The shadowing of combfoo.., p.3
The Shadowing of Combfoot Chase, page 3
We, on the other hand, surmise a quarrel suggests passion yet to fully run its course.
“Of course he’ll need some time to come to terms with being unattached,” Delia thinks as the Catholic husband puts a hand under her elbow and steers her through the crowd. “One has to get accustomed to a life alone, the life that I have led.”
We recognise a solitary creature, in stark contrast to Ruth, who’d always been intensely sociable and revelled in a jolly row. The day she’d died, Delia had watched her through the windscreen as she’d gone back time and time again to lob more allegations at an ever more defensive husband. The dashboard clock had ticked away the best part of an hour before Delia had had the nerve to hint enough might be enough.
Ruth had only grinned and said, “Not on your nelly!” and had scurried straight back to the skirmish.
Our notes make reference to the fact she’d called her husband both an ‘arsehole’ and a ‘spider’, but we can’t see much arachnidan about this man. He knows his brood care. Look how he shepherds Delia and all the other guests towards the door, makes sure they know the closeness of the hour, the need for imminent departure.
Reprieve had only come when Ruth had paused to bring some object from the house, to load the heavy dregs and leftovers of marriage onto Delia’s backseat. The car had grumbled with the weight.
Delia wishes now she’d not been forced to take Ruth’s side. The warm sensation of the husband’s fingers cupped beneath her elbow makes her yearn to spin this moment out. She remembers him leant up against the doorjamb on this very spot we’re passing. He’d seemed shell-shocked, looked as though he didn’t want to cross this threshold, as though he’d been betrayed by all the steps that ran up to his door and should have kept him high above the filth down on the streets. She’d thought he’d caught her eye deliberately, had not attempted to conceal his anguish. Then Delia had known that she was on the side of wrong and longed to be invisible.
“Well, that should fucking teach him,” Ruth had crowed, and slammed the door of Delia’s car behind her.
Delia hadn’t meant to rev the engine, nor to crunch the gears as she’d pulled off. She thinks that Ruth had gloated and that that had made her nervous. With the benefit of hindsight she can see that Ruth was not as kind as she had always claimed to be. She’d crowded and fatigued in equal measure and her husband had been made to suffer that for more than twenty years.
Delia sneaks a sidelong glance at her attractive guide and notices a fulsome head of hair. He might not see it now, she thinks, but one day he will recognise the value in the sudden snuffing of his wife and will be able to enjoy his new and unexpected liberation. She feels despondent when he frees her at the bottom of the steps.
Outside the house, arranged beside the pavement, waits a cavalcade of funeral cars.
“I’ll stay here, shall I?” Delia asks in tones intended to imply compliance.
The Catholic husband turns, goes back to herd the other mourners from his house.
She assumes no answer is as good as yes.
We watch the gathering assembly, amuse ourselves by picking out the people whom we think will qualify to take up places in the limousines. We spot Ruth’s daughter, Brogan. She’s important. You can tell because she’s decked herself in jacket, pencil skirt and sky-high red-soled heels, and that, we know, is not her usual garb. Our records show she orders tough and easy clothing sourced from multinational online companies based out of Seattle. They understand her needs and will deliver almost instantly. We have to say she’s coping pretty well in her restrictive, unfamiliar attire and even keeps her knees together as she climbs into the car. We notice that she disregards a thin and unconvincing smile from Delia. Perhaps she thinks that Delia’s irrelevant, is just a sagging woman in an old black dress.
The cars fill up and then the coffin is brought out, prompting a stream of memories from those who’ve gathered here today. Some, we’re surprised to say, are recollecting steamy afternoons between Ruth’s legs, though Delia can only see her in the blank bare kitchen of a new-build home.
“The bastard!” she’d exclaimed, as she’d pulled fragments of her precious china out of boxes. “He’s only gone and smashed up all my favourites.”
It’s clear that much was broken on that day.
A gust of air had blown open the kitchen door, exposed the tableau round Ruth’s corpse. The necessary photographs had been taken and the body strapped onto a stretcher, hoisted onto the paramedics’ gurney. The bag containing broken pieces of her friend had looked so tiny.
“Someone ought to tell her husband…” Delia had said, had thought it better coming from herself but had capitulated when Diana had insisted it was not her place. She’d not been trained, the young policewoman had said, and didn’t understand the way to break bad news. This is Delia’s one regret. She would’ve liked to be the one to update Adrian and to watch the change of weather in his face.
Instead she’d let Diana drive her home, had nodded off in the backseat, had woken up embarrassed in the hope she hadn’t snored. She’d been too tired to notice that the neighbours photographed her coming home in a police car but had felt the full humiliation when they’d posted it on Facebook. Since then her little house has seemed so vast and quiet and empty. She’s never minded solitude before, has thought herself innately antisocial, but as the coffin slides into the hearse Delia admits that there’s allure in company.
She stands beside the curb and waits until the last car has departed. Disappointment curdles in her stomach. She’d really thought she might be worthy of a seat inside a car. Though strictly speaking not part of the family, her status as the last person to see the wife alive might have afforded special dispensation, she believes, but clearly that is not to be. Like us and all the others, she will have to walk. She’s glad the swelling in her ankle has subsided and she’s worn her sensible flat shoes. One has to stand around a lot at funerals. It won’t be long before Brogan regrets her choice of footwear.
Delia has planned her outfit carefully and is satisfied with what she chose. The funeral card demanded that she don bright colours – in homage to Ruth’s lust for life – and nearly all the mourners have obeyed. Nearby a bright lime green umbrella and a lilac coat belie the grief we’re all supposed to feel, and one brave soul has risked a suit from top-to-toe in orange. This goes far too far, thinks Delia. She’d feel a fraud in such a vulgar get-up. She smooths her plain black dress against her legs. She’s pleased she thought to grab a scarf last minute and to tie a loose loop round her neck. It had been bought on a school trip which she and Ruth had led to London many years ago. They’d visited the National Gallery and Delia had been tempted by a range of yellow souvenirs inspired by the paintings of Van Gogh. Peer closely. You can still make out the faintest outline of a sunflower. The scarf – although much faded with much washing and much wearing – had been very daring at the time, so no one can accuse her of completely disregarding Ruth’s instructions.
Persistent January drizzle dampens all the pavements. Delia sets off at a fierce pace, heads the procession which makes its way along the street, is confident in grippy rubber soles. “No foolish trips for me,” she thinks.
In spite of rain Ruth’s followers are out in force. They shout and beckon to each other, so much so that we wouldn’t be at all surprised if someone were to raise a banner and set them all off singing. The numbers bulge until the swell of chatter is so great we hardly hear ourselves or others think.
Delia keeps her head down, doubts her funeral will be anything like this. “A more demure, sedate affair would be appropriate for me,” she thinks. This cheerful atmosphere is fake, though she expects that it will carry on in church. The priest is likely to encourage it, will tell the congregation not to mourn Ruth’s death but celebrate her life.
The walk to church leads past an ugly laundrette, a trendy café on a corner. We’ll come back later. It’s not the right time yet, and there are lots of other dots we must connect before we get back here. We’ve never been inside a Catholic church before and will admit to being curious. The outside’s bare, utilitarian, as though the money ran out and the architect was told to cut the decoration. You’d be forgiven if you thought it cold and soulless. Perhaps the inside’s more appealing, though? We’d lay a bet a massive crucifix is hung above the altar. One of us suggests the cross will be backlit by panels of stained glass, another speculates there’ll be a spotlight hidden somewhere in the rafters. We could have fun with that, we think. We could cast shadows which would freak the congregation out. Of course we won’t. We’ll keep the drama subtle, just the faintest glow of focus on the coffin.
We enter in and soon track Delia down. She’s chosen quite a humble pew towards the back, but as she’s sitting in the spot next to the aisle, we have to scramble over her and then we grumble to each other because we haven’t got the greatest view.
“The front’s reserved for family,” says Delia.
I catch my breath and look a little nervously towards my colleagues. Does this speech imply she’s spotted us too soon? We’re not yet ready, haven’t finished our incursion.
“But never mind, the back’s a better place for watching other mourners,” Delia continues. She shows no other sign of knowing that we’re here but – to be on the safe side – we think we’d better sit in total silence.
As it turns out she’s quite right and this position gives a clear view down the aisle towards the pew, where the Catholic husband takes his seat, is flanked on either side by his two children. Three divine mops of bright hair, all in an angelic row. Delia notices the son and father have a similar hairline. It grows to a point at the nape of the neck and sends an arrow down beneath the collar. She licks dry lips. She likes the way these men both bow their heads, avoid the false and cheery chat which fills the church behind them. Brogan’s hair is too long to distinguish if her hairline matches with the others’. She’s bolt upright, inhabits thin and scraped-out looks, seems tense and ill-prepared for what she faces in the coming ceremony.
Elsewhere in the church a catalogue of Combfoot Chase has set itself in formal forward-facing rows. Reporters from The Chronicle get their pens and cameras ready to record that several representatives of the council have arrived. The council members sit down next to Mr Locke, the current head of the town’s only comprehensive school. As former boss to Ruth he has been asked to do a reading. He rustles his script and props it on the shelf that lines the back edge of the pew.
Delia allows her eyes to rove around, spies many faces from her past, the colleagues, parents, students and voyeurs who’ve come to pay their last respects to Mrs Kelly. Delia has also spotted Mr Tombleson, who’s sitting a few rows ahead and is accompanied by both his wife and daughter. She pretends she hasn’t noticed them, because Sandra was a little shit in class and Delia would rather not renew that old acquaintance. She’s shocked by all the people who have outlived Ruth. “She wasn’t old,” she thinks. “It isn’t right she was the first to go.”
A woman in a sober suit is standing far off in an aisle. We clock she keeps one eye on Delia and deduce they must’ve met before, but from the way she shuffles we’d say that Delia can’t place where or when. She’d need to get her specs to have a closer look but is afraid that to retrieve them – and to put them on and stare – would be too rude. The woman gives the faintest nod and Delia nods back though shuttered tightness has begun to tug her chest. She fiddles with her handbag clasp and mourns again that age has ushered in forgetting. It’s a relief for everyone when organ music pipes into the air and then the coffin’s carried in.
The service puts us through our paces. Unaccustomed prayers and hymnody pose challenges for us but seem to cheer up Delia. She’s calmed by structure, is soon able to return to contemplation of the Catholic husband. He conducts himself so admirably, she thinks, and wears such well-cut clothes. His suit is snug across his shoulders so she guesses it was made-to-measure. That’s not the norm, not from what we’ve seen so far in Combfoot Chase. You only have to look around the church to see the evidence. Ruth should’ve realised when she’d got it good.
How little Delia had understood the inner workings of Ruth’s mind, although she has high hopes for greater intimacy with her friend’s family in the future. When they lead out, she thinks, she’ll simply slip into the aisle and quietly merge with them. She’s glad she’s not in glasses after all, because it isn’t possible to offer proper comfort and condolences behind a lens. To give her credit, this plan almost works. She does step out and does her level best to nudge in at the head of the parade, but somehow all the other mourners sweep her far back in the line and when she leaves the church she’s still near us, amongst the hangers-on and also-rans.
Unperturbed she tackles the walk back towards the house with something of a new spring in her step. We have to flex our legs to match her pace, but even she can’t travel fast enough to stop herself from being caught by Mr Tombleson. She wonders if she could discourage him by feigning interest in a poster in the window of the laundrette. “But that will never work,” she thinks. “He knows I’m not the type to wash my linen in a public place.” She faces the reluctant fact she’s stuck, will have to listen to his belly aches.
Ruth had often mocked him as a nimby. Whilst Delia had sometimes said a word in his defence, now that she has to walk with him she realises he’s every bit as bigoted as her friend had said and tolerates nobody but himself. She’s glad to reach the house and slip away into the dining room, to have the chance to melt into a boisterous crowd which quickly picks up steam in preparation for a roaring send-off.
Throughout the house noise rises steadily, aided in no small part by a stream of freely distributed sherry. A good choice, Delia thinks, taking a welcome sip. She’s partial to it now because it stands up better to a warm room than a white wine would and fends off dampness from a winter church.
There’s no sign yet of any Catholic husband, nor of the son, but Brogan can be spied beside the sideboard. She’s eased her feet out of her high heels and is massaging a blistered toe. Poor girl, thinks Delia though in truth the thought is laced with told-you-so. She wends her way across the room with plans to offer insights into Ruth’s last moments to the daughter but is brought up short by Brogan, who looks up and says, “Oh, bugger off, why don’t you, Delia?”
The moment is an awkward one for everyone.
Delia is stranded, skewered, crushed.
The other mourners pretend a sudden fascination with their feet.
“I’m really sorry. She blames you, you see.” We’re stunned that Delia’s rescuer is none other than Adrian, the Catholic husband. He appears as if from nowhere and this time we’ve no doubt that he’s smiling. “She thinks that you’re the bitch who told Ruth she should leave me,” he says, and he makes his eyes grin crinkled-green and then he laughs out loud. “In fact it was the best choice Ruth had made in years.”
The low voice tickles Delia’s ear and makes her catch her breath.
“No doubt we should have split up yonks ago,” he carries on, “and growing up with us must’ve been bloody miserable for both our children. Please, Delia, don’t upset yourself.” He throws his head back, knocks his sherry off. “The fault is mine, it really is.” He pats her shoulder, disappears again into the throng.
Well, this is quite a turn-up for the books and not at all what we’d projected. Delia looks flushed and seems to feel much braver than she has all day. Encouraged by his kindness she gulps down her sherry, sets off in pursuit of more, is startled when she bumps into the woman in the sober suit. “I know you, don’t I?” she blurts, and squints in vain to place the face.
“Oh, yes, we’ve met.” The woman smiles and sets her glass of sherry on the sideboard. Unlike Delia’s it’s hardly touched, though there’s the faintest trace of lipstick on the rim. “No one ever recognises me out of uniform,” she says.
The voice is recent and familiar. A link is formed to black and checkered hats, to images of walkie-talkies and to crisp, sharp collars.
“Oh, it’s you!” says Delia, and pants and sways, regrets the recent run of sherries which has left her memory clouded. “Are you here to represent the force?”
Diana – for it is Diana – again lays hands on Delia and steadies her. “Something like that,” she says. “I’ve got some questions I’d quite like to chat about. A few things don’t add up. It won’t take long. If you can spare a moment?”
Delia’s breath is tight again. She makes small circles with her fingers on her chest, tries once more to soothe her fluttered conscience. She wishes she could get away, retreat once more underneath her floral duvet and never ever surface. “Oh… of course…” she flounders, “yes, I’ll help… in any way I can…”
In other rooms a shout goes up. The legs of chairs are pulled back and make scratches on the floor. What do they think they’re doing, Delia wonders? This lot show flagrant disregard for what’s appropriate and they’ll spoil the parquet if they’re not too careful.
“Da-a-ancing!” sings the voice of an exuberant ex-husband, and loud music pumps out of a distant stereo.
We have to question whether this would be a fitting tribute even for a person who never knew how to behave.
“Yes, I promise we’ll talk later… but not now,” gasps Delia, who through ostensible compliance manages to shake Diana off. “Not here… I’ll pay my last respects and then I’ll meet you in that café down the road… a little heartburn… glass of water… yes, that’s what I need…” She clutches at her glass and reels towards the hubbub in the other room. She stumbles, has to put her hand against the wall and makes her way towards the kitchen, almost crawling. The route is blocked by colours, by the swirling bodies of the other mourners. They keep on shifting, changing their configurations, make the house much harder to negotiate. It’s wild, she thinks, disorganised and dangerous.
