Penny Vincenzi - The Best Of Times

People were very kind: Tim and Lorraine came once a week, sometimes in the evening, sometimes at the weekend, and Christine came twice, once to take her mother to the farmers’ market, which she enjoyed, and once to have lunch with her at home. She had ventured quite early on into the realms of apology for her hostility to Russell; Mary told her quite briskly to be quiet.

“You came to the wedding, dear-that was marvellous-and became friends with Russell after that, and I really don’t want to discuss it any further.”

Everyone told her she was being wonderful; Mary thought they should see her at night, when she had gone to bed, and wept and sometimes howled with misery.

Other people visited her: Georgia had been terribly upset and wept so long and so copiously after Tim had called her-they had made rather good friends at the wedding, so good indeed that Lorraine had become quite spiky-that her mother thought something dreadful had happened to her.

“It is dreadful,” Georgia wailed; “Russell has died, and I was going to visit them the very next week, and now I’ll never see him again and I can’t bear it.”

“You won’t see him again, Georgia, no, but neither will Mary. She’s the one something dreadful has happened to, and I think she’s the one who feels she can’t bear it. Go and see her, keep her company, tell her about your life, go for walks with her-that’s what you can do for her now.

“Sometimes,” Bea said to Jack with a sigh, “I feel Georgia’s development was arrested at about the age of six.”

Georgia telephoned Mary to arrange a day, and Mary said that if she was coming on the train, then she would send the car to meet her in Bath. Georgia, who felt her visit should be as difficult as possible by way of reparation, said that wouldn’t be necessary and arrived therefore an hour and a half late on the twice-daily bus to Tadwick. Mary, who had by then decided she couldn’t be coming, was trying to comfort herself by playing the piano, which was in fact rather fortuitous, as Georgia found some old sheet music of Russell’s and they spent an extremely happy afternoon together, Georgia singing while Mary accompanied her.

“Right,” Georgia said when they were both exhausted and she was hoarse, “that’s Oklahoma and My Fair Lady ticked off; next week we’ll do Annie Get Your Gun and Carousel . And how do you think you’d be with Scott Joplin? This is fun.”

“It is indeed,” said Mary, “and next week, dear, please do allow yourself to be driven. We’ll have more time together; we can even go for a walk as well.”

Georgia ’s visit had cheered Mary immensely; she insisted on hearing all about the festival and said she’d be there.

“Really? Goodness, Mary, that would be… well… wonderful,” said Georgia slightly doubtfully. “But it’ll be very noisy and… well, very noisy. And a lot of people.”

“That’s fine; I like noise and lots of people. Tim and Lorraine can look after me, or perhaps the Connells; I presume they’ll be there. I may not stay very long, and I certainly won’t be camping, but I’d love to see it all.”

“You are so cool,” said Georgia, giving her a kiss.

Two days later a letter arrived from Mary, enclosing a cheque for a thousand pounds.

“You said you were hoping to find a sponsor for your festival. Of course, I am not in that league, and I’m sure this won’t make a great deal of difference, but it might pay for some posters or something. I know that Russell would have loved to have helped you; he so loved young people-as I do-and even got involved. In fact, he rather fancied himself a song-and-dance man; you might have got more than you bargained for! Please pass this to your committee as a token of my great interest and pleasure in being involved, in a small way.”

“Shit!” said Abi, when Georgia told her. “A thousand fucking quid! Shit!”

Georgia felt that this was not quite the response Mary might have expected, but thought that she would have recognised its sincerity all the same.

The other person who came to visit, to Mary’s great delight, was Emma. She was very upset to hear that Russell had died… “I shall never forget seeing him in the Dorchester that night,” she wrote, “and thinking how handsome he was. And it was such a privilege to come to your wedding. If you’d like a little visit from me, please let me know; if not don’t give it a moment’s thought.”

Mary wrote back and said that the only thought she had given it was how very nice it would be to see her.

“Come and have lunch with me, when you can. I shall look forward to it so much.”

Emma arrived with a large bunch of daffodils, and was then mortified to see the drive down from the gate to the house lined with them.

“Talk about coals to Newcastle.”

“No,” said Mary, taking the daffodils, leading her into the kitchen, where Mrs. Salter found them a huge white jug. “I hate picking them, you see; they die so quickly, and it’s wonderful to have yours.”

“Well… I’m glad,” said Emma slightly doubtfully. “Goodness, that is a lovely smell.”

“What, dear, the daffodils? I never can find much of a perfume in them, to be honest.”

“No, no, it’s bread. Baking bread. Isn’t it?” she said to Mrs. Salter.

“It is, my dear, yes.”

“My mum used to make bread when we were all at home,” said Emma. “I’ve never done it, although I sort of know how. It’s hardly worth it for just for me.”

“Time enough when you have a family of your own,” said Mrs. Salter.

Emma nodded and smiled politely, thinking that while it was clearly ridiculous to completely write off the family of her own, and the bread she might make for it, its likelihood in the near future was so small as to be inconsiderable, given that the only person she would wish to have fathered the family clearly cared for her not in the least, and she had neither the energy nor the inclination to even begin looking for another. Damn Barney. Damn him. It was as if he’d cast a spell on her, rendered her incapable of normal sexual and emotional thought. She had to get over him; she had to.

Mary suggested a walk round the garden after lunch.

“I was half thinking you might be at the inquest,” she said, tucking her arm in Emma’s.

“Oh… no. I had nothing to do with it. No point, really.”

“Dr. Pritchard was there. He gave some very good evidence, spoke so well. Such a charming man.”

“Yes, he is a sweetheart. And he’s very happy with Linda, you know? The lady he brought to your… your…” She stopped, clearly afraid of stirring up unhappy emotions.

Mary smiled at her, patted her arm.

“My wedding. Nothing makes me happier than thinking about that day, Emma. Nothing. Wonderful things, good memories.”

“Yes, indeed,” said Emma. She sighed without meaning to, then thought how selfish she was. “Sorry.”

“Is anything the matter, dear? You look tired.”

“No, no, I’m fine. Really. Well… maybe a bit tired. It’s hard work, A and E. I was on nights all last week. Takes time to get over that.”

“I’m sure. Well, if that’s all. Now, I wonder if you heard from Georgia, and those two young men, the bridegroom-Mr. Weston, I think his name was-and his best man, Barnaby someone…”

“Fraser?”

“Yes, that’s right. They were both there, of course. I was able to apologise to them, rather obliquely. I always felt I’d held them up, you know, wouldn’t let Mr. Weston go in front of me in the queue. And then Barnaby paid a tribute to someone I thought might have been you.”