“So you’re not about to hand in your notice and leave me to the mercy of my sister?”
Bomber’s eyes almost filled with tears again as she replied with a line from the end of the film.
“I’m not goin’ without you, Bomber. I wouldn’t leave you this way . . . You’re coming with me.”
And then she winked.
“Now, about my pay rise …”
CHAPTER 14
The girl watched as the tiny scarlet dome on black legs crawled across the back of her hand toward the curl of her little finger.
“Ladybird, ladybird, fly away home,
Your house is on fire, your children have gone.
“All except one, and she is called Anne,
And sorry but she died.”
The ladybird opened her wings.
“It’s not truth.” The girl spoke slowly as though she were reciting a poem that she was struggling to remember. “It’s only a made-up singsong.”
The ladybird flew off anyway. It was hot; September. The girl sat swinging her legs on the wooden bench that faced Padua from the small green. She had watched as the shiny black cars had arrived outside the house. The first one had big windows in the side and she could see a box for dead people inside with flowers growing out of its lid. A sad lady and an old man but not the man who lived there came out of the house. The girl didn’t know who the old man was, but she had seen the lady lots of times before she was sad. The man in the black chimney-pot hat put them in the second car. Then he went to the front of the car with the box in and started walking. He had a stick, but not a limp. But he was walking slowly, so perhaps he had a bad leg after all. She wondered who was in the box. Thinking was something she did slowly. She was quicker at feeling. She could feel happy or sad, or angry or excited in a wrinkling of the eye. And she could feel other things too, which were more difficult to explain. But thinking took longer. Thoughts had to be put in the right order in your head and looked at properly so that your brain could do the thinking. Eventually she decided that it must be the man who lived in the house who was in the box, and she was sad. He had always been nice to her. And not everyone was. After a long time (she had a nice watch, but she hadn’t quite worked out the time please Mr. Wolf yet) the sad lady came back on her own. The girl scratched the back of her hand where the ladybird’s feet had tickled. Now that the man was dead, the lady would need a new friend.
Laura closed the front door behind her and slipped out of her black court shoes. The cold tiles of the hall floor kissed her aching feet, and once again, the peace of the house enveloped her. She padded through to the kitchen and poured herself a glass of wine from the fridge. Her fridge. Her kitchen. Her house. She still couldn’t quite believe it. The day after Anthony had died she had telephoned his solicitor, hoping he would know if there was anyone she should contact; a distant cousin that she didn’t know about, or a designated next of kin. He sounded as though he had been expecting her call. He told her that Anthony had instructed him to inform Laura immediately after his death that she was his sole heir; everything he had owned was now hers. There was a will, and a letter for her, the details of which would be revealed after the funeral. But Anthony’s first concern had been that she shouldn’t worry. Padua would remain her home. His kindness made his death all the more unbearable. She had been unable to continue the telephone conversation, her words choked by tears. It was no longer grief alone that overwhelmed her, but relief for herself chased by guilt that she could feel such a thing at such a time.
She took her wine through to the study and sat down at the table. She felt a strange solace surrounded by Anthony’s treasures. She was now their guardian and they gave her a sense of purpose, even though she was as yet unsure as to what that might be. Perhaps Anthony’s letter would explain, and then she might find a way to deserve his extraordinary generosity toward her. The funeral had been a revelation. Laura had expected there to be only a handful of people, including herself and Anthony’s solicitor, but the church was almost full. There were people from the publishing world who had known Anthony as a writer and others who had only known him to say “good morning” to, but it seemed as though he touched the lives of everyone he met and left an indelible mark. And then, of course, there were the busybodies; stalwart members of the local residents’ association, Woman’s Institute, Amateur Dramatic Society, and general purveyors of the moral high ground, led by Marjory Wadscallop and her faithful deputy, Winnie Cripp. Their “heartfelt condolences”—offered a little too enthusiastically as Laura left the church—had been accompanied by sad, well-practiced smiles and unwelcome hugs that left Laura smelling of damp dog and hair spray.
The large, blue button that Laura had taken from the drawer on her first visit to the study was still on the table, resting on its label.