Guilty One

7

Daniel pushed his shoulder blades back into the driver’s seat as he drove up the M6. He drove with the window down and his elbow out. The noise of the wind almost drowned out the radio, but he needed the air. Driving north, he felt an almost magnetic pull. He had not planned to go up for the funeral but had spent a restless weekend, his mind tormented alternately by thoughts of Sebastian and Minnie. He had woken up with a headache at six o’clock in the morning, showered, dressed and got straight into the car. He had been on the road for nearly four hours, driving in a mindless way, looking forward and remembering, letting his foot fall heavy on the accelerator.

He imagined arriving in Brampton and being slowed by the unrepentant green, the smell of manure threading the air. He imagined pulling up at her house and listening to the barks of her latest pound-dog. It would come running towards him: a boxer, or a mongrel, or a collie. Whatever trauma the dog had experienced, it would still stop in its tracks and heed her when she called for it to stop barking. She would tell the dog that Daniel was family and there was no need for the racket.

Family. The kitchen floor would be unwashed and the putty around the windows would be pecked by the chickens. She would be half drunk and offer him one and he would accept and they would drink gin in the afternoon, until she cried at the sight of him, and wept for his loss. She would kiss him with her lemon lips and tell him that she loved him. Loved him. What would he feel? So long since he had been close to her and yet the smell of her would be familiar. Even though he was angry enough to hit her, the smell of her would bring him comfort and he would sit down with her in the living room. He would enjoy her company and watching the way her face flushed when she spoke. He would feel relief to be near her, listening to her lilting Irish voice. It would be baptismal and deliverance would flood him, soak him like the northern rain, and leave him clean before her and ready to accept all that he had done, and all that she had done. He would forgive them both.

He pulled into the service area.

I’ll never forgive you, he had screamed at her once, so long ago.

I’ve never been able to forgive myself, lad. How could I expect you to, she had said, later, years later, over the phone – trying to make him understand. She had called often after he moved down to London, less as the years went by, as if she had lost hope that he could forgive her.

I only wanted to protect you, she would try to explain. But he would never hear of it. He had never allowed her to explain, no matter how hard she tried. Some things could never be forgiven.

Daniel bought a coffee and stretched his legs. He was only twenty miles from Brampton now. The air was cooler and he thought he could already smell the farms. He set his coffee cup on the roof of his car and put his hands into his pockets, pushing his shoulders up to his ears. His eyes were hot from the effort of concentrating on the road. It was nearly lunchtime and the coffee was like mercury in his stomach. He had driven halfway up the country and now that seemed inexplicable. If he had not come so far already, he would have turned back.

He drove the last twenty miles slowly, keeping to the inside lane, listening to the friction of the air against his open window. At the Rosehill roundabout he took the third exit, wincing at the turning signposted Hexham, Newcastle.

After the trout farm he saw Brampton ahead of him, set among the tilled fields like a crude gem. A kestrel hovered by the side of the road and then disappeared from view. The warm smell of manure came as he had expected and was instantly calming. After London, the air tasted so fresh. The red-brick council houses and neat gardens seemed smaller than he remembered. The town felt primitive and quiet as Daniel checked his speed and drove right through it to the farm he had grown up in, high on the Carlisle Road.

He parked outside Minnie’s farm and sat for a few minutes, his hands on the wheel, listening to the sound of his breath. He might have driven away again, but instead he got out of the car.

He walked very slowly towards Minnie’s door. His fingers were trembling and his throat was dry. There was no mongrel barking, no hoarse cockerel or clucking chickens. The farm was locked, although Daniel thought he could still see the impressions of her man-boots in the yard. He looked up at the window which had been his bedroom. His hands made fists in his pockets.

He walked around the back of the house. The chicken run was still there, but empty. The door of the shed swayed in the wind, scant white feathers clinging to the mesh. There was no goat, but Daniel could see the impressions of hooves in the mud. Could it be that the old goats had outlived her? Daniel sighed as he thought of the animals leaving her and being replaced, like the foster children she had raised and then let go, time and again.

Daniel pulled out his house keys. Alongside the key to his London flat, he still had Minnie’s house key. The same brass Yale that she had given him when he was a boy.

The house smelled damp and quiet when he opened the door. From its depths, the cold reached out to him like elderly hands. He slipped inside, pulling the sleeves of his jumper over his hands to warm them. The house still smelled of her. Daniel stood in the kitchen, letting his fingers move from crowded work surface to sewing kit, to the boxes of animal feed and the jars of coins, buttons and spaghetti. The kitchen table was piled high with newspapers. Mindful spiders scuttled from the floorboards.

He opened the fridge. There wasn’t much food but it had not been emptied. The tomatoes were shrunken, wearing furred grey hats. The half-bottle of milk was yellow and sour. Lettuce wilted to seaweed. Daniel closed the door.

He went into the living room, where the last newspaper she had read was lying open on the couch. It had been a Tuesday then, when she had last been in the house. He could picture her with her feet up reading the Guardian. He touched the paper and felt a chill. He felt both close to her and distant, as if she was a reflection he could see in a window or a lake.

Her old piano was open by the window. Daniel pulled out the stool and sat down, listening to the wood strain under his weight. He pumped one of the pedals gently with his foot, letting his fingers fall heavy on the keys, the notes discordant under his touch. He remembered nights as a child when he would creep down and sit on the stairs, the toes of one foot warming the other as he listened to her play. She played slow, sad, classical pieces that he did not recognise at the time but which he had learned to name as he got older: Rachmaninov, Elgar, Beethoven, Ravel, Shostakovich. The drunker she became, the louder she would play and the more notes she would miss.

He remembered standing in the cold of the hall, watching her through the half-open living-room door. She was heavy on the keys, so that the piano itself seemed to protest beneath her. Her calloused, bare feet pumped the pedals as strands of her grey curls fell over her face.

Daniel smiled, sounding single notes on the piano. He could not play. She had tried to teach him once or twice. His forefinger found the notes and then listened to the sound of them: cold, shuddering, lonely. He closed his eyes, remembering; the room was still thick and heavy with the scent of dog. What had happened to the dog when Minnie died, he wondered?

Every year he had known her, on 8 August she drank herself into a stupor listening to one record over and over again. It was a record she wouldn’t let him touch. She kept it tight in its sleeve except for that one day of the year when she would let it spin and allow the fine needle of the stylus to find its fingerprint threads. She would sit in the half-dark, the living room lit only by the fire, and listen to Ravel’s Piano Concerto in G Major. Daniel had been in university before he knew the name of the track, although he had memorised every note well before then.

Once, she had let him sit with her. He had been thirteen or fourteen and still trying to understand her. She had made him sit quietly, turned from her and facing the record that scratched its way into the music as she waited, her chin bobbing up and down slightly in expectation of the notes and the pathos that would find her.

When the music started, he had turned to watch her face; surprised at the effect the music had on her. It reminded him of his mother injecting heroin. The same rapture, the same devout attention, the same bewilderment, although she would seek it out again and again.

At first Minnie would seem to follow the notes with her eyes, her breath deepening and her chest rising. Her eyes would water, and from across the room Daniel would see the sheen of them. She was like a painting: a Rembrandt – lucent, rustic, there. Her fingers on the armchair would mime the notes, although he had never heard her play this piece. She would listen but never, not even once, did she play it.

And then the discordant notes, the A# and B. As they continued to sound and sound again, a rare tear would form and fall, flashing across her cheek. Dissonant but somehow right: sounding out what she felt.

She seemed to seek out the discord, as a finger finds a wound.

How many nights in August had he woken to the sound of piano music and crept downstairs to realise that she was weeping.The sobs were robbed from her. It was as if she was being hit in the stomach, again and again. Daniel remembered pulling himself into a ball as he listened, frightened for her, not understanding what was wrong, feeling unable to comfort her. He had been frightened to go into the room and face her like that. Already he had come to see her as strong, impervious – braver, harder than his own mother. As a child he could not fathom her sorrow. He never fully understood why. He had come to love her strong calves and muscular hands and loud, strong laugh. He couldn’t bear to see her broken, at a loss.

But in the morning, to be sure, she would be fine again. Two aspirin and an omelette after the chickens were fed; and it was over for another year. The next summer it would happen again. Her pain never seemed to lessen. Each year it would return with the same ferocity, like a perennial frost.

Daniel thought about it. Minnie must have died on 9 or 10 August. Was it the grief that had finally killed her?

He looked around the room. He was surprised to feel the weight of the house. The memories that it held leaned on him and brushed against him. He remembered both her tears and her laughter: the easy lilt of it that had once charmed him. Then he remembered again what she had done to him. Gone, but still he could not forgive her. Understanding her was something, but it was not enough.

Daniel closed the lid of the piano. He looked at Minnie’s chair, remembering the sight of her, sat with her feet up, telling stories with the light of the fire in her eyes and her cheeks pink with mirth. Beside the chair was an open box file. Daniel picked it up and sat down in Minnie’s chair to examine the contents. Newspaper clippings from the Brampton News and the Newcastle Evening Times fluttered into his lap like anxious moths.

A car crash involving a woman and two children resulted in the death of six-year-old Delia Flynn, from Brampton in Cumbria. The other child passenger sustained minor injuries but was released from hospital on Thursday evening. Delia was taken to Carlisle General Hospital where she died two days later from serious internal injuries.

The mother of the child, who was driving the car and who escaped with minor injuries, refused to comment.

There were two other articles on the car accident, and then another piece drew Daniel’s attention. It was partially torn and had been ripped from near the fold of the newspaper.

F

ARMER

F

OUND

D

EAD IN

P

OSSIBLE

S

UICIDE

A local man and Brampton farmer was found dead on Tuesday night following a shooting incident. An investigation is under way, but police are not treating the death as suspicious.

Daniel sat in silence in the cold living room. As a child he had tried to ask her about her family, but she would always change the subject. The rest of the box file was filled with paintings that Delia had done: finger paintings, leaf rubbings and mosaics of lentils and macaroni. Not knowing why, Daniel folded up the two newspaper clippings and slipped them into his back pocket.

It was cold, and he stamped his feet as he walked around. He picked up the telephone. The line was now dead. The answer-phone was flashing and he played the messages.

There was a breathy female voice that whispered, ‘Minnie, it’s Agnes. I heard you’re not able to come on Sunday. I just wanted to say I’m happy to take the stall. I hope you’re not feeling too bad. Talk t’you later, I think… ’

The machine moved to the next message:

‘Mrs Flynn, this is Dr Hargreaves. I hope you can call me back. I have the results from the consultant. You missed your last appointment. They certainly warrant discussion and I hope that you are able to reschedule. Thank you.’

End of messages, the machine proclaimed.

There were letters piled on the chair next to the telephone in the hall. Daniel flicked through them. There were red letters from the electricity board and the telephone company, letters from the RSPCA and PDSA, copies of Farmers Weekly. Daniel swept them to the floor and sat down, a hand covering his mouth.

The chill bone of the discordant notes sounded in his head. Dead. Dead. Dead.

Daniel was unable to stay the night in Minnie’s aching house. He found a room in a local hotel, where he ate a too-rare steak and drank a bottle of red wine. He fell asleep with his clothes on, on top of the nylon covers in a damp room that smelled as if someone had died in it. He had phoned Cunningham, Minnie’s lawyer, from the road. As he had expected, the funeral was to be held in the chapel of the crematorium on Crawhall.

It was a Tuesday. Brampton was cooler than London, the sun banished by cloud. Daniel could smell the trees in the air and the unyielding green of them was oppressive. It was too quiet and people seemed to turn to look when they heard his footsteps. He longed for the anonymity, urgency and noise of London.

The doors to the chapel were open when he arrived and he was shown inside. The hall was just over half-full. The mourners were men and women of Minnie’s age. Daniel sat near the back, in the middle of one of the empty pews. A tall, thin, balding man in grey approached him.

‘Are you … Danny?’ the man whispered, although the service had not begun.

Daniel nodded.

‘John Cunningham, pleased to meet you.’

His hand was dry and hard. Daniel felt his own damp with sweat.

‘I’m so glad you decided to come. Come forward. Makes it look better.’

Daniel wanted to hide at the back, but he got up and followed Cunningham to the front. Women he recognised from his childhood, farmers who had worked market stalls with Minnie, nodded at him as he sat down.

‘There’re no drinks or anything afterwards,’ Cunningham whispered in Daniel’s ear. His breath smelled of milky coffee. ‘But if you have time for a chat after … ?’

Daniel nodded once.

‘I’m going to say a few words for her. I wonder if you want to also? I can speak to the minister?’

‘You’re all right,’ said Daniel, turning away.

He sat through the short ceremony with his teeth pressed so hard together that the muscles in his right cheek began to ache. There were hymns and then the minister’s practised words of kindness in a rounded Carlisle accent. Daniel found himself staring at the coffin, still disbelieving that she was actually inside. He swallowed as the minister called on John Cunningham to deliver the eulogy.

At the podium, Minnie’s solicitor cleared his throat loudly and read from a folded piece of A4 paper.

‘I am proud to be one member of the gathering of people here today in honour of a wonderful woman who brightened up all of our lives and the lives of many more beyond these four walls. Minnie is an example to us all, and I hope she felt proud of everything she achieved in her life.

‘I got to know Minnie in a professional capacity after the tragic deaths of her husband and daughter, Norman Flynn and Cordelia Rae Flynn – may they rest in peace.’

Daniel sat up and took a deep breath. Cordelia Rae. He had never known her full name. The rare times that Minnie mentioned her, she was Delia.

‘Through the years, I came to value her friendship and to respect her as someone who served others in a manner to which we should all aspire.

‘Minnie … was a rebel.’

There was a sputtering of teary laughter. Daniel frowned. His breaths were shallow in his chest.

‘She didn’t care what anyone thought of her. She wore what she wanted, she did what she wanted and she said what she wanted and you could like it … or just lump it.’ Again laughter like a carpet being beaten. ‘But she was honest and kind, and it was those qualities that led her to be a foster mother to dozens of damaged children and to become a mother again, in the eighties, when she adopted her dear son, Danny, who thankfully is able to join us here today … ’

The women seated to Daniel’s right turned to him. He felt the colour rising on his cheek. He leaned forward on his elbows.

‘Most of us here today know Minnie as a small holding farmer – we’ve either worked alongside her or bought her produce. Here again, she showed her care and attention in the way she looked after her livestock. The small farm wasn’t just a living, the animals were her children too and she nurtured them as she nurtured all others who needed her.

‘As a friend, that is my final impression of her. She was independent, she was rebellious, she was her own woman, but more than all of that she was a caring person and the world is so much poorer for the loss of her. God love you, Minnie Flynn, may you rest in peace.’

Daniel watched as the women who sat beside him bowed their heads. He did the same, still feeling the burn in his cheeks. One of the women began to cry.

Cunningham sat down and was patted on the shoulder by the woman who sat to his right. The minister leaned on the podium with two hands.

‘As we come to the committal, Minnie has asked that we listen to this piece of music which was special to her. The earthly life of Minnie has come to an end, and we now commit her body to the elements. Earth to earth, ashes to ashes and dust to dust, trusting in the infinite mercy of God … ’

Daniel held his breath. He looked around, wondering where the sound would come from. He knew before he heard the piano chords what piece she would have chosen.

Despite himself, when the music started, he felt the tension that his body held, release. The lilting, insistent steps of the music took him forward as he watched the curtains draw slowly over her coffin. Time seemed to linger and lag, and sitting there with strangers listening to the music that was so intimate to her and so intimate to him, he began to remember.

Moments in his life were pressed into being and vanished again, like the notes themselves. The A# note, and then the B note: he opened his mouth in shock as he felt his cheeks flush. His throat hurt.

How long it had been since he had heard the full concerto. He must have been a teenager when he heard it last: in his memory it was more painful, the discord sharper. Now he was surprised by the serenity of the piece, and how – in its entirety, finished, complete – both its harmony and its dissonance seemed exactly right.

The feelings that the music ushered were strange to him. He pressed his teeth hard together, right to the end, not wanting to admit to his grief. He remembered her warm strong fingers and her soft grey curls. His skin remembered the roughness of her hands. It was this that brought the tension to his body and the flush to his cheek. He wouldn’t cry; she didn’t deserve it, but some small part of him was yielding and asking to mourn for her.

In the car park, the sun had come out. Daniel took off his jacket as he walked to his car. He felt exhausted suddenly, no longer fit for the seven-hour drive back to London. He felt a hand on his arm and turned. It was an old woman, her face pinched and sunken. It took Daniel a moment, but finally he recognised her as Minnie’s sister, Harriet.

‘Do you know who I am?’ she said, her lips turning down, contorting her whole face.

‘Of course. How are you?’

‘Who am I then? Say my name, who am I?’

Daniel took a breath and then said, ‘You’re Harriet, Aunt Harriet.’

‘Made it up, did you? Found the bloody time, now that she’s dead?’

‘I … I didn’t … ’

‘I hope you’re ashamed of yourself, lad. I hope that’s why you’re here. God forgive you.’

Harriet walked away, stabbing her way across the car park with her stick. Daniel turned towards his car and leaned on the roof. The leaves and the funeral and the quiet countryside had set his head spinning. He exhaled, rubbing the moistness of his fingertips. He heard Cunningham calling him and turned.

‘Danny – we’ve not had a chance. Would you have time for lunch then, or a cup of tea?’

He would have liked to refuse Cunningham, to be on his way, but all he wanted to do was lie down, and so he agreed.

In the café, Daniel hung his head and put a hand across his face. Cunningham had ordered a pot of tea for them both and a bowl of soup for himself. Daniel was not eating.

‘It must be hard for you,’ said Cunningham, folding his arms.

Daniel cleared his throat and looked away, embarrassed by his own confused feelings for Minnie and chastened by Harriet’s harsh words. He was not sure why he felt so emotional. He had said goodbye to Minnie long ago.

‘She was a gem. A pure gem. She touched so many people.’

‘She was a tough old boot,’ said Daniel. ‘I think she made as many enemies as she did friends … ’

‘We’d’ve had it at the chapel, but she specifically requested a non-religious committal and a cremation. A cremation, would you ever believe it?’

‘She gave up on God,’ said Daniel.

‘I know she didn’t practise for many years. I don’t have the time myself, if truth be told, but I always thought that her faith was still important to her.’

‘She told me once that the rituals and the charms were the hardest to let go of – she didn’t hold store in them, but she couldn’t stop. She told me once that Christianity was just another of her bad habits. If you knew her, she said a rosary when she was drunk. Bad habits go together … Your speech was good. It was right. She was a rebel.’

‘I think she should have gone back to Cork after Norman died. Her sister said as much, did you speak to her? She was the one at the end of the row.’

‘I know her sister. She used to visit us. I said a few words.’ Again Daniel looked away, but Cunningham did not notice and continued talking.

‘She was a woman before her time, she was, Minnie. She needed to be in a city, somewhere cosmopolitan … ’

‘Nah, she loved the country. That’s what she lived for.’

‘But her ideas were all city ideas, she’d’ve been better off.’

‘Maybe. It was her choice. Like you said, she loved her animals.’

Cunningham’s soup came and there were a few moments when he busied himself with napkin and buttered roll. Daniel sipped his tea and watched, still unsure what Cunningham needed to talk about so urgently. He was content to be quiet.

‘It’ll be some time before the estate is settled. I need to get a firm to clear the house and then put it on the market. In its condition, I’m not expecting a quick sale, but you never know. I just want you to be prepared for it being a few months before we can settle up, as it were.’

‘Like I said on the phone, I don’t want anything.’

Cunningham took a wary mouthful of soup. He dabbed his mouth with a napkin and then said, ‘I thought you might have changed your mind, coming to the funeral and all.’

‘I don’t know why I came. I suppose I had to … ’ Daniel rubbed his hands over his face. ‘… see for myself she was really dead. We’ve not been in touch for a while.’

‘She told me … There’s no rush about the estate. Like I said, it’ll be months before it’s finalised. I’ll contact you nearer the time and you can see how you feel then.’

‘Fine, but I can tell you now I won’t change my mind. You can give it to the dogs’ home. Sure that’d please her.’

‘Well, we can sort that out in due course.’

Silence stretched out before them, like a dog asking to be petted.

Cunningham looked out of the window. ‘Minnie was a gem, eh? Good laugh, she was. Great sense of humour, eh?’

‘I don’t remember.’

The man frowned at Daniel then turned his attention to his soup.

‘So, was it cancer then?’ said Daniel, taking a deep breath.

Cunningham swallowed, nodding. ‘But she didn’t fight it, you know. She could have had chemotherapy; there were surgery options but she refused them all.’

‘Of course – she would have.’

‘She told me that she’d been unhappy. I know you had a falling-out a few years ago.’

‘She was unhappy long before that,’ said Daniel.

Cunningham’s spoon sounded against the bowl, as he scraped it clean. ‘You were one of her foster kids originally, weren’t you?’

Daniel nodded once. His shoulders and upper arms were suddenly tight and he shifted to release the tension.

‘You were special to her. She told me that. You were like her own,’ said Cunningham.

Daniel looked at him. He had a spot of soup on his moustache and his eyes were open and searching. Daniel felt a surprising anger towards the man. The café was suddenly too warm.

‘I’m sorry,’ said Cunningham, motioning for the bill, as if realising that he had crossed a line. ‘She gave me a box of things for you. They are trinkets and photographs mostly – nothing of any great value – but she wanted you to have them. Best you take them now. They’re in the car.’

Cunningham drained his cup. ‘I know this must be hard on you. I know you had your differences, but still … ’

Daniel shook his head, unsure what to say. The pain had returned to his throat again. He felt as he had in the crematorium, fighting back tears and angry with himself because of that.

‘Did you want to deal with the house yourself? As family, you’re entitled … ’

‘No, just get a firm in, there’s nothing … I really don’t have time for it.’ It felt better saying that. The words were like fresh air. He felt squared by them, braced.

‘Feel free to go and take any personal items from the property while you’re up, but like I said there are a few things she set aside.’

They stood up to leave; Cunningham paid the bill. Before he opened the door, Daniel asked, ‘She didn’t suffer, did she?’

They stepped out into the early autumn sun. The sharp clarity of it caused Daniel to squint.

‘She did suffer, but she knew that was unavoidable. I think she’d had enough really and she just wanted everything to end.’

They shook hands. Daniel felt Cunningham’s short, hard grip as conflicted, communicating the unsaid. It reminded him of handshakes he had given to clients after the judge had sent them down. Kindness delivered with quick violence.

Daniel was about to turn from him, excused, expelled, but then Cunningham threw up his hands.

‘Your box! Your box is in my car. One minute.’

Daniel waited while Cunningham retrieved the cardboard box from the boot. The smell of the fields and the farms did not calm him.

‘There you go,’ said Cunningham. ‘Not worth a lot, but she wanted you to have it.’

To avoid a second handshake, Cunningham saluted Daniel in the crematorium car park. Daniel was confused by the gesture, but nodded goodbye.

The box was light. He placed it in the boot of his car, without looking inside.