CHAPTER EIGHT
During the days prior to Alice Shepherd’s funeral, Anne saw little of Owen but a lot of Cathy and Lynette although Steve kept making excuses for not accompanying them to the shops, the beach, the pier…wherever.
“Steve likes his own company,” Cathy took pains to explain on each occasion. For once, though, she didn’t mind making excuses for him. She enjoyed spending quality time with her daughter and Anne Gates. She was, after all, practically a single mum. She owed it to Lynette to let the child know she was loved, even more so if she and Steve were to get divorced. As it was, she hadn’t felt so relaxed in ages, not least because she wasn’t constantly on tenterhooks waiting for Steve to explode over this or that, usually something trivial.
“Daddy’s gone to the bookies,” Lynette would invariably confide. She enjoyed being with Anne and especially liked it when Owen joined them, albeit briefly, for a milkshake here or an ice cream there. Owen was funny and made her laugh. She only wished Daddy would join them more often. They’d had such fun on the Devil’s Dyke, just the two of them. He’d bought her a bright red kite and it had flown so high, she was sure Grandma and Grandpa Taylor in heaven must have seen it. On the way home, she had let go of the string and watched it float away. Her father had been cross at first until she explained how it had been such a magical afternoon that it couldn’t possibly be repeated. “Not ever. So why keep the kite? Let Grandma and Grandpa Taylor have it,” she told her father. He had swept her up in a big hug and burst into tears. Grown-ups were a funny lot, and no mistake. She wasn’t absolutely sure she ever wanted to be one.
On the evening before the funeral, Anne remembered that she needed a hat. She hated hats, but it was a funeral after all. Recalling having seen just the thing in a charity shop, she scoured her memory for its location and arrived at the door just as a cheerful, dumpy soul wearing a blue rinse in thick wavy hair was reversing an ‘Open’ sign to ‘Closed’. She must have gazed at the sign in such despair that the woman behind the glass took pity on her, opened the door ajar and whispered, “Will you be long?”
“No, not long at all!” Anne assured her, “I know exactly what I want.”
“Oh, well, in that case…come in.” Before Anne could ask why they were whispering, she was being ushered inside the shop and the other woman was bolting the door. “We don’t want just anybody coming in, do we? I mean, we are closed, after all.”
Anne explained that all she wanted was the black hat in the window. “It’s for a funeral,” she added by way of easing her guilt for keeping the poor woman after closing time.
“Very suitable,” the dumpy woman agreed as soon as Anne tried it on and led her to a mirror to judge for herself.
“I used to have one just like it,” Anne remarked.
“Fancy that, so did I. Funny, isn’t it, how fashions come back in again? Was it a close friend?”
“Not really. You might even have known her. She’s lived in Brighton for years. Alice Shepherd? She lives with her son, Owen…or rather, she used to,” Anne hastily corrected herself. “Not that there’s any reason you should have known her of course,” she added, suddenly embarrassed. “Brighton is a big place, after all…”
“Oh, but I do. That is, I did.” It was the other woman’s turn to look flustered. “Oh, poor Alice, I had no idea. I knew she’d been ill but not that it was anything so serious. Oh, dear, how sad. And she was such a nice woman too.”
Anne stared with blank astonishment. Were they talking about the same woman, she wondered? “Did you know her well?”
“Not really. She would pop in for a chat now and then. Between you and me, I think she was glad of a little company other than that awful son of hers. I ask you…a grown man expecting his mother to pander to his every whim! It’s ridiculous. I used to think Alice made a rod for her own back by doting on him so but…” She hesitated.
“But…?” Anne prompted, intrigued by a perspective on the Shepherds that struck her as faintly ludicrous.
“That will be two pounds please and I’ll find you a bag.” The woman accepted a five pound note, rang up the till then dived under counter, reappearing seconds later with a used carrier bag. “This will do nicely. Oh and here’s your change.”
“You found Alice Shepherd agreeable?” Anne persisted.
“Oh, yes, she was a charming woman. Did you not find her so? I’ll miss our little chats. Sometimes we’d go to the café across the road and have lunch. I can’t quite believe she’s gone. Well, one can’t can one? I mean…well, death never seems quite real does it? One minute, someone’s here and the next they’re gone. But you never quite stop expecting to bump into them again do you? I dare say the son will miss her terribly. But, who knows, maybe he’ll grow up at long last now he has to start taking some responsibility for himself?”
“Owen is a decent enough sort.” Anne felt obliged to say something in her friend’s defence.
“Possessive though.” The other woman leaned over the counter and lowered her voice. “He came in here once. He’d left work early for some reason and came looking for her. Practically dragged her out of the shop, he did. Not so much as a word to me, if you please, but demanded to know what his poor mother thought she was doing and practically dragged her off like a sack of potatoes. Poor Alice, she was in a dreadful state. After that, I saw her in a different light, the son too. I don’t think she doted on him at all. If you ask me, I reckon she was afraid of him.”
Anne burst out laughing. The idea of anyone being afraid of Owen, let alone his dragon of a mother, was preposterous. Nor could she entertain the notion of Owen ‘dragging’ Alice anywhere. If anything, the reverse was more likely to be true. She began to feel acutely uncomfortable. “Appearances can be deceptive,” she said coolly then, “Thank you for your trouble, I do appreciate it. The funeral is tomorrow, you see.”
“A cremation, I dare say. Alice always wanted to be cremated…” The dumpy woman came round to the front of the counter and went to the door.
Knowing this to be true, Anne felt even more uncomfortable as she heard herself say, “Owen wants a burial. I think it’s his way of trying to keep her near him,” she added, unable to quite suppress a hint of disapproval.
“Huh!” the other woman retorted as she unlocked the door, “Isn’t that just typical of the man? He can’t have any conscience, that’s all I can say. No conscience at all if you ask me. I mean to say, the dead should be left to rest in peace. Poor Alice, that’s what I say. Such a nice woman, she deserved better. But then most us do, don’t we, deserve better I mean?” Anne merely thanked her again and left. “It was my pleasure. Do come again, won’t you? I hope all goes well tomorrow…”
But Anne was not listening. How the silly woman could be so mistaken was beyond comprehension. Alice Shepherd, such a nice woman? Similarly ludicrous, if not more so, was the woman’s portrayal of Owen as a possessive son and his mother afraid of him. She began to berate herself for not putting the dumpy woman straight. How dare she malign poor Owen so? She paused and considered returning to the shop. However, reflecting that the dumpy woman would probably have left by now, she continued walking. Suddenly, she felt weak at the knees and had to dive into a café, the need to sit down overwhelming. A cup of tea would help, it always did. Besides, she also needed to go to the toilet.
Alice Shepherd, such a nice woman? It just goes to show how wrong we can be about other people sometimes, Anne mused with growing consternation.
The starched white tablecloth leapt out at her in stark contradiction as the dumpy woman’s words and irritatingly cheerful tone rang in her ears, refusing to be silenced even when, finally, a waitress brought her tea in a mug. Anne frowned. She hated mugs and much referred a cup. The tablecloth had suggested a cup. She felt deceived.
The tea was too strong but she did not call for extra milk. She hadn’t the energy. All at once she felt…weary. Yes, weary, that’s how I feel, she reflected, close to tears. Why was it, she couldn’t help asking herself, this year’s visit was proving so much more wearisome than any other? It was true that, in spite of providing a comfort of sorts, her annual trips were always stressful. Yet, never had she felt quite so stressed out or…so weary.
It was an effort to lift the mug. Her whole body felt leaden. An image came to her unbidden and unexpected, of Virginia Woolf, pockets filled with stones, walking out into a fast-flowing stream. Anne shivered. In spite of everything, suicide was something she had never considered. Nor would I ever…would I? But she chose to take sips of tea while screwing up her face at the sun’s impassive glare rather than answer the question. It’s far too hot, she thought crossly, for the time of day.
Later, she made her way, without consciously doing so, to what she and Owen had referred to for years as ‘our’ shelter. A young mother with a child in a pushchair smiled. Anne smiled back. The child, a boy with angelic looks, began to howl. The mother promptly stuck a dummy in his mouth. Flinging a despairing look at Anne, she heaved herself up, as if she were years older, and proceeded to wheel her fretful angel away.
Patricia, Anne recalled vividly, had always been such a happy child…
“Hello. May I join you?” Kirk Spencer’s voice broke into her subsequent reverie and made Anne jump.
“Oh, it’s you. Hello again. Yes, of course, please do.”
“Charley’s at the hairdressers,” said Spence brightly and sat down, “She likes the whole lot, you know. Hair, nails, eyebrows, facial...You name it and she’ll be up for it. Chocolate biscuits and a cappuccino or two as well, you can bet on it. Why don’t men ever get spoilt like that? Whenever I get a haircut, it’s a quick shave-shave, snip-snip, and Bob’s your uncle. Charley says I should go to a stylist. To be honest, I can’t be bothered. What do you think? Does my hair look okay?”
Anne let her eyes wander approvingly over the handsome face under an unruly mop of black hair and wondered, as she suspected had many others, what on earth he saw in Charley Briggs? Oh, she liked Charley well enough. But this handsome young man could take his pick of the prettiest girls. “I like you just as you are,” she said. He beamed like a child who has been praised and it was all she could do to resist giving him a big hug.
“I say, you don’t mind do you, about Charley and me coming to the funeral tomorrow. I hate funerals. But Charley’s got her heart set on it, I can’t think why. The woman was a bit of a tartar, right? Besides, Charley only met her once or twice, and that was twenty odd years ago. Suddenly, she has a ‘thing’ about your friend Owen and needs to show her face. Naturally, it means going to the hairdressers. Can’t be seen looking anything but our best at a funeral, can we? Honestly, sometimes, I just don’t understand women at all.”
Anne pricked up her ears. “What do you mean she has a ‘thing’ about Owen?”
“Don’t ask me, your guess is as good as mine,” Spence retorted, a dazzling smile still in place, “She remembers him from all those years ago and that bothers her. It’s just too silly for words if you ask me. Why get your knickers in a twist over some trick of memory? Mind you, that’s Charley for you, the original drama queen.”
“I don’t understand…”
“You and me both…”
“Are you suggesting that Charley has been affected somehow by seeing Owen again?”
“That about sums it up,” Spence agreed, “Mind you, she does enjoy an occasion does Charley. Weddings, funerals, any excuse to dress up and take over.” He paused and tossed Anne a boyish grin. “She loves to take over, my Charley. Doesn’t she just? You wait and see. She’ll take charge of everything and everyone tomorrow, including your friend Owen. Everyone will be thinking it’s her nearest and dearest we’re burying.”
“I doubt if there will be many people there,” said Anne tersely. At the same time she found herself wondering whether the dumpy woman from the charity shop would turn up. Did other people, she went on to reflect with mild astonishment, see Alice Shepherd in a favourable light? Apart from Owen, she had never heard anyone speak well of the woman. Her own relationship with Alice had been one of mutual toleration out of consideration for Owen.
Not for the first time, it struck Anne as odd that Alice should have expressed so earnest a wish to see her again…and who was Fern?
“I hate funerals,” Spence repeated, “But needs must as the devil drives. I can’t let Charley down. Oh, she’d go on her own and pretend she didn’t care. But she would. She does, you know…care a lot, I mean. She’s a very caring person. She cares about me an awful lot, I know. I adore her, I really do. People think she’s into toy boys and I’m after her money. Well, it’s not true. We’re good together, Charley and me…”
Anne was only half listening.
“Besides, Charley isn’t rich. Oh, she’s comfortably off but not rich. A bit vulgar sometimes perhaps but her heart’s always been in the right place…”
Anne had made up her mind. Once the funeral was over, she would ask Owen again about Fern. Her thoughts turned to Cathy Taylor and Lynette. It was all very well for Cathy to insist she looked nothing like her daughter at that age, but Anne was not convinced. I must be realistic, she kept telling herself. Cathy may not be Patricia. Indeed,” she reasoned, “it’s very unlikely. Miracles don’t happen in the twenty-first century. Even so…”
“People don’t see Charley as I see her,” Spence was saying, “They only see a fat woman with a loud voice. So what? She’s fair-minded, generous to a fault and one of the kindest people I’ve ever known. Mind you, I don’t think she’s being fair to your friend Owen. He may be a cold fish but that’s no reason to…” his voice trailed off into a hubbub of seaside chatter and seagulls shrieking.
“No reason to what?” Anne pricked up her ears.
“It’s nothing really. Only that…well… there’s just no telling with Charley once she gets a bee in her bonnet.”
“Owen isn’t a cold fish,” Anne snapped. “True, he’s not a very demonstrative man but that’s only because he’s a very shy, private person. Just because he always likes to wear a tie doesn’t make him…cold. He’s a very kind man, a dear friend and I won’t have a word said against him,” she added. All the time, the dumpy woman from the charity shop was whispering in one ear and contradicting her. “He may not be at his best right now,” Anne was adamant in Owen’s defence, “but what else do you expect? The poor man has just lost his mother, for heaven’s sake. You were complaining only a minute ago how people jump to unfair conclusions about Charley. Try practising what you preach, young man.”
“Touché,” Spence flashed a broad grin. In spite of Anne’s growing irritation with the man, there was nothing forced about her return smile.
“Can I see you back to the hotel? I’m going that way. If we’re not careful, we’ll miss dinner and I’m starving!” He rose and offered her his arm. Anne relented and gladly accepted.
Back at The Orion, Mel Harvey had been called to the front bar to deal with a customer who, according to Barry, the head barman, was making a bloody nuisance of himself. Leaving Joe to manage the evening staff, she went to investigate. Barry was engaged in a loud dispute with a customer. The latter was demanding another double whiskey, the former insisting he’d already had too much to drink and, besides, the bar was meant to be for the use of guests. “You shouldn’t be drinking in here on your own, anyway,” the young Scot was saying, “Visitors are supposed to be accompanied by a guest.”
“No one has complained for the past two hours!”
“I dare say they didn’t realize. But I’m telling you now. You’ve had too much to drink and I won’t serve you…unless you’d like me to make you a strong coffee, that is?”
“Fuck your coffee and fuck you,” the man fumed.
“That’s enough!” declared Mel. “I’ll not have that kind of language or this kind of behaviour in my hotel. Kindly leave, now. Or do I have to call the police?”
The man, who had his back to her, swung round angrily. Mel gave a start, recognizing Steve Taylor instantly. “Mister Taylor, isn’t it? I seem to recall you and your wife and daughter dined here the other evening with one of our guests, Anne Gates?”
“I want a drink!” Taylor snarled.
“Yes, well, in the circumstances I won’t call the police. But it’s as a favour to Anne, not because I am in the least bit intimidated by a drunken lout like you. Now, you can come with me and sit quietly in the lounge while I fetch you some strong, black coffee or I’ll have Barry throw you out by the scruff of your neck? Which is it to be?”
“I want a drink!” Taylor shouted at her. Mel signalled Barry with a nod. The burly Scot came behind the bar. “Okay, okay, you win,” Taylor capitulated on the spot, “But first I need the loo.”
“Be my guest. I’ll wait for you.” To the barman Mel said, “Serve that gentleman, Barry,” indicating an elderly ex-army type at the other end of the bar, “and I will see to some coffee for our friend myself.”
“Speak for yourself,” retorted the young Scot, “He’s no friend of mine. If you ask me…”
Mel put up a hand. “But I didn’t ask you, Barry, so just serve Major Harper will you please? Now, if you don’t mind, not next week.”
The Scot did as he was told, muttering under his breath but cheered up when the major proceeded to commiserate with his lot.
Steve Taylor reappeared.
“Go into the lounge and I’ll bring the coffee,” Mel told him in a voice that brooked no argument. “Ah, Anne, thank goodness!” catching sight of her friend entering the lobby and wondering what on earth she was doing in the company of Kirk Spencer of all people. “Another coffee, I think. Oh, no, Anne prefers tea. Never mind, all in good time. Now, Mr Taylor, go and sit down before you fall down. Yes, Anne has seen us. No, I’m sure she’s not actually ‘with’ that young man…”
Anne had, indeed, spotted Mel and an obviously drunken Steve Taylor emerging from the bar and heading towards her. “Give him a hand, will you, before he falls down?” she asked Spence, who gladly obliged. Soon, all three were sitting in a discreet corner.
“I’ll bring some coffee. I dare say you’ll prefer tea Anne?” Mel said in a rush and was the other side of the lobby before Anne could tell her that, actually, she would prefer coffee.
“Would you like me to stay?” Spence offered but sensed he would be intruding and was not in the least offended when Anne, dismissively, shook her head. For her part, she continued to contemplate Steve Taylor with disgust at his condition and growing apprehension as to what might be his motive for seeking her out.
“I’ll see you later then,” Spence murmured and proceeded to make his way into the restaurant. Looking around in vain for Charley, he hoped she would not be long joining him. He so hated eating alone, especially in hotels.
Anne and Taylor sat in strained silence. Mel reappeared with a tray and deposited it on a low table in front of them before dashing off to answer to a distress call from Reception.
“So,” Anne tried to sound nonchalant, “what can I do for you Steve?”
Steve Taylor glowered, opened his mouth to speak then changed his mind and took a sip of coffee instead. “Jesus, it’s hot!” he swore.
To be continued. on Friday.
