It Had to Be You

He sat in the middle of this living memorial to her artistry, and he felt awkward and ashamed. He sensed that he was about to miss her deeply, and so, in the end, he picked up the telephone almost eagerly.

And began.

‘All right, all right, I’m coming as fast as I can.’

Stanley Hollinghurst, James’s uncle, his father’s brother, talked to himself quite a lot now. He didn’t care. Charles had once pointed it out, and that evening he had caught himself saying, ‘So, you’re talking to yourself, are you? Well, Charles, you’re wrong. It isn’t the first sign of madness. It’s the first sign that there are sod all other people to talk to. It’s all right for you, you’re surrounded by people, you complacent young fool, but I talk to myself because it’s someone to listen to, all right?’ And then the humour of his talking to himself about his habit of talking to himself had struck him, and he’d laughed till his teeth came out.

‘Don’t ring off. I’m on my way.’

He didn’t have an answer machine. He was a Luddite. Well, he was an anthropologist. The past was his business. Or had been. All that was in the past now. Ha ha! Ironic!

He got to the phone while it was still ringing. Must be somebody he knew, making allowances.

‘Stanley Hollinghurst, OBE.’

‘Stanley! You haven’t got an OBE.’

‘No, but very few people round here know that. How are you, James?’

‘Fine. Stanley, I—’

‘How are Charles and Philip?’

‘Fine. Charles is on a concert tour and Philip’s here.’

‘Is he? Well, tell him not to worry about all that global warming stuff. I think it’s great.’

‘Stanley, I’ve got—’

‘Human race deserves it. Can’t hurt me. I’ll be gone.’

‘Stanley, I’ve got some—’

‘Spaniards sizzling. French frying. What’s the problem?’

‘Stanley, I’ve got some bad—’

‘Brighton under six feet of water. All those homos and lesbians shitting themselves.’

‘Stanley! That’s terrible.’

‘I know. I do so enjoy saying things like that, though. People are so bloody self-righteous, James.’

‘Stanley, has it occurred to you that I might have rung you because I have something to tell you?’

‘Ah. Yes. Sorry. Like the sound of my voice. You will when you live alone.’

‘Stanley, I do live alone.’

‘What? What are you on about?’

‘Stanley, Deborah’s dead.’

Stanley remained silent throughout the whole sad story, and when James had finished, he said, in the soft, sincere, real voice he hadn’t used since Mollie died thirty-three years ago, ‘James, I’m so sorry. I really am. Deborah, of all people. She was the best of the whole bunch, James.’

Mike next. No, difficult. Gordon Tollington first. Easier. Gordon and he went right back to the Dorking days. He was the only man who liked food even more than James did. Fifty-three years old, sold out for millions. Rich, idle and fat. Good company, though. Haven’t seen them for far too long.

Gordon Tollington listened in almost total silence, only interrupting, as it seemed most people did, to say, ‘Diss?’, as if Diss was just outside Timbuktu. When he rang off, Gordon’s face was grim.

He went out into the spacious garden, with its long sloping lawns.

Stephanie was sliding broad beans out of their pods in the shade.

He slumped down beside her and told her the bad news. They sat in silent shock.

‘Oh, my God,’ he said suddenly.

‘I know. It’s just sunk in, hasn’t it? It’s so awful.’

‘Not that. Well, that too, of course. But … I bet the funeral will be next Wednesday. It’ll take that long to organise.’

‘So?’

‘That’s the day we’re going to the Fat Duck.’

‘For shame, Gordon. Is a meal more important than Deborah’s death?’

‘It isn’t a meal. It’s the meal. We booked months ago.’

‘Gordon, I don’t believe what I’m hearing.’

‘I know, but … I loved Deborah, Steph … loved her, wonderful woman, I’m very sad. But we can’t bring her back, and you have to book months in advance.’

‘I think we have to go.’

‘Well, I don’t know that it’s that cut and dried. I think they’ll be used to people cancelling. They’ll have a cancellation list.’

‘I meant, “We have to go to the funeral…”’

‘Yes. Yes, of course we do. No, I really want to. Of course I do. What do you think I am?’

‘It may not be next Wednesday.’

‘It will be. Death is never convenient. Do you know, I think I’m fated to die without ever having tasted snail porridge.’

Edward and Jane Winterburn. He’d been quite close to them once. Well, very close to Jane, for a while. Well, she’d been his very first proper girlfriend. She had legs that went on for ever. He’d thought he loved her. He’d thought she loved him. Definitely wrong on the second count, she went off with Ed the day after James had taken her to his college’s May Ball. Probably wrong on the first count too, because he got over it pretty quickly. They had stayed friends at first. Then Ed did something he really didn’t approve of. Twice, to his knowledge. Went bankrupt, opened up under a new name, owing vast sums that nobody would ever receive. Mocked James for his disapproval, called him naive and stuffy and unrealistically idealistic. After that it had been Christmas cards only. But they had both liked Deborah. Yes, he decided that he’d let them know.

Jane answered. He was pleased about that.

‘Bad news, I’m afraid, Jane.’

‘Yes. How did you know?’

‘What?’

‘Has it been on the news?’

‘What are you talking about?’

‘Ed.’

‘Ed?’

‘His disappearance. Isn’t that what you’re ringing about?’

‘Ed’s disappeared?’

‘Yes. Into thin air. I haven’t seen him since Tuesday.’

‘I don’t believe this.’

‘He went off to a party in some pub somewhere, round Chelsea, well, it was Roger Dodds’s actually, you remember him? I didn’t go. He never came back, hasn’t been seen since.’

‘Good God.’

‘I thought that’s what you were ringing about.’

‘No. I had no idea. I’m so sorry.’

‘Thanks. So what are you ringing up about, James?’

‘Um … I’ve got some news too.’

‘Well, I hope yours is a bit more cheerful. I need cheering up.’

‘A light went out of the world yesterday morning, James.’

Yes, yes, Tom, but don’t overdo it.

He had been surprised to find Tom at home, but Tom had explained that he worked from home two days a week now. All right for some.

‘James, I think I’m probably your oldest friend.’

‘Undoubtedly. I don’t have any other friends from that dreadful prep school.’

‘So please, please, feel you can rely on Jen and me for support twenty-four seven.’

‘Thank you.’

‘Um … about the funeral. About the date. Is it decided?’

‘Not yet. These things are complicated.’

‘The fact is …’

‘I can only just hear you, Tom.’

‘I don’t want Jen to hear. She’d be livid if she knew I was asking this. Livid.’

‘What are you asking, Tom?’

‘The fact is … I have two tickets for the Centre Court at Wimbledon for next Thursday. I mean, don’t get me wrong, James, that isn’t important, isn’t remotely important, compared to … your tragedy. However … James, I’ve never told another human being this, except the doctors, but I have … um … a bit of a problem. I … not to put too fine a point on it … I suffer from premature … um …’

James knew he shouldn’t interrupt but really there had been no scope for fun all morning.

‘Ejaculation?’

‘No!’

‘Baldness?’

‘No. Well, yes, but … um … that’s not the … and that annoys Jen, actually. The way baldness is said to be a sign of … um … virility in male mythology. Nonsense, of course.’

James ran his fingers through his thick, riotous hair.

‘Absolute nonsense, Tom.’

‘Everybody comments on my baldness. “Jen’s a lucky woman.” “Jen’s obviously getting plenty.” People can be surprisingly coarse in Godalming.’

‘So what you suffer from is …’

‘Yes. Impotence at an unusually young age. I mean, I was never a several-times-a-night man, if you know what I mean.’

Too much information, Tom.

‘Not by a long chalk. I mean, Jen’s very sympathetic. She’s behind me all the way. As it were. Anyway, the point is …’

Ah! At last.

‘… The point is, I’ve tried for Centre Court tickets for eighteen years at the tennis club draw. Never got them. Every year Margaret Insole gets two, and she prefers golf. Goes, though, and don’t we hear about it? Every sodding serve. Over these last few years as my … my problem … has got worse, the tickets have become a kind of symbol of my impotence, my general uselessness, James. And this year, bingo, two tickets, ladies’ semi-final day. I’d rather a men’s day, I find women’s tennis boring, but Jen doesn’t, of course, and that’s what it’s all about. So, all I’m saying is, if there is any scope for choice, I’d be enormously grateful if you could avoid today week.’

‘I’ll do my best, Tom.’

Oh, give me strength, he thought. And he couldn’t continue delaying the call to Mike.

Mike was feeling quite depressed and wondered whether to answer the phone. Just before it went onto the answer machine, he found himself picking it up.

‘Mike, it’s James.’

The contradictory feelings surged. Well, they would have done if he’d had enough energy for surging.

Affection. Only James of the old mob kept in touch. Only James ever took him out and bought him food and drink. The others had smelt his failure, called him less and less often, eventually dropped out of his orbit altogether. His orbit! He didn’t have a house any more. He didn’t have a wife any more. He didn’t have an orbit any more.

Irritation. James never invited him to his home any more, never invited him to meet any of his friends, never wanted to spend more than two minutes in his horrid little pad, always took him to a pub or restaurant. So kind. So demeaning.

Anger. It was never far from the surface. It wasn’t so much anger at James himself as at his situation and the way James reminded him of his situation. By phoning him James reminded him of all those people who never phoned. By being kind to him, even in the limited manner of his kindness, James brought home to him that the rest of the world was not kind.

‘Well, hello, James. Long time no hear.’

‘I know. I’m sorry. You know how things are.’

Only too well.

Mike was shocked at James’s news.

‘I’m really sorry, James.’

‘Thanks. Maybe we could have a drink this weekend.’

‘I’m not going anywhere.’

‘I’ll be glad to get out of the house, to be honest. Mike, I’ve rung you first of all my friends because I know I’ve rather let you down. Anyway, mate, how about Saturday evening? Hang a few on. Sup some lotion, as your dad used to say.’

That’s right. Remind me I’m working class.

‘Fine. Great.’

‘I’ll need it by then. And by then I’ll know the funeral date. Mike, I hope you can come. And for drinks afterwards. At the house.’

When James had rung off, Mike looked at himself in the mirror. His stained T-shirt was a map of his recent pauper’s meals. He was unwashed and unshaven. His hair was a tangled jungle. He shuddered.

At the house! It was years since he’d been invited to the house. Maybe it was Deborah who hadn’t wanted him anywhere near her. He looked at himself again. Nothing a haircut and a good shave and a clean shirt wouldn’t cure. But perhaps he wouldn’t bother. Perhaps he’d go like this and embarrass the bastard.

Not a bad bastard, though. He wondered whether to ring his ex-wife and suggest that she came too. Melanie had always liked Deborah. If he could see her again, just once, who knew? He looked in the mirror again. No. No chance. Be good to see her, though. Perhaps. Or awful. Oh, hell.

Fuck them all.

He felt a rivulet of sweat running down his back. There were spreading dark stains under his arms. The sun had moved round, and he’d no longer been sitting in the shade, and he hadn’t even noticed. His face was burning, and he had no protection on it. How angry Deborah would have been. ‘Do you want skin cancer?’

He tried to stand up. The chair came with him. He was stuck to the chair. He had to prise it off.

And even then it was agonising to stand up straight. His back was so stiff.

He went, very cautiously, through one or two of the stretching exercises that Gareth had prescribed. Gareth. Should he cancel him on Saturday? And the acupuncturist? No. If they were any use, if they weren’t a waste of money, it was at times like this that they’d be needed. He’d stick to his routine.

He walked slowly into the blessed darkness of the house, the wonderful coolness of the kitchen, then went into the utility room and drank two glasses of chilled water from the fridge-freezer.

He entered the sitting room just as Philip was saying, ‘Thank you. Thank you very much for your help,’ and putting the phone down.

‘I’ve had enough for one morning,’ said James. He couldn’t believe that it was only two minutes to twelve. He seemed to have been talking for hours. ‘Still a few people to ring, but I can’t take any more. Um … I never drink before twelve, it’s one of my rules, but it’ll take two minutes to pour. Would you like something, Philip?’

‘Actually a G and T would go down quite well.’

‘Fine. I won’t drink. I’ll only start falling asleep this afternoon if I do.’

‘Well, no, if you’re not having one …’

‘No, no. You want one. You must. I’m very grateful.’

He poured Philip’s G and T and opened a bottle of German beer for himself.

‘I thought you weren’t drinking.’

‘I don’t count beer.’

Philip raised his eyebrows, which were scanty affairs compared to James’s.

‘No need to give me a look. I usually drink too much and in the days to come I’m probably going to drink much too much. Cheers. Thanks for coming.’

‘Cheers. Really glad to help.’

‘How’s it gone?’

‘Not bad. I don’t think there’ll be any real problems. The Hutchinsons were perfectly satisfied with Ferris’s. Well, “efficient and only slightly greasily subservient” were the actual words. It looks as if it’ll have to be Thursday. The vicar can’t do Friday. We could have twelve-thirty or three-thirty. Ferris’s recommend that we get back to them pretty quickly. “Experience shows, Mr Hollinghurst, that we do tend to have a bit of a rush in heatwaves.”’

‘Oh, grab twelve-thirty. The sooner the better, on the day. You said “the vicar”. You’ve found one, then.’

‘Your local man is the Reverend Martin Vigar. I told him you weren’t religious and he said, “I’m a pretty flexible sort of chap. I was actually thirty-two years with Allied Dunbar before I took up this lark.” I didn’t quite see that that followed, but I didn’t press the point.’

‘This “lark”!’

‘I know. Not sure I’d want him if I was a fervent believer but he sounds pretty convenient for our job. He asked if you wanted burial or cremation and I had to say I didn’t know. He pushed me very strongly towards cremation – apparently graveyards are bursting at the seams in London. I mean, what do you feel?’

‘Oh, Lord. Let me think. I need to think about that. Could you … um … start getting a bit of lunch, anything, just ferret around and see what you can find, and I’ll take my beer and … think. I’m also going to have a shower. I’ve sweated rather.’

Upstairs, the house was like a furnace. James had his third shower of the day, the nearest thing to a cold shower that was possible without feeling shock, then sat in the shade in the marital bedroom looking at the photo of Deborah on the dressing table. What would she want? Cremation, surely, her ashes strewn over a field on the family farm, an end to it all. To be somewhere for ever, as bones, that wouldn’t be her style at all.

He put on a pair of mauve pants and matching socks. It was so hot in the bedroom. If he wasn’t careful he’d need a fourth shower, so he carried his shoes, a pair of grey flannel trousers and a dark green shirt downstairs, where he dressed in the dark cool of the kitchen. Philip gave him quite a long look, and he realised that there was admiration in it. With his hairy chest, his flat (ish) stomach and his muscular legs, he achieved something quite rare in an Englishman in his forties. He didn’t look obscene with no clothes on.

‘I’m making a Spanish omelette,’ said Philip.

‘Perfect. I’ve decided on cremation.’

‘Good. That makes it easier. Now, the thing is, it’s normal when there isn’t what the vicar called “a specific congregational element” – in other words, in English, you didn’t attend a particular church – to use the nearest crematorium chapel.’

‘Oh, I hate those. The mechanism starting up, the coffin sliding away. If you’ve watched too much television you expect three pathologists to rush in and shout, “Stop!”’

‘I know, but you’ve never been to any church in Islington, you’re not in a strong position.’

‘No, you’re right. Oh, Lord. Oh, Philip, I dread the day.’

‘As of now the vicar can do both of Ferris’s times, but he also would like a swift decision. “It’s strange,” he said, “but deaths tend to come in batches, rather like London buses.”’

‘Do we really want this man?’

‘He’ll be perfect for our purposes. I’ll book him for the twelve-thirty slot. Oh, and he’s booked himself in provisionally to come round at four-thirty on Tuesday for a chat with you about Deborah. “So that I can introduce that personal element that I think is so all-important.”’

‘I dread it more and more, Philip.’

He whipped the top off another bottle of beer.

Max rang at ten past one, just as James was eating the very last mouthful of the Spanish omelette that Philip had cooked, delicious, the egg with just a faint moistness still, the onions as sweet as blossom, the tiny pieces of potato soft but with just a touch of crispness.

‘Hello, Dad. It’s ten past seven here but I thought I’d better catch you.’

‘Thanks. How are you, Max?’

‘I cried myself to sleep.’

James wanted to say, ‘So did I,’ but he found it hard to lie to Max.

‘How are you, Dad?’

‘I’m all right. Keeping busy. Philip’s here helping. He’s just made the most marvellous Spanish omelette. I felt guilty about enjoying it, but the body’s a funny thing. My heart’s aching, but my taste buds are unmoved. So, what’s happening? When are you coming?’

‘Well, I’ve booked my flight provisionally for Tuesday. I’d have liked to have come sooner, but the thing is, Dad …’ Max hesitated. He sounded embarrassed. ‘Dad, something very important is happening here on Monday. Well, it may not seem important to you, but it is to my work and I’d just like to be here. I hope you don’t think that sounds awful. Obviously if you really need me before Tuesday I can cancel.’

‘No, no, it looks as though the funeral’s going to be on Thursday. Tuesday’s fine.’

‘Are you sure, Dad?’

‘Absolutely sure. So … what’s happening on Monday?’

‘It may not seem much to you, Dad, and I mean, Mum’s death, I’ve hardly slept a wink, I’m devastated, but I can’t bring her back, and this is … well … to me it’s important, but I don’t want not to be with you if you need me …’

‘I’m all right, Max. Don’t tear yourself apart. Come on. Tell me. What’s happening on Monday?’

‘It probably won’t seem important.’

‘Tell me.’

James wished he hadn’t sounded so abrupt. Max was clearly finding this very difficult.

‘It’s a big planning meeting about some very important woodland that I care about very much. I’ve grown to love the Canadian woodlands and I want to be there to support our case.’

It’s a relief when your children care about anything, but to care that much about woodlands. And a planning meeting. At twenty-two. Emotion flooded through James.

‘I think that’s wonderful,’ he said, and his voice cracked and at last he felt that he might be able to cry. Philip slipped out of the kitchen so tactfully that it almost seemed tactless. ‘Your mum would too.’

‘Well, that’s what I hope. Anyway, I can stay on afterwards, as I said. I think actually I can stay till Tuesday fortnight.’

A whole fortnight when he’d still have to be secretive about seeing Helen. Stop it.

‘Great. That’s terrific. I’m delighted you can stay so long.’

And he was. He really was.

‘Dad, you mentioned about Charlotte. Be fantastic to see her.’

‘Yes, well. Let’s hope.’

‘Got to rush, Dad. Work.’

‘Course. Can’t …’ James’s voice began to crack again, ‘… wait to see you.’

At last the tears came. He could cry with pride for his son, but not for the death of his wife.

Philip went off to work after lunch, but offered to come back at half past seven to take James out for a meal. James accepted, and Philip looked pleased.

He was surprised to find how much he wanted Philip to stay all afternoon. He went upstairs and watched him walk down the street to his car. Philip must have sensed that he had done this, because he turned, looked up and gave a short but affectionate, almost emotional wave. This surprised James. Philip was the scientist, the reserved one, the cool one, intelligent rather than intuitive. He found himself waving back as if Philip was emigrating to New Zealand, not popping up to Cambridge for a few hours.

He went out into the airless garden, careful to be well in the shade this time, just in front of the jacuzzi, which had been cleverly squeezed into a corner right at the back of the garden. Those lovely moments in the jacuzzi, over the years, each with a G and T if it was before supper, a brandy if it was after, and, just occasionally, without any alcohol at all, it was known.

He carried the chair and table over, settled himself, opened the address book, stiffened his resolve, reached for the telephone, and dialled.

‘Yep?’

‘It’s me, Chuck. The despised dad.’

‘Oh, hi there.’

‘Is Charlotte there?’

‘Yep, she’s here.’

James’s desire to hear her voice was almost irresistible. She was probably only a few feet from the phone. It was awful not to know how she looked now, how she would sound now. But he didn’t ask to speak to her. She had to be the one to make the move.

‘I won’t ask to speak to her, but I have a message. The funeral’s at twelve-thirty next Thursday.’

James shuddered as he said those words for the first of many times. It brought home to him how final death was.

‘A week today.’

‘Yep.’

‘Got it.’

‘Listen to me, Chuck. I love my daughter very very much.’

‘I believe that, Mr Hollinghurst.’

‘Thank you. And please call me James. I feel I know you.’

‘OK. Cool.’

‘Chuck, her brother Max is coming back from Canada. They used to get on so well. The thing is, Max would just love to see Charlotte again. And so would I. And so would everyone in the family. She was a lovely girl.’

‘She still is, James.’

‘Yes, sorry.’

A pigeon, plumped up with pride and passion, was stalking a female very warily.

‘I’m so glad that she … that you think that she’s … anyway, all of us would love her to come to the funeral … We won’t be upset if she doesn’t, but we’d be so pleased if she did. She loved her mother once.’

‘She still does, Mr … James.’

‘Oh, Lord, that past tense again. Sorry.’

The pigeon made his move. The object of his desire flew away at top speed. He looked comically deflated.

‘Oh, and Chuck, you’ll be very welcome too.’

‘Thank you, James. That’s real neat of you.’

‘And at the house afterwards, for the wake.’

‘OK. Thanks. Cool.’

‘Oh, and Chuck?’

‘Yep?’

‘There’ll be no recriminations. What I mean is, she will be accepted for what she is and the past will not be dragged in.’