Emma Page - Mortal Remains

A bus turned into the road running alongside the common and ground to a halt. Norman stood watching as a woman alighted and crossed over on to the common, towards Fairbourne. Not very tall, a slim, supple figure. A wealth of naturally curly hair, golden chestnut, beautifully arranged. Delicate features, a face lovely enough to arrest the eye. She was dressed with casual elegance in a light summer suit. She wore a shoulder-bag, carried a number of books. Norman’s gaze remained fixed as she let herself in through the wrought-iron gates of the dwelling.

As Jill straightened up from playing with the spaniel she caught sight of the woman turning to close the gates. Norman’s intent expression vanished abruptly.

‘There’s Mrs Holroyd,’ Jill exclaimed with lively admiration. She watched the graceful figure move away along the path. ‘She always looks so smart, she has such marvellous taste.’ There was a note of professional assessment in her tone, she worked as a sales assistant at York House, the high-class department store in Cannonbridge where Mrs Holroyd bought many of her clothes. ‘And she always wears such gorgeous perfume,’ she added without a trace of envy. ‘It must cost a fortune.’

Inside Fairbourne, ten minutes later, Claire Holroyd came downstairs and went along to the spacious sitting room, attractively furnished, immaculately kept. Some handsome old pieces, part of the original furnishings; an atmosphere of solid comfort. Petit-point cushion covers Claire had embroidered, fresh flowers she had skilfully arranged. The walls were hung with Victorian watercolours – one of her husband’s hobbies was restoring neglected paintings he picked up at sales.

She paused by a table to glance through the books she had earlier set down, then she crossed to the fireplace and rested her hands on the mantelshelf, staring down into the hearth with its summer screen of garden blooms.

Through the open window came the chirruping of birds, the murmur of traffic. She raised her head and contemplated herself in the mirror above the hearth. A look of glowing happiness shone from her eyes, a smile curved her lips. After a moment she leaned forward and gazed searchingly at her image. Her smile faded.

She raised a hand and passed the tips of her fingers lightly over her mouth, cheeks, brow. Surely the scars were almost gone now? In this evening light she could scarcely make them out. As she tilted her head this way and that a look of anxiety crept into her blue-grey eyes.

The sound of the side door opening and closing pierced her absorption – her husband coming in after his evening stint in the garden. He managed the garden himself, large as it was.

She left the mirror and dropped into her chair. She switched on a table lamp, picked up one of her books and opened it at random. By the time Edgar had changed his shoes and washed his hands, had come along the passage and opened the sitting room door, she was leaning comfortably back, reading with an air of studious attention. She glanced up at him with a smile of calm friendliness.

Edgar was tall, strongly built and fit-looking, ten years older than his wife. Dark hair already thinning, gaze level and controlled. A narrow, ascetic face, deeply carved lines running from nose to mouth. He was a local government official, number two in the department of housing and the environment.

He went up to her chair. Her perfume rose up at him as he stooped to give her a kiss. She turned her head slightly so that the kiss landed on her cheek.

‘How was your class?’ he asked as he crossed the room to switch on the television.

‘Very interesting,’ she told him with animation. ‘Some of the students are very bright.’ She smiled. ‘I shall have to watch out they don’t leave me behind.’ It was the beginning of the autumn term at the Cannonbridge College of Further Education; Claire had just attended the first class in her local history course.

She had made a start at the college shortly after her marriage four years ago, choosing, that first year, a single afternoon class. She had added a second afternoon class the following year. In the third year she had in addition signed on for one evening class. This year she had dropped her afternoon classes and enrolled for three evening courses, the other two being in literature and drama. ‘The lecturer is very good,’ she added. ‘Enthusiastic and lively.’

‘Sounds promising,’ Edgar commented as he sat down and gave his attention to the television.

Shortly after half past nine Claire said she was tired, she would have a bath and go to bed. She went slowly up the wide staircase with its ornamental balustrade. The house had been built by Edgar’s great-grandfather, a prosperous merchant; it had been modernized over the years.

Outside the door of the large bedroom she shared with Edgar, Claire paused with her hand on the knob. She turned her head and looked along the landing to where a narrower flight of stairs rose to the next floor. Up there were the nurseries with their barred windows, silent now for many a year. Her face fell into melancholy lines, then she gave her head a brisk little shake and went into the bedroom.

Left alone in the sitting room, Edgar switched off the television. The evening paper lay on a table beside him but he didn’t pick it up. He sat staring ahead, then he got to his feet and went to the bureau. He took out an old leather-bound album and returned to his chair. He opened the album and sat studying the photographs, remembering, reflecting.

His mother, fair-haired and pretty, delicate-looking, gently smiling; Edgar, her first-born, her treasure, had greatly loved her. She had died at the birth of her second child, his brother Lester, born after a gap of twelve years. Their father, dark-haired, an austere cast of countenance; he had died ten years after his beloved wife. Edgar was then twenty-two years old; the task of rearing his young brother to manhood had fallen to him. He had gladly embraced it, seeing it as a service rendered to the mother he had so dearly loved and never ceased to mourn.

He turned the pages of the album: Lester as a baby, a toddler, a schoolboy. Lester in his first long trousers. Lester as a young man.

He turned another page: Lester as a bridegroom, smiling confidently into the camera – five years ago, now. Beside him his bride, a striking brunette, radiant with health and vitality, twelve months younger than her groom: Diane Mansell, only daughter of Tom Mansell, the local builder, the apple of her father’s eye. She had been the star of the Cannonbridge tennis club in her teens, renowned for her mighty smash. She and Lester had met at the club when they were both still at school.

Edgar looked down without affection at Diane in her bridal finery, her hair looped up under a filmy veil, her handsome face with its strongly moulded features, her habitual expression of self-will plain even then, on her wedding-day. Edgar had wanted Lester to take some further course of study or professional articling after leaving school but Lester would have none of it. He had walked out through the school gates for the last time on a Friday afternoon. On the following Monday morning he started work at Mansell’s. Three years later he and Diane were married.

Edgar gave a sigh as he contemplated the bridal couple. He had been against the marriage, had considered them both too young. But it had been more than that: in his official capacity he hadn’t welcomed the Mansell connection. He had never been able to put a positive finger on it but he had long had the feeling that Tom Mansell sailed close to the wind in his business dealings. Mansell for his part had heartily approved the match, had done all he could to encourage it. Edgar couldn’t help thinking this was at least partly because Mansell believed it could do him no harm to have an in-law high up in the local housing department, it could set a seal of respectability on his activities.