The Office of the Dead

‘Oh, but it does.’ Her eyes met mine, then returned to the shining hair. ‘The doorbell rang at half past three and there he was. He’d come all the way from Cambridge in a taxi.’

Rosie was sitting on a stool on the hearthrug, her back straight, not leaning against her mother’s knees. In her place I would have been fidgeting, or playing with a toy, or looking at a book. But Rosie seemed hypnotized by the gentle scratching of the brush.

‘It didn’t occur to him to telephone. He just came as he was. No luggage, no overcoat. He even forgot his wallet. I had to use the housekeeping.’ Janet smiled but I knew her too well to be fooled. ‘He was still in his slippers.’

We were in a narrow, panelled sitting room. The three of us were huddled round the hearthrug in front of the fire. Rosie was in her nightclothes. Janet had given me a gin and orange, with rather too much orange for my taste, and I was nursing it between my hands, trying to make it last.

‘He’d forgotten his medicine too. Actually they’re laxatives. He gets terribly concerned about them. That’s why I had to pop out to the chemist’s before it closed. And then the dean’s wife swooped and I couldn’t get away.’ The brush faltered. Janet rested her hands on Rosie’s shoulders. ‘Poor Grandpa will forget his own name next, won’t he, poppet? Now, say good night to Auntie Wendy and we’ll put you into bed.’

When they went upstairs, I wandered over to the drinks tray and freshened my glass with a little gin. All three of us had tiptoed round what Mr Treevor had done upstairs. I wondered what Janet was saying to Rosie about it now. If anything. How do you explain to a child that Grandpa found a bottle of tomato ketchup in the kitchen, took it upstairs to his room and splashed it over him to make it look as if he’d stabbed himself to death? What on earth had he been thinking about? He had ruined his clothes and the bedroom rug. God knew what effect he had had on Rosie. The only consolation was that all the excitement had tired him out. He was resting on his bed before supper.

Glass in hand, I wandered round the room, picking up ornaments and looking at the books and pictures. I had grown sensitive to poverty in others as you do when your own money runs low. I thought I saw hints of it here, a cushion placed to cover a stain on a chair’s upholstery, a fire too small for the grate, curtains that needed relining. David couldn’t earn much.

There was a wedding photograph in a silver frame on the pier table between the windows, just the two of them in front of Jerusalem Chapel, David’s clerical bands snapping in the breeze. I didn’t have any photographs of my wedding, a hole-in-the-corner affair compared with theirs. My mother had thought we should have a white wedding with all the trimmings but Henry persuaded her to let us have the money instead for the honeymoon.

Janet came downstairs.

‘Supper will have to be very simple, I’m afraid. Would cheese on toast be all right? There’s some apple crumble in the larder.’

‘That’s fine.’ I noticed her shiver. ‘What’s wrong?’

‘I wanted it to be nice for you on your first evening especially. We haven’t seen each other in such ages.’

‘It’s all right. It’s lovely to be here: Will your father be coming down?’

‘He’s dozed off.’ She went over to the fire and began to add coal. ‘I didn’t like to wake him.’

I sat on the sofa. ‘Janet – does he often do things like that?’

‘The tomato ketchup?’

I said nothing.

‘He’s always had a sense of humour,’ she said, and threw a shovelful of coals on the fire.

‘He kept it well concealed when I came to stay with you.’

Janet glanced at me. Tears made her eyes look larger than ever. ‘Yes. Well. People change.’

‘Come on.’ I patted the seat of the sofa. ‘Come and tell me about it.’

‘But supper –’

‘Damn supper.’

‘I wish I could.’ Suddenly she was almost shouting. ‘You’ve no idea how much I hate cooking. In the morning the sight of a fried egg makes my stomach turn over.’

‘Me too. Anyway, I’m going to help with supper. But come and sit down first.’

She dabbed her eyes with a dainty little handkerchief. She was one of the few people I’ve ever known who don’t make a spectacle of themselves when they cry. Janet managed everything gracefully, even tears. I brought her another drink. She made a half-hearted attempt to push the glass away.

‘I shouldn’t drink this. I’ve already had one tonight.’

‘It’s medicinal.’ I watched her take a sip. ‘Tell me, how long’s he been like this?’

‘I don’t know. I think it must have started before Mummy died. It’s been very gradual.’

‘Have you thought about putting him in a home?’

‘I couldn’t do that. He’s not old. He’s not even seventy yet. And it’s not as if he’s ill. Just a bit forgetful at times.’

‘Has he seen the doctor?’

‘He doesn’t like doctors. That business with the tomato sauce …’

‘Yes?’

‘I think he was just trying to be friendly. Just trying to play a game with Rosie, to make her laugh. But he didn’t realize the effect he would have.’

She hesitated and added carefully, ‘He was never very good with children.’

‘And what does David say?’

‘I haven’t liked to bother him too much. He’s very busy at present. There’s a possibility of a new job …’

‘But surely he must have noticed?’

‘He hasn’t seen Daddy for a while. Anyway, for most of the time he’s all right.’

I felt like an inquisitor. ‘And what did Rosie say?’

‘Nothing really.’ Janet ran her finger round the rim of her glass. ‘I told her that Grandpa was just having a joke, and it was one of those grown-up jokes that children don’t always understand. And she nodded, and that was that.’

It turned into quite a nice evening in the end. Rosie fell asleep, and so did that dreadful old man upstairs. Janet and I ended up making piles of toast over the sitting room fire and getting strawberry jam all over the hearthrug. Janet gave me a chance to talk about Henry but I didn’t want to, not then. So we ignored him altogether (which he would have hated so much) and I was happy. There was I acting the tower of strength while inside I felt like a jelly, just as I had all those years ago at school. Between them, Janet and Mr Treevor made me feel useful again. We choose our own families, especially if our biological ones aren’t very satisfactory.

9 (#ulink_487fe74b-60d3-5845-bbc5-5dacd6e41215)

Even now, when I am as old as John Treevor, I dream about the day I came to Rosington. Not about what happened in the house. About talking to Rosie outside. The odd thing, the disturbing thing, is what Rosie says. Or doesn’t say.

When I see her in the dream I know she’s going to tell her joke, that she’s called Nobody because nobody’s perfect. But the punchline is scrambled. That’s what makes me anxious – the fact I don’t know how the words will come out. Perfect but nobody. Nobody but perfect. A perfect nobody. Perfect no body. No perfect body. Maybe my sleeping mind worries about that because it’s less painful than worrying about what was going on in the house.

But the dream came much later. On my first night in Rosington I slept better than I had for years. I was in a room on the second floor away from the rest of the house. When I woke I knew it was late because of the light filtering through the crack in the curtains. The air in the bedroom was icy. I stayed in the warm nest of the bedclothes for at least twenty minutes more.

Eventually a bursting bladder drove me out of bed. The bathroom was warmer than my room because it had a hot-water tank in it. I took my clothes in there and got dressed. I went downstairs and found Janet’s father sitting in a Windsor chair at the kitchen table reading The Times.

We eyed each other warily. He had not come downstairs again the previous evening; Janet had taken him some soup. He stood up and smiled uncertainly.

‘Hello, Mr Treevor.’