The Feast of All Souls Read online

  “Good,” said Mr Thorne. “Good. It is what I hoped. I suspect your father would have said that actions speak louder than words, however – yes?”

  “Of course. If you had been a trader in slaves, he would have expected you to give that business up.”

  “Naturally. So, a man must repent both in word and deed.”

  I am not sure even now if he expected any reply from me, but at that moment the clocks rang out the half-hour, and he stood. “In any case,” he said. “To work! But thank you, Miss Carson. I will give your counsel a great deal of thought.”

  And with that he returned to his desk and readied himself to take up where he had left off. I hurried to my place and carried out my duties, transcribing his letters and memoranda. And so the rest of the working day passed.

  Up, at least, until the final half hour, when Mr Thorne ceased dictating.

  “Miss Carson?” he said, and there was a note in his voice I had not heard before. It was almost shy.

  “Yes, Mr Thorne?”

  “I was wondering if I might make a request of you.”

  “Of course, sir. You are my employer.”

  “Nonetheless, this is a request of a more personal nature.”

  I froze. What was he about to suggest?

  “The music room,” he said. “I wondered if we might retire there – and, if so, if I might prevail upon you to play again.”

  I hesitated. This was unfamiliar ground to me, in more ways than one. In terms of my relationship to my employer it was a new departure. In another, simpler sense... well, as I have said, there had been two suitors for my hand in my youth, but, other than my father, it had been a long time since I had had any conversation with a man beyond the purely professional. I had a sense of treading terra incognita, some hitherto uncharted domain of whose codes of conduct I was ignorant, where the penalty for a wrong step might be fearful.

  If I said yes, what else might I be held to have implicitly agreed to? But my very ignorance of these rules made me loath to refuse; perhaps the offer was, in fact, a sign of forgiveness for my earlier trespass in the music room – if trespass it had been – and to spurn it would be an insult. And besides, there was that piano, beautiful even beneath its dust, even out of tune. “It would be a pleasure,” I said at last.

  “Good.” He smiled at me again. “Shall we go?”

  It had been, beyond doubt, a day of surprises, and I soon learned that they were not yet over. When we reached the music room doors, Mr Thorne flung them wide, and I was astonished to see the transformation that had been wrought. The music room – and most of all, the piano – had been cleaned to spotlessness, and soft lights burned in their sconces on the wall.

  “Miss Carson.” Mr Thorne indicated the piano stool. “Please.”

  I sat there – much more self-consciously and with far less assurance than I had the other day. The piano looked brand-new, and expensive to boot. The deep brown wood gleamed.

  Mr Thorne, meanwhile, walked past me and sat in the front row of the chairs, arms folded on his belly, watching me. I felt my cheeks burn with embarrassment; I felt awkward beyond words, and that, of course, was the problem. I was, most decidedly, uncomfortable, but I had no words in which to express my discomfort. Certainly, I saw no alternative but to continue with the game – if game it was.

  I folded back the lid and cleared my throat. “What shall I play?” I asked him.

  “I think,” he said, “the piece you played the other day. You played quite beautifully, you know, Miss Carson.”

  Again I dared not look at him. I flexed my fingers, reached out and touched the keys. The sonata’s first movement: adagio sostenuto. I played the first notes, then stopped. Not only had Mr Thorne had the music room cleaned, he had re-tuned the piano, and now the notes sounded as the composer had intended, full and rich and clear, gently wafting through the room.

  Mr Thorne’s presence continued to make me uncomfortable: I had no idea how to react to it, and so ignored it insofar as was possible. I did not look at him; I focused solely on the piano, the keys and the music.

  Only once did my self-imposed resolve fail me, and I gave into the temptation of stealing a glance at him. He leaned back in his chair, his eyes closed, a slight smile hovering on his lips. I looked away, feeling as though I was intruding on some intimate moment.

  And so on I played. First the adagio sostenuto; then, with barely a pause, the allegretto, and then at last the presto agitato.

  At last I was done. I was angry, in a way; I’d found something private, something secret, some warmth and comfort in a comfortless place. Mr Thorne had robbed me of that, made it a command performance for his benefit. Was that how it would be now? The piano-playing as just another extension of my duties?

  Fingers trembling, I folded down the piano lid as the last notes faded. As I did, I realised Mr Thorne was applauding.

  “Very good indeed, Miss Carson,” he said, getting up quickly. His voice was a little hoarse, and he did not let me see his face. “Very good indeed. Thank you.” And then the music-room door swung shut behind him, his footsteps fading down the corridor’s panelled floor.

  Chapter Ten

  Dating

  29th October 2016

  THE STONE IN the garden was fixed in place; Alice couldn’t budge it. Instead she fetched her digital camera and took several pictures, close up. After that she busied herself on the rest of the garden, until she heard Darren’s van pull up outside.

  She brought him endless cups of tea and pretended not to feel his eyes on her when she turned away. Again that odd, guilty thrill of satisfaction: she still had it, whatever ‘it’ might be.

  At last, he was done; a brand new uPVC door was in place, with a five lever mortice lock and additional locks at the top and bottom.

  “Thanks, Darren,” she said, counting out the promised notes.

  He grinned back. “No problem, love.” A pause. “Well...”

  “Thanks again,” she said, smiling at him. “Byeee.”

  She thought she saw the smile fade before the door clicked shut; he thought he’d been in there, no doubt. She’d been briefly tempted, all the same – a little warmth, a little companionship would go a long way just now – but it would cause more trouble than it was worth. It always did. She was quite damaged and complicated enough without any added ingredients, thanks very much.

  She went to the window, watched the van drive away, then put the kettle on and studied the door. It made her feel a little better, but not much. There was danger inside, as well. She wouldn’t fasten the top and bottom locks; she might need to get out. But considered again, that thought wasn’t comforting either.

  Indeed, she couldn’t be sure if the children hadn’t tried to drive her out of the house. Out front there’d been the warrior with his spear, and out back – she tried not to think of the ogre, told herself it couldn’t have been real.

  But still... there was the spearhead. She hadn’t imagined that. She should have kept a sample of the dust that had lain beside it as further proof.

  The phone rang; Alice jumped. Her hand went to her chest, felt the thunder of her heart. She was gasping for air; she made herself breathe slowly, in and out, as Kat had taught her to. The phone kept ringing. Alice sighed, went through into the front room and picked it up. “Hello?”

  “Is that you, our Alice?”

  She sighed again. “No, Mum,” she said. “You’re talking to a figment of your imagination.”

  A gasp. “Oh God, Alice –”

  “Mum. Mum. I’m joking.”

  “Well, it’s not a very nice thing to do,” said her mother. “Your Dad and I have been worried sick about you since you moved there.”

  “Mum, I’m fine.” Christ, that was a laugh.

  “No you’re not, Alice. No, you’re not.”

  “Oh,” she said, “yes, I’m sorry, Mum. Of course. I couldn’t possibly have any awareness of my own mental state, could I?”

  “I’m just trying
to help, Alice. It can’t be good for you, being on your own there.”

  Alice managed to stop herself bursting into laughter just in time. God knew what her mother would have thought of that, but she had to see the funny side if she wanted to retain whatever sanity she possessed, assuming she still possessed any. “Mum,” she said, “really, I’m okay. I don’t want to talk about –”

  “Alice, you’ve got to talk about it. You’re going through one of the worst things a woman can go through –”

  “Mum, really, just leave it, okay?”

  “No, Alice – you can’t just hide in your room all the time.”

  “Look, Mum, for God’s sake what do you want?”

  There was a breath’s worth of silence on the other end of the phone, enough to tell her that what she’d said had hurt. Which now meant, of course, that Mum would come back twice as strong as before.

  “What do I want? I just want to be a mother to my daughter, that’s all. What do you think I want? You’re alone, you’re grieving, you push everyone away, and I’m supposed to just leave you on your own?”

  “I want to be left alone, Mum. Right now, that’s what I need. I need some time to myself.”

  “You do not need time to yourself! That’s the worst thing you could possibly have!”

  “How do you know?” Alice could feel her control slipping. She knew what she was saying would make things worse: it was like watching someone fall from a height – it was terrible, but the outcome was beyond your power to change. “What makes you so bloody sure you know what I need?”

  “I’m your mother! Do you think I don’t know you better than you know yourself? It’s the strongest bond there is, between mother and child –”

  Mum stopped. This time the pause was of both their making. Hell is truth learned too late; Alice had heard that somewhere, and her mother had been just a second too tardy in realising what she was saying.

  “Between mother and child?” she said. She felt her grip on the telephone handset tighten, felt the plastic casing squeak and crack. “Between mother and child? Who the hell are you to – how dare you lecture me about that? Who the hell are you to be so superior?”

  “Alice, I’m sorry –”

  “What did you do to protect your precious bloody daughter when Dad was gambling and drinking and pissing all the money up the wall? What did you do when the leg-breakers came kicking down the bloody door?” That was unfair and cruel and she knew it, but she couldn’t stop. “What did you do to become the patron saint of Mums everywhere?”

  She stopped herself – but again, it was too late. At the other end of the phone, she heard hitching breaths, then sobs. Well done, Alice. You made your Mum cry.

  Alice put a hand to her mouth. Say something. Just say something. She didn’t know if she meant her mother or herself. But Mum just cried and Alice couldn’t think of anything to say. She couldn’t carry on with this. She put the phone down and slumped back into a chair, then wiped her eyes furiously; she was beginning to shake. She felt sick. She got up and ran to the bathroom.

  As she rinsed her mouth with cold water and splashed more on her face, she heard the phone ring again. She towelled her face dry and put her glasses back on. No, she wouldn’t answer. She couldn’t face Mum now.

  When the phone had stopped ringing, she went into the kitchen, gently took the spearhead from its carrier-bag sheath and studied it again, then wrapped it once more. Walking down the hall she heard whispers, glanced up to see pairs of white, blind-looking eyes peer down at her from the stairs. She slipped the spearhead into her shoulder-bag and went out, locking the new front door behind her, walking toward the bus stop.

  SHE GOT OFF on Chapel Street and walked until she reached the old Salford Royal Infirmary – now a block of flats – and the junction with Oldfield Road. Here was where the University campus appeared; on her right, down Silk Street, lay the Adelphi Building, which had been the hub for all the Performing Arts students.

  She crossed over Silk Street and passed Adelphi House, a newer building that in her day had been filled with plasma screens and the like for better viewing. It stood above the Old Pint Pot, a pub perched on the bank of the Irwell. Now the A6 had changed, from Chapel Street to Salford Crescent, and on her right there was only a railing with a sheer drop to the swollen brown river below. Across the lanes of traffic was the Black Horse; she’d got drunk in there more often than she could count, but the windows and the doorway were covered now by sheets of tin, which in turn were plastered over with flyers for long-forgotten gigs and events.

  Up ahead, where the river curved round, there was the main university campus, but Joule House was on her left, across the lanes of traffic. She walked up further, found a pedestrian crossing and used it. Then she went up the steps to the main doors, let herself through and approached the pretty young woman at reception.

  “Hi.”

  “Hi. I’ve got an appointment to see Professor Fry.”

  “What name is it, please?”

  “Alice Collier.”

  “Okay, just take a seat.” Was it Alice’s imagination, or did the woman behind the desk eye her with disdain? Alice could barely wait until she was sitting down before taking out her powder compact and checking herself in the mirror. She had showered that morning, hadn’t she? Had remembered to put on make-up and brush her hair? The mirror reassured her that she had. She studied her clothes: jeans, trainers and a sweater. Nothing spectacular, but all clean on today and all good-quality brands. Unless – and she made herself laugh at the frightening traitor thought – unless all her perceptions were completely haywire and she was actually a nightmarish figure of dirty clothes, matted hair and old streaked make-up.

  A door opened. “Alice?”

  “Hi, Chris,” she said, getting up.

  Chris Fry smiled back at her and held out both arms, which went some way to dispelling her fears. His hug was tight, warm and above all, friendly – no attempt to be anything more than it was. “How are you, chuck? It’s been ages.”

  “I’m” – Fine? Great? – “I’m okay.”

  “Oh good. Good.” Chris shuffled from one foot to the other; a big, broad-shouldered man in his late thirties, he looked like a particularly large and amiable teddy bear blinking awake from hibernation. Like Darren, he wore a combination of jeans and lumberjack shirt, but in his case they strained noticeably in an effort to contain a physique whose lines, made generous by Mother Nature, had been made even more so by an excessive fondness for curry. Although the casual observer might have thought it was due to excess hair: Chris Fry was one of the most hirsute people Alice had ever known. His hairline was only just starting to recede, and his thick, reddish-brown mane, barely touched with grey, hung down his back. He’d made an attempt to tie it back in a ponytail, but about two-thirds of it had refused to be disciplined and spilled across his shoulders. Add that to a thick, bushy beard and the only parts of Chris’ face still visible were his forehead, eyes and cheeks – which, she saw, were starting to redden as the awkward silence stretched out. “Come on up,” he said. “This way.”

  “YOU WANT SOME coffee? I’ve got some of the proper stuff here. None of that instant crap.”

  “Oh, go on, then, thanks.”

  Chris’s office, like the man himself, was in a state of amiable disarray, with papers heaped on his desk, on the spare desk up against the walls, and in the sorting trays. It was also a little home from home, with a tiny kitchenette tucked away in one corner, complete with a sink and fridge.

  The bear’s lair, Alice thought. He’d been no different when they were students together. A friend of a friend, who’d lived not far from her digs, Chris had plainly been smitten with Alice, but thankfully he’d also been far too shy and sweet-natured to be any kind of trouble. By the look of it, he still seemed fond of her. That wouldn’t hurt.

  Chris ambled over to the coffee machine, filled two mugs and cleared a couple of spaces on the desk for them before fishing a pint bottle of milk
from the fridge. “Semi-skimmed do you?”

  “Absolutely fine.”

  “Sugar?”

  “No thanks. Sweet enough.”

  Chris chuckled. “Me neither, these days. Orders from She Who Must Be Obeyed.”

  Alice looked at the photos perched atop his computer. There was a photograph of Chris with a woman who might have been a magazine centrefold, and a picture of two adorable-looking young boys, one fair-haired, one dark. “You got married?”

  “Don’t sound so surprised. Yeah, her name’s Marzena.”

  “Polish?”

  “Yeah. She spoils me soft. Couldn’t be happier. It’ll be – Christ, just realised. Fifteen years next month.” Chris grabbed a pen and a scrap of paper and scribbled a note. “Just reminding myself before I forget. Best book a table at Shere Khan’s or she’ll have me guts for garters.” He nodded at the picture. “Those are my boys. Our boys, sorry. She’s very strict with me on that. ‘How much work did you do, Christopher? I was eighteen hours in labour just pushing out the first one!’”

  Alice laughed. Chris grinned.

  “The blonde one’s Tomek – that’s after her dad. Other one’s Danny. Takes after me, God help him. So how old’s yours now?”

  The laughter died in her; she felt her stomach clench, as if a hand had crushed it like a paper cup. “I’m sorry?”

  “Yours. Your little girl. Emily, right? How old’s she? You had any more, or...” Chris trailed off. “Jesus, Alice, what’s wrong?”

  “You, um...” Oh, God. “You didn’t hear?”

  “Hear what? Oh Christ.”

  Haltingly, her voice shaking, she told him.

  “Oh my God.” Chris half-rose, sat down again. “Oh my God, Alice, I am so sorry. I hadn’t a clue. The last I heard you were married – not to John. To Andrew, wasn’t he called?”

  “Andrew, yes.” She forced a smile. Damn, she was crying again. Chris shambled over with a box of tissues.