David Nobbs - It Had to Be You

James shared a grimace with Philip.

‘I know,’ said Philip. ‘All Deborah’s vitality, her beauty, her kindness, her energy, all described as “the driver of the other car”.’ He wasn’t aware that he was sometimes called ‘the other brother’. ‘Upstaged in death. Mind you, she had no shred of pomposity or self-importance. She wouldn’t have minded.’

‘No. A fitting obituary, then, perhaps.’

James didn’t tell Philip why he had been grimacing. He had lost his villain. He no longer had anybody to blame.

He gave Philip a list of tasks. Look on the web for information about funeral directors in Islington and how much they cost. Look for any comment pages, if there were such things. First-rate service. Will definitely use them next time. Snotty-nosed, supercilious and extortionate. Wouldn’t touch them with a barge pole. Find a vicar. How did you do that? Look up ‘Vicars’ in Yellow Pages? Use the web again. Vicars, Islington, search. Try to begin to fix the date of the funeral. Try to avoid Tuesday and Wednesday, Charles wouldn’t be able to make it. Make morning coffee. Make lunch. Answer phone and door as required.

‘I so appreciate this, Philip.’

‘No probs.’

He left Philip indoors with the land line, got his mobile, went out into the garden, sat on the white William Morris chair Deborah had picked up in a little shop in Winchcombe, placed his address book and a glass of chilled water on the cast-iron table she had spotted in Much Wenlock, wondered briefly if there was one single thing in the whole house and garden, except stains, for which he was responsible.

He looked round the garden, delaying the moment when he would have to begin. It was broken up into little gravelled areas and small, irregular flower beds, which cleverly hid its narrowness and its uninspiring rectangular shape. There were cyclamens and lilies and attractive green ferns whose names he couldn’t remember. The smell from the pots of lavender brought back memories of lunches taken outdoors in weather such as this. The passiflora growing up the back wall was in full flower. Giant grasses were used as windbreaks. And all this, the ingenuity, the elegance, the restraint, had all been created by Deborah.

He sat in the middle of this living memorial to her artistry, and he felt awkward and ashamed. He sensed that he was about to miss her deeply, and so, in the end, he picked up the telephone almost eagerly.

And began.

‘All right, all right, I’m coming as fast as I can.’

Stanley Hollinghurst, James’s uncle, his father’s brother, talked to himself quite a lot now. He didn’t care. Charles had once pointed it out, and that evening he had caught himself saying, ‘So, you’re talking to yourself, are you? Well, Charles, you’re wrong. It isn’t the first sign of madness. It’s the first sign that there are sod all other people to talk to. It’s all right for you, you’re surrounded by people, you complacent young fool, but I talk to myself because it’s someone to listen to, all right?’ And then the humour of his talking to himself about his habit of talking to himself had struck him, and he’d laughed till his teeth came out.

‘Don’t ring off. I’m on my way.’

He didn’t have an answer machine. He was a Luddite. Well, he was an anthropologist. The past was his business. Or had been. All that was in the past now. Ha ha! Ironic!

He got to the phone while it was still ringing. Must be somebody he knew, making allowances.

‘Stanley Hollinghurst, OBE.’

‘Stanley! You haven’t got an OBE.’

‘No, but very few people round here know that. How are you, James?’

‘Fine. Stanley, I—’

‘How are Charles and Philip?’

‘Fine. Charles is on a concert tour and Philip’s here.’

‘Is he? Well, tell him not to worry about all that global warming stuff. I think it’s great.’

‘Stanley, I’ve got—’

‘Human race deserves it. Can’t hurt me. I’ll be gone.’

‘Stanley, I’ve got some—’

‘Spaniards sizzling. French frying. What’s the problem?’

‘Stanley, I’ve got some bad—’

‘Brighton under six feet of water. All those homos and lesbians shitting themselves.’

‘Stanley! That’s terrible.’

‘I know. I do so enjoy saying things like that, though. People are so bloody self-righteous, James.’

‘Stanley, has it occurred to you that I might have rung you because I have something to tell you?’

‘Ah. Yes. Sorry. Like the sound of my voice. You will when you live alone.’

‘Stanley, I do live alone.’

‘What? What are you on about?’

‘Stanley, Deborah’s dead.’

Stanley remained silent throughout the whole sad story, and when James had finished, he said, in the soft, sincere, real voice he hadn’t used since Mollie died thirty-three years ago, ‘James, I’m so sorry. I really am. Deborah, of all people. She was the best of the whole bunch, James.’

Mike next. No, difficult. Gordon Tollington first. Easier. Gordon and he went right back to the Dorking days. He was the only man who liked food even more than James did. Fifty-three years old, sold out for millions. Rich, idle and fat. Good company, though. Haven’t seen them for far too long.

Gordon Tollington listened in almost total silence, only interrupting, as it seemed most people did, to say, ‘Diss?’, as if Diss was just outside Timbuktu. When he rang off, Gordon’s face was grim.

He went out into the spacious garden, with its long sloping lawns.

Stephanie was sliding broad beans out of their pods in the shade.

He slumped down beside her and told her the bad news. They sat in silent shock.

‘Oh, my God,’ he said suddenly.

‘I know. It’s just sunk in, hasn’t it? It’s so awful.’

‘Not that. Well, that too, of course. But … I bet the funeral will be next Wednesday. It’ll take that long to organise.’

‘So?’

‘That’s the day we’re going to the Fat Duck.’

‘For shame, Gordon. Is a meal more important than Deborah’s death?’

‘It isn’t a meal. It’s the meal. We booked months ago.’

‘Gordon, I don’t believe what I’m hearing.’

‘I know, but … I loved Deborah, Steph … loved her, wonderful woman, I’m very sad. But we can’t bring her back, and you have to book months in advance.’

‘I think we have to go.’

‘Well, I don’t know that it’s that cut and dried. I think they’ll be used to people cancelling. They’ll have a cancellation list.’

‘I meant, “We have to go to the funeral…”’

‘Yes. Yes, of course we do. No, I really want to. Of course I do. What do you think I am?’

‘It may not be next Wednesday.’

‘It will be. Death is never convenient. Do you know, I think I’m fated to die without ever having tasted snail porridge.’

Edward and Jane Winterburn. He’d been quite close to them once. Well, very close to Jane, for a while. Well, she’d been his very first proper girlfriend. She had legs that went on for ever. He’d thought he loved her. He’d thought she loved him. Definitely wrong on the second count, she went off with Ed the day after James had taken her to his college’s May Ball. Probably wrong on the first count too, because he got over it pretty quickly. They had stayed friends at first. Then Ed did something he really didn’t approve of. Twice, to his knowledge. Went bankrupt, opened up under a new name, owing vast sums that nobody would ever receive. Mocked James for his disapproval, called him naive and stuffy and unrealistically idealistic. After that it had been Christmas cards only. But they had both liked Deborah. Yes, he decided that he’d let them know.

Jane answered. He was pleased about that.