Saturday mornings are William’s favourite. With Robert and Howard playing golf, he and Gloria have the house to themselves. They take time over a cooked breakfast. Gloria tells stories from the hospital where she’s now a psychiatric nurse, often putting a funny spin on things that couldn’t have been much fun at the time. Their best times have always been chatting in a kitchen, with hot drinks and comforting food.
Occasionally, after breakfast, he’ll have a weekend embalming to do. He’s let off washing up then and, once Gloria’s finished in the kitchen, she comes through to help with the cosmetology.
‘I wonder what’ll happen to her business.’ Gloria gives Barbara’s hand a rub before she starts filing the nails.
‘Her daughter ran it with her.’ William sprays the mortuary table with disinfectant. ‘They both lived above the shop. I suppose she’ll just carry on.’
‘Same set-up as us.’ Gloria blows the dust from the filed nails and hooks the fingers over the side of the coffin.
William leans against the wall and watches her. She hasn’t put her own make-up on yet, and her face is pleasantly pale and stark. My wife, he thinks.
‘Do you mind us still living here?’ he asks.
She picks up the nail varnish and looks at him. ‘One day, I’d like a place of our own, of course I would, but each month without us paying rent, we’ve got a bit more in savings. There’s no hurry, Robert and Howard are sweethearts.’ There’s a gentle tick-tick-tick as Gloria shakes the bottle. She laughs. ‘Do you remember just after we were married, and I asked Howard how he’d fallen in love with Robert?’
‘And he went the same colour as the tomato ketchup.’
Gloria laughs again, the gurgly, lush laugh that William wants to record he loves it so much. ‘And Robert leapt up and started washing up, even though we hadn’t finished eating.’
As a child, long before he understood their relationship, William knew, without any displays of physical affection, that Robert and Howard belonged to each other. When Howard put on one of his funny voices – Donald Duck, Popeye, Bugs Bunny – William saw the change in Robert’s eyes, a visible softening. He and Gloria laughed in private that Howard still owned a house a few streets away, still had his mail delivered there, still spent a couple of nights there each week. But it sometimes makes William sad that they feel the need to keep so much of their lives hidden.
‘Stick the radio on, William,’ Gloria says.
He finishes wiping down the table, throws the paper towels in the bin, walks to the radio on the window ledge. It’s the Jackson 5, ‘I’ll Be There’, and Gloria immediately joins in. William waits a moment, then harmonises. The mortuary is the only place he’ll sing. Unlike him, Gloria can move her head to the music without it affecting the careful strokes of nail varnish. The DJ’s banter washes over them for few minutes.
‘We’re invited to a christening,’ Gloria says, ‘Paula at work. I’d like to go to this one.’
‘You sure?’ He turns, holding the disinfectant to his chest.
‘I like Paula.’ Gloria is bent over, her face near the nails, but now she sits up straight, holding the brush over the bottle. ‘And it’s what people our age do, celebrate when friends have a baby.’
William kneels to put the container away in the cupboard. His back to her, he tries to slacken his jaw. Gloria doesn’t miss a thing; she knows every physical manifestation of his inner world. She screws the top on the bottle, returns it to the basket, walks over to him and bends down to kiss his forehead.
‘I’m going to this one, and if you’d rather not, fine. But don’t try and stop me.’ She ruffles his hair. ‘I’ll see you when you’re done.’ Her slippers slap her feet as she leaves. William remains crouched before the cupboard, the slow, heavy mingle of guilt and frustration in his gut.
She persuaded him that his aversion to parenthood shouldn’t stop them getting married, but he’s never been able to put his anxiety aside. Two months before their wedding, Gloria told him if he offered her a get-out clause one more time, she’d stand in the street and scream. He believed her, so he stopped.
William stands up now and walks to the coffin, unhooks Barbara’s manicured hands. He breathes in the cool chemical whiff of the varnish.
‘It’s for her sake we shouldn’t go, Barbara,’ he says, ‘not mine.’
45
Oddly, they’ve never actually argued about not having children. In the run-up to their wedding, it was a bust-up about Evelyn that he wasn’t sure they’d recover from. Gloria had made it clear early on she wanted the full lowdown on his small, complicated family. It was hard, telling her the little he remembered about his father’s shockingly quick death from cancer, about the close relationship that had existed between him, Uncle Robert and Howard, about his mother’s insecurity, and him, slap bang in the middle of it all. Gloria was the only person in the world he’d told about his chorister days, about Martin and the horror of Ash Wednesday. She hadn’t said a thing when he’d told her, just opened her arms and held him for a long time. He’d been so grateful for that; the feeling that no matter what, she was on his side.
But it was different a few weeks later, when he said it would be too awkward, too painful to have his mother at their wedding. He actually put into words that his mother was the villain in all this. She had cut short his time in Cambridge. She had broken up the family. She had left him to go to Swansea. It was all her fault.
Gloria looked horrified. He’ll never forget the way she looked at him when he said that.
‘You said she asked you to go with her to Swansea.’
‘But she didn’t have to go. She could have stayed in Sutton.’ He got flustered and suddenly very angry. ‘If you love me, Gloria’ – his voice was quivering – ‘you won’t raise this again and you’ll never ask me to forgive her.’
‘I can’t promise you that,’ she said, as quiet and angry as him, ‘but I pray to God that one day, you’ll grow up and face this like a man.’