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Right you are, Donald said quickly. Sorry, I didn't mean anything just then, when I said—
Oh, no, no, David said, that's fine, not at all. I'll speak to you soon.
You don't mind do you? he asked Eleanor, after he'd hung up. She shook her head.
How're things? she asked.
She's not very well at all, he said. She nodded.
And Donald? she asked.
He learnt that Ivy had been ill before, that this was a recurrence of the same condition she'd had when Stewart had died. He learnt that Donald and Rosalind were spending most of their time at the hospital now, that Hamish and his wife were there as well, as was Hamish's daughter Cathy. He learnt that Donald had been feeling at something of a loose end since he retired. He learnt that Ivy had never really got over having to move out of the old house when it was demolished as part of the council's rebuilding programme. He learnt, more than once, that Donald thought it was funny the way things turned out.
And once Eleanor had found out, she didn't seem to mind him having these conversations at all. Sometimes she asked him, afterwards, what they'd been talking about, and asked him questions which he asked Donald the next time they spoke. Sometimes she asked how her mother was doing, although the answer was always the same; not well, getting worse. One evening, while Donald was telling him about Ivy's habit of still using a top-loader, even when all four sons had offered to buy her a modern washing machine - she's stubborn, he said, no one can deny that - Eleanor came into the room asking David if he wanted a cup of tea, not realising until it was too late that he was on the phone. Donald caught himself mid-sentence.
Eh, is that Eleanor there? he asked. Eleanor had her hand over her mouth.
It is, David said. There was a pause.
Sounds like she's lost her accent a wee bit, Donald said.
Well, I suppose she has, yes, David said. Eleanor's eyes widened at the thought of Donald saying something about her.
Mind, said Donald, it's been a while.
It has, David agreed, realising now what Donald wanted to ask. There was another long pause.
Eh, is she still there, or has she gone to put that kettle on now? Donald said.
No, no, David said, she's still here. Eleanor wiped her mouth and looked around her, and then she moved closer towards him, closer towards the voice on the phone. Would you like to speak to her? he asked. Donald said nothing for a moment, and there was only the sound of him breathing in and out.
Aye, he said. If I could. David held the phone out to Eleanor, raising his eyebrows. She looked at it a moment, wiping a hand across her mouth again, and took it from him.
Hello? she said. Hello Donald. How are you?
57 Printed service sheet, Ivy Elaine Campbell, 1909-2000', 23 April 2000
Before the service, having tea and cake at Donald and Rosalind's house, Donald showed Kate a photograph of her grandfather. That's your Granda Stewart, he said, holding it up to her. That photo was taken eighty-nine years ago, he added, as proudly as if he'd taken it himself. So don't you be getting sticky fingers on it now, he said, and everyone in the room laughed.
Oh, no, I won't, Kate smiled, perching on the arm of the sofa with a cup of tea in one hand and the photo in the other, holding it carefully by the edges.
See that wee boat there? Donald asked. They say he carried that boat around with him everywhere, after his father died. The other conversations in the room dropped away, and people turned to look.
His father made it for him, before he was lost, said Hamish.
Is that so? asked Donald, looking over at his brother, well, I never knew that. Kate looked at the photo again - Stewart holding a small model fishing boat, his brother and three sisters beside him, his mother standing behind them with a hand resting lightly on his head. She must have recognised the boat, and David was impressed that she was careful not to say anything.
I suppose you don't know too much about the family history though do you hen? said Donald, tucking the photo back into the envelope with the others.
Not really, said Kate, Mum doesn't really - you know; and she trailed off to take a sip of tea, and Donald's weather-beaten face coloured a little. The crowded room was heavy and still for a moment, until Donald's wife got to her feet and started saying you'll be wanting another one then to each of the guests in turn, filling their cups from a huge pot on the table, cutting second slices of dense brandy-fumed fruitcake, and Kate stood and said no, not for me thanks, I think I'll just, and Donald directed her to the left of the top of the stairs.
As soon as she was out of the room, John's wife turned to David and said oh but she's the spit of her grandmother, is she not?
I suppose she is, he said, smiling.
Oh aye, said Hugh, as a murmur of agreement ran around the room, it's uncanny, isn't it? And even though of all those there Ivy's brother Gordon was the only one old enough to remember her as a young woman, they could still see something in Kate that reminded them of her. The way she lifted her head when she smiled. The shape of her eyes. Something about the way she had held herself when she first stepped into the room and said hello. Some faint echo, sounding on down the bloodline.
There was talk of arrangements, of where to park and who couldn't make it and who would be taking the cords. There were more trips to the toilet and a few more pieces of cake. And then when everyone was in the room Donald looked at his watch and said right well I think that's us away then, and they all stood and filed out of the small front room, ladies first, after you, placing empty cups and crumb-laden plates on to the kitchen table as they passed into the passageway and out through the front door to the street, all sober and dark and tight-collared. The women in rarely worn hats and M&S dresses, carrying weighty handbags and helping each other down the front step and along to the cars. The men straightening their shoulders and their ties as they stepped out into the crisp afternoon light, blinking a little, clearing their heads from the warmth of the house and readying themselves for what was to come. Everyone moving with a well-rehearsed confidence, as though it was every day they put on these clothes and drove to the cemetery to bury their mother, or sister, or aunt. Slipping into their seats in the four shining cars, scooping the hems of their dresses neatly beneath them or straightening the lines of their heavy jackets. Keeping their thoughts to themselves as they drove smoothly through the bungalowed streets and along the coast road towards the town, round past the industrial estates and through the familiar terraced streets of their childhoods.
