Skeleton-in-Waiting Read Online Free PDF Page A

and finding ways of living together, as well as setting up house and having a baby, had been a mind-absorbing process, as inevitable as time seems to the time-bound. But now Granny, was drifting away to somewhere outside time, and seemed for a moment to be sucking Louise in her wake, enabling her not only to look at her memories but also at the possible lifetimes ahead, and feel the same strangeness in them all. She couldn’t find words for the feeling. It didn’t have much to do with love—love just made it all harder to think about. If Piers had been at her side she would have felt for his hand and he would have squeezed hers without seeming to notice what he was doing, but afterwards he would have asked “What was that about?” and she would have said “Oh nothing.” When she slid back into time she felt widowed.
    She shook herself. A boy was singing solo in those bloodless, floating tones which always gave Louise the illusion that if only she could dissolve one flimsy barrier between her ear and her mind she might be able to grasp why people made such a fuss about music.
    â€œâ€¦ is not at our last hour for any pains of death to fall from Thee.”
    Father stepped forward. Somebody offered him an urn from which he took a handful of dry earth.
    â€œFor as much as it hath pleased Almighty God,” twanged the Dean, “of His great mercy to take unto Himself the soul of our dear sister here departed …”
    Father tossed the earth down. It rattled like rain among the wreaths that covered the vanishing coffin. The Dean prolonged his last twang into a dying whine. The Family turned, processed back and peeled off to their places. Piers, unprompted, felt for Louise’s hand and squeezed it.
    The Princess of Wales—Sophia on her birth certificate, Sophie to the hacks, Soppy to anyone who knew her well—was standing by a window that looked out over the Home Park. The view was silver and brown and gold, pale clouds reflected from the ponds, withering grass-stems littered with yellow leaf-fall, all hues muted still further by the remains of mist, as though seen on TV with the colour-control down. Two of the best trees had fallen in the famous gale, their prone trunks adding to the melancholy. It was all very pallid, peaceful, English, nothing like Granny. Soppy as usual had been first to the tables and her plate had an Alp of food on it.
    â€œHow’s life?” said Louise.
    â€œSacked my Bridget yesterday.”
    â€œOh, why? I thought she was terrific.”
    â€œGot on my nerves. Don’t talk to Bertie about it. He’s far from chuffed. Still like that wench of yours?”
    â€œJanine? I was thinking, oh, the morning after Granny died, how super she was. I keep finding her up and there when it’s not even her night on. Luckily Davy’s just beginning to sleep through, touch wood.”
    â€œMercy when that happens. Watching anyone else feed makes my tummy rumble. My two must’ve got conditioned to the idea of distant thunder with their meals—won’t be able to digest without it. Tried keeping a few snacks my side of the bed, but Bertie complained about the crumbs.”
    â€œI was thinking how tidied-up you’re getting him.”
    â€œNot me, darling. People change. Closer you think you are to them, less you notice. Then all of a sudden you’ve got someone else.”
    Soppy popped a whole canapé into her neat round mouth and chewed double-speed, wrinkling her nose as she did so. She had an unusually small head with sharp little features and slightly pop eyes. Her body was long but neat, unaffected by her astounding appetite. She was said to be the best woman polo-player in Europe. Louise liked her, but she was not very popular with the Palace because of her tendency to say things they hadn’t scripted.
    â€œPiers says we aren’t just one person like that, really,” said