Ann Cleeves - Burial of Ghosts

Joanna was waiting at the terrace steps to greet the last of her guests. She had reinvented herself again, this time as a character from Georgette Heyer. She wore white, something simple and high-waisted, with a muslin shawl across her shoulders. Her hair was up, apart from a few curls allowed to escape from a comb. I wasn’t sure if she’d recognize me but she did at once.

‘Lizzie,’ she said. ‘My dear. How kind of you to forgive us. Philip would be so pleased that you’ve decided to support us.’

The mention of Philip embarrassed me, which is probably what she intended. It reminded me that I had things to be forgiven for too, that I had nothing to feel superior about. She waved towards a table, probably the same trestles which had been brought out for the funeral. There were bowls of punch and the underage waitresses from the Alnwick catering firm were ladling it into glasses. ‘You should try some,’ Joanna said. ‘My own recipe. Delicious.’ I wanted to ask her if Dickon was around, but she’d already turned her attention to someone else. We were the latecomers and she was eager for the evening’s entertainment to begin.

The performance of music and poetry had been dreamt up as a fund-raiser, but the Consortium seemed to have turned it into a tribute to Thomas Mariner and Marcus Tate. It was almost as if they had become their first martyrs. I didn’t see Doreen, but if she’d been there she would have wept. I wondered if Joanna had anything to do with the boys featuring so prominently, or if, once it had been suggested, she felt she couldn’t disagree. She could hardly say to the organizers, Well, actually, this is a bit awkward, because Thomas was my husband’s illegitimate son. If she was bothered by the comments made about Thomas’s life she didn’t show it. I was watching her for most of the evening.

After the opening music – a selection of madrigals, I think, sung by a big amateur choir from Newcastle – Ronnie Laing made a speech. I’d expected him to be there, but I hadn’t expected him to take such a role. I’d have thought he’d have hated the attention. He climbed onto the stage and waited for the crowd to settle to silence before speaking. Perhaps it was because it was a sort of performance, but he spoke quite fluently and his stammer was hardly apparent. I looked round for Kay, but she wasn’t there to see how well he was doing. ‘I was surprised when I heard Thomas had joined the Consortium as a volunteer. We hadn’t discussed it beforehand. I suppose we’d reached a stage when we didn’t discuss much at all.’ He paused. There were sympathetic smiles. ‘But I was so pleased that he did. When he died it gave me something I could remember and be proud of. It made me feel I’d made a contribution to his life.’ The crowd got to its feet and cheered. Even I felt a bit emotional. It was only as he was being helped off the stage that I thought Joanna couldn’t have confided the name of Thomas’s real father to him. He couldn’t have put on a performance like that if he’d known Philip was Thomas’s dad. I was pleased. I hoped she’d always keep the secret. The information wasn’t really hers to share. Later, I think, there was a speech by Mr Tate, Marcus’s father, but by then I was watching proceedings from the house and I didn’t hear what was said.

My mind wandered as a third-year student from the performing arts course at Northumbria University read from John Clare. The light was fading quickly now and it was hard to make out any of the figures sitting on the grass, but when I turned back to the terrace I saw Stuart Howdon standing next to Joanna. He was whispering in her ear, so close that at one point he had to brush one of her stray curls away from his face. Joanna was looking out to the stage with an attentive smile. It was impossible to tell what she thought of what she was being told. When I looked back again, they’d gone.

There was an interval and the punch was brought out again, and dainty scraps of food which were more decorative than sustaining. I was glad I’d stopped at the chippie at Amble on the way. I’d thought Dickon and Flora might appear at this point, but there was no sign of them until I glanced up at the house and saw Dickon looking down out of a first-floor window. There was nothing wistful about his gaze – I could see clearly because there was a light in his room. He didn’t want to be with us. He despised us for putting ourselves through all this.

When everyone else was called back to the stage for the second part of the show I slipped into the house and ran up the big curving staircase. At every moment I expected to hear shouting, a demand to know what I was up to. Dickon’s room must be at the end of the house, as he was looking out of the last window. I walked quietly along a straight corridor with a threadbare carpet. I didn’t care so much about Joanna, but I didn’t want to meet Flora. I could picture her disdain in the face of my stumbling explanations. I hadn’t seen her in Dickon’s room. If she was there, out of view from the garden, he’d have to bail me out.

In fact he was alone in his room, and his door was open so I could see from the landing that I was safe. The television was on – an American hospital drama, with lots of shouting and blood – but he wasn’t watching it. He was still perched on the window-sill, looking out. I didn’t want to go into the room without invitation and just waited in the doorway until he noticed me. His face brightened and he zapped the telly off. I felt wonderfully flattered.

‘I’m waiting for the fireworks,’ he said, ‘but there’s an awful lot of boring stuff to go through first.’

I hovered outside still.

‘Come in,’ he said. ‘It must be over soon and there’ll be a good view from here.’

‘Where’s Flora?’

‘She’s at her mate’s house. A sleepover. She says fireworks are for kids.’

So I sat beside him on the window-sill and looked down.

‘Your mother’s really good at this sort of thing.’ The thought just came into my head. A large woman was singing something classical I didn’t recognize. The audience had become a shadowy blur. The woman stopped, bowed, and there was good-natured clapping.

Dickon smiled. ‘Really good.’

‘I expect it’s because she’s a photographer. She can see the effect she wants in her head.’ Again I was speaking more to myself, but he was lapping up the praise on his mother’s behalf.

‘She’s brilliant at stories too,’ he said. ‘Though she doesn’t have so much time for those any more.’

‘It must be hard for her since your dad died.’

‘Yeah,’ he said. ‘I suppose.’

The students were back again, acting a scene from A Midsummer Night’s Dream . Phrases drifted up to us. The sash window was open at the top. It was the bit about the wild thyme and the sweet musk rose. A soporific dream seemed to have settled over the audience too. Dickon watched for a few minutes, then lost interest. He suggested showing me his skull and wing collection and pointed out a battered suitcase under his bed. I told him I’d rather wait until I had more time to concentrate properly and we stared out of the window again.

‘They were talking about you earlier,’ he said.

‘Who were? Was it your mother?’

‘No. Mr Howdon and Ronnie Laing.’

‘Oh?’ I couldn’t quite bring myself to ask what they’d said. And I thought Dickon would probably tell me anyway.

‘I didn’t hear much,’ he said regretfully. ‘They were in Daddy’s office while everyone else was helping to set things up. It’s not fair. Mr Howdon never helps.’

‘Too fat.’

‘Yeah.’ He chuckled and looked out of the window. I could have kicked myself for interrupting, but he continued, ‘Mr Howdon doesn’t like you much.’ There was admiration in his voice. ‘What have you done to piss him off?’