Burial

18

On Friday Nathan ordered flowers. He gave the florist his credit card details and told them price was not a problem -- he wanted the flowers to be beautiful but not ostentatious. They must look, he said, exactly as if he'd spent a great deal of time discussing them with a florist. He picked them up on Saturday morning.

The shop was weirdly humid. The pale sunlight filtered through a glass ceiling and deep green foliage. The flagstones were damp beneath his feet.

The florists were a rotund Japanese woman and a lithe Scot with a coppery crewcut. They were excited to greet him and (having discussed him over coffee that morning -- their best customer of the week) fussed around him like manservants. They told him what each of the flowers were, their significance, and why they had been chosen.

They wrapped the bouquet in cellophane and brown paper and ribbon and handed it to him with no small degree of ceremony.

He left the shop carrying the flowers like a vast offering. He was aware of people looking at him, bundled up in a long coat, carrying such a big bunch of flowers. He knew what they were thinking and enjoyed the fact they were right. Eventually, he found the courage to return some of the glances, smiling complicity with a couple of pensioners in powder-blue macs and sensible shoes.

He lay the bouquet on the back seat of his car, which still smelled faintly chemical from the valeting. He turned on the radio and spread a map book on his lap. Gradually, the car filled with the thick scent of flowers.

He was distracted as he drove out of town.

Eventually, something caught his attention. He looked up to see he was driving past a field of forlorn cattle. He saw the name of the town, Sutton Down, written on a road sign.

He took a road through the forest where Elise Fox lay face down.

He looked for the entrance to the dark unnamed lane, but didn't see it.

After passing the forest, he pulled over to the grassy side of the road until his heart had slowed. He wanted a drink and he wanted a cigarette. But he also wanted to smell clean. He wanted to look like he had stepped out of the shower, bright and handsome and confident.

He

didn't recognize Sutton Down. The night he'd passed through, it had been indistinct shapes in the night. Now he saw that it centred on a long, oval village green. There was an ancient, low-ceilinged pub with a pagan sign.

He identified the correct house on the third circuit of the village green: it was three or four hundred years old, set back behind some twisted apple trees preparing to blossom. He parked the car by the grassy verge. He pulled his coat from the back seat, and put it on. It was speckled with dark spots where moisture had dripped from the bouquet he'd rested on it. There was a golden smear of pollen across the chest.

He hoiked the flowers gently under his arm and remote-locked the car with a wrist-flicking flourish, an over-compensation in case an onlooker should perceive his nervousness.

On the drive, an old, racing green MG was parked alongside a white Peugeot 205 gone rusty round the wheel rims. The door to the house was framed with ivy. Nathan stood on the stone doorstep. He was almost giggling with anxiety.

He rang the doorbell.

After a long minute, he heard some obscure shuffling in the hallway.

Panic rose in him and he considered squatting down behind the Peugeot, to hide. But he couldn't imagine how he might explain himself, should he be seen. So he stayed where he was.

It wasn't Holly who answered the door; it was her father, a neat, narrow-shouldered man who wore pressed indigo jeans and a pastel shirt.

He said, 'Yes?'

'Mr Fox?'

'Yes?'

'I'm Nathan. A friend of Holly's.'

Holly's father eyed the flowers. Nathan almost presented them to him.

'I'm afraid Holly's not home.'

He had a clipped, old-fashioned diction that made Nathan think of war films, but it was not unkind.

I see.

'Have you come a long way?'

'Not far. Only from town.'

'Well, listen. She shouldn't be gone too long, she's just running an errand for her mother. Why don't you come in and wait?'

'I don't want to be any trouble.'

'No trouble at all. Glad of the company. There's scones if you like them.'

'That would be lovely,' said Nathan, who did not like scones.

'Come in, then.' Holly's father stepped aside and Nathan stepped over the threshold.

'I'm Graham. Holly's dad.'

Nathan shook his hand. It was slim and dry and strong.

'Nathan,' said Nathan.

'We thought you might be the press, you see. They still turn up on the doorstep every now and again.'

The house smelled of potpourri and old leather and perhaps the tinge of old cigars. Nathan followed Graham into the kitchen. A long, bright room, it dog-legged into a glass conservatory that overlooked the garden and a small orchard. All of it was wet and brown and black, the colours of English spring. Apparently dead, but waiting to grow.

There was a woman in the kitchen. She was a bit younger than Graham: dark hair, sensibly cut. Slacks and court shoes. Widening through the hips. She was doing something to a flower beneath the running tap water. At Nathan's entrance, she turned off the tap and dried her hands on a York Minster tea cloth.

'June, darling,' said Graham. 'This is Nathan.'

She set down the tea cloth and looked at the flowers. She said, 'Aren't those just lovely? Shall I put them in water?'

Nathan was relieved to be unburdened of them.

June smiled. It was surprising and strangely moving.

'Just until Holly gets back,' she said, and practically winked.

In a series of dazzlingly quick and efficient movements, she'd opened the top drawer, removed a pair of secateurs, and begun to snip at the wet, green stems.

Graham passed by with kettle in hand. June shifted to one side to accommodate him as he filled it with water.

Nathan couldn't believe what he'd done to these people.

He followed June to the conservatory. They sat round a coffee table, upon which was spread the previous week's Sunday Telegraph. Nathan hitched his trousers as he sat, as if June were about to interview him.

A fragile rattling behind them was Graham, following them through with a pot of tea on a tray. He laid it out on the coffee table, with cups and saucers and spoons, a bowl for sugar and a little jug for the milk.

Graham too hitched his trousers as he sat. Then he leaned forward, took the lid from the teapot, gave it a stir.

'Let's give it five minutes.'

June offered Nathan a plate on which were arranged some shortcake fingers. Nathan took one, unhungry but glad of the distraction.

He used a cupped hand for a plate until June passed him a saucer.

June said, 'She shouldn't be long. She's getting Hetty seen to.'

'Hetty?'

'Our daughter's cat.'

He knew which daughter they meant.

Not Holly.

He said, 'Oh.'

Sorrow descended on them like weather. Then Graham made a visible effort to brighten. Nathan wondered how many times a day such an effort was necessary.

'So,' said Graham, 'how do you know Holly?'

'Well.' Nathan's salesman's smile felt stretched and taut, insincere as an evangelist. 'I suppose you could say we met at work.'

June raised an enquiring eyebrow.

'I was looking to buy a house. We met that way.'

'Ah.'

Another silence fell; it was not strained but there was sadness in it.

Nathan felt trapped by the weight of it.

He said, 'We went for a drink, a couple of weeks back.'

June raised that eyebrow again. Graham poured tea into a china cup, then added a dash of milk.

'It didn't go so well,' said Nathan. 'To tell you the absolute truth.'

'The thing is,' said Graham, 'I'm afraid that Holly's had rather a difficult time of it, lately.'

Nathan looked at his lap, brushing at a pollen stain, saying, 'I know. Well, I know something about it. I mean, Holly mentioned it.'

"I see.

They sipped tea.

Nathan said, 'I'm afraid I don't know what to say.'

'That's very kind. But you're really not expected to say anything.'

Nathan nodded. He could feel Elise in the room with them.

Staring at him. Dirt in her hair and nostrils.

A gust of wind blew through the small orchard that backed on to the garden.

Nathan said, 'You have a lovely place.'

'It belonged to my father,' said Graham.

June said, 'We didn't want to bring the girls up in the city.'

Nathan nodded.

June said, 'Holly has taken on a great deal over the last few years.

But we don't want her to be scared of life.' She glanced meaningfully at the flowers, glorious in a crystal vase.

Nathan nodded that he understood. He drained his cup.

Immediately, as in a Japanese tea ceremony, Graham refilled it.

'So we're glad you came,' said June. 'Because we think she deserves a little happiness. A little bit of fun.'

Later, he assumed the old, stone walls must have muffled the sound of the car in the drive - because when Holly's key went in the lock he was taken by surprise. In his shock, he went automatically to stand and nearly spilled the fresh cup of tea. Mortified, he looked to June. But June was waving him towards the flowers, hurrying him along.

From the hallway, Holly called out: 'Whose car's that at the end of the drive?'

Graham made a happy, complicit face and called out: 'Tea, darling?'

'Gasping.'

Nathan

heard a rigmarole-as she set something down, then removed and hung up her coat.

He stood there with the dripping wet flowers in his fist.

Holly walked into the kitchen. She wore no make-up and had pulled her hair into a hasty ponytail. She was flushed with cold. She wore a cable-knit sweater, old blue jeans and big, grey hiking socks.

In her hand she carried a cat box.

She looked at Nathan as if unable, for the moment, to place him.

Then she said, 'Oh.'

Nathan smiled and handed her the flowers.

'To say sorry.'

She was still holding the cat box.

'Sorry for what?'

'Making a mess of things.'

'You didn't.'

'Okay. Then I'm sorry it didn't work out the way I'd hoped.'

'That's not your fault either.'

'It doesn't stop me being sorry.'

'How did you find out where I live?'

Nathan had made no provision for this.

'No, really,' she said, 'how did you find out where I live?'

'I looked you up. In the phone book.'

'We're not in the phone book.'

'An old one. I've got all these old phone books. Well, they're not mine. They're in the flat. In a cupboard. With the meters.'

'And how did you know which village to look for?'

'You mentioned.'

'I don't remember that. Usually I make a point of not mentioning.'

He

shrugged, as if he was sorry. 'You mentioned.'

Her look of flinty wariness softened. She glanced over his shoulder, at her parents who stood there bursting with hope. She put her weight on one hip.

'Whatever. It was pretty resourceful.'

'What can I say?'

'Not to mention determined.'

June stepped between Nathan and Holly, taking the flowers from him and saying, 'Holly, why don't you show Nathan the garden?'

Holly regarded him with an equivocal expression.

'Wait there.'

He did. She came back wearing a pair of green Wellington boots and carrying a second pair, which she passed to Nathan, saying, 'It's pretty wet out there.'

So he found himself sitting on the floor of the Foxs' kitchen, shoeless, tugging on a pair of Wellingtons that were half a size too small.

He stood, and Holly passed his coat.

He followed her into the garden. June made herself busy at the sink. Periodically, he could feel her eyes sweep across them like the beam of a lighthouse.

Holly wore a Barbour jacket, Graham's he supposed, and a scarf that looked wiry and uncomfortable. She dug her hands deep into its pockets. It was bright and wet: the sun low on the horizon. He could hear their footfalls and their breath. Long grass, heavy with water, brushed at his legs. He heard distant cows, the harsh barking of crows.

They stopped at the teetering, half-rotten picket fence at the edge of the orchard. Holly sat down on a stile, knees pressed together, elbows on knees, chin cupped in her hands. She stared without seeing in the direction of the house. Nathan stared into the scratchy, leafless complexity of the orchard.

She said, 'I can't believe you did that.'

'Did what?'

'Came to meet my parents'

'They're lovely. They made me tea.'

She removed the band from her ponytail. Her hair fell around her face. She twisted the band round her wrist. Strands of red hair were caught in it, picking up the sunlight.

'Don't be completely fooled. Dad can be fearsome, when he wants to be. He used to be in the navy.'

'He didn't seem all that fearsome to me.'

'He must have liked the look of you.'

Nathan turned away to lean on the fence.

Holly was still looking at the house, quizzically, like someone trying to remember a dream.

She said, 'It was a lovely thing to do. In a slightly scary way.'

There was a bird in the tree. He didn't know what kind. A starling perhaps. It watched him with a still, reptilian eye.

'I don't know about that,' he said.

'Liar,' she said.

Later, they wandered back to the house. They kept their hands firmly in their pockets and their heads down. They hadn't spoken much.

In the kitchen, they kicked off their boots, left them on the mat, then removed their jackets and, in wet socks and muddy trousers, tramped down the hallway to hang them up.

They sat down to lunch with Graham and June: parsnip soup, then cold ham and oven chips with salad. Holly's parents asked a number of questions, mostly about Nathan's career. Nathan wanted Graham and June to like him, and he wanted Holly to see them liking him. So he found himself emphasizing his achievements including those achievements which, even to his ears, sounded faintly absurd.

During lunch, Holly said little. But she looked at him sometimes.

Later, while she read the newspaper, Nathan helped June rinse the plates and load the dishwasher.

With the business section of the paper folded under his arm, Graham excused himself and went upstairs for his weekend nap. On his way, he once again offered Nathan his hand.

'Very nice to meet you.'

'And you.'

When the dishwasher was loaded and in its cycle, Nathan checked his watch and said he must be leaving. He retrieved his shoes and jacket.

Saying goodbye, June offered her cheek. When he kissed her, she squeezed his hand once.

It was left to Holly to see him off. Still in her hiking socks, arms crossed over her breasts, head down, she accompanied him down the hallway and on to the drive. As he looked for his keys, she rocked back and forth on her heels.

'I don't even know you.'

He leaned on the low roof of his car. 'This is weird for me too. Do you think I do this kind of thing all the time?'

'I don't know.'

'Well, I don't. Trust me.'

She met his eyes. Something bright and angry in her gaze.

'We'll see.'

He laughed, although she was not joking, and he got into his clean car and started the engine and pulled away, leaving her standing there, diminishing, her arms crossed and her thick, grey socks soaked by the wet grass.

He took the long way home, circumventing the forest.

When he got home, he realized what had bothered him about the house. On the wall were hung several paintings: reproductions, some watercolours. On the bookshelves were arranged brass and china knick-knacks.

But there were no photographs.