses wafting in through the open window as she sat with Bomber and Grace watching Godfrey die. He was almost gone now. Just a worn-out body remained, barely ticking over, breaths too shallow to lift even a butterfly’s wings. The fear and anger and confusion that had racked his last years had finally relinquished their tyranny over him and left him in peace. Grace and Bomber were able, at last, to hold his hands, and Baby Jane snuggled in close to him with her head gently resting on his chest. They had long since stopped trying to make conversation to fill the uncomfortable space between dying and death itself. Every now and then, a nurse would knock softly on the door, bringing tea and unspoken sympathy to a closing scene she had witnessed countless times before.

Eunice got up and went over to the window. Outside, the afternoon was passing by without them. People were strolling in the gardens or snoozing in the shade, and a group of children were chasing one another across the lawns, squealing with delight. Somewhere, high in one of the trees, a thrush was scatting against the metronome tick of a sprinkler. Now would be a good time, she thought. To slip away on the coattails of a perfect English summer’s afternoon. It seemed that Grace was in accord. She leaned back in her chair and exhaled a long sigh of resignation. Keeping hold of Godfrey’s hand, she struggled to her feet; grudging joints stiff from too long sitting. She kissed Godfrey on the mouth and stroked his hair with a frail but steady hand.

“It’s time, my love. It’s time to let go.”

Godfrey stirred, but just barely. Translucent eyelids fluttered and his weary chest rose for one final ragged breath. And then he was gone. Nobody moved except Baby Jane. The little dog stood, and with infinite care, she sniffed every inch of Godfrey’s face. Finally satisfied that her friend was gone, she jumped down from the bed, shook herself thoroughly, and sat down at Bomber’s feet, looking up at him beseechingly with an expression that clearly said, And now I really need a wee.

An hour later they were sitting in what was called the Relatives Room drinking yet more tea. The Relatives Room was the place where the Folly End staff gently shepherded people once they were ready to leave the newly deceased. Its walls were the color of faded primroses and the light was soft through muslin curtains, hung as a veil from prying eyes. With sofas plush and deep, fresh flowers, and boxes of tissues, it was a room designed to cushion the sharp edges of raw grief.

After a few initial tears, Grace had rallied and was ready to talk. In truth, she had lost the man she married long ago, and now, with his death, at least she could begin to mourn. Bomber was pale but composed, dabbing at the tears that occasionally leaked silently down his face. Before they had left Godfrey’s room, he had kissed his father’s cheek for the final time. He had then removed Godfrey’s wedding ring from his finger for the first time since Grace had placed it there a lifetime ago. The gold was scratched and worn, the circle a little misshapen; a testament to a long and robust marriage where love was rarely voiced, but manifest every day. Bomber had handed the ring to his mother, who slipped it onto her middle finger without a word. Then he had telephoned Portia, who was now on her way there.

Grace came and sat next to Bomber and took his hand.

“Now, son, while we wait for your sister, I have something to say. You probably won’t want me to talk about this, but I’m your mother and I have to say my piece.”

Eunice had no idea what was coming, but offered to leave them in private.

“No, no, my dear. I’m sure Bomber won’t mind you hearing this, and I’d rather like you to back me up on this one if you don’t mind.”