unformed by her mouth.
‘Oh. Yes.’
‘Is the bottle of brandy in the front room cupboard?’
‘I suppose so. Yes. I don’t know.’
‘Have a drink. Not more than one but have one. A good measure. Yes?’
‘Yes.’
‘Then phone the doctor. He has to come first to certify but you can ring the undertaker to come straight after. Take her away. Do it before it gets really late.’
‘Yes.’
‘May? You’ll be all right now. You will.’
‘Yes.’
‘You know what else I’m going to say.’
‘Yes.’
‘You’re not to think of telling him. Not to ring him or send him a letter, nothing. He has no right to know. He forfeited that.’
‘Yes.’
‘But we should put it in the
Advertiser
.’
‘Oh yes. I’ll do that tomorrow. Colin will help me with that.’
‘Good. You’ll be all right, May.’
‘Yes.’
She would be.
She put the receiver back and went into the front room. The fire had not been lit in this grate for, what, two years? There was the cold of death in the walls. The brandy was there, in the cupboard. She took it into the kitchen. Poured a good measure. Drank half of it. Then she went back to the telephone.
Berenice had said what she had thought, that Frank shouldn’t be told. They would surely all agree on it. Colin would and that was everyone. She, Colin, Berenice. Frank had forfeited this and every other right.
The doctor came within the hour, the old Dr Price not his son, which was a relief to May because he had been the one Bertha had known, the one who had come out to her for years of her odd fits and panics aswell as in the last few years to see her when he could do nothing but pretend.
‘Now what about you, May?’ he said, following her up the stairs.
‘I’m all right, doctor, I’m fine.’
‘You said you weren’t with her?’
They stopped just outside the bedroom door.
‘I’d only slipped out for a few moments. She’d been fine all afternoon – all day – I’d never have gone but she’d been fine.’
‘No one’s blaming you, May. No one ever could. You’ve been a load-bearer for many years. Besides, you know they have a way of waiting to die till they’re left alone. Why that is nobody knows, but it’s a fact. Maybe to spare the living, maybe for some other reason.’
‘Is that what she was doing? Waiting to die until I was out of the room?’
‘It could be so, May, it could be so.’
They had been speaking in low voices which seemed odd for they could not waken Bertha now. Respect, May supposed. More respect. Why were the dead to be more respected than the living? She did not think she had ever received respect from a soul throughout her life, but perhaps she would not have known it anyway.
The body had changed again. It was smaller. Theflesh was shrinking further back from the bones and the whole frame seemed smaller and slighter in the bed, as if life had been a weight and space-filling like air in a balloon and now that it had gone what had contained it fell in upon itself.
She looked at the doctor. Looked away. She was growing used to the density of the silence in the room now.
It took little time.
‘Your mother might have wanted to rest awhile here at home, May. Are the others coming?’
‘Not tonight. I don’t know how long they might be. It would be best if she went, wouldn’t it?’
She saw that he understood.
‘Then telephone for the undertaker.’
She could not tell him that she had already done so.
At the front door he said, ‘Take another small nip of the brandy, May, and then no more.’
As he went away she saw the lights of the undertaker’s van coming towards her up the hill.
10
T HE DAY Frank Prime had left the Beacon at the age of nineteen he had changed. The silent, watching boy had begun to talk, while still a watcher; the one who had slipped like a shadow in and out of rooms became the man who laughed loudly, spoke loudly and became the centre of attention with great ease.
Like May, he had gone to
‘Oh. Yes.’
‘Is the bottle of brandy in the front room cupboard?’
‘I suppose so. Yes. I don’t know.’
‘Have a drink. Not more than one but have one. A good measure. Yes?’
‘Yes.’
‘Then phone the doctor. He has to come first to certify but you can ring the undertaker to come straight after. Take her away. Do it before it gets really late.’
‘Yes.’
‘May? You’ll be all right now. You will.’
‘Yes.’
‘You know what else I’m going to say.’
‘Yes.’
‘You’re not to think of telling him. Not to ring him or send him a letter, nothing. He has no right to know. He forfeited that.’
‘Yes.’
‘But we should put it in the
Advertiser
.’
‘Oh yes. I’ll do that tomorrow. Colin will help me with that.’
‘Good. You’ll be all right, May.’
‘Yes.’
She would be.
She put the receiver back and went into the front room. The fire had not been lit in this grate for, what, two years? There was the cold of death in the walls. The brandy was there, in the cupboard. She took it into the kitchen. Poured a good measure. Drank half of it. Then she went back to the telephone.
Berenice had said what she had thought, that Frank shouldn’t be told. They would surely all agree on it. Colin would and that was everyone. She, Colin, Berenice. Frank had forfeited this and every other right.
The doctor came within the hour, the old Dr Price not his son, which was a relief to May because he had been the one Bertha had known, the one who had come out to her for years of her odd fits and panics aswell as in the last few years to see her when he could do nothing but pretend.
‘Now what about you, May?’ he said, following her up the stairs.
‘I’m all right, doctor, I’m fine.’
‘You said you weren’t with her?’
They stopped just outside the bedroom door.
‘I’d only slipped out for a few moments. She’d been fine all afternoon – all day – I’d never have gone but she’d been fine.’
‘No one’s blaming you, May. No one ever could. You’ve been a load-bearer for many years. Besides, you know they have a way of waiting to die till they’re left alone. Why that is nobody knows, but it’s a fact. Maybe to spare the living, maybe for some other reason.’
‘Is that what she was doing? Waiting to die until I was out of the room?’
‘It could be so, May, it could be so.’
They had been speaking in low voices which seemed odd for they could not waken Bertha now. Respect, May supposed. More respect. Why were the dead to be more respected than the living? She did not think she had ever received respect from a soul throughout her life, but perhaps she would not have known it anyway.
The body had changed again. It was smaller. Theflesh was shrinking further back from the bones and the whole frame seemed smaller and slighter in the bed, as if life had been a weight and space-filling like air in a balloon and now that it had gone what had contained it fell in upon itself.
She looked at the doctor. Looked away. She was growing used to the density of the silence in the room now.
It took little time.
‘Your mother might have wanted to rest awhile here at home, May. Are the others coming?’
‘Not tonight. I don’t know how long they might be. It would be best if she went, wouldn’t it?’
She saw that he understood.
‘Then telephone for the undertaker.’
She could not tell him that she had already done so.
At the front door he said, ‘Take another small nip of the brandy, May, and then no more.’
As he went away she saw the lights of the undertaker’s van coming towards her up the hill.
10
T HE DAY Frank Prime had left the Beacon at the age of nineteen he had changed. The silent, watching boy had begun to talk, while still a watcher; the one who had slipped like a shadow in and out of rooms became the man who laughed loudly, spoke loudly and became the centre of attention with great ease.
Like May, he had gone to
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