East Fortune (29 page)

Tell me good things,
he always asked when Douglas came home. He did not know how he was going to answer or if his father would be sufficiently conscious to hear him.

He had no idea what he was doing any more. He realised that he no longer knew the route back to who he really was or if there was any of his old self left. He tried not to think about the mistakes he had made or the shame he felt: the selfishness that had led to this misery.

‘Shit, bugger, fuck, wank,' he said in the taxi.

‘Excuse me?' the driver asked.

‘It's nothing,' said Douglas.

Ian Henderson was eighty-four, ‘not a bad knock', Angus could almost hear him saying. He wondered how many people would start to tell him that his father ‘had had a good innings'.

Elizabeth sat by her husband but could not settle, anxious about his breathing and if he was comfortable, depressed by his diminishing consciousness and by her own powerlessness.

Jack wanted to find something to read aloud, some Shakespeare sonnets or Scots metrical psalms. Douglas arrived, sat with his barely conscious father for an hour and a half, and then went downstairs to find a consoling whisky. It was only when he was back in the family home that he realised how much he had to suspend his life and wait for the end.

Part of Ian had already left them.

‘I feel I am about to discover the great secret,' he said with his eyes closed.

‘More water?' Elizabeth asked. Her husband was easing into sleep.

The family fell into an informal and disorganised shift system, climbing the stairs with water and tea and food, their lives reduced to the simplest of rituals.

Sometimes it felt that the moment would never come but any activity other than waiting was an irresponsibility, a form of neglect, a betrayal.

Ian was almost impatient with his family, irritated by their continual coming and going and their questions about his comfort. He became confused as to who they were, increasingly unwilling or
unable to answer their questions, annoyed about his condition, impatient with death for taking so long. It was the kind of intolerance that was usually displayed when they all took too long to prepare for an outing.

Well, come on, if you're coming.

Death was like a recalcitrant child, refusing to leave the beach at the end of a long summer day.

Oh for God's sake.

He died in the middle of the afternoon when everyone was out of the room. Jack was in Edinburgh, Douglas and Angus were watching the first of the Six Nations rugby games: Scotland against France.

Elizabeth had returned to the bedroom to check on her husband.

Angus heard her cry out just as Chris Paterson was taking a penalty to put Scotland ahead. It was unlike any sound he had ever known. At first he thought it might have been a bird.

Then he heard his own name.

‘Angus … Douglas. Come up…'

Chris Paterson struck the ball and the commentator's voice sang out:
‘That's a beauty.'

Douglas reached for the remote and turned off the television.

‘I'll come with you.'

Angus climbed the stairs two at a time. Douglas followed. Their father's head had fallen away to the side. There was less colour to the flesh. He made no sound.

‘I don't think he's breathing,' said Elizabeth.

Angus felt for a pulse. He listened against his father's chest and touched his upper neck by the right ear. He cupped his hand against the cheek. Then he looked at his mother. He did not need to speak.

Elizabeth felt the steadiness leave her. She sat down on the edge of the bed and held her husband's hand. Then she leant forward and kissed him, first on the forehead, then on the lips.

Angus reached out his hand to touch his mother but changed his mind and withdrew.

Elizabeth looked up at her sons and then at her husband.

‘I've always dreaded this moment,' she said. ‘And now here it is.'

Douglas sat down on the chair of the dressing table and began to cry. His father's death had been as calm as anyone could have hoped but he had not expected it to be so simple.

Angus put his hand on his brother's shoulder.

The afternoon divided into a series of disconnected fragments as each member of the family tried to find an activity that was helpful. Angus offered to make his mother a cup of tea but realised that he had spoken too soon. She did not even appear to hear him.

‘Will you telephone for the undertakers?' she said at last. ‘Make sure they take care. I'd like to think of him as he was; when he was younger, not as he is now. I'd like to be able to bring him back, to pretend he's still with me.'

‘Take your time, Mother. There's no rush…'

‘Then perhaps I'd like to pick some flowers,' his mother said. ‘If I can find any…'

‘Do you need any help?'

It was half-past three in the afternoon. The light had gone.

‘I'll go,' said Douglas.

‘I think I'd like to be alone,' Elizabeth said. ‘Do you mind?'

‘Of course not.'

‘I could never imagine this day. Will one of you tell Jack and the girls? I think he's coming this evening. Where's Tessa?'

‘She's on her way.'

‘When everyone is here I think we should have champagne,' Elizabeth said. ‘I don't like to think of everyone in a state.'

‘That's something I can do,' said Douglas.

‘And will you tell Emma? Ian was always fond of her…'

Douglas could not think how he was going to achieve this. He would have to ask Tessa. At least he knew how to open a bottle.

He went down to the wine cellar. The last time he had drunk champagne had been with Julia. She hadn't phoned. He didn't know what they would say to each other.

He could hear the doorbell and footsteps in the hall and Angus telling his wife what had happened and what he thought she should say.

‘I'll deal with it in my own way,' Tessa said, and then, ‘Oh Elizabeth.'

Douglas could feel the cold from outside. He remembered his father's irritation whenever anyone left the front door open. It took so long for the house to warm up again. He remembered him shouting,
For God's sake, will somebody please close the door?

‘I'll phone the undertakers,' he heard Angus say. ‘You two have a moment. I'm not sure what Douglas is doing.'

He was sitting on the steps down to the cellar.

‘It's so cold outside,' Elizabeth was saying.

Tessa fetched her coat and offered to help gather the flowers.

‘I know there are snowdrops under the chestnut tree. There might even be a crocus or two.'

Douglas could still recall the preparations for the last play. He imagined his father's voice again.
My masters, are you mad? Or what are you? Have you no wit, manners, or honesty, but to gabble like tinkers at this time of night?

By the time Jack arrived Elizabeth was ironing her husband's pyjamas. He wanted to stop her. He even thought to offer to take her place, or ask what use they would have for his father's pyjamas now.

‘What can I do?' he asked.

He did not know if he wanted to see his father's body.

‘Ask Angus,' Elizabeth replied. ‘He's in charge.'

Jack wondered which of the brothers would become most like their father in old age, and how much of his life or spirit would be preserved through the generations. There were still a few mannerisms, reminders of a life: the movement of hands, a laugh here and there, the pronunciation of certain words.

The boys divided the tasks between them. Angus would deal with the undertakers and arrange the funeral. Jack would make the phone calls to inform their friends and colleagues. Douglas agreed to register the death and put a notice in the papers.

They were children once more. Their father was back in control of their lives, commanding them from a parental afterlife, insisting that proprieties were observed, standards upheld.

Each family member concentrated on their allotted duties, doing what they had to do, making lists and ticking off achievements. Elizabeth and Tessa went to the kirk, decided on the flowers, and briefed the Minister about the funeral.

Jack was working through his father's address book. He had reached the letter M and realised that it was the longest entry in the book: all those Macdonalds and Macleans.

Then Douglas returned from the Registrar of Births, Marriages and Deaths.

‘Did you know Father had been married before?'

‘I thought we all knew that,' said Angus. ‘It only lasted a few years. He didn't like to make a fuss about it.'

‘Who was she?'

‘Some kind of showgirl, I think,' said Angus. ‘Louvain.'

‘What?'

‘That was her name.'

‘And what happened? Did they divorce?' Douglas remembered his father's disapproval when his marriage had failed.

‘She died,' said Angus. ‘Father said she was always frail. I think it was TB.'

‘Does Mother know?'

‘It's “your father's sorrow”, she used to say.'

‘Not to me.'

Douglas walked over to the decanter and poured himself a whisky.

‘So am I the only one who didn't know?'

‘We thought you did,' said Angus.

‘When did you find out?'

‘Years ago. It's one of the reasons Father always liked Emma.'

‘I wonder if she knew.'

‘I think he told her,' said Jack. ‘After you'd split up. She came to see him.'

‘That's a bit bloody rich,' said Douglas.

He thought back over all the Shakespearean roles Emma had played in the garden: Rosalind, Viola, Helena and Mistress Quickly. She'd even been Lady Macbeth, for God's sake. Perhaps she looked like Louvain.

‘It's best not to dwell on these things,' said Angus.

‘Easy for you to say.'

‘I don't think he felt they had to tell us anything,' said Jack, sitting back down on the sofa. ‘Father was a great believer in discretion.'

‘What do you mean? He told you. He was only being discreet with me.'

‘Perhaps he assumed we'd tell you. Or it didn't really matter.'

‘But it does matter,' Douglas said. ‘Every member of the family knew something that I did not. That makes a difference.'

Angus reminded his brother of the family mantra.
You should always speak the truth but the truth need not always be spoken.

‘Yes, but life doesn't always work out like that,' said Douglas. ‘Sometimes the truth comes out at the wrong time and you can't do anything about it and then you're completely fucked.'

‘Of course.'

‘Believe me, I know,' said Douglas.

‘We know you know,' said Jack.

The funeral was held a week later. It was the beginning of Lent. Confetti remained from weddings conducted long ago, spattered across the paths, blown amidst the graves, frozen in puddles round the kirk.

The whole family came, even those who had left. Emma stood to one side in a tight black dress, thin and veiled, the most elegant member of the congregation. She had only come on condition that no one expected her to speak to her husband.

Maggie arrived with Guy, and Jack even shook his hand, feeling nothing, unable to quite believe that he had ever been married. It made him think about Krystyna. He wished she was with him but he had done nothing about her letter. Perhaps he would just drive up and surprise her.

Tessa wore the dress in which she had played Olivia. At first, Angus had questioned her choice, but his wife said that she could not think of anything more appropriate. It was an acknowledgement of the world Ian had created; a house preserved, principles followed, values known.

‘He would have smiled,' she said. ‘He would have understood my appreciation of him.'

She could still hear his voice,
the fair Olivia,
greeting her as she stepped out into the garden in the black widow's dress. It had been what Tessa had appreciated most about him, the fact that he was always pleased to see her.

It was the gift of affirmation. So few people had it, she thought.

The Henderson family wanted music and readings and tributes with jokes; enough, each son hoped, to acknowledge their father's vitality.

Say not the struggle naught availeth.

The singing of the first hymn, ‘Amazing Grace', began timidly but Tessa, and then Maggie, encouraged the others to lose their reserve and sing out in tribute to a man who had always liked a performance.

As the service progressed Jack realised that he could be at almost any time or place in history. So many had stood in his place, uttered the same words, said the same psalms.

Elizabeth had hired a professional tenor to sing ‘Ae Fond Kiss' and a piper to play ‘The Flowers of the Forest' as the coffin was carried out of the kirk.

She did not cry.

It was only when the piper walked away and out down the lane, when the ceremony was over and the grave still lay open, that the tears of the rest of the family flowed: Douglas with his mother; Tessa with Angus, Imogen, Sarah and Gavin; Jack with his daughters.

Three black saloon cars took the family back to the house. Douglas could not stop crying.

‘Oh for goodness' sake,' Elizabeth snapped. ‘That's enough.'

Tessa handed him a paper handkerchief. Emma had already left.

Back at the house the Edinburgh friends assembled, suited and kilted survivors, respectful and appreciative, grateful for any moment of humour to leaven the gathering: anecdotes, memories, and light conversation about golf handicaps, holiday caravans, and the renewed potential of the Scottish rugby team.

‘Beating France, who'd have thought it?'

Angus had persuaded as many of his father's surviving friends as he could to come, laying on lifts, providing whisky and smoked salmon. They stood around, talking about funerals they had been to in the past, playing down both their ailments and their impending mortality, seeking out chairs when they were tired.