Alice felt her way in semi-darkness down the last flight of steps to the basement and heaved open the back door. She was in a concreted area across which was slung a line of colourless washing. This sign of life took her by surprise. Someone might come out at any minute. Alice ran over to the door in the high wall she had seen from her bedroom; once upon a time it had run along the railway tracks but now it bordered an industrial park. She tugged desperately at the bolt. It was rusty and wouldn’t budge. After hitting it several times, she shifted it and, rubbing her bruised palm, plunged into a filthy alley, littered with syringes, used condoms, beer cans and crisp bags and slippery with dog shit and vomit. The bolt had held the door shut so now she had to leave it ajar. She felt guilty – the washing might get stolen – then it dawned on her that this was her only way back as she couldn’t use the front entrance. Alice had not planned her return journey. She had to hope the owner of the washing wouldn’t notice.
The alley came out on the main road. Alice was blasted by the heat and the sound of traffic thundering down off the flyover on to the Old Kent Road. She shuddered at the engines roaring, gears grinding, coughs of exhaust, blaring horns; and shrank from the gigantic tyres of articulated lorries that could crush a life in moments and missed her by inches. She retreated to a convenience store with windows protected by metal grills. The shop had been a general store when she was last on the street years before. Then its produce had been displayed in abundance on the pavement, with more goods on show easily visible through the gleaming glass. Now piles of packets and tins bricked up the windows that were in turn behind the grill so she couldn’t see inside the shop. Alice nearly gave up and longed to scuttle back to the sanctuary of what now seemed like home. Maybe after staying indoors for so long she actually did have agoraphobia. She sat down on a yellow plastic grit bin to get her breath. The words Another day in Paradise had been sprayed through a template several times on its side partially hiding the manufacturer’s name and telephone number. -inaware 01273 622. Shading her eyes, she could see the archway to the flats a few yards down the street and was overwhelmed with exhilaration that at last she was on this side of it. She was free.
Although she had lied about her health, there had been a genuine reason for staying in the flat. Alice began to imagine that just possibly today’s expedition might mark a change to her life. Today might let her draw a line under her stolen past.
With renewed determination Alice stepped out into the road, and flagged down a taxi to take her to Victoria station. As she slid into the corner of the cab, out of sight of the driver’s mirror, the years Alice had had to bury began to surface and she remembered what was special about the 28th June.
Today was Eleanor Ramsay’s fortieth birthday.
Nineteen
Kathleen had been disappointed not to get an invitation to Doctor Ramsay’s funeral, but was not surprised. The only Ramsay likely to think of her was Mark Ramsay himself. Although only family and close friends were allowed to attend the service, Iris had said that most of Charbury would turn out to watch the cortège and see him buried. Kathleen was sure there would be no harm in going up to the church to pay her respects.
She was the first to arrive at the churchyard, having left her cottage an hour early to be sure of getting somewhere to sit. She found a bench about thirty yards from the gravesite. From here she could see the whole length of the path up to the church but she would not be conspicuous. Iris had also informed her that the hearse would start from the White House and go at walking pace along the main street as it had for the old Judge and every Ramsay before him. Iris had shooed her two Persian cats out to the back of the shop and bustled around the counter to confide in Kathleen’s ear that Isabel Ramsay had been keen to avoid fuss; rumour had it that she had wanted a cremation, but she couldn’t argue with Ramsay tradition. Iris had been strident in her defence of Doctor Ramsay’s right to a proper send off, but Kathleen privately felt sorry for Isabel. She too knew that Mark Ramsay would not have wanted so much bother. When Steve died, her sister had organised his funeral. Kathleen had not known where to begin and had even considered going away until it was all over, while knowing that such an idea was impossible.
The organist was practising scales, which made Kathleen anxious; he was cutting it fine if he wasn’t perfect by now. She didn’t want Isabel to be offended by a wrong note; today would be hard enough for her. Kathleen was also uncomfortable with the position of the bench she had chosen. Perhaps after all it was too prominent. She didn’t want the Ramsays to think she was drawing attention to their omission of her name from the guest list. The day was heating up and, unlike the other seats, this one wasn’t in the shade. But the other benches would give her no view at all, so there was no choice but to stay here.
Then more people began to drift into the graveyard and soon Kathleen was less obvious. The ones who had invitations held them conspicuously and took up sentry positions around the church door entrance, their expressions stern and distant. She didn’t recognise any of them and guessed they were friends and colleagues from Doctor Ramsay’s London life; the women in discreet black hats, the men in funeral suits that didn’t look hired or years out of date. This group showed no interest in their surroundings and, seeming to Kathleen cold and aloof, struck her as the opposite to Doctor Ramsay. If he had been here, he would have made everyone talk to each other regardless of who they were. But of course if he were here then no one else would be.
There were many people who Kathleen didn’t know. Whole families, making a day of it, milled up the path through the lych gate, while locals used the side entrance. A gang of youths tumbled over the wall at the back, initially laughing and joking. Then they were quiet as they formed a tight bunch on a rise near the old rowan tree, cowed by the gravestones, the sonorous tones of the organ and the sombre dress of the gathering crowd. Then she saw them; the kind who wrote her long rambling letters supposedly to help but really as cries for help. They were the pilgrims come to be healed by the kind doctor who even in death could provide solace. Men and women, their movements erratic, some clutching carrier bags, some dressed in dark corduroy jackets or trousers, worn overcoats and puffa jackets inappropriate for summer. Kathleen reflected that in their own way they would be genuine mourners.
Of course there were the reporters, behaving with self-conscious discretion, some laden with recording machines, others wielding cameras with long lenses. Kathleen prayed without hope that no one would recognise her. She could not talk about Doctor Ramsay, today of all days. A group of middle-aged men, who looked like councillors and bank managers, stood to attention under the yew trees, shuffling their feet, with their hands behind their backs. While other people, mostly women, had settled on the grass or had perched on larger tombstones, making a show of brushing off invisible leaves before lowering themselves with exaggerated care. Everyone kept a respectful distance. Soon Kathleen reckoned there were over a hundred and fifty people.
Then over the cemetery wall she saw movement far up the lane. A black hearse followed by five limousines and a straggle of cars had appeared from over the rise and was passing the village shop and her cottage before processing down the hill towards them. It was escorted on foot by Harry Norton in a top hat, the funeral director who had been one of Steve’s coffin bearers. Both Harry and the tall car behind him appeared to shimmer and warp in the heat, making the sombre procession look ethereal. For what seemed like an age, the cortège seemed to get no nearer and Harry was pacing on a giant grey conveyor belt that moved in the opposite direction to the steady pace of his black boots. Then the hearse was outside the church gates.