Emma Page - Mortal Remains

He smiled as he drank his tea. He would deeply relish the challenge of setting about cutting himself a second slice of the cake. He would move Lester over to take charge of the new branch. Lester would do well there, he had a good head on his shoulders. He had never traded on his position as the boss’s son-in-law, had always pulled his full weight, he had more than earned his promotion. And he might very well find a spot in the new set-up for Norman Griffin. A useful and loyal henchman, the right stuff in him, the backbone to start taking on a bit of responsibility.

He stood up and went to a wall map. Pins and flags marked current developments, projects still under discussion, sites of possible future interest, and, most mouthwatering of all, likely locations for the second yard. He studied the map closely, then he moved on to consult the calendar – his own trade calendar, expensively produced, beautifully photographed, portraying the best of the firm’s work over the previous year. It bore the correct name of the firm, Dobie and Mansell, though the business was known everywhere these days simply as Mansell‘s.

Dobie was now retired, living abroad. The firm had been started by Dobie’s father after the First World War, Tom Mansell had come in fifteen years ago. Dobie had taken no active part in the management since his retirement. As long as his share of the steadily increasing profits kept rolling in, he didn’t bother his head about what went on in the business.

Mansell fingered back the glossy pages, considering dates: September . . . October . . . November . . . His face broke into a smile, he jabbed a finger down. ‘That’s it!’ he said aloud. Sunday, November 11. He’d have them all here together for a slap-up lunch, Lester, Diane, Stuart, he’d make his announcement then.

It pleased his fancy to choose the anniversary of the day he had taken over sole active control of the firm. Dobie had left the yard for the last time thirteen years ago, on November 10, at the end of the working day. Early next morning, before anyone was about, Mansell had driven into the yard. He had walked about the entire place with a great grin on his face, knowing it was all before him, tasting the powerful sweetness of the moment.

He picked up one of the framed photographs ranged along a shelf, one he particularly liked: Diane and Lester, strolling in the rose garden here, holding hands, smiling at each other. He’d taken the photograph himself one Sunday afternoon when they’d come to tea, not long after they’d got back from their honeymoon.

He gazed fondly down at the smiling pair. How right he had been to encourage the match – in spite of the opposition from that brother of Lester’s. Edgar always struck Mansell as a dry stick, though still a couple of years away from forty. His thoughts were briefly side-tracked by a vision of Claire, beautiful and elegant. The question rose in his mind, by no means for the first time: Whatever could have persuaded a woman like that to marry such a man?

He dragged his thoughts back to Diane and Lester. No sign yet of starting a family. He drew a deep sigh. Time enough, Diane always told him whenever he raised the matter with her. Another year or two, she’d said the last time he’d brought it up, then I really will settle down to it.

He replaced the photograph and picked up another, more recent, more formally posed: Stuart on his eighteenth birthday. It was like looking at a portrait of himself as a young man. I suppose it might not be all that many years before we have Stuart thinking about getting married, he told himself with a lightening of his spirits. Not that Stuart had any steady girlfriend as yet. Mansell fervently hoped that when the time came his son would have the sense to find himself a girl with old-fashioned ideas of a home and babies, not some hard-nosed modern female with her sights set chiefly on a career.

He put the photograph back and returned to his desk. He sat staring ahead, lost in thought.

Children, grandchildren, great-grandchildren, they were what gave life and substance to it all, made the whole shooting-match more than a dance of shadows on a flickering screen. The unbroken line of one’s own flesh and blood stretching into the misty centuries ahead, that was what took away the sting from the stabbing thought of one’s own mortality, that must in the end prevail, struggle against it as one might.

Over in Fairbourne, Edgar Holroyd’s day didn’t begin quite so early. At six-thirty precisely he opened his eyes in the spacious front bedroom looking out over the common. Never any need for an alarm, he always woke at the same hour, winter and summer; he had trained himself to that useful habit long ago, as a lad.

A still morning, little sound of traffic as yet. Pale streaks of light stole in around the edges of the curtains. From the trees screening the garden the collared doves murmured their ceaseless calculation: Thirteen six, thirteen six.

He glanced across at the other bed. Claire lay with her back to him, curled in a posture of deep sleep. He moved his covers gently back, eased himself noiselessly out, silently drew on slippers and dressing-gown.

With barely a whisper of sound he let himself out of the room and went stealthily along the landing, into the small bedroom he had used as a dressing room since his marriage. He got into jogging gear and went down to the kitchen where he drank a glass of orange juice and ate the single piece of rye crispbread he allowed himself before setting out.

He went for his early-morning jog in all but the worst weather. Every evening, if at all possible, he took a brisk walk. He had begun these habits years ago, they were by now deeply ingrained. Claire never accompanied him on either sally, it had never occurred to either of them to suggest it.

His watch showed his customary time as he let himself out of the house and set off at his customary pace to cover his customary route.

Upstairs in the front bedroom Claire caught the sound of the side door opening and closing. She had surfaced to full consciousness before Edgar left his bed but she had lain motionless and kept her eyes closed while he was still in the room.

She switched on the light, flung back the covers and sprang out of bed. She pulled on a robe and slippers, darted across to a mirror. This morning it was her hair that occupied her attention. Time for a new style – making her third in as many months. Before that, she hadn’t changed her hairstyle since her marriage; she smiled now at the thought.

She lifted her shining tresses, pinned, unpinned, pursued a fresh inspiration; another and another, arriving at last at an effect that satisfied her. She gave a decisive nod; at her next hair appointment she would definitely suggest something along those lines.

She turned from the mirror and went to the wardrobe, she ran her hand along the rail, appraising. The first day of autumn was only a little over a week away. Some new clothes for the new season. Her blue-grey eyes sparkled. She began to hum a tune.

The area immediately to the north of Whitethorn Common contained a variety of dwellings: terrace houses, red-brick semis, large Victorian and Edwardian residences turned into flats; here and there an old cottage clinging to its original garden, reminding the district of its rural past.

A little further out, a fair-sized council estate had sprung up after the First World War. It had seen several changes; many of the houses had passed into private hands.

In one of the more attractive parts of the estate a small grove of trees separated a group of dwellings from their neighbours. One of these dwellings, a semi occupying a corner plot in a pleasant cul-de-sac, was the home of Harry Lingard, Jill Lingard’s grandfather. It had been his home since boyhood, he had lived there alone since the death of his wife three years ago. They had had one child, a son, father of Gareth and Jill; he had been carried off in his thirties by a virulent form of pneumonia. His widow had married again two years ago and lived now with her second husband in a northern city.