My Husband's Wives (17 page)

‘What notions did you have?'

‘I wanted to race cars for a living. I wanted to be just like Rosemary Smith; she was my hero. I wanted to show everyone that I could handle a car better than anyone. It wasn't just about the speed either – although, I have to admit, it was a big part of it.'

‘It is strange; I couldn't have imagined you as a, what do you call it?' She searched a moment for the words, ‘A rally driver? Not before, but in that picture – well, it is a shame.'

‘Oh, no. Kasia, it's just the way life was. My father didn't want my name in the paper for speeding, and as it turned out, he was probably right.' Evie shook her head and elevated her voice so her father and Paul would be proud of her terseness. A little sadly, she put the photograph back behind the others. Later she noticed that Kasia had moved it to the front. It made her smile.

*

It had not taken long, in the end. They sent someone around from the local undertakers and the whole thing had been civil and a lot less stressful than Evie expected. It was not the time for questions or accusations so they agreed on a casket quite quickly; the same for the hearse. The other women were happy to go along with anything she chose. There was no mention of cost; of course it would all come out of Paul's life assurance. Annalise asked if he could be buried in the suit he wore for their wedding. Of course they agreed. And he could wear the cufflinks Evie had given him for their wedding anniversary almost twenty years previously. They had tea and scones purchased by Grace from a little bakery nearby and everyone fell into an uncomfortable silence once the details of the funeral were agreed. Grace rang St. Mary's Deanery and Reverend Lynott said she would call by within the hour. Annalise was silenced, perhaps a little taken aback, and Evie wondered if she even knew that Paul was Church of Ireland.

Emma Lynott was a round-hipped motherly woman who wore a dark trouser suit with the ease of an executive. She was used to making quick decisions, she spoke sensibly and she listened shrewdly. If she wasn't brusque, she was certainly businesslike. The jobs of hatching and despatching were just that to her. There was some sympathy of course, but no false wallowing. It was exactly what Paul would have wanted; no forced keening or hallmark eulogies, no long clock-stopping faces.

‘It has to be tasteful; it's what he would have wanted.' Grace cast a side eye towards Annalise.

‘Are you trying to say something here?' Annalise whipped back at her.

‘Not at all. But Paul didn't want his life spread across the centre pages of a gossip magazine. Neither would he want his death there.'

‘Please, will you give me some credit?' Annalise pitched her eyes up to heaven, which made her look like a sullen teenager. ‘I can't be responsible for who turns up though. Already the fact that he's died has made it to the red tops.' She shook her head.

‘So you've checked,' Grace blurted out. Then she glanced up and bit her lip. ‘Sorry. It's just… surely you remember how he felt about his privacy.'

‘Yes, of course, Grace.' Evie cut across at Annalise. ‘She's just thinking about Paul. She's not trying to get at you. You are the one the papers are interested in. None of us want to see Paul's funeral made into a circus.' Oh, yes, Paul liked his privacy, and Evie could see why now. She wished she was brave enough to out him as the bigamist it seemed he was. How could she not have realized that these women thought he married them too? Of course it was useless; her loyalty would win out in the end.

‘Can we make it private?' Grace directed her question at Emma Lynott.

‘We can make the church private, of course. But if you want Paul to be buried in the family plot…'

‘No. No way.' Annalise was shaking her head. ‘I'm sorry, but no. He's not being buried out here, in the middle of nowhere, with people who…'

‘Yes?' Evie kept her voice even; she knew she had the upper hand here.

‘Well, no offence, but we didn't even know he was Church of Ireland.' Annalise waved her hand about wildly.

‘I knew he was,' Kasia Petrescu said quietly from the enormous chair that threatened to swallow her up whole. ‘He took me to St. Patrick's once. He knew a lot about the church. We sat for ages, just in silence. I never met anyone before who could do that, and still you didn't feel alone.'

‘Yes, he was very special,' Evie said lightly, but she regarded Kasia carefully. Perhaps there was more to this girl than she had realized.

‘Well, doesn't that just say it all?' Grace glared at Annalise.

‘What's that supposed to mean?' Annalise sounded stricken.

‘I mean, how well did you actually know Paul?'

‘And how well did you?' Annalise said sharply, the tension of it all finally cutting through everyone's reserve.

‘Please, ladies.' Evie managed to keep her voice even. ‘Paul has already set most of this out in his will.' She said the words tightly, aware as she did so that the expressions looking back at her were blank. Paul had not shared with them that he'd drawn up a will. ‘I have a copy of it; of course, it will have to be properly read, but…' Evie said to Emma Lynott who was sipping tea, unfazed by the unusual situation in which they found themselves, ‘I don't think he'd mind, under the circumstances, if I shared his final wishes. It might just make things easier.'

Paul was very clear. He wanted a short ceremony: three hymns and no eulogies, then to be buried with Evie's parents in the little plot that ran alongside St. Mary's. In time, Evie would lie next to him as they had always planned.

‘So, a poem?' Grace asked. She covered her surprise at Paul's instructions as best she could, but it had to hurt, the idea of him buried with Evie's parents and Evie admired her stoicism more than she expected. Then again, none of them could argue with Paul anymore; he'd managed to get the last word on all of them.

Evie seemed to have taken the reins by default. ‘He loved Robert Burns.' They hadn't actually chosen a piece, but it was true. In the last few years, they'd often read from one of the large volumes that lined what had once been her father's den.

‘There's the “Epitaph for William Muir”,' Emma Lynott said as she rested her cup and saucer on a small table that had come from India with a grand-uncle of Evie's mother. ‘It's quite lovely, and even though Paul might not have chosen it for himself, he sounds like the kind of man it would be appropriate for.'

‘Let's have a look, shall we?' Evie got up from her chair and went to the den. She turned her attention to the wall of shelves containing the volumes that dominated the room. There were several poetry anthologies containing between them most of Robert Burns' work. She handed one each to Annalise and Emma and began to trawl through the oldest and most often read.

‘Yes, here it is.' Emma Lynott cleared her throat and then began to read, ‘An honest man here lies at rest…' Grace caught Evie's eye, neither of them brave enough to voice what they thought. ‘Well, what do you think?' she murmured and gazed at each of them in turn when she had finished.

‘It is nice, but…' Evie didn't want to say what they were all thinking. Was Paul Starr an honest man? Did he even deserve the sentiments in those words?

‘I think it's perfect,' Annalise said, and everyone felt that she was just saying it to get it over with. Grace glanced at Evie; they both knew that if she disagreed with Annalise the younger woman would only stick her heels in further.

‘I think he'd have been honoured to have such nice things said about him.' Kasia spoke in a low voice. ‘He was a very modest man; he wouldn't have been able to ask any of us to include a piece like this. It is simple too. He would have liked that.' With that, she began to fold away a small piece of paper she'd been holding.

‘Did you have something prepared, Kasia?' Grace asked gently.

‘It is nothing, only some words that came to me at the hospital, but they are silly. I'm sure even the English is not so good in them.' She smiled and tucked the page in her pocket.

‘Well, if you've prepared them especially, we'd like to hear them.' Evie couldn't help being curious about the girl. In many ways, she was Paul's biggest secret and yet she found she couldn't dislike the girl, although part of her dearly wanted to.

‘No, really, I do not think it is a good idea, not when you have such a lovely poem.'

‘Please, for Paul?' Evie said.

‘I, well, I will read it for you, Evie, but I really think that Paul deserves the best and I don't think I can compete with your Robert Burns.' She smiled, then cleared her throat while she straightened out the page. ‘You must remember, I am no poet; these are just my thoughts.'

‘Of course.' Grace's eyes were encouraging. Annalise continued to flick through the book of poetry though she didn't settle on a page to read.

‘It is a small poem. I am calling it “Memories of Paul”.' She cleared her throat once more and then began.

‘I love it,' Evie said. It was simple, but the girl must have put a lot of time into it, considering her English, and at least there was no mention of men, honest or dishonest. ‘It is Paul and it is heartfelt.'

‘I agree,' Grace said, ‘if you didn't feel up to saying it, I'm sure that Emma wouldn't mind?'

‘Oh, fine, so I guess I'm outvoted. Whatever,' Annalise said and she focussed her attention on something in the garden.

They settled on a time around the church services of the next few days. Emma had two weddings and a choral service for the local retirement group to fit in also. She pencilled in Paul's funeral for the following day. It would be better for the children if they didn't drag things out, they all agreed. Maybe too, Evie felt, it would mean they could quickly cut the ties with each other, get on with what was left of their lives.

‘Well, I must be off.' Annalise cast her eyes about the room, somewhat guiltily, Evie thought. ‘I have to pick up the boys. Do you need a lift?' She spoke to Kasia Petrescu and Evie had a feeling that it would be an uncomfortable journey for both women.

Kasia. Now there was a one. Evie took down the photograph that Kasia had admired and the memories came flooding back to her.

*

On that day, the day she'd met Paul Starr in 1985, Evie had raced along the platform, carrying a weekend case in one hand and her handbag in the other. For all her haste, she spotted him, standing at the barrier, waiting for the Dublin train. She couldn't have missed him if she tried. It seemed to her now, as much as it did then, that his eyes had locked with hers, making shade and shadows of their surroundings. For those seconds that seemed like hours, it felt as if they were alone in the station, some strange communication passing between them. Her rushed pace faltered to a slow stride. She walked straight to him; had no choice. They stood and, for a moment, there was nothing she could say. Often when she remembered it, she wondered if some divine force had propelled her. Without some holy vigour behind her, she knew she would have kept on walking. Here, over thirty years later, she still caught her breath when she thought of him standing before her. He was younger than she was, easily twenty years between them, but it hadn't mattered at the time. He was tall, broad-shouldered, silent, with eyes that held more understanding than someone so young had a right to – and then, when he spoke she understood. Their connection was more than immediate; perhaps it stretched back to a time before they were born. They went for tea. He took her bag and left his train. ‘There'll be others,' he told her. Of course he was right. He was studying medicine, training to be the wonderful surgeon he would one day become. Their romance moved fast, and though Evie found it hard to imagine now, once she'd been a passionate lover. Once, she'd been on fire.

Evie could put her finger precisely on the moment when things changed. It was an unusually warm evening; the sun was just settling, a deep crimson in the sky and she had been feeling a little low. Dr. Stackhouse put it down to the menopause. She did not want to tell him that was already well behind her. So she smiled at him, in spite of the mild embarrassment, and headed for Carlinville, a six months' supply of St John's Wort and Evening Primrose Oil in her bag. Her mood had not lifted in months. Maybe she already knew something had changed between them.

Paul came home that day, dangled a shiny set of keys before her. ‘It's a classic,' he told her. He forced a smile, but there was, she knew, nothing behind it. ‘I've bought it for us. I thought maybe I could take you out for spins, and if the weather is fine, we could bring a picnic.'

‘Or perhaps I could drive…' she said hopefully.

‘Dear, Evie, we both know where that almost ended up.' Her father had made sure it was one of the few things he told Paul. He enjoyed recounting her near brush with the law and her habit of resting a little too heavily, in his opinion, on the accelerator. ‘We don't want you thinking you're in Monaco, do we?' Paul smiled. He had no idea how much his words hurt. He had no more aspirations for her than her father had. Maybe he wanted to take care of her, but all too soon, he was taking care of someone else.