A Terrible Kindness(51)

‘Cocoa in ten mins if you want it.’ The voice is bold. London. Female. Must be Gloria.

‘Thank you,’ he says, listening to the footsteps going downstairs.

Is he meant to follow her? Will she bring it up? If she does, should he ask her in? If he goes downstairs, should he bring it back to his room, or should he sit down there with them? He sits at his desk, checking his watch every few seconds.

At four minutes and counting, he is delivered. ‘Come on down,’ calls the voice, ‘it’s ready.’

She’s waiting in the galley kitchen doorway, with a tray holding two cups and a plate of biscuits. ‘Take this to Mum and Dad, and then we can have ours in here. They’re watching Armchair Theatre, and no one’s allowed to speak, or Dad loses track.’

William takes the tray from the attractive young woman he thinks is roughly the same age as him, catching his thumb between her fingers as she hands it over. The silvery TV light reflects off Mr and Mrs Finch’s spectacles. He gently puts the tray on the small table in between their two seats and leaves with neither acknowledging his presence.

‘Thank you, William,’ Mr Finch shouts, making him jump in the doorway.

‘Yes, thank yoooou,’ sings Mrs Finch.

‘My pleasure,’ shouts back William. ‘What’s so funny?’ he says to Gloria.

‘You’re very polite.’ She smiles, wiping a circle of cocoa from the work surface with a sponge.

‘Costs nothing, but earns you a lot,’ he said, surprised at how readily his mother’s words trip off his tongue.

Gloria’s green eyes shine as she laughs again. She pushes herself up onto the counter and William is struck by how athletic and light on her feet she is. She is a good four inches shorter than him. He also notices her padded curves; how nice it would be to rest his hands on that gentle bulge of her hips through her pretty dress. ‘That’s yours there.’ She nods at a green cup and saucer. ‘And help yourself to biscuits out the tin. I’m Gloria.’

‘Nice to meet you, Gloria,’ he says. The cocoa is strong, with small, petroly bubbles on top. ‘Thank you for this.’

‘My pleasure,’ she says. ‘What was in your envelope tonight?’

She’s obviously used to Thames College students in her house, so he responds in kind.

‘I’ve been naming the branches of the carotid arteries and tracing the arteries and veins a particle of fluid from the big toe to the left ear would use.’

‘You look as though you’ve been enjoying yourself.’

‘I have.’ He laughs at himself. She joins in; her giggle is rich and textured.

‘Gloria! Close the door,’ shouts Mrs Finch, ‘your father’s already in a muddle.’

‘Sorry,’ Gloria shouts, jumping down from the counter and crossing the kitchen.

‘You don’t have to stop talking,’ Mrs Finch shouts, ‘just keep it down.’

‘Why are they kissing?’ Mr Finch says. Gloria keeps her hand on the door; head inclined and a warning finger held to her lips, she winks at William. ‘I thought she was married to the lawyer,’ Mr Finch says.

‘She is!’ Mrs Finch replies. ‘That’s the point, he’s her bit on the side. Keep up, you daft bat.’

Having gently closed the door, the two of them laugh as quietly as they can. Some cocoa slips down William’s windpipe and Gloria has to pat his back as he splutters over the sink.

That night, lying in bed, remembering, William smiles. He likes how Gloria makes him feel. Even coughing over the sink with cocoa stinging his nostrils, he was enjoying himself. And still now, he can feel the sensation of her hand on his back.



It’s Friday and it feels very natural sitting opposite Gloria on the counter at 9.30 in the evening, with Mr and Mrs Finch watching TV in the next room. As the week has progressed he’s found out that Gloria is one year older than him, has an older sister who’s married with two children, living in East London. Last night William asked if her father had ever put pressure on her to join the business.

She looked at him as if he’d said something stupid. ‘Think about it. Have you ever met a female embalmer? Have you ever seen a sign outside a funeral home that says, Blah Blah Blah and Daughters?’

He shook his head. ‘You’re right, I haven’t.’

‘I’m not complaining. It got me off the hook – I’d rather save lives than pickle bodies. Mind,’ she added, ‘you’ll not find better people than in the funeral business. And if I ever have a daughter, and she wants to follow in her grandfather’s footsteps, I won’t have a problem with it.’

Then they’d talked about Egyptians pulling brains out through the nostrils, but he found his mind kept jumping back to the thought of Gloria with a baby daughter.

‘You’ve painted your nails,’ William notices now. ‘Nice colour.’

‘Thanks!’ she says, smiling at her splayed fingers. ‘I always do them if I’ve got two days off in a row.’

‘I used to paint nails for my uncle in the morgue.’ He’d never offer this to a normal girl, but he’s confident she’ll understand. The risk pays off.

‘I did too!’ She grins. ‘For Dad. I loved it! Especially how when you hook their hands over the edge of the coffin they don’t budge an inch.’ She laughs. ‘I used to think it meant they really wanted it doing, the way their hand just stayed put. I was only thirteen.’