Питер Ловси - On the Edge

Antonia laughed. ‘Sweetie, asking to visit the ladies isn’t illegal.’

The fire in the waiting room had gone out, probably days ago. The windows were still painted over for the blackout and last summer’s flypapers hung from the lights. Torn pages from John Bull and Everybody’s littered the threadbare lino. About twenty people sat and stood in silence broken only by a crying child and regular coughing.

Between them, Rose and Antonia got through a packet of ten Senior Service before their turn came. They’d been told that Deaths were upstairs.

‘Next.’

‘You know what to say?’ said Antonia before they went in. ‘You’re looking awfully pale.’

‘Isn’t that the idea?’

The Assistant Registrar (Deaths) Knock Before Entering had a purple twinset that tended to emphasize the papery appearance of her skin. Her coke stove was alight and the clock on the wall was ticking. She was writing the date on the top sheet of her pad of death certificates.

‘Yes?’

Antonia steered Rose forward by the arm, as if she were blind. ‘This is Mrs Bell, whose husband was unfortunately taken from her in an accident last week. I’m her friend.’

‘Is she the informant, or are you?’

‘She is.’

‘Can’t she speak for herself?’

‘She’s rather distressed.’

Rose smiled wanly at Antonia. ‘I’ll try.’

‘The name of the deceased, then?’

‘Bell. Barry Desborough Bell, DFC. Wing Commander.’

‘So his occupation was RAF Officer?’

‘No. Civil Servant. Clerical Officer.’

‘So you mean Wing Commander retired. You should have said so. I could have spoilt the certificate, couldn’t I? What was the date of death?’

‘October 10th.’

‘As long ago as that?’

‘There was an inquest.’

‘I see. I can’t do anything without a report from the coroner, you know.’

‘His office said it would be here this morning.’

‘They promise all sorts of things. Fill in this form, please. This is not the death certificate, but one we require for our records.’

The registrar snatched up a sheaf of papers from her intray and thumbed rapidly through them. Rose dipped the pen in the ink and started to write, prompted once or twice by Antonia.

‘ Your name.’

‘Oh, yes.’

Suddenly Rose put down the pen and turned to Antonia. ‘I think I’m going to be sick.’

The registrar scraped back her chair. For a moment it seemed that she meant to escort Rose to the toilet. Apparently she thought better of it.

‘Downstairs and to the right at the foot of the staircase. Second door.’

Antonia got up and opened the door. ‘Do you want me to come?’ She mouthed the words, ‘Say you can’t find it.’

‘I can manage. It may be just a drink of water I need.’

Rose went out. The registrar started again on her sheaf of papers, watched by Antonia. The tick of the clock was like a time-bomb.

The door opened again and Rose looked in. ‘I’m fearfully sorry.’

The registrar stared at her. ‘What’s happened? Didn’t you reach it in time?’

‘I couldn’t find it. Could I trouble you to show me?’

With a sigh like a burner in a balloon, the registrar rose, yanked her cardigan across her chest and stumped to the door. ‘It’s perfectly easy to find.’ Halfway downstairs she turned and asked Rose if she was pregnant.

Somehow, Rose held herself in check. She was sorely tempted to ask the same question back. However, she’d agreed to go through with this, so she shook her head and followed meekly down the rest of the stairs to the appropriate room.

At least the woman had the grace to tell her to take her time, although possibly her office floor was paramount in her thoughts.

Rose whiled away some minutes studying the walls. She’d never understood what drove people to publicize their love and hate in such places. Then she washed and dried her hands and returned upstairs. Antonia sprang up and grasped her hand and asked if she felt any better. It seemed like over-acting, though the registrar ignored the performance. She announced that she had located the letter from the coroner’s office. The paperwork was completed in a short time. Rose paid the fee for extra copies of the death certificate and put the documents in her handbag.

Outside in the Bentley, Antonia leaned across and planted a loud kiss on Rose’s cheek.

‘You were brilliant, darling. Brilliant! It was quite a blow when she didn’t go out with you the first time. What an old dragon!’

‘Are you going to tell me what it was all about?’

‘Haven’t you guessed by now? Look.’

Antonia opened her handbag and took out a folded piece of paper. She spread it across her knees and then passed it to Rose.

‘A death certificate?’

‘A blank death certificate — with the duplicate they keep for their records.’

‘You took it from her desk? But it’s got a number on it. She’ll know it’s missing.’

‘She won’t. I’m not soft in the head, Rosie, my love. I nicked it from the bottom of the pad. Careful — we don’t want it looking dogeared, do we?’

Rose frowned and handed the certificate back. Antonia replaced it in her handbag and started the car.

‘Aren’t you going to say I’m a genius?’

Rose didn’t answer.

‘I mean, it couldn’t be easier from now on. We’ve cut out all the snags. We won’t need a doctor’s certificate. We fill in whatever we like and take it to the undertaker.’

‘What couldn’t be easier?’

Antonia smiled and swung the car into the traffic of Kensington High Street.

‘Antonia, what couldn’t be easier?’

‘How would you like to meet my husband?’

Antonia was talking like a tour guide as she drove the Bentley up Portland Place and into Park Crescent. The route they were taking, she informed Rose, had been built by John Nash as a triumphal drive for that randy old swank the Prince Regent, all the way from St James’s Park through Regent Street and Portland Place to what was planned to be a royal pleasure pavilion in Regent’s Park. The Crescent had been conceived as a circus, but the funds ran out, so it was cut off halfway, and of course the pleasure pavilion was given the axe as well. Most of Nash’s beautiful terraced houses had now been taken over by embassies, clubs and businesses. Antonia’s was one of the few still in use as a private home.

All this was lost on Rose. Her thinking had stopped at two death certificates, one with Barry’s name on it, the other blank.

She’d been so preoccupied with what had happened in the past ten days that she’d failed entirely to see where it might lead. Barry’s ‘accident’ had been a brilliant remedy for her troubles. Antonia had made it seem simple, doing what was necessary as if it were a common courtesy, like sharing an umbrella. Now, with the same serene indifference, Antonia was planning something else, and Rose was expected to join in. You can’t share an umbrella without walking together.

The car door slammed. Antonia was already out and making an exaggerated gesture to Rose to follow.

‘Come on. You need some strong coffee. You’re looking more and more like that God-forsaken woman on the poster.’

‘Well, the inquest was no picnic.’

Rose followed her between the twin columns at the entrance and up white steps into what could have passed as a set for one of those frothy films about the high life made to distract audiences from post-war austerity. She didn’t believe real people lived in such opulence. You could have held a dance in the hall. The corniced ceiling was high enough to house two crystal chandeliers. There was a crimson carpet. Satin-striped wallpaper. An oval mahogany table with a silver tray for visiting cards.