Sharyn McCrumb - The Windsor Knot

This time, though, there was a comic element to her dilemma that undermined her dignity as a widow. People would naturally be wondering what Emmet had been up to for five years. And now, instead of being a tragic widow, Clarine would be regarded as just another discarded middle-aged woman whose husband had gone off to greener pastures.

She stared up at the empty spot on the mantelpiece where Emmet’s picture had resided. It was strange that she should feel a new surge of grief, when in her mind Emmet had already been dead for five years. It was as if the phone call from California had brought her husband back to life for a few moments, only to let him die all over again.

And if she had been able to speak to him between one death and the other, what would she have said? That she missed him? That she wanted him back? Or would she have spent it in recriminations for his cruelty and his cowardice? Clarine took another swig of her drink, knowing the answer and not liking it.

She wondered if she would be expected to go to California now to clean up whatever mess Emmet had left in his five extra years of existence. Was there a young wife out there left with bills to pay? A new insurance policy to be contested? New possessions to be disposed of? Clarine decided that she didn’t care. The Emmet Mason whose wife she had been had died five years ago. What came after that would have to be someone else’s problem.

In a sliding metal tray in a Los Angeles morgue, the body of a man in late middle age lay in peaceful repose. The end had not been peaceful, and there had been a good deal of pain reflected in his heavy-featured face during the first moments of death, but that had been smoothed away now, and within the cold confines of the metal drawer, the body was flaccid and younger looking than it had been in some years.

There was some irony in this, because during the last years of his life the man had gone to some trouble to attain a more youthful appearance. He had exercised regularly in a somewhat ungainly manner, in baggy sweatpants that elicited smiles from his fellow joggers. He had tanned his body and dieted on wheat germ and yogurt-in an attempt to banish cholesterol and flab from his well-padded frame.

His efforts had not achieved the desired effect. He looked not younger, as he had imagined, but rather pathetic, like a man trying desperately to be what he wasn’t: young, good-looking, virile. No one at any distance, no matter how dim the light, had ever mistaken him for any of those things, during those last five years.

He did not look successful, because he wasn’t. He was a down-at-heels salesclerk who went to auditions on his days off and he lived in a shabby single room that cost more than he would have thought possible. The new life didn’t come to much. In the end, the only youth restorative for a man his age is the tonic of wealth and power. Lacking those qualities, he was invisible to the golden young women who jogged past him on the beach. He was as sexless as their fathers. He was faintly ridiculous.

It was this fear of a ridicule already felt that kept him where he was. Each time he lifted a telephone and got as far as the 404 area code of Georgia, a dread of the derision that would await him back home froze him into retreat. He never made the call to see if he could be forgiven, to ask to go home. Really, though, he didn’t want to go home. He only wanted them to respect him from a distance, after he had achieved his long-sought success.

He could only hope that someday one of the auditions would pay off and that an acting part-no matter how small-would establish his worth and the rightness of his decision. But it never happened. Instead, on one such quest of a ticket to Equity, he daydreamed too long on a boring stretch of freeway and found himself in the wrong lane for his exit. To pass it by would be unthinkable; it would cost him half an hour and make him late for the audition. So he swerved, trying to force his way into the relentless stream of traffic, but the engine on his Concord-an automotive version of himself-was not equal to the maneuver, and he found himself broadsided by a new and shiny Mercedes. His last thought as he crashed through the guardrail was that Sam Peckinpah had been right: you really did die in slow motion.

IT WAS PELTING down rain. In the foyer of Old St. Andrews House Adam McIver looked out at the gray sky and hunched his Burberry tighter around him in preparation for the dash outside. He thought the sudden downpour might be his punishment for leaving work a bit early today, but he had a dinner party to go to that evening and he needed the extra time.

“Hello!” said a soft voice from behind him. “Not afraid of getting wet, are you?”

Adam turned around to see the Princess of Wales smiling up at him. He gave her a friendly nod, as he was quite used to seeing her by now. He encountered Princess Dianas nearly every day, shopping for vegetables in the market, queuing up for buses, and waiting tables at the Roxburghe Hotel. Even one of his sister’s flatmates had adopted the look; of course, you had to take into account the fact that the flatmate was an air hostess. Still, it seemed to Adam that every young blonde in the kingdom had adopted that bob-and-fringe hairstyle and the ruffled blouse and Fair Isle wardrobe. This one was a better likeness than most: she had a good straight nose and sensible eye makeup. Adam hated the ones who looked like raccoons.

“I’m not a bit afraid of the rain,” he protested, trying to place her. “But I was a fool to forget my wellies.”

“Well, it is June,” she replied, in a distinct Morningside accent. “You ought to be able to count on good weather some of the time.”

“Oh, you can. Whenever you happen to be in Spain,” Adam replied. He remembered her now. She was the administrative assistant that he had spoken to about getting Dawson’s American fiancée invited to the garden party. “How are arrangements going for the Royal Garden Party?” he asked, to prove that he recognized her.

She made a moue of distaste at being asked to talk shop. “Just as usual. Not many changes, you know, from one year to the next, except perhaps Her Majesty’s outfit, and oddly enough, no one can ever remember what she wore.”

“All the arrangements under way by now, are they?”

“I rang up Black and Edgington in Greenock today. Of course, they always provide the props, you know: chairs, tablecloths, marquees, so they hardly need to be reminded. I’m sure they know the drill better than I do.”

“And will you be making the biscuits?” asked Adam, attempting to be witty.

The response was a wide-eyed stare. “Certainly not! Crawford’s Catering of Leith always does that. There’ll be cream cakes, scones, and small sandwiches. It’s the same every year. The guest list is rather predictable, too. The usual company directors and civil-service types, of course. Scottish Sloanes always go, and those who just missed getting on the honours list are asked as a consolation prize.”

Adam nodded. “I’m Adam McIver,” he told her. “I helped compose the list.”

“Well, it was all right,” the blonde said kindly. “Quite an average list, in fact. At least, I didn’t notice any blunders. I thought it was much the same as last year. I didn’t notice your name on it, though.”

The young bureaucrat reddened. “Well, I hardly thought-that is, nobody told me-”

“Would you like to go? I’m sure I can arrange it. It’s a dreadful bun fight, but you can always go out for tea later, can’t you? The Queen makes most people too nervous to eat anyhow.”

“I would love to go,” said Adam. “It’s very kind of you to offer.”