The Peacock Emporium(95)

Emma will grow up without a mother, she thought. Like I did. And then, glancing at Vivi, who was standing by the car, felt the customary stab of guilt that she could think that.

It was when they stepped away from the grave that she saw him. Standing a little way back, behind Father Lenny, moving away from Cath, with whom he had evidently been exchanging a few quiet words. Cath was holding his tanned hands, nodding as she listened, her face dignified and curiously understanding in grief. He glanced up as Suzanna stared, and for a moment their eyes locked, exchanging in those brief seconds all the grief, guilt, shock . . . and secret joy of the previous week. She stepped forward, as if to go to him. Stopped as she felt a hand on her shoulder. “Your mum and dad have invited us back, Suze.” It was Neil. She looked up at her husband, blinking, as if she was trying to register who he was. “I think it would be a good idea if we went.”

She made herself keep looking at him, struggled to gather her thoughts. “To Mum’s?” And then, as she took in his words, “Oh, no, Neil. Not there. I don’t think I can face it today.”

Neil had already turned away. “I’m going. You can do what you want, Suzanna.”

“You’re going?”

He kept walking, stiff in his dark suit, leaving her standing on the grass. “It’s a day for family,” he said, over his shoulder, just loud enough for her to hear. “Your parents have been kind enough to support you today. And, to be honest, I can’t see the point in you and me being alone right now. Can you?”

Alejandro had walked the length of the graveyard with Cath and Emma. She had turned back in time to see him reach the gates. When he got there he had squatted down to say something to Emma, and pressed something into her hand. As she left, he might have nodded at Suzanna. At that distance it was hard to be sure.



* * *



—

“Nearly six hundred people came when your father died. The church was so full they had to seat people out on the grass.” Rosemary accepted a second cup of tea. She was addressing her son as he leaned back in his chair. “I always thought we should have used a cathedral.”

Vivi squeezed Suzanna’s arm as she sat beside her daughter on the sofa. She really looked terribly pale. “Lovely cake, Mrs. Cameron,” she said. “Very moist. Do you use lemon rind in it?”

“The archbishop had offered to give the sermon. Do you remember, Douglas? Dreadful man with a lisp.”

Douglas nodded.

“And four eggs,” said Mrs. Cameron. “Good free-range ones. That’s what gives it the yellow color.”

“I thought your father would rather have the vicar.” She nodded, as if confirming this to herself, then eyed Mrs. Cameron as she took away the teapot to refill it.

“I didn’t like that ham in the sandwiches. It’s not proper cut ham.”

“It was, Rosemary,” said Vivi, in emollient tones. “I got a whole one specially from the butcher.”

“Tasted like that re-formed stuff. Scraped off the factory floor and glued together with goodness-knows-what.”

“I cut it off the bone myself, Mrs. Fairley-Hulme.” Mrs. Cameron turned back from the doorway, with a wink at Vivi. “Next time I’ll carve it in front of you, if you like.”

“I wouldn’t trust you near me with a carving knife,” said Rosemary, sniffing. “I’ve heard about you so-called care assistants. You’ll have me changing my will in my sleep next—”

“Rosemary!” Vivi nearly spat out her tea.

“—and then making sure I have a so-called ‘accident,’ like Suzanna’s friend.”

There was a stunned silence in the room as its occupants tried to work out which of Rosemary’s statements had been the most offensive. Reassured by Mrs. Cameron’s easy guffaw as she disappeared into the kitchen, all eyes had fallen on Suzanna, but she appeared not to be listening. She was staring at the floor, locked into the same misery as her silent husband.

“Mother, I hardly think that’s appropriate . . .” Douglas leaned forward.

“I’m eighty-six years old, and I shall say what I like,” said Rosemary, settling back into her chair.

“Rosemary,” said Vivi, gently, “please . . . Suzanna’s friend has just died.”

“And I’ll be the next to go, so I think that gives me more of a right than most to talk about death.” Rosemary placed her hands in her lap, then gazed around at the mute faces in front of her. “Death,” she said, finally. “Death. Death. Death. There, you see?”

“Oh, for God’s sake,” said Douglas, rising from his chair.

“What?” She looked up at her son, her expression challenging beneath the immovable pathways of veins and wrinkles.

“Not today, Mother. Please.” He moved toward her. “Do you want Mrs. Cameron to take you into the garden? So you can see the flowers? I think a breath of fresh air would be just the thing,” said Douglas. “Mrs. Cameron!”

“I do not want to go into the garden,” said Rosemary. “Douglas, do not put me in the garden.”

Vivi turned to her daughter, still limply acquiescent to having her arm held. “Darling, are you okay? You’ve been dreadfully quiet since we got back.”

“I’m fine, Mum,” she said dully.