And now that Mother was gone, she hardly knew what to do with herself other than lie on her bed, aimlessly sorting through the contents of her mind as if it were an old sewing box full of tangled threads, foreign pennies, and rusty needles. No matter how many times she went through these odds and ends, she couldn’t find any grief. There was plenty of worry for what the future might hold, sorrow for the missed opportunities in her life; but apart from that, nothing but useless nonsense. Was there something wrong with her? She had cried buckets when Katie-Lynn Tavish had been wrongly accused of smothering her baby in Prayers for an Angel and had wept when Jerome the blind boy had to go live in a home because his grandfather died in No Memorial of Love, so why couldn’t she cry for her own mother?
The body was cremated at Northport Crematorium. Apart from John, herself, and Mrs. Morrison, the only other guests were the members of the spiritualist church. During the service Bea had wailed rather than sung a jazzy lament that went on for nearly thirteen minutes, by which time the minister was looking at his watch. When finally he was forced to put a stop to the performance because other people were waiting outside for the next funeral, Bea collapsed in hysterical sobs. Marion thought it was strange that Bea should be so upset, since presumably Mother could still attend the Thursday-evening meetings if she wanted to.
After the funeral everyone had gone back to Grange Road for tinned salmon sandwiches and tea prepared by Mrs. Morrison. Miss Anderson appeared veiled in black lace, with a plate of some glazed swirls of confectionery that were hard as plaster of Paris when you bit into them. Bea and Jean Page showed an inappropriate degree of admiration for the grandeur of the house and kept picking things up and scrutinizing hallmarks as though they were professional auctioneers.
At one point Mr. Bevan ushered Marion into the kitchen, saying that he wanted to have “a quiet word alone with her.” He told her she should treat Northport Spiritualist Congregation as if it were her family and that they expected her to continue attending meetings. Marion had always liked Mr. Bevan, yet the way he held her hand while stroking the inside of her wrist with his thumb made her uncomfortable.
“I’ve always been very fond of you. It’s a mystery to me why no man has ever made you his wife,” said Mr. Bevan.
As he spoke, little bits of spittle escaped his toothless mouth. Then he reached out and tickled her under the chin. Marion moved away from him slightly, just enough, she hoped, that he would realize that she did not like being touched by him, yet without hurting his feelings.
“You know you don’t need to hold it all in, love, all that emotion. You don’t need to be brave in front of us. You can have a good cry if you want to.”
“I don’t feel like crying. Really I don’t,” she protested.
This didn’t stop him.
“Go on,” he urged, “just let it all out, let it all out, girl.”
Then, as the old man pulled her into a hug, she felt his hand reach around and press her bottom against his hips. Mr. Bevan’s eyes were closed, and his tongue lolled out from between toothless gums. As she turned away, her left breast was gripped by a bony hand that squeezed hard. Marion felt as if the old man were trying to milk her.
Hot and nauseated, Marion rushed away and locked herself in the guest bathroom. While the other mourners were still gobbling sandwiches, she fumed at herself for ever being nice to him, getting anxious when the spirits failed to turn up for his sessions and pitying his little flat in the Senior Shelter that had an alarm in the bathroom so he could get help if he fell. Had this kindness led him to think she would be interested in some kind of romance? He must be at least twice her age, and to behave like that at Mother’s funeral made it all even worse.
Marion waited until everyone had left to go back downstairs. Mrs. Morrison was in the kitchen cleaning up sandwich crusts and dirty teacups left by the mourners. As she rinsed the brown sludge of tea leaves from the great Royal Doulton pot, the housekeeper declared she would be retiring. “I kept going as long as I could, for your mother’s sake, but I’m not a young woman myself. Ken and I are buying a flat in Málaga.” Ken was Mrs. Morrison’s new beau, whom she’d met salsa dancing after Mr. Morrison finally succumbed to the surgeon’s knife. “I’d rather be lying by the pool drinking a cold Heineken than spending my old age as a nanny for two grown-up children.”
THE ENVELOPE
Marion was lying on her bed reading The Tale of Pigling Bland. The story made her feel so sad. Those little pigs being sent off to market by themselves and then poor Pigling Bland having to deal with that nasty farmer who wanted to eat him; really it was just awful. She hoped that things turned out well for him and Pig-wig when they ran over the hills and far away. Pig-wig did seem rather foolish, though. She worried that silly girl might end up leading Pigling Bland astray.
As she put the book back into the little shelf by her bed she heard John’s heavy footsteps up the stairs. He was calling her name angrily.
Marion froze. What had she done wrong? What could have got him so worked up? Then he hammered on her bedroom door so hard, it must have chipped the paint.
“Yes, John, what’s the matter, love?”
The door opened and a single eye and livid slice of her brother’s face appeared in the gap.
“Where’s that bloody envelope?” The words came out hard and fast like machine-gun fire.
“What envelope?”
“I left an envelope on the dining room dresser. It’s gone.”
“But I haven’t seen it.”
“Marion, it had foreign currency in it,” he said sternly. “A lot of money. You must have seen it. Who else has been in the house that could have taken it?”
Her mind began to churn. Had she seen it? Perhaps she’d put a letter in the rubbish by mistake? Could she be so stupid as to do something like that and not remember?
“I’ll come and help you look for it, John.”
She spent an hour rushing from room to room, searching in a mixed-up backwards and forwards manner that meant she kept looking in one place repeatedly while missing other spots altogether. All the time John followed her around, like a police inspector waiting for her to confess.
“Have you checked all your pockets, John?”
“Marion,” he roared, “that envelope is not in my bloody pockets. I left it on the damn dresser, and you must have moved it.”
“But I’m sure I didn’t, John, I’m almost completely sure,” she said, going through the bathroom cabinet, taking out each bottle of expired antidandruff shampoo and athlete’s foot remedy one by one, then replacing it. There were so many places it could be, she felt as though this searching would never end and she would carry on like this for the rest of her life. When she tried to go into John’s bedroom, he stopped her.
“I don’t want you nosing around in my private things,” he told her.
“But you might have left it in there.”
“I know damn well I haven’t.”
On their third visit to the kitchen she remembered she had not checked in the cabinet above the sink. When she opened it, the pile of junk mail fell out and scattered across the floor. Marion got down on her knees and began searching through all the flyers and envelopes while John loomed over her.
“For God’s sake, woman,” he said, shaking his head so hard his jowls waggled. “Look at all this bloody mess. No wonder everything goes missing in this sodding house.”
Then he began to tremble and struggle for his breath. He put his hands on the kitchen table to steady himself.