Then, suddenly, Michael does speak. Midway through the bishop’s address, he releases his grip, and walks from the pew, forward to the front steps. The bishop steps to the side. My wife, Michael says, as if claiming her back. My wife. There’s a pause. Then he gives a short, bitter tirade against a God who would dole out such punishment to the undeserving. Such suffering, a plastic cunt, her bags of shit. The congregation winces and looks away, but no one intervenes, the embarrassment must be borne. His face is a mask of disgust. Whatever symmetry he found during Lena’s illness has been abandoned. There’s the sound of female crying from the front pews — Lena’s sister, perhaps. It is all horrible to watch and hear, but surely he is entitled, Rachel thinks. She almost admires it. Lawrence glances over, makes a jerking movement with his head — does she want him to take Charlie outside? But Charlie can’t understand. He leans backward in her grip and looks up at the painted bosses in the roof of the church. She shakes her head. Michael stands silently facing the congregation, and is led away by Barnaby, down the aisle and out of the church. He looks old. She sees him take a hip flask from his inside pocket as he passes. The bishop resumes, says such anger is understandable, we are all tested, we are all profoundly hurt by such seemingly senseless loss, but his starched cassock and talk of afterlife seem faintly ridiculous after the authenticity of the bereaved husband.
The wake is held at the manor. Whisky and sandwiches in the main hall, a room not often used for social events, but the only one large enough to fit the hundreds of mourners. It is a grand venue, dark woods, with the Pennington coat of arms above the door, but a less chic and glamorous affair than usuaclass="underline" traditional, northern. Lena’s wishes perhaps — no fuss, quotidian fare. Lawrence takes Charlie back to the cottage and Rachel puts in an appearance, though it seems a cruelty to have the Stott family go through another public showcasing of grief. The son works hard to accept the condolences of everyone, shaking hands, thanking, saying yes, yes, agreeing over and over with their kind or erroneous pronouncements about his mother. Michael remains in the shadows, steadily taking the whisky. He rebuts Thomas’ offer of a plate of food. A few older gentlemen stand close to him making cordial conversation — the social, thick-skinned drinkers — but his condition is radioactive, mostly people veer away. Something has come undone in him. He loved his wife. He loved her. Losing her is unendurable, or the catalyst for other dangerously built-up angers. Rachel mills, says hello to a few recognisable faces, Neville Wilson, Vaughan Andrews, but talks to no one in particular. Huib seems stuck with a group of elderly ladies. Sylvia is with her brother, near Michael, the steeply affected end of the room, unapproachable. Now in civilian garb, the bishop steps towards Michael, perhaps another attempt to mitigate the darkness, bring comfort, a format for acceptance. Leave him be, she thinks. She decides to leave. There’s an air of impending disaster — she does not want to witness it.
On the way out she hears a commotion. People close in around Michael. She can hear his voice, hard and drunken, Cumbrian, Fly to her in fucking heaven, you pious twat, I can no more fly than this stupid little bastard here can. Can you fly, son? She glances back at the gaggle of players. Thomas looks mortified, and Sylvia is trying to get between her brother and Michael, who has Leo Pennington held by the lapel, a grip so strong the suit and shirt underneath are riding high up his torso. Come on then, let’s see, lad. Let’s see if you really want to waste your life. He hoists the young man across the room and towards the nearest door, the two of them locked together in a close wrestle that seems almost erotic. Leo calls out to those following to get back, to leave them alone, this is their business. The room has gone silent; the old men continue to sip their drams.
Rachel gathers her coat and makes her way out of the Hall, to the Saab, parked amid the ranks of guests’ cars along the driveway. Whatever is happening, there is no good way to intervene; it is certainly not her place. These are old troubles rearing. On the drive back to the cottage, Michael’s words echo. Can you fly, son? Only later will she hear about the incident — a version of it anyway. But not from Sylvia or Thomas, whom she will see very little of in the coming weeks — the former preparing to move to London, the latter as absent from his house as God — but from Huib, who did follow and did try to help. A gun taken from the locker room. The two men in some kind of crazed dispute on the grounds of the estate. The firearm going off, and a flesh wound to Leo’s shoulder. No prosecution was sought; the event was reported to the police as an accident. And according to Huib, Michael was pulling the shotgun away, he held the heir of Annerdale down and doctored him roughly as he bled, and held the young man’s head against his shoulder as he wept. In the office, the following Monday, Huib tells her all this and tries to make sense of it.
They were arguing like dogs. About responsibility and death wishes, and Michael was challenging him to go ahead and do it. I don’t know what it was about.
I think I might know, she says, quietly.
She does not go into detail, and Huib does not ask. She could be wrong, but Sylvia’s account of Leo being present at the microlight crash in which his mother died, and Michael’s drunken words, seem too revealing. The plane was a three-seater. Perhaps Thomas was not flying it, and Leo, barely a teenager at the time and with no licence, was. The untouchable Penningtons. Their reckless playfulness, their invincibility. His father would have covered for him — not even the power and connectedness of the Earl could have protected his son from the charges, perhaps even manslaughter. Michael would surely have known. And Leo’s life since has been hell. Who would not loathe themselves for killing their own mother? She does not give Huib her theory; she does not know if it is simply speculation, a flight of fantasy on her part. Either way, Michael, loyal to the family, keeper of its land and perhaps its worst secrets, has watched the boy spiralling, trying to escape, self-destructing. There is no motive as great as the death of a loved one to make a person insist that others should live.
*
Lawrence gets a job at a solicitor’s office in Kendal. He finds a flat in a converted wool yard, overlooking the graphite roofs of the town, and signs the contract. The Lakeland sabbatical is over. In late August, he moves out.
You’ll be just down the road, she says, trying to be upbeat, though part of her regrets his decision and is conflicted about his departure.
Will he cope? Will she? No, she’s pleased. The move will be good for him: a forward gesture. He must re-enter the world, leave the monastic security of the District behind. Much of his excavated life has yet to be refilled. He is not dating. In the counselling sessions he has agreed to avoid sex for a year — part of the untangling of addictions. Such doctrines make Rachel wonder about herself — might she have fallen into such a category at one stage? Is she past it now or simply stymied by single parenthood? Sometimes her thoughts move past Alexander, to the possibility of others — a destructive feeling, old ways.
Lawrence cooks a lavish meal the night before he moves out. They eat in the garden, with clear skies overhead, the pipping of birds in the woods, and a warm breeze. A last summer evening. He has made lemon chicken, herb potatoes, salad.