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Product Details
| ISBN-13: | 9781785355325 |
|---|---|
| Publisher: | Hunt, John Publishing |
| Publication date: | 11/25/2016 |
| Sold by: | Barnes & Noble |
| Format: | eBook |
| Pages: | 296 |
| File size: | 2 MB |
About the Author
N.E.David is the pen name of York writer Nick David. His debut novel, Birds of the Nile, was published by Roundfire in 2013.
Read an Excerpt
Malaren
A Swedish Affair
By N. E. David
John Hunt Publishing Ltd.
Copyright © 2015 N.E. DavidAll rights reserved.
ISBN: 978-1-78535-532-5
CHAPTER 1
I was not in the habit of attending funerals – trust me, it's not something you'd want to make into a hobby. I was in my early fifties, so in that respect I suppose we were betwixt and between (I say 'we' as if Susan were still here – sometimes I have trouble with the idea that she's not). Our children were both in education and healthy: Jonathon on the point of graduating, Philippa preparing for her 'A's, and although we'd heard of people who'd died young (48 or 49 in one case, cancer of the liver or so we were told) these were things we mostly read about in our Sunday papers rather than anything that touched our immediate circle of friends.
Thankfully, both sets of parents were still intact, although mine were older and more fragile. They were also three-hundred miles away and had professed themselves happy to make the journey. Your father won't drive but we can always get the train. In the end it was deemed too much for them. One death in the family was more than enough – I'd no intention of precipitating another. D'you think you'll be able to manage? my mother had asked, fervently hoping that I'd tell her I could. I'd mumbled something to the effect that I'd cope, but I said it more to relieve them of the responsibility than out of any feeling of confidence. In the event, things proved far more difficult than I could ever have imagined.
Ironically, Susan's parents were still very much alive – and in the case of Vivienne, my mother-in-law, almost unbearably hearty. So much so that she'd not even bothered to consult me as to whether I could manage but had automatically assumed that I could not and had accordingly 'taken over'. She and Bernard had arrived almost immediately after Susan had fallen ill, although to begin with they'd had the grace to realise it wasn't appropriate to intrude on a household already under pressure and had booked into a local hotel. Ever solicitous as to the health of their daughter, they'd come to the hospital each day armed with the prescribed amount of fruit and flowers and had been every bit as attentive as I was. When Susan had finally slipped away, rather than give up their hotel room and go home, they'd elected to turn up on my doorstep, announcing that they'd come to help me with 'the arrangements'. Answering the door to their knock, I'd been confronted by the determined figure of Vivienne, towing not just her husband in her wake but also a wheeled suitcase. And at what was a particularly low moment, and lacking both the spirit and the energy to resist, I foolishly let them in.
Vivienne immediately made herself at home and set about 'the arrangements' as if it were a military operation, commandeering the spare bedroom as her headquarters and setting up base camp in the kitchen. Whatever I might have said to the contrary (which, I freely admit, was not much at the time) I was not to be allowed to 'do' anything; it was all to be left up to her. I don't believe for one moment that she'd taken pity on me and wanted to be of help. Her motive, I'm sure, was that I wasn't to be trusted to do the job properly and she'd prefer to do it herself. I'd always had the impression that she'd never thought me good enough for her daughter in life, never mind death, and there was even a lingering suspicion that I was somehow to blame for Susan's illness. The suggestion that I hadn't done enough, if ever voiced, was one I'd have fought to the last as I'd been as assiduous in Susan's care as it was possible to be. I had nothing to reproach myself for. But, once she'd gone there didn't seem any point in fighting it and I was happy to let things go. If Vivienne had something to prove, well fine, let her prove it. I did not. In fact, nothing seemed to matter any more.
And so the tiresome but necessary business of making the arrangements passed me by. To tell the truth, I had no interest in what flowers we should order, whether the casket should be in oak or in teak, where we should hold the reception or how many people we should invite – to me these were irrelevancies now. To give my mother-in-law credit, she was probably right and these were duties I was not fit to undertake because ever since Susan had passed away, I'd been in a world of my own. And while Vivienne had dominion over my affairs, busying herself on the telephone or down at the shops, I would invariably find myself slumped on the sofa in the sitting room, lost in my own thoughts and what I believed to be grief. It wasn't of course, that was to come later, but for the time being I thought myself terribly hard done by.
Occasionally I would look up and there would be Bernard, my longsuffering father-in-law, sitting in the armchair he always repaired to, half hidden behind his copy of the Daily Telegraph. From time to time our eyes would meet and he would give me that weak-as-water smile of sympathy he so often used, as if to say he understood my predicament and that this was something we shared. Then he would retreat behind his paper and I would be left thinking how much like Harold Wilson he looked and how at any moment he would take his pipe from out of his pocket and light it with a match from a box of Swan Vestas which he would use to tamp down the bowl. Calm and collected, he'd learnt to keep out of the way while his wife got on with affairs.
Vivienne, meanwhile, would be clattering about in the kitchen, slamming cupboard doors and rattling pots and pans. For all that she accomplished (which, to be fair, was a great deal) Susan could have done the same but with half the fuss. She'd acquired her mother's energy and skills but thankfully she'd not acquired her temperament. So Bernard and I were left in communal commiseration – he with me for the loss of my partner, I with him for the loss of his daughter and the behaviour of his wife. To be honest, I was grateful to be left alone. It gave me the time to do something that Vivienne could not – I had to learn how to mourn properly and I had the well-being of my children to think of.
I think it was my desire to absorb their grief which initially prevented me from expressing my own. I wanted to take away their pain, to shield them from the world and above all, hold them back from sliding into the same pit I sensed was looming in front of me. They had futures, bright futures, and I was determined they would not be compromised purely by the loss of their mother. We'd reached a crossroads and if I could guide them safely beyond it, their paths lay upward. To lighten their journey, I was prepared to relieve them of whatever load I could carry – but as to the direction I would take myself, post-mortem, I had no idea.
Up until the point of Vivienne's arrival and the imposition of martial law, we'd been too busy looking after ourselves to dwell on things. In the three weeks that Susan had been in hospital, we'd learnt how to fend for ourselves (or at least, Philippa and I had – Jonathon at that point was still at college) and we were totally taken up with the practicalities of daily living. I still went to work, Philippa to school and at the end of each day before we set off to visit the patient, we met as a culinary committee round the kitchen table and debated what we should eat for tea. I could boil an egg (but not much more) and Philippa knew how to prepare a salad, but these basic skills would not suffice for long and we soon entered the world of ready-made meals, chicken dippers and takeaways. When Jonathon came home for the Easter break, our pool of gastronomic knowledge increased but little and we went on much as before, although the need for us to congregate at the same time and in the same place each day to eat at least had the effect of drawing us together as a unit.
Then, just as we'd become close, suddenly it was all over and our teatime debates were replaced by meetings of an altogether different ilk. We no longer argued about who was going to cook what but contemplated how we were going to survive at all in the aftermath of our loss. Apart from that, we'd completely lost our appetites and thereafter mealtimes were something of a sham, conducted more often than not in an unbearable silence until someone (usually Philippa) would push their plate away, stand up from the table and announce that they were going to their room. That usually meant tears, and within minutes of her departure Jonathon and I would hear her sobbing, her cries echoing through the paper-thin walls of our house. For a few moments my son and I would sit in a form of quiet respect, then he too would abandon me – I think I'll go upstairs, Dad – and I would be left to contemplate their half-eaten meals and the debris left behind. These were times when I was grateful for the need for washing-up, forgoing the convenience of the dishwasher and resorting to the use of the sink as a means of employing my hands. As I scraped the remains of our dinner into the bin, it was not just our efforts at self-sufficiency that seemed fruitless.
Later on, once I'd tidied up and with an empty evening in front of me (there were no more visits to the hospital now) I'd creep along the landing to stand silently outside their doors, hoping for a signal to enter. I desperately wanted to knock and be asked in to give whatever comfort I could – but they were entitled to their solitude and reflection as much as I was doomed to mine. My hand would be poised above their door, knuckle ready to strike, but then I'd think the better of it and withdraw to my own room with as much grace as I could muster. God knows how I whiled away my time. Eventually I'd drift off to sleep and the prospect of another gloomy day.
Now I come to think of it, Vivienne's intervention was perhaps not as helpful as it might have first appeared. We'd at least begun the dreadful process of grieving and however awful it might seem, there were signs that we might get through it. But now there were strangers in our house, we felt invaded and unable to express ourselves as we would wish. True, we no longer had to worry about cleanliness and catering (Vivienne did it all) but these were tasks that had given us structure in the early days and once deprived of them, it served only to add to our general sense of uselessness. We were banned from the kitchen and with our regular meeting place denied us, we were forced to inhabit the sitting room with Bernard. He wouldn't have said 'boo' to a goose, never mind his wife, but we still felt unavoidably constrained and we'd sit about in long morose silences looking down at our hands rather than at each other. The only place we could find relief was in the solitude upstairs.
One night after dinner, a day or so before the funeral, I left Vivienne to do the clearing away and retreated to the privacy of my room where I sat on the edge of the bed and stared mindlessly out of the window. Before long there was a knock at the door and Philippa came in. Red-eyed and speechless, she plonked herself down next to me. Then her arms were about my neck, her head was on my shoulder, and she burst into tears. I drew her close but we didn't speak as for once in her short-lived teenage life I had no need to ask what the matter was. It was the first time she'd come to me, but it was not the first time she'd come to the room under similar circumstances. In the past it had been Susan that she'd clung to and confided in when she needed comforting – the loving side of that testy Jekyll and Hyde relationship which existed between mother and daughter. The other, which included shouting and the slamming of doors, I had yet to experience – but I knew it would always be followed by reconciliation.
Jonathon must have heard us talking or perhaps he'd caught Philippa padding across the landing because he soon joined us and we sat, all three, perched on the end of the bed, gazing out of the window just as I had done a few moments before. I seem to recall a street light and a line of a neighbour's washing – but whatever we were looking at, it didn't seem to matter. We were together, we'd escaped the tyranny that stalked the rooms below and at last we had a chance to be alone.
After we'd dried our eyes (we were all crying, even Jonathon),we breathed deeply in an attempt to compose ourselves. We didn't need to speak, but when we did it was in a low whisper as if we feared being overheard. It was Philippa who started things off. Being the youngest, I suppose she had the most to lose.
"Dad? What's going to happen to us?"
This, together with a thousand more like it, was a question to which I did not yet have an answer.
"We'll manage, sweetheart," I said, falling back on the same response I'd given my mother. Although in Philippa's case, there was a specific supplementary.
"I mean, Grandma's not going to stay forever, is she?"
"No, luv, she's not." I'd already made my mind up on that, whatever else.
"So it'll just be the three of us from now on?"
"I guess so."
For a few moments this seemed to satisfy her – but there were other burning issues boiling up beneath that fragile teenage skin.
"Dad?"
"Yes, sweetheart."
"I don't want to go back to school."
Perhaps I should have seen it coming, but collateral damage of any kind is hard to predict. At another time my stock response would have been Why not? but this was not the moment for standard parental logic. What was needed now was sympathy rather than argument. Later on, the line It's what Mum would have wanted would come to hand – and be used a dozen times – but it was still too early for that. There could be no place for reason in a world that wasn't making sense.
"I understand," I said. "It must be difficult."
"There just doesn't seem any point."
"I know, I know." I turned toward Jonathon, sitting on my left and looking steadfastly down at the floor. "What about you?"
We were just at the start of the Easter holiday, a period he'd set aside for study with his finals due in May. But if Philippa could at least articulate her fears, he could not, and he resorted to shaking his head.
"Ok," I said, not wanting to push it. "Well, we don't need to decide on these things now. Let's just try and take it day by day."
There didn't seem much else I could say – although I did have an ulterior motive. A certain ceremony was looming on the horizon and until we'd cleared that hurdle there could be no discernible future.
Outside the window, the street lamp shone a sickly orange, coating the line of washing with a pale and ghostly glow. I searched for my children's hands along the bed-spread and clasped them tight as if our lives depended on it. They might not know it, but at that moment I needed them every bit as much as they needed me.
CHAPTER 2I have two abiding memories of the day in question. First, that it was unseasonably cold – even for March – and I can remember thinking that I'd worn the wrong clothes. Second, the dreadful sound of great clods of earth thundering onto the lid of Susan's coffin. As for the rest, it was mostly a blur.
I've come to the view that funerals are designed for the specific purpose of fostering grief. Some would say they're designed to relieve it, but I beg to differ. Whether you like it or not, everything about them brings out that tremendous feeling of sadness which is so hard to dispel. The ubiquitous colour of black, the pungent smell of the flowers, the dour and dismal expressions on the faces of everyone concerned – they all conspire to produce an overwhelming sense of depression. Even the words of the service encourage it (Blessed are they that mourn, for they shall be comforted) and from the moment you open your wardrobe door and decide what clothes you're going to wear, your head is already telling you this is not going to be a happy occasion.
Now, I'm just as emotional as the next man. You could argue that doesn't say much and to judge my sex by our outward appearance, you'd probably be right. But deep inside we hurt every bit as much as do women – it's just that it takes a lot more to fetch it to the surface. And in my case, the natural instinct to suppress my feelings is allied with a streak of insubordination. I was being told to do something with which I felt inwardly uncomfortable and I rebelled against it. Yes, I was numbed by the loss of my wife, but I was equally determined that I was not going to break down in public. And besides, the day was not about me and I had no desire to be the centre of attention. We were there to honour Susan and my duty was to her and to looking after our kids.
(Continues...)
Excerpted from Malaren by N. E. David. Copyright © 2015 N.E. David. Excerpted by permission of John Hunt Publishing Ltd..
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