travellers’ cheques.
She had been looking for something, she couldn’t say what. It had been a frantic search and it had gone on for some ten minutes, but in the end she had given up. The surge of manic energy having subsided, Eleanor was overcome by fatigue. She was filled with sadness and apathy. Leaning back in her seat, she closed her eyes and thought of her mission.
She was going to England to meet Corinne Coreille. Corinne Coreille didn’t know it, not yet. Eleanor felt it imperative that the two of them should meet. Corinne Coreille provided the last existing link with Griff. The link of death. Eleanor thought again of those last terrible moments when the dark red plumes of blood had started spiralling from Griff’s open wrists and spreading about the pale blue bath water like so many clouds of crimson smoke . . . She wanted to see with her own eyes what kind of a person Corinne Coreille was. This woman who had exercised such power over her son! There was no one else whom she could talk to about Griff. No one who would understand .
None of his boyfriends had been in touch – not one of them had come to the funeral. Certainly not Owen . . . It was the wrong crowd that had turned up. People she hardly knew. Sanctimonious fools, prurient ghouls – some dubious-looking middle-aged men with moustaches – the English composer, tall, majestic, almost Lear-like with his snow-white beard and locks, weeping extravagantly – he had left a china wreath with a black ribbon that said, Buenas Noches, Bello Diablo – some distant cousin of Eleanor’s, a woman in a purple hat with a veil, shouting, ‘Why cremation? What’s wrong with a funeral? Now you’ll never know where he’s going!’ It had all been too much . . . Small wonder Eleanor had had a nervous breakdown!
It might be said that Corinne Coreille had sung Griff to death . . . A lethal lullaby . . . Will it ever cloy? This odd diversity of misery and joy . . . Eleanor found herself humming under her breath and checked herself. Had there been one particular boy? Somebody who had broken Griff’s heart? (More so than any of his predecessors, that was.) Was that why Griff did it? Or had Griff simply decided that he had had enough, that an existence like his was simply not worth living? Had he chosen that particular song as some ironic final statement, as his high camp coda, a silly requiem emblematic of the pursuits of a silly misspent life? I am feeling young again and quite insane – all because – Or did his death have anything to do with the Lykaion sect and its teachings?
A pampered pansy playboy . That was what her niece had called Griff. Eleanor dabbed at her eyes with her handkerchief. ‘I have had a tragic life,’ she said. ‘I have remained unfulfilled as a woman and as a mother.’ She found herself thinking back to the day Griff was born. Lyndon – her wayward husband – had not been there. Of course not. Other husbands sat beside their wives’ beds in the maternity ward and held and caressed their hands – but not Lyndon. Lyndon had never been there for her. It had been an incredibly difficult birth. Eleanor had been in labour for forty-eight hours and she had become convinced that Griff didn’t really want to be born. She wondered now whether Griff had struck some sort of a deal, so that he wouldn’t have to stay long on this earth.
But perhaps Griff hadn’t meant to kill himself? That haunting invidious voice might have induced a particularly hopeless mood in him . . . Eleanor wondered what Corinne Coreille would have to say in her defence.
She opened her eyes. ‘Chalfont Park, Chalfont Parva, Shropshire, England,’ she said aloud. She was going to Chalfont Park. Some grand house, by the sound of it, what in England they called a manor house. It shouldn’t be too hard to find. Did it belong to Corinne? Or was Corinne going there on a visit? A thought struck her. Could Corinne be running away from her ? That suggested not only
She had been looking for something, she couldn’t say what. It had been a frantic search and it had gone on for some ten minutes, but in the end she had given up. The surge of manic energy having subsided, Eleanor was overcome by fatigue. She was filled with sadness and apathy. Leaning back in her seat, she closed her eyes and thought of her mission.
She was going to England to meet Corinne Coreille. Corinne Coreille didn’t know it, not yet. Eleanor felt it imperative that the two of them should meet. Corinne Coreille provided the last existing link with Griff. The link of death. Eleanor thought again of those last terrible moments when the dark red plumes of blood had started spiralling from Griff’s open wrists and spreading about the pale blue bath water like so many clouds of crimson smoke . . . She wanted to see with her own eyes what kind of a person Corinne Coreille was. This woman who had exercised such power over her son! There was no one else whom she could talk to about Griff. No one who would understand .
None of his boyfriends had been in touch – not one of them had come to the funeral. Certainly not Owen . . . It was the wrong crowd that had turned up. People she hardly knew. Sanctimonious fools, prurient ghouls – some dubious-looking middle-aged men with moustaches – the English composer, tall, majestic, almost Lear-like with his snow-white beard and locks, weeping extravagantly – he had left a china wreath with a black ribbon that said, Buenas Noches, Bello Diablo – some distant cousin of Eleanor’s, a woman in a purple hat with a veil, shouting, ‘Why cremation? What’s wrong with a funeral? Now you’ll never know where he’s going!’ It had all been too much . . . Small wonder Eleanor had had a nervous breakdown!
It might be said that Corinne Coreille had sung Griff to death . . . A lethal lullaby . . . Will it ever cloy? This odd diversity of misery and joy . . . Eleanor found herself humming under her breath and checked herself. Had there been one particular boy? Somebody who had broken Griff’s heart? (More so than any of his predecessors, that was.) Was that why Griff did it? Or had Griff simply decided that he had had enough, that an existence like his was simply not worth living? Had he chosen that particular song as some ironic final statement, as his high camp coda, a silly requiem emblematic of the pursuits of a silly misspent life? I am feeling young again and quite insane – all because – Or did his death have anything to do with the Lykaion sect and its teachings?
A pampered pansy playboy . That was what her niece had called Griff. Eleanor dabbed at her eyes with her handkerchief. ‘I have had a tragic life,’ she said. ‘I have remained unfulfilled as a woman and as a mother.’ She found herself thinking back to the day Griff was born. Lyndon – her wayward husband – had not been there. Of course not. Other husbands sat beside their wives’ beds in the maternity ward and held and caressed their hands – but not Lyndon. Lyndon had never been there for her. It had been an incredibly difficult birth. Eleanor had been in labour for forty-eight hours and she had become convinced that Griff didn’t really want to be born. She wondered now whether Griff had struck some sort of a deal, so that he wouldn’t have to stay long on this earth.
But perhaps Griff hadn’t meant to kill himself? That haunting invidious voice might have induced a particularly hopeless mood in him . . . Eleanor wondered what Corinne Coreille would have to say in her defence.
She opened her eyes. ‘Chalfont Park, Chalfont Parva, Shropshire, England,’ she said aloud. She was going to Chalfont Park. Some grand house, by the sound of it, what in England they called a manor house. It shouldn’t be too hard to find. Did it belong to Corinne? Or was Corinne going there on a visit? A thought struck her. Could Corinne be running away from her ? That suggested not only
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