‘So it could have been anywhere along the A40?’
‘Could we just say, London?’
‘We’ll put him on the meridian. Always a wise choice.’
After this incident, she found it difficult to regard Gavin as fully human. He was standardised on zero degrees longitude and twelve noon, like some bucking bronco, or a sad mutt with no pedigree. She did call his mum, one evening when she’d had a half-bottle of wine and was feeling perverse.
‘Renee, is that you?’ she said.
Renee said, ‘How did you get my name?’
‘It’s me,’ she said, and Renee replied, ‘I’ve got replacement windows, and replacement doors. I’ve got a conservatory and the loft conversion’s coming next week. I never give to charity, thank you, and I’ve planned my holiday for this year, and I had a new kitchen when you were last in my area.’
‘It’s about Gavin,’ she said. ‘It’s me, Colette. I need to know when he was born.’
‘Take my name off your list,’ her mother-in-law said. ‘And if you must call me, could you not call during my programme? It’s one of my few remaining pleasures.’ There was a pause, as if she were going to put the receiver down. Then she spoke again. ‘Not that I need any others. I’ve had my suite re-covered. I have a spa bath already. And a case of vintage wine. And a stairlift to help me keep my independence. Have you got that? Are you taking notice? Bugger off.’
Click.
Colette held the phone. Daughter-in-law of fourteen months, spurned by his mother. She replaced the receiver, and walked into the kitchen. She stood by the double sink, mastering herself. ‘Gavin,’ she called, ‘do you want peas or green beans?’
There was no answer. She stalked into the sitting room. Gavin, his bare feet on the sofa arm, was reading What Car? ‘Peas or green beans?’ she asked.
No reply. ‘Gavin!!!!’ she said.
‘With wot?’
‘Cutlets.’
‘What’s that?’
‘Lamb. Lamb chops.’
‘OK,’ he said. ‘Whatever. Both.’
‘You can’t.’ Her voice shook. ‘Two green veg, you can’t.’
‘Who says?’
‘Your mother,’ she said; she felt she could say anything, as he never listened.
‘When?’
‘Just now on the phone.’
‘My mother was on the phone?’
‘Just now.’
‘Bloody amazing.’ He shook his head, and flicked over a page.
‘Why? Why should it be?’
‘Because she’s dead.’
‘What? Renee?’ Colette sat down on the sofa arm: later, when she told the story, she would say, well, at that point, my legs went from under me. But she would never be able to recapture the sudden fright, the weakness that ran through her body, her anger, her indignation, the violent exasperation that possessed her. She said, ‘What the hell do you mean, she’s dead?’
‘It happened this morning. My sis rang. Carole. ’
‘Is this a joke? I need to know. Is this a joke? Because if it is, Gavin, I’ll kneecap you. ’
Gavin raised his eyebrows, as if to say, why would it be funny? ‘I didn’t suggest it was,’ she said at once: why wait for him to speak? I asked if it was your idea of a joke.’
‘God help anybody who made a joke around here.’
Colette laid her hand on her ribcage, behind which something persistently fluttered. She stood up. She walked into the kitchen. She stared at the ceiling. She took a deep breath. She came back. ‘Gavin?’
‘Mm?’
‘She’s really dead?’
‘Mm.’
She wanted to hit him. ‘How?’
‘Heart.’
‘Oh God! Have you no feeling? You can sit there, going peas or beans – ’
‘You went that,’ he said reasonably.
‘Weren’t you going to tell me? If I hadn’t said, your mother was on the phone – ’
Gavin yawned. ‘What’s the hurry? I’d have told you.’
‘You mean you might just have mentioned it? When you got around to it? When would that have been?’
‘After the food.’
She gaped at him. He said, with some dignity, ‘I can’t mention when I’m hungry.’
Colette bunched her fingers into fists, and held them at chest height. She was short of breath, and the flutter inside her chest had subdued to a steady thump. At the same time an uneasy feeling filled her, that anything she could do was inadequate; that she was performing someone else’s gestures, perhaps from an equivalent TV moment where news of a sudden death is received. But what are the proper gestures when a ghost’s been on the phone? She didn’t know. ‘Please. Gavin,’ she said. ‘Put down What Car?. Just…look at me, will you? Now tell me what happened.’
‘Nothing.’ He threw the magazine down. ‘Nothing happened.’
‘But where was she? Was she at home?’
‘No. Getting her shopping. In Safeway. Apparently.’
‘And?’
Gavin rubbed his forehead. He seemed to be making an honest effort. ‘I suppose she was pushing her trolley.’
‘Was she on her own?’
‘Dunno. Yes.’
‘And then?’
‘She fell over.’
‘She didn’t die there, did she? In the aisle?’
‘Nah, they got her to the hospital. So no worries about the death certificate.’
‘What a relief,’ she said grimly.
Carole, it seemed, was proposing to get the bungalow on the market as soon as possible, with Sidgewick & Staff, who for sole agency charged 2 per cent on completion, and promised unlimited colour advertising and national tie-ins. ‘There should be a good payout,’ he said, ‘the place is worth a few quid.’
That was why, he explained, he was reading the new edition of What Car? ; Renee’s will would bring him nearer to what he most coveted in life, which was a Porsche 911.
‘Aren’t you upset?’ she asked him.
He shrugged. ‘We’ve all got to go, haven’t we? What’s it to you? It’s not as if you ever bothered with her.’
‘And she lived in a bungalow, Renee?’
‘Course she did.’ Gavin picked up his magazine and rolled it up in his hand, as if she were a wasp and he were going to swat her. ‘We went over for our lunch, that Sunday.’
‘No we didn’t. We never went.’
‘Only because you kept cancelling us.’
It was true. She’d hoped she could keep Renee at arm’s length: the wedding reception had proved her to have a coarse joke habit, and slipping false teeth. The teeth weren’t all that was false. ‘She told me,’ she said to Gavin, ‘that she had a stairlift installed. Which,