All Things Undying

TWENTY-FOUR

‘Perhaps I should believe in a hereafter, in a consciousness that zips through the air like a Simpsons rerun, simply because it’s more appealing – more fun and more hopeful – than not believing. The debunkers are probably right, but they’re no fun to visit a graveyard with. What the hell. I believe in ghosts.’Mary Roach, Spook, Norton, 2005, p.295

After an overnight stay in the hospital, Alison was released to the care of her husband, daughter Kitty, and a competent therapist, all of whom encouraged her to take a long vacation with a drastic change of scene.

After her father’s funeral, of course.

Alison and Jon and been secretive about their trip, but we volunteered to drive them to the airport. From Heathrow, we’d head north to the outskirts of Cambridge, to the American Cemetery at Madingley. Cathy Yates would come along, too, although her arm was still cradled in a sling.

Just before leaving, we learned that Violet Johnson’s body had been positively identified from her ration book and identity card contained in the brown leather handbag that had been found with her body on Three Trees Farm. Violet had been claimed by a distant cousin living in Kent and would be buried there, next to her entire family, all of whom, it turned out, had perished in the war.

‘Was there anything else in her handbag?’ I wondered aloud.

Alison glanced at Jon, as if seeking his approval. When he nodded, she said, ‘There was a letter, addressed to my father, but apparently it never got delivered.’

‘You were right, Hannah,’ Jon said, continuing the story. ‘It was a Dear John. Violet was throwing Stephen over for a Navy pilot from Connecticut.’

‘How did she die?’ Cathy wondered from the back seat as we hurtled north up the M5.

‘Strangulation,’ Jon said, reaching for Alison’s hand. ‘Her hyoid bone had been crushed. Alison and I are still having a hard time coming to terms with the idea that her father was capable of such a violent act.’

Cathy tugged on her seatbelt, easing it out a few inches and arranging the strap more comfortably across her injured shoulder. ‘What I don’t understand is why your father agreed to sell the farm at all, Alison. He must have known it increased the risk of Violet’s body being discovered.’

Alison shivered, leaned closer to her husband who wrapped his arm around her, drawing her close.

‘That’s why he went AWOL from Coombe Hill,’ Jon explained.‘He needed to move the body. When the police searched the property, they found a little flatbed trailer behind the barn, hooked up to the tractor. There was a tarp in it, and a pickax and a shovel.’

I turned around to face our friends. ‘Your father wasn’t senile at all, was he, Alison?’

She shook her head sadly. ‘Nothing was wrong with Dad’s noodle, I know that now. He staged that whole “accident” for our benefit, simply to hide the damage sustained to his car when he drove it up the Embankment and mowed Susan down.’

‘So the people coming for a viewing were a lie just to get us there. The Fairy Liquid a bogus errand.’

‘Right. My father set us up – two perfect witnesses.’

‘Are you going to be OK, Alison?’ I asked.

‘In time. Yes, I think so.’ Alison smiled up at her husband. ‘Jon and I have had a long talk, and I think we can both lay the past to rest now.’

Jon caught Paul’s eye in the rearview mirror. ‘You were right, Ives. I was the luckiest man in the world the day this woman walked into my life.’

Alison rested her head on Jon’s shoulder, smiling modestly. ‘Did you tell them where we’re going?’

‘I thought you’d like to, Al.’

‘Well, Gretna Green being totally out of fashion, we’re going to…’ She paused for dramatic effect, like those irritating shows on the House and Garden channel: if we were to list this house today, we’d list it for… long pregnant pause, then cut to an ad.

‘Alison, you are going to make me rip off all my clothes and run around the countryside screaming and tearing out my hair!’

‘I’m surprised you can’t guess, as it was your suggestion.’

I drew a blank. ‘How about a hint?’

‘The Bahamas? Eleuthera? Something special on a pink sand beach?’

I sat up straight. ‘You’re getting married!’ I threw kisses through the air into the back seat.

For the first time in weeks, Alison actually laughed. ‘Jon suggested we elope to Las Vegas and be married by an Elvis impersonator. I quickly vetoed that.’

‘Oh my God, I almost wish you had. I would have paid anything to see the videos!’

Jon launched into the chorus of ‘Love Me Tender’, but was quickly subdued by Alison’s hand clamped firmly over his mouth. When he was free to speak again, he asked, ‘When do you and Paul go home, then?’

I answered for both of us. ‘The day after tomorrow.’

‘Safe travels,’ Jon said. ‘And come back again soon.’

Paul’s eyes cut to the rear-view mirror. ‘You mean we haven’t worn out our welcome?’

‘Never!’

The sun came out for our drive to Cambridge.

After a tour of the cemetery grounds, Paul and I stood inside the Memorial and watched through the Memorial Door as Cathy strolled alone along the reflecting pool, then crossed over to the Wall of the Missing, searching for her father’s name among more than five thousand other names, including Joseph P. Kennedy, Jr and band-leader Glenn Miller whose bodies also had never been found.

I was no medium, Lord knows, but the place seemed tranquil, with no restive spirits hovering about.

‘Do you think Cathy’s at peace?’ Paul asked, slipping his hand into mine.

‘No. I think she’ll be back, accompanied by a Congressional fact-finding team, and Nancy Pelosi will be carrying her bags.’

‘Poor Devon.’ He squeezed my hand.

‘Oh, they can handle it, Paul. They’ll stay at the Royal Castle, eat breakfast at Alf Resco’s, share a pint at the Cherub, keep the restaurants open past their closing time. They’ll collect a lot of facts, then go home and order their aides to churn out a two-thousand-page report that says exactly what Stephen Bailey said all along. No bodies washed ashore at Slapton Sands. No bodies remain in temporary graves in Devon.

‘Not even Violet Johnson’s.’

I turned to my husband and looked straight into his eyes. ‘It gives me the creeps to think about it, but, yes, thanks to Susan Parker, Violet’s voice was finally heard.’

Leaving Cathy to mourn in private, we wandered over to a relief map of the Normandy Landings, where each wave of men that sailed from Devon to Utah Beach stood out in bold relief. As I traced the lines with my fingers, I thought how it all came together – the evacuation, the disaster at Slapton Sands – and how years later, our lives would become entwined with those long dead, just like the intersecting lines on that map.

That night as we prepared for bed back at Horn Hill House, I opened the window and pulled back the curtains, closed my eyes and let the gentle evening breeze wash over me. Feeling sorry for myself because our visit was coming to an end, I had self-medicated with an overdose of wine. I’d do penance in the morning, for sure.

Paul handed me an aspirin and a glass of water, waited until I’d swallowed both down, then tucked me into bed beside him.

I dropped into a fitful sleep.

It was still dark when somebody called my name. ‘Hannah!’

I clawed my way up through a cotton-wool world, willing myself awake.

‘Hannah!’

After struggling for what seemed like eternity, I managed to open my eyes.

A figure stood at the end of the bed. I could see her plainly in the light spilling in from the street lamp outside our window. Susan Parker, dressed the way she had been on the day I first met her on Foss Street.

My heart flopped, began to flutter. Susan was dead. I had seen her body. I was dreaming, I had to be. But if so, how could I feel Paul lying next to me, hear him softly snoring, see the breeze actually lifting the curtains?

I tried to sit up, but I was paralysed. A great weight pressed down on my chest. Air, I needed air! My heart raced and I tried to call out – Susan! – but my vocal cords seemed to be paralysed, too.

Susan beamed. ‘Basingstoke,’ she said. ‘Does that mean anything to you, Hannah?’

Suddenly, my little finger was free. I nudged Paul’s thigh with it, trying to get his attention, calling his name. ‘Puh, Puh, Puh.’

From the foot of the bed, Susan began to sing, her purple forelock quivering over her brow. ‘“Abba dabba dabba dabba dabba dabba dabba said the monkey to the chimp. Abba dabba dabba dabba dabba dabba dabba said the chimpy to the monk.”’ She paused, cocked her head in the listening posture I knew so well. ‘Your mother tells me this song makes her smile.’

It made me smile, too. I hadn’t thought about it for years, but when I was a toddler, Mother had to sit in the chair next to my bed and sing ‘Abba Dabba Honeymoon’ three times through exactly before I would agree to go to sleep.

What’s the message? My brain screamed, but nothing came out of my mouth.

‘“Then the big baboon, one night in June, he married them and very soon…”’ Susan sang in a clear, high soprano.

The message! Tell me! Please!

Susan pressed her hands together, rocked back and forth on her toes. ‘Tell your father he should marry Cornelia. It’s been a long time, your mother says, and he deserves a little happiness.’

As I watched, working my pinky as hard as I could – ‘Puh, Puh, Puh’ – Susan Parker faded away, the last lines of the song – they went upon their abba dabba honeymoon – lingering in the air while I lay there like a rock, struggling to breathe.

‘Puh, puh, puh!’ After what seemed like hours, I felt my husband stir. His hand found my shoulder and jostled me. ‘Hannah, wake up. You’re having a bad dream.’

My body relaxed at his touch. I could move my fingers, my hand, my arm. ‘Paul…’ I was hot and cold all at the same time. Sweat beaded on my forehead.

Paul caressed my cheek. ‘Jeesh, Hannah, what’s wrong? Are you having a hot flash or something?’

I lay there in confusion, trying to sort it out. What had just happened? Visitation or dream? I shivered. Either way, Susan’s advice was sound, and I planned to share it with my father.

Grateful that I could move again, I got up and closed the window, rubbing my arms briskly for warmth. I scurried across the carpet and climbed back into bed, snuggling close as Paul wrapped his arms around me.

‘I just had the weirdest dream,’ I said, matching the curve of his body with my own.

‘Mmmmm.’ He nuzzled my neck.

‘Do you think the spirits can see us when we’re naked?’ I asked.

‘I suppose so.’

‘When we’re on the toilet?’

‘Sure.’

‘How about when we’re making love?’

Paul kissed my forehead, my nose and my lips, tickling them with his tongue in the way that drives me crazy. ‘Our last night in Dartmouth, Hannah.’

When I came up for air, I said, ‘But we’ll come back, won’t we? I just love it here.’

‘Of course. And we’ll stay at Horn Hill House, too.’

‘Paul?’ I asked as he began to nibble on my earlobe. ‘Do me a favor?’

‘What’s that?’ he mumbled

‘When we come back, let’s ask Janet for a different room.’