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CHAPTERTHIRTY-FIVE
Thursday 10th January, snow was in the air and Owen sincerely hoped it would stay there as Henry’s big black Mercedes crept like a hunting panther through the streets of west London, taking them on their journey to Aldershot. England being what it was, it would only take an inch or two of snow to create traffic chaos.
There was an atmosphere of strained silence in the car. Henry acting as chauffeur had surprised Owen. He’d assumed that Sally would drive them, even though he knew she had invited Henry to attend the funeral. His turning up in his expensive sleek car only fuelled Owen’s sense of being taken over. The man was everywhere nowadays, as insidiously invasive as fungus. Dating Sally, joining family dinners, frequenting the Fig almost as much as he and George. Befriending Millie. The man seemed to have a knack for charming women. Though George, Owen thought gratefully, seemed equally unsure of the great Henry McKinnon.
‘Blast!’ Henry swore softly.
‘What’s wrong, lovely?’ Sally asked, turning to Henry and softly touching his expensively clad arm.
Henry nodded at the signs, restricting speed to fifty miles per hour and said, ‘A hazard ahead.’
‘Will we be late?’
‘Not if I can help it.’ Henry’s lips thinned in determination.
‘Are you all right in the back there?’ Sally asked, turning to look around the headrest. Owen noticed Henry using the rear-view mirror to check on them. Or was it just him he was checking? It seemed since the first funeral, there was a strange undercurrent between them.
‘We’re fine,’ Owen said, and turned to look out at the scenery slipping by.
The sleek and powerful car sliced through the miles as silence settled on its occupants, only to broken once when Sally offered everyone a mint.
Approaching signs for Aldershot, Henry cleared his throat and said, ‘Owen, I know you told Sally you didn’t want a wake, but we ought to mark your mother’s passing…’
‘I thought that was what the funeral was for,’ Owen muttered.
Henry continued, ‘We’ll all be cold and hungry, so I’ve organised something.’
Owen locked eyes with the face in the rear-view mirror.
‘Isn’t that kind?’ Millie said, leaning across George to touch Owen’s knee.
George and Owen looked at each other and shared thoughts.
‘No fuss or anything,’ Henry went on. ‘Just a meal back at my place.’ He glanced again in the rear-view mirror and repeated, ‘we’ll all be cold and hungry after the service.’
Owen shrugged and looked again out of the window. They were travelling along the drive to the crematorium. Velvet green lawns, rose beds that in the summer would be a carnival of colour and perfume but now were little more than brown expanses of earth containing the spikey skeletal outlines of rose bushes. It was a peaceful place. Owen hoped his mother would at last find calmness. His eyes watered and he turned more fully towards the view.Grist, don’t cry now. Not now!
The crematoriumwith its Doric columns and globe roofed entrance would not have looked out of place in ancient Greece. Owen recognised a few of the people waiting. His mother had never had many friends, but somehow the ones she’d had stuck it out, right to the end.
He did his duty as a son, allowed them to grip his hand and squeeze, give him words of encouragement and sympathy. Let them hug him, rub his arms and his face. He nodded, said the appropriate things, and longed to escape. Go somewhere quiet with a book and a very large drink.
A hand landed on his shoulder, shaking him out of his thoughts. It was Henry… bloody Henry again.
He said, ‘I know it’s tough, son. But you’ll get through it. You’re strong.’
Rage flared in Owen. How dare this man he hardly knew call him son? How dare he tell him he knew it was tough. What did he know? How could he know what it was like to spend most of your life with a deranged and helpless woman? Incapable of looking after herself, totally hopeless as a mother. How could he ever understand what it was like to lose the rest of your family one by one, so in the end, it was only you and the sick woman?
‘Come on.’ George appeared at his other side and, firmly gripping his arm, escorted Owen towards the door into the building. ‘Come on,’ he repeated. ‘You mustn’t let him get to you. Not today.’
Owen let George take him into the room where there was to be a simple service, and they sat together at the front. The coffin was already in place in front of closed red drapes. Owen had said no flowers, but someone had sent some, for there was a wreath of white lilies and roses resting on top of the coffin.
‘Who are they from?’
‘I don’t know.’ George shrugged and looked around the room. ‘I suppose anyone here could have sent them. Or someone who knew your mum but couldn’t come today.’
‘Pity whoever it was didn’t show as much care when she was alive.’ Owen said.
George squeezed Owen’s arm. ‘I know.’
