Gwendoline Butler - The Coffin Tree

He did tell, an edited version; he could trust her, but for her own sake it was better not to say too much.

‘Those poor young men … I remember Felix.’

‘I thought you would. I was going to ask you to visit his wife with me.’

‘Of course, you know I would … But that’s not all, is it?’

The traffic was building up as they crossed the river; it was still early but commuters were driving into work.

He told her about the body on the funeral pyre.

‘Burnt. Totally burnt, how terrible. Who was it?’

‘I’ve heard now: it was a young woman.’

‘She was dead?’

Alive or dead, that was the question.

‘She was alive when she set the fire and she meant to do it. Suicide. She left a note.’

Stella looked at his face.

‘It was Felix’s wife.’

Alive or dead.

Suttee.

The moment Stella came back, the theatre came to life: a new play opened in the big theatre in the old church (now called the Stella Pinero Theatre), an innovative piece was rehearsing in the theatre workshop, and the drama school had a new intake. It was Stella who had waved the magic wand, and life began again.

He realized how much he had missed her.

She had returned with all her usual enthusiasm and cheerfulness to breathe energy into the schemes at the theatre that she had left behind.

Coffin relished this side of it; the glitter and sparkle that Stella brought with her made a counterweight to the tragedies that hung over him. Felix, Mark Pittsy and now Felix’s wife.

Suicide, of a particularly terrible kind. How could she do it?

‘I don’t know, darling,’ said Stella as she unpacked her presents for him. ‘But if she was in great pain in her mind, I suppose physical pain might not matter so much.’ She contemplated a day in which she herself could do such a thing and could not find it there. No, she would always battle on. ‘I couldn’t do it.

‘No, I’m such a coward … I’m surprised any woman could, but they do, in India. There, it’s part of the culture, or it was, but this was her own private hell, poor love.’

Coffin sat on the bed and watched her unpack. ‘Here’s a bottle of your favourite Jack Daniels. I know you don’t drink as much as you did, but it’s nice to have it by you.’

‘I drink enough,’ said Coffin gloomily. Especially when she was away – he’d had plenty this time, but life had been tough.

‘But not as much as once,’ she said, her voice firm. ‘And if you stick to the best whisky and champagne, you won’t go wrong.’

It was the sort of remark he loved her for, redolent as it was of her own zest for the superior.

‘Geraldine has asked us to one of her mornings.’

‘Oh, we’ll go, she always has the best people there. And with this new play coming on, I could do with nobbling a few critics.’ Stella held up before him her latest purchase from Bergdorff Goodman. ‘Look at this, isn’t it lovely?’ It was a plain, short little shift of black. ‘You’d never believe how much it cost.’

‘I expect I would.’ Coffin was beginning to be an experienced husband. ‘Especially when I see it on.’

‘Oh, you are a love. And quite right. A cheap dress.’ (Cheap by Stella’s standards did not necessarily mean a small price.) ‘A cheap dress often looks good when on display and a couture dress nothing, but when you wear them … ah, that’s when cut and fit show.’

She seemed prepared to elaborate on this but Coffin said: ‘She wants us to bring Phoebe Astley.’

‘Ah.’ She was perhaps not best pleased to find Phoebe Astley so ensconced in his life. ‘Well, of course. I like Phoebe. Of course, I’ve never really got to know her,’ she added carefully.

‘I need her in this job, Stella. I couldn’t see anyone else doing it. I wanted her here.’

‘I know. And I’ve decided to be big about it.’

‘And she’s clever and ambitious; she’ll move on.’

‘Think so?’

He nodded. He felt like opening the bottle of whisky already; Stella, when she started to probe, could get close to the bone, very close. He had told her some of the reasons for wanting Phoebe to head the Unit, but not all the secret investigation as well. It was really better not. Safer.

Because he might be the ultimate victim, and he didn’t want Stella involved. She was not for burning.

‘Well, I won’t ask why you really wanted her,’ said Stella, letting him know she could read his mind more than a little, ‘but why did she come?’

‘I’m not sure,’ said Coffin slowly. ‘I know what she said, but I’m not sure if it’s the truth.’

‘And I’m not to ask?’

‘Oh, just a love affair that went wrong.’

‘Just,’ said Stella with a little nod. ‘Just.’ She continued with her unpacking, while her husband watched her, leaning across the pillows. ‘You look lovely in bed, darling. At your age.’

‘Thank you.’

‘You’re really unhappy and worried. I could feel it while you were making love to me, not really there.’

‘Not true.’ Perhaps it was though, horrible thoughts had intruded.

‘You’re getting to be megalomaniac, you know, dear. I hate to say, but I’ve seen it growing on you.’

‘You mean paranoid.’ He rested back against the pillows. ‘You could be right.’

‘But I love you, and you have a lovely, smooth …’

‘Say any more and you’ll make me blush.’

‘Temper,’ finished Stella, sitting on the edge of the bed and giggling. She threw across to him a soft, silk dressing gown. ‘Here, in thanks for your lovely smooth, rounded temper.’

‘There’s terror about,’ he said gripping her wrist. ‘It’s an infection. Like the Plague. It’s got me; I don’t want it to get hold of you.’

‘It won’t,’ and added with her elegant, brutal honesty, ‘although I am often afraid of almost anything: of the dark, of spiders, of being ill in a strange place.’

She removed her wrist. ‘You’ve got quite a grip, you know; you’d have made a good actor, I think.’

‘Why do you say that?’ One or two of his colleagues would have called him one already.

‘You get the action to fit the words; you grabbed my wrist at just the right moment. It would have looked good on stage.’ She got on with her unpacking. No more presents for him appeared, but a small collection of carefully wrapped parcels were placed on her dressing table. Stella always brought gifts back for her friends. Those who were closest to her at the time (and they varied, usually being people she had last worked with or would be working with next), could count on a bottle of scent or a little piece of jewellery or a special silk scarf. Stella prided herself on her presents.

‘Well, you won’t want me to go and see the poor woman now. She’s dead, poor love.’

‘No.’ Coffin was up and finishing a cup of coffee. Tiddles appeared at the window and was let in. ‘He must have good take-off, that cat,’ he said as he opened the window. ‘I never know how he does that jump from roof to windowsill.’

‘He’s eaten enough birds,’ said Stella, ‘he’s probably got little wings developing under that fur.’

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