Some of them lingered in the church porch, reading the notices about flower rotas, dusting, and brass cleaning; others stood among the gravestones, looking depressed. They had double-parked in the open area beyond the church gate, and would have to wait their turn to get away. Ginny, leaning on the arm of her son, moved from group to group, offering a few tactful words to soothe their feelings; she understood that death is embarrassing.
Her own family—her son, Daniel, who was an architect, her daughter, Claire, who was a buyer at Harrods—had been as gentle and as careful of her feelings as anyone could wish. But—even as she deferred the moment—Ginny felt that it was Emma to whom she wished to speak, to whom naturally she should be speaking. Patting her son’s arm, smiling up and dismissing him, she made her way across the grass with a short, precisely regulated stride, her high heels spiking holes in the ground like some primitive seed drill.
Ginny Palmer was a sharp, neat, Wallis Simpson sort of woman, to whom black lent an added definition. As she advanced on Emma, she took from her pocket a crisp lace-edged handkerchief, folded it very small and polished the tip of her nose: a gesture quite unnecessary, but somehow drawn out of her by the occasion. You see me, the widow: fastidious but distraught.
Emma Eldred kept her hands in her pockets; she had forgotten her gloves. She wore the coat that she had worn for years, to go out on her doctor’s rounds, to go shopping, to go out walking, and to meet Felix. She saw no need for any other coat, in her ordinary life or on a day like this; it was dark, it was decent, and—she felt obscurely—it was something Felix would have recognized.
Emma Eldred was not a large woman, but gave the appearance of it: forty-eight years old, her face innocent of cosmetics, her broad feet safely encased in scuffed shoes decorated by leather tassels which somehow failed to cut a dash. Emma had known Ginny’s husband since childhood. She might have married him; but Felix was not what Emma considered a serious man. Their relationship had, she felt, borne all the weight it could. As Ginny approached, Emma shrunk into herself, inwardly but not outwardly. A stranger, only partly apprised of the situation, would have taken Ginny for the smart little mistress, and Emma for the tatty old wife.
The women stood together for a moment, not speaking; then as the wind cut her to the bird bones, Ginny took a half step closer, and stood holding her mink collar up to her throat. “Well, Ginny,” Emma said, after a moment. “I’m not here to act as a windbreak.” She drew her right hand from her pocket, and gave Ginny a pat on the shoulder. It was a brusque gesture, less of consolation than of encouragement; what you might give a weary nag, as it faces the next set of hurdles.
Ginny averted her face. Tears sprang into her eyes. She took out her tiny handkerchief again. “Why, Emma?” she said. She sounded fretful, but as if her fretfulness might turn to rage. “Tell me why. You’re a doctor.”
“But not his doctor.”
“He wasn’t ill. He never had a day’s illness.”
Emma fixed her gaze on the tassels of her shoes. She imagined herself looking right through her dead lover; through his customary tweed jacket, his lambswool pullover, his striped shirt, through the skin, through the flesh, into the arteries where Felix’s blood moved slowly, a dark underground stream with silted banks. “No one could have known,” she said. “No one could have spared you this shock, Ginny. Will you be all right, my dear?”
“There’s plenty of insurance,” Ginny said. “And the house. I’ll move of course. But not just yet.”
“Don’t do anything in a hurry,” Emma said. She had meant her question in a broad sense, not as an inquiry into Ginny’s financial standing. She raised her head, and saw that they were being watched. The eyes of the other mourners were drawn to them, however hard those mourners tried to look away. What do they all think, Emma wondered: that there will be some sort of embarrassing scene? Hardly likely. Not at this time. Not in this place. Not among people like ourselves, who have been reared in the service of the great god Self-Control. “Ginny,” she said, “you mustn’t stand about here. Let Daniel drive you home.”
“A few people are coming back,” Ginny said. She looked at Emma in faint surprise, as if it were natural that she would know the arrangements. “You should come back too. Let me give you some whiskey. A freezing day like this … Still, better than rain. Claire’s staying on over the weekend.” Ginny raised her hand, and twitched at her collar again. “Emma, I’d like to see you. Like you to come to the house … Mrs. Gleave is making vol-au-vents …” Her voice tailed off entirely.
Emma’s brother, Ralph Eldred, loomed purposefully behind them: a solid figure, hands scrunched into the pockets of his dark wool overcoat. Ginny looked up. The sight of Ralph seemed to restore her. “Ralph, thank you for coming,” she said. “Come back with us and have some whiskey.”
“I should take myself off,” Ralph said. “I have to go to Norwich this afternoon to a meeting. But naturally if you want me to, Ginny … if I can be of any help …” He was weighing considerations, as he always did; his presence was wanted on every hand, and it was simply a question of where he was needed most.
“Why, no,” Ginny said. “It was a courtesy, Ralph. Do run along.”
She managed a smile. It was her husband’s underoccupation that had freed him for his long years of infidelity; but Ralph’s days were full, and everybody knew it. There were advantages, she saw, in being married to a man who thought only of work, God, and family; even though the Eldred children did look so down-at-heel, and had been so strangely brought up, and even though Ralph’s wife was worn to a shadow slaving for his concerns.
Ralph’s wife Anna wore a neat black pillbox hat. It looked very smart, though it was not remotely in fashion. Lingering in the background, she gave Ginny a nod of acknowledgment and sympa-thy. It was an Anna Eldred nod, full of I-do-not-intrude. Ginny returned it; then Ralph took his wife’s arm, and squired her away at a good clip toward their parked car.
Ginny looked after them. “You wonder about marriage,” she said suddenly. “Are marriages all different, or all alike?”
Emma shrugged, shoulders stiff inside her old coat. “No use asking me, Ginny.”
Inside the car, Ralph said, “It’s not right, you know. It’s not, is it? For Emma to find out like that. More or less by chance. And only when it was all over.”
“It was all over very quickly,” Anna said. “From what I gather.”
“Yes, but to have no priority in being told—”
“I expect you think Ginny should have rung her from the hospital, do you? Just given her a tinkle from the intensive care unit?”
“—to have no right to know. That’s what galls me. It’s inhuman. And now Ginny gets all the sympathy, all the attention. I’m not saying she doesn’t need and deserve it. But Emma gets nothing, not a word. Only this public embarrassment.”
