And it is how I’ll remember him. Stephen’s final message to the world, ‘Hello, chief’, ‘Hello, old boy’. In the winter sunshine, birds up above, and love all around.
62
High up on the hill there is construction noise, down in the village, people go about their business. Dogs chase dogs, delivery vans unload. Letters are posted.
The cold sun simply can’t compete though. Coopers Chase is wearing death like chainmail.
It is Thursday at eleven a.m., but nobody is in the Jigsaw Room.
The Art History class have stacked their chairs away, as always, and that is where the chairs will remain until French Conversation comes in at noon. Motes of dust float in the air and settle. The Thursday Murder Club is nowhere to be seen today. Their absence echoes.
Ron is texting Pauline, hoping beyond hope that she finally replies. Joyce has done some shopping for Elizabeth and dropped it outside her door. She rang, but no reply. Ibrahim sits in his flat, staring at a picture of a boat on his wall.
Elizabeth? Well, she is no longer present in a time and a space for now. She isn’t anywhere or anything. Bogdan has his eye on her.
Joyce switches off her television – it has nothing for her. Alan lies at her feet and watches her cry. Ibrahim thinks that perhaps he should take a walk, but, instead, he keeps looking at the picture on the wall. Ron receives a text, but it is from his electricity provider.
There is a murder still to be solved, but it won’t be solved today. The timelines and the photographs and the theories and the plans will have to wait. Perhaps it will never be solved? Perhaps death has defeated them all with this latest trick? Who now has the heart for the battle?
They still have each other, but not today. There will be laughing and teasing and arguing and loving again, but not today. Not this Thursday.
As the waves of the world crash around them, this Thursday is for Stephen.
63: Joyce
The cremation was in Tunbridge Wells. We all made our way there in a little procession. There was the hearse, then Elizabeth, and Bogdan and I followed in a funeral car. Then Ron’s mended Daihatsu, with Ron, Pauline and Ibrahim. It was a nice surprise to see Pauline. Finally, Chris, Donna and Patrice in Chris’s new car. I’m not sure of the make, but it is silver, so it fitted in.
I thought there might be a bit of a crowd at the crematorium, but, as we pulled up, there were only four people, three men and one woman, all looking as old as us. They each hugged Elizabeth and introduced themselves to me. There was a Marianne and a very handsome Wilfried, but I didn’t catch the other names properly. Wilfried must have been Polish, because he spoke to Bogdan for a while. He knew Stephen from the Middle East somewhere – I didn’t get all the details. Marianne knew Stephen from university. You could just tell they had been lovers.
So this was all that was left of Stephen’s gang. Or all that Elizabeth felt she needed to invite. I don’t suppose she cast the net any further than she absolutely had to.
The crematorium was very pleasant, as far as these things go. The sky was blue, the sun shone. Bogdan, Donna and Chris got into position to carry the coffin, with one of the undertakers. At the last moment, Ron tapped the undertaker on the shoulder and took his place.
We filed in first, my arm through Elizabeth’s. It was neither the time nor the place, but I told her she suited black, which she does. It washes me out, I’m afraid. I wore a nice brooch, a sun, which I thought Stephen would like, and that gave me a bit of sparkle. I saw Wilfried eye it up.
These places do their best to feel gentle and calm, to feel like a place where the world can’t get in, a cocoon. But then you’ll see a FIRE EXIT sign above a door, and the real world crowds back in. Someone had left an old biro without a lid on one of the pews.
When the coffin was in place, Bogdan came and sat on the other side of Elizabeth. He was crying; she wasn’t. Donna sat in the row behind and, every now and again, she would reach out and squeeze his shoulder. Just letting him know she was there. I did the same for Elizabeth, but no one was there to do it for me.
A very nice young woman conducted the ceremony. She had stories about Stephen – Ibrahim had gathered them together – and she read a couple of passages from the Bible, which I know is the done thing. I’ve been to many funerals now, and an awful lot of people have walked through the valley of the shadow of death. I might have something a bit more upbeat at my funeral. I find being solemn very difficult, but I suppose it is necessary. The only time I stopped crying during Gerry’s service was when the vicar was telling us how kind and forgiving God was.
I tried to imagine how Elizabeth was feeling. Knowing the part she played in Stephen’s death. But I hope she was thinking more about the part she played in his life. There was a hymn I didn’t know, and then the coffin slowly disappeared as some classical music played. I didn’t recognize it – nothing from an advert or anything, Stephen was very into his music. This was when Elizabeth started weeping. Bogdan’s arm was around her shoulders, and my arm was around her waist, but I could tell she felt neither of them.
I sneaked a peek, and Ron and Pauline were both in floods. Ibrahim was head down, eyes closed. Further back, I noticed that Marianne had gone.
We had agreed to have drinks and nibbles back at mine – no need to hire a hall and put Elizabeth on display. Stephen’s friends didn’t come back with us; they said their goodbyes at the crematorium. Marianne hadn’t, in fact, left: she was outside, crying on one of the benches. Wilfried went over to comfort her. Everyone has a story, don’t they? If you’d followed Marianne or Wilfried home, what might you have found?
I had a picture of Stephen on my dining-room table. He was smoking a cigar, clearly telling a joke. I lit some candles, and Bogdan had set up a chessboard. The pieces were in the position of the last game Stephen ever won. He tried to explain it to me, but I told him I was better off sticking to candles.
We had some English sparkling wine that Chris had brought with him. Patrice bought it, even after Dominic Holt had been murdered, ‘because it was 30 per cent off if you’d been on the tour’. She is a woman after my own heart.
The nibbles were mainly Aldi, but with a sprinkling of Waitrose for effect.
I put Classic FM on the radio, which worked a treat, except for the adverts.
It was important that we showed Elizabeth that we were all there for her. That she had a gang. Not just the Thursday Murder Club any more, but also the band of waifs and strays we seem to have picked up along the way. Bogdan, of course, and Donna. Chris and Patrice. Pauline now looking like a permanent fixture. Even Computer Bob came over to pay his respects. No Mervyn, even though I told him he’d be welcome. ‘Didn’t know the man,’ was his response.
Chris had an announcement to make, but you could tell he wasn’t sure about it. Briefly I thought he was about to propose, which I do think might have been a bit much in the circumstances, but instead he told us, in the strictest confidence, that Samantha Barnes had been murdered. He said it wasn’t a discussion for today, but he felt we would like to know sooner rather than later.
Elizabeth chose that moment to make her exit. She will not be investigating anything for a while. Bogdan walked her home, and didn’t come back for an hour or so.
We talked about Stephen, we talked a little about Samantha Barnes, but without much conviction, because without Elizabeth is there any point continuing? Donna spoke to the boys about Mervyn and Tatiana. They are having fun. Life continues, whatever you do. It’s a bulldozer like that.