squabble. 'He told me he hadn't subsidized me through a university education to pound a beat. He wanted me to be a bank manager or something in the City. Gran saw me as a reforming MP. She was even more incredulous than Dad. She came to my graduation thinking she could change my mind. Dad had given up on me by then. He wouldn't even let Mum come.'
Despite his effort at lightness he could feel bitterness creeping in.
'Well, you got your own back, getting yourself posted up north and finding fifty-seven varieties of excuse why you could never make it home at Christmas,' said Myra. 'Still, it's all water under the bridge. Gran's gone, and I bet Dad bores the corks off their hats down under boasting about my son the chief inspector.'
'You reckon? Maybe I'll resign. Hey, remember how you used to beat me at tennis when I was a weedy kid and you had forearms like Rod Laver? Got any of those muscles left?'
Between them they manoeuvred the secretaire out of the cottage and up onto his roof rack. He strapped it down, with a waterproof sheet on top of it.
'Right,' said Myra. 'Now what?'
'Now you push off. I'll finish the inventory and start sorting her papers. You've got to be back here tomorrow morning to meet the house clearance man, remember?'
Pascoe had been delighted when Myra volunteered for this task, being justly derided by his wife as probably the only man in Yorkshire who could haggle a price upwards.
Myra, a terrier in a bargain, bared her teeth in an anticipatory smile.
'Don't expect a fortune,' she said. 'But I'll see we're not cheated. You're not expecting me to sell that, are you?'
That was a plastic urn in taupe. Were Warwickshire's funerary suppliers capable of a bilingual pun? wondered Pascoe.
'No, that goes with me.'
'You're going to do what she asked with the ashes then?'
'If I can.'
'Funny, with her hating the army so much.'
'It's a symbolic gesture, I assume. I won't try to work out what it means as I'd prefer to be thinking holy thoughts as I scatter them.'
'It's still weird. Then, so was Gran a lot of the time. I shouldn't care to spend the night in this old place with her ashes on the mantelpiece. You sure you won't change your mind and come over to us? Trevor would be delighted to see you.'
Pascoe, who had only once set foot in Myra's executive villa and found it as aesthetically and atmospherically appealing as a multi-gym, said, 'No, thanks. I've got a lot to do and I'd like to be off at the crack.'
They stood regarding each other rather awkwardly. Myra looked untypically vulnerable. Me too maybe, thought Pascoe. On impulse he stepped forward, took her in his arms and kissed her. He could feel her surprise. They'd never been a hugging and kissing family. Then she pressed him close and said, 'Bye, Peter. Safe journey. Give my love to Ellie. Sorry she couldn't make it. But I know about kids' colds when they're that age.'
And I know about urgent business appointments with important clients, thought Pascoe. At least Rosie really had been snuffling in bed when he left.
And perhaps Trevor really did have an urgent deal to close, he reproved himself.
He gave Myra another hug and let her go.
'Let's not make it so long next time,' he said.
'And let's try not to make it a funeral,' she replied.
But neither of them tried to put any flesh on these bones of a promise.
He stood in the porch and watched her drive away. He felt glad and sad, full of relief that they'd parted on good terms and full of guilt that they hadn't been better.
He went inside and addressed the urn.
'Ada,' he said, 'we really are a fucked-up family, us Pascoes. I wonder whose fault that is?'
He worked hard on the inventory till mid-evening then made a neat copy of it to leave for Myra. He'd need another copy to send to Susan in Australia.
One thing he felt certain of. His eldest sister might not be able to fly halfway round the world for her grandmother's funeral, but she would expect any money making the journey in the opposite direction to be accounted for down to the last halfpenny. The will, of which Pascoe was executor, left various legacies to Ada's favourite causes and the residue to be divided equally between her three grandchildren. Whether this evenhandedness had postdated his fall from grace, Pascoe wasn't sure, but he was glad that in this at least the old accusation of favouritism was clearly given the lie. Not that there was much – Ada had lived up to her income and the cottage was rented. But Pascoe had seen blood shed over far smaller amounts than were likely to be realized from Ada's estate and he'd already arranged to have all the paperwork double-checked by Ada's solicitor, a no- nonsense woman called Barbara Lomax, whose probity was beyond aspersion.
He boxed up some books that interested him or might interest Ellie and scrupulously made a note on the inventory. Next he started sorting out Ada's papers, starting with a rough division into personal/business. He was touched to find every letter he had ever written to her carefully preserved, an emotion slightly diluted when he realized that this urge to conservation also included fifty-year-old grocery receipts.
His stomach rumbled like distant gunfire. It seemed a long time since the salmon sandwiches. Also he felt like stretching his legs.
Taking a torch from the car he strolled the half-mile to the village pub where he enjoyed a pint and a pie and a reminiscent conversation about Ada with the landlord. As he walked back he found he was knee-deep in mist drifting from the fields, but the night sky was so bright it felt like his head was brushing the stars. The pub telly had spoken of severe weather with gales and sleet in the north. Dalziel was right, he thought with a smile. The soft south really did begin after Sheffield.
He resumed his work on the papers but found that his starry stroll had unsettled him. Also after a while he realized he was more aware than a rational man ought to be of the screw-top urn squatting on the mantel shelf. In the end, slightly ashamed, he took it out to the car and locked it in the boot. As for the papers, home where he had a computer, a calculator and a copier, plus a wife who knew how to work them, was the place to get Ada's affairs sorted. It was time for bed.
Getting his clothes off was an effort. His limbs felt dull and heavy and the air in the tiny bedroom, though hardly less sharp than the frosty night outside, seemed viscous and clinging. The cold sheets on the narrow bed received him like a shroud.
Sleep was a long time coming…
… a long time coming – maybe because I wouldnt take any rum – no shortage here – how the lads ud lap it up!
And when it did come darkdream came too terrible as ever – only this time there was more – this time when the muzzles flashed and the hot metal burnt I didnt scream and try to wake but went right through it and came out on the other side and kept on going – heart pounding – muscles aching – lungs bursting – like a man running from summat so vile he wont stop till he falls or knows he has left it far behind.
In the end I had to stop – knowing somehow it werent just miles Id run over but years – seventy or eighty of them maybe – near clean on out of this terrible century – and Id run home.
Where else would a frightened man run to?
O it were so good Alice! Fields so fresh and green – woods all bursting with leaf – river running pure and clean with fat trout shadowing all the pools. Away yonder I could see mucky old Leeds – only now there werent no smoke hanging over it – and all that grimy granite were washed to a pearly grey – and shooting up above the old quiet chimneys were towers and turrets of gleaming white marble like a picture in a fairy tale.
As for Kirkton it were just the same as I long to be back in only so much better – with all them tumbledown cottages alongside Grindals turned into gardens – and the mill itself had big airy windows and I could see lasses and lads laughing and talking inside – and that old bog meadow out towards Haggs Farm that used to stink so much was all drained and the river banks built up so thered be no more flooding – and High Street seemed wider too with all them slimy cobbles that broke old Tom Steddings head when his horse slipped covered over with level tarmac – and the Maisterhouse away through the trees with its red brick glowing and its pointing gleaming like it were just built yesterday.
