The Last Pier Part 32

'All of them,' Agnes said, pressing her lips tightly together.

There had been only silence after that. Agnes sat, eyes closed, still as a bird, her tea untouched. On the table was a paper bag with some fresh brown eggs. All Agnes had these days were a few chickens. The orchard had gone, as had the top field where one magical night they had sung 'Bella Ciao'.

Her mother, Cecily saw, had painted pink hearts on the eggs as though they were for a child.

On that last visit Agnes spent the morning with Cecily in her room at the top of a house on the Old Kent Road. The room was Cecily's first completely Maudsley-free s.p.a.ce. It was paid for by the grant she got from the County Council for her teacher-training course in Avery Hill.

'Do you still write stories?' Agnes asked.

Cecily shook her head.

'You used to write all the time, when you weren't reading. And when you weren't eavesdropping!'

Neither of them laughed. The silence that had been growing between them stepped out of its shoes and pushed against the room.

'I brought you Rose's rug,' Agnes said, finally.

It had been an ordinary morning without pain.

Until Cecily saw that rug.

Why was her mother doing this? Did she want Rose to follow her everywhere?

The voices in Cecily's head, knowing silence was more powerful than words, were quiet.

'See how nice it looks beside your bed,' Agnes said.

Her face, in the wake of her chemotherapy treatment, was yellow, her lovely piano-playing fingers swollen by steroids. The long slender neck truncated somehow. The sadness surrounding Agnes tainted the air like escaping gas, making Cecily want to cry.

'It suits you, doesn't it?' Agnes asked. 'Living here.'

Not really a question, more of a distress flare. Cecily nodded. Agnes began to cough. Cecily prepared to wait. The spasm, she knew, would go on for longer than was socially polite.

'Have you registered with a doctor, Cecci?'

The old name slipping out made Cecily angry. She resented her mother using a nickname that wasn't hers to use. Agnes continued to cough. Was she still smoking as much as before, Cecily wondered?

'Not yet.'

'Well you should, you know. Health is wealth.'

They paused as though they were boxers taking a break. Too many unsaid things made it impossible to move the slagheaps of regret. Truth remained trapped under them.

'What are your flatmates like? D'you like them?'

Agnes smiled a ghastly smile through a volume of sagging flesh. The tiny, lovely mother whose dimples had so delighted Cecily, where had she gone? Had the green eyes darkened through loss?

'I want you to be happy.' Agnes said. 'I mean really happy.'

In the silence that followed, the dead were not named.

'Shall we go out for lunch?' Cecily asked.

The room had become stuffy. She needed to get out into the open.

'I would like a steak,' her mother said and proceeded to lead the way to Leicester Square.

Cecily wondered whether she had been drinking.

Over lunch (Agnes insisted that she would pay, 'Of course you're not paying. This is my treat!') the silence between the two of them was broken only by the sound of Agnes chewing her steak. Her mother had lost one of her bottom teeth and when she ate it sounded as if she were swallowing phlegm. Cecily felt sick. It was all she could do to eat her salad without retching. Agnes ordered a gin and slurped it in great glugs. She cut into another piece of meat. Blood oozed out. Cecily saw white sinewy bits.

'It's very fatty,' Agnes said, her mouth open as she chewed.

The waiter hovered and then went away again. Agnes dropped first her fork and then her napkin. When the waiter tried to give her a new fork she waved him away, then changed her mind and asked for another gin instead.

'We must do this again,' she said squeezing Cecily's hand.

Despair took Cecily's voice hostage.

The waiter returned with Agnes' drink. This time there were two ice cubes in the gla.s.s and a piece of lemon. Agnes pushed her plate away.

'You should come home,' she ventured.

She lit a cigarette. In spite of what cigarettes had done to her, she still loved them. An abusive relations.h.i.+p if ever there was one, Cecily thought.

Carlo was dead. What was there to come home for now?

Agnes shrugged.

'I don't know. To see the sea, maybe?'

Speechless, Cecily thought of all the years when she had fallen asleep in her attic room in Kitty's house, listening to the sound of the trains rumbling along the railway line towards Vauxhall Bridge. Wis.h.i.+ng it were the sound of the sea. Wis.h.i.+ng she were lying in her bed in Palmyra House. And she thought of the years she had spent wis.h.i.+ng her mother would invite her back. Just once. Just to collect those things she had left behind in the unseemly haste of her departure from paradise.

'I wonder if I could have another drink?' Agnes asked.

'You've had enough,' Cecily told her.

Hopelessness melted in Agnes' gla.s.s. Cecily felt the obstruction in her chest was growing.

'I have to go to the library,' she lied.

'Do you need money?' Agnes asked, peering anxiously at her.

Cecily shook her head. Outside it had begun to rain. Red London buses were pa.s.sing noiselessly by. Agnes sighed. I don't know what you want, her sigh said. She gathered up her shopping bag, a string one that Cecily remembered from years before.

'I suppose I had better be getting back then,' she said. 'It's a bit of a journey.'

Cecily stood up and went to the lavatory. When she returned, Agnes was sitting at the empty table hugging her bag and staring out of the window, her eyes bewildered.

'Let's go,' she said.

It was the last time Cecily saw her mother alive.

Agnes died in her bedroom in Palmyra House twenty-five years after she had arrived there as a young bride. She died alone. With a sackful of green walnuts ready to be pickled standing in the grimy kitchen. She was fifty-one. No age at all, the people in the town would say. Pity, they would say, there had never been another man to warm her bed.

All the staff working at the farm before the war had left, even Partridge. The orchard had gone. Cook took retirement when her arthritis had made it impossible to lift the chicken feed into the yard. Agnes had tried to get a girl from the town but most of them, having heard the rumours that circulated about the Maudsleys, were reluctant to come. In any case, after the farm had been sold, what was the point of having any help when no help was needed? Agnes had no friends in the town. The war had swept a lot away. Things that were unnecessary in this new after-the-war life had gone, like ice-cream parlours and digging-for-victory kitchen gardens. Only the walnut tree remained, still producing two sackfuls of nuts.

For years she hadn't bothered to pickle any but on the day before she died she went into the yard and stared up at the tree. Then she found the ladder. The cat, seeing this unusual activity, wandered out with a kitten in its mouth, alarmed. Agnes took no notice of it. She began to collect the unripe walnuts. They were particularly large this year. She would send Cecily some, she decided. Frowning, she continued with her task until the sun had travelled across the yard. Then she dragged her sack in towards the kitchen door to deal with later. Later she would go into the town to buy vinegar. Later she would sterilise some of the hundreds of bottles in the scullery and warm them ready for the walnuts. Later. Smoking her thirtieth cigarette of the day, she brushed ash off her cardigan. There was comfort in the notion of Later. It gave shape to the rest of her life.

'Taste me,' she had said, once long ago, in some other life, 'I'm real!'

Where are you, now, she wanted to cry.

'You will be with me wherever I go,' he had told her. 'What I hand over to you is yourself; yourself loved in every part.'

Oh the things he had said! She had trusted him, never doubting he would remain with her throughout the war. But he had vanished, leaving only the sound of his name. To be remembered by her.

'Lucio!' she cried, helplessly.

That night she was awoken by a recurring dream. In the dream she was making a list just as Cecily used to. Agnes' list was about the things she once Had Not Known.

She had not known about what was about to happen.

Or that she was having her last unsullied memories.

That the sound of the fire engines would stay with her for the rest of her life.

That the knives and forks she was setting out on the table for tomorrow's breakfast were merely decorative.

That the kidney pie in the oven would go to waste.

That she would never have an appet.i.te again.

That the war when it came would be of no importance for her.

That the car slowing down outside the house on the night the pier burnt down would not belong to Selwyn.

Or that the man driving the car would take from her all that mattered.

Sitting up in her large bed she pushed away the cover. It was the eiderdown that had once, long ago, belonged on Cecily's bed but which, after she had banished Cecily, Agnes had taken to keep her company and staunch her grief.

'Why,' she asked herself now, as she had done a thousand times before, 'why did I send her away? We could have weathered it together.'

Outside a thin, cloud-veiled moon shone on the rooftops of the houses built where the tennis court had once been. Agnes sat up, puzzled. Where had the tennis court gone?

The room was suddenly full of other people's whispered voices contradicting each other.

'Love,' she cried, 'where are you?'

She put her hand over her ears trying to blot out the noise but the sounds got louder. She tried to call out to her daughter Rose but the name wouldn't form in her throat. She thought of her sister but couldn't remember what her name was.

'Cecci,' she said, out of habit.

And that was all she remembered.

Outside in the early autumn sky, the paper-thin moon had had enough of spreading itself over Palmyra Farm and moved off silently in another direction.

She wasn't found for two days and then it was by chance that the postman, delivering a gas bill to the house, noticed the side light still switched on and walked round to the kitchen. There he saw the open sack of walnuts and the ladder leaning against the tree.

He knew Mrs Maudsley from many years before. He knew all about her hard life, in fact he had been a young boy when she had first come to live at Palmyra House. He remembered her as a tall, slender beauty with vivid green eyes who didn't take care of herself. Others had thought her sister prettier but the postman knew better. Besides, he had seen how quickly the older sister went to seed after trouble came to Palmyra Farm. Whereas poor Mrs Maudsley, for what it was worth, had kept her looks for much longer. The postman had taken it upon himself to keep an eye on her whenever he came up this way. Seeing the light on, he followed it to its source and saw the scullery door ajar.

She had fallen off the bed holding the eiderdown and now lay on the cold floor clutching a photograph. One of those Eytie men who used to work in the ice-cream parlour, thought Postie, puzzled. He saw that poor Mrs Maudsley's face had darkened and her lips parted. Only her deep green eyes, wide open and unseeing, remained as iridescent as ever. Like a finch's wing, the postman thought sadly, much later after he had called the ambulance.

Outside in the corpse-free air he saw with relief that the autumn mist was clearing. He stared up at the big house where, for the first time in years, no smoke rose from the chimney, remembering the day, many decades before, when he had come here to play in a tennis match.

'Ah, yes,' he said later when recounting the story. 'The fellow was called Lucio.'

Kitty did not come to the funeral. She was abroad and had no forwarding address. Selwyn didn't come either because he was already dead. So it was left to Cecily to organise everything. It was the undoing of her teacher-training course. Afterwards she was unable to concentrate on anything and had to go to the continent. But first she had the funeral to organise. She did not visit the house. She did not inform any of the relatives in Ireland. She had had quite enough of them at the last funeral. She didn't tell anyone in the town either, although the postman found out afterwards. And she decided not to inform the church. So Agnes wasn't buried. She was cremated.

Cecily sat alone on a bench at the front of the altar at the chapel of rest. She sat with her eyes closed. Agnes with her eyes closed (presumably) lay in her coffin. Resting also. When asked by the undertaker what her preferences were, Cecily had asked if the hymn 'Breath of Heaven' could be played. They agreed, giving her a strange look.

The priest asked her if there were any others attending and she shook her head.

'They've gone on ahead,' she said, but she said it so softly that the priest didn't catch her words.

He felt a little sorry for this lovely girl but then he looked at his watch, and sorrow was replaced by pa.s.sing time.

'Let us begin,' he said, changing his voice and his gla.s.ses.

Cecily sat quietly. There was nothing more for her to do. The steel rollers on which Agnes' coffin rested made a tiny sound. Like a biker revving up a very small engine. They were getting ready to take Agnes through the door to eternity. Her green eyes were going with her. And her hair. And the hands that had combed Cecily's hair and sewed the dress that Rose had worn to the tennis dance. The same hands that had baked the cream heart-shaped sponge cakes for Cecily's birthdays, all thirteen of them, seven of which Cecily remembered quite clearly. They were about to take Agnes' lips, the ones that used to kiss Cecily goodnight. And the arms that had given her all the hugs of her life. Including the important one at the railway station when Cecily had gone on her Long Journey. And Agnes' voice saying, 'I don't care what you write. Just say if you are all right.'

That voice was going through the door marked eternity, too.

The canned music stopped and a man in a black suit came over and whispered to her that the next funeral was waiting to come in. When Cecily said nothing, he took her by the elbow and steered her out. It would seem the money for Agnes' funeral had run out.

Like a slot machine, or a candle lit inside a shrine running out. Finished. Over.

There was no one to talk to. The voices in Cecily's head refused to engage with the subject. In their view everything that had happened was (partly, at least) Agnes' fault.

Months later when she went back to Avery Hill to sit her first exam and saw the word 'discuss' written on the page, she wrote about Agnes' funeral. Her tutor called her into the office and told her to take a bit of time off.

'Give yourself some s.p.a.ce to grieve,' the tutor said.

How much time had the tutor in mind?

'As long as it takes.'

Cecily packed up her room. She returned her library books. Then she booked a ticket on Interrail Europe. She was a rich woman now. She owned a house and a small fortune. She didn't need Kitty any more. She thought she would revisit the land of Guilt. She knew she had a lifetime's visa.