‘She cracked a sort of joke about how her husband – you – had just had the car cleaned.’
Polly makes a noise at this point: part laugh, part sob. Charlotte Black pushes the box of tissues across the table, reaches out to catch hold of Polly’s fingers. Her cuff winks in the light.
‘She thanked me for keeping her company. I remember thinking, what a dignified sort of person she seemed.’ As a matter of fact, this thought had crossed my mind only subsequently, reading over my statement with O’Driscoll, butit’s the sort of thing I imagine they’d like to hear –
need
to hear, really.
Polly’s really crying now, into a handful of Kleenex. Edward is very still. I leave a little pause, just a tiny beat, and then, because it’s irresistible, I say, ‘And of course, when I told her I could see the ambulance coming, she said, “Tell them I love them.” ’
As I speak, I feel Wiggins shifting slightly beside me.
This wasn’t in the statement
.
‘Just that,’ I say. ‘ “Tell them I love them.” It was the last thing she said to me.’
I look up, into Laurence’s face, the eye of the storm, and I see him exhale, and as that breath leaves him, his energy seems to leach away with it. He looks more like an old man now, weak and tired, hollow with exhaustion. When he lifts his glass to his lips, his hand is trembling. Charlotte Black presses knuckles to her eyes. I get the feeling she’s startled and embarrassed by her reaction. Edward is staring at the table. The only sound is Polly, weeping.
‘There’s really nothing else I can tell you,’ I say. ‘I’m sorry, it doesn’t seem very much.’
‘Well,’ says Laurence finally. ‘I have no questions. You’ve been very kind, Frances. Very sensitive. Thank you for that, as well as …’ His voice trails off. Then he looks around, remembering himself, consulting his children, clearing his throat. ‘Does anyone else want to ask anything?’
The room stays quiet.
‘I really wish I could have done more,’ I say. Then I have another sip of wine. It’s an intensely dark red which briefly stains the glass when you tilt it. Were I more knowledgeable, perhaps it would taste like the wines I read about in novels and restaurant reviews, which always seem to taste of plums and cherries and cinnamon. I’d quite like to finish it, but this might seem inappropriate, greedy, so I push the glass awaywith a tiny sigh. Kate Wiggins gives me a discreet nod and starts to ease her chair back from the table. I am being dismissed.
‘I should be on my way,’ I say. ‘But if you have any more questions, if I can do anything …’
‘Won’t you finish your glass? Stay for some supper?’ says Polly, her fists full of damp tissues – she has managed to collect herself at last – but I can tell the rest of the family is surprised and slightly disconcerted by her offer. I shake my head and stand up. Charlotte Black says she will see me out and, after a pause, Kate Wiggins gives me a smile of thanks, and then I’m saying goodbye to them all, one by one. When I come to Polly I put my hand on her sleeve and apply just a little pressure and I make sure our eyes meet while I say, ‘Take care, won’t you?’ and then I follow Charlotte back up the stairs.
‘What wonderful flowers,’ I say, as we walk down the corridor, back towards the front door.
‘They keep coming – even this long after the funeral,’ Charlotte says. ‘People are so incredibly kind, but it’s almost too much, there are no more vases, we’ve had to put them in ice buckets, and all the sinks are full of them. Alys loved flowers. You know about her garden at Biddenbrooke? Oh, it’s quite famous. You should see it in June. All white flowers, of course.’
She watches me while I put on my jacket and scarf. ‘Wait a minute,’ she says. Then she goes into one of the rooms and when she comes back out, she has a big hand-tied bouquet in her arms: creamy roses and ranunculus trussed up in