«Yes, very.»
«You must talk to Roger.»
«I have nothing to say to Roger.»
We walked slowly down the aisle. Francis, fluttering by the doorway, stood aside to let the women pass, sent a ghastly smile in our direction, then followed them out.
«Brad, who was that poetry by that the man read?»
«Browning. Tennyson.»
«It was lovely, wasn't it? So suitable. It made me cry.»
Roger had arranged the cremation and had devised a terrible set of poetry readings. There had been no religious service.
We emerged into the garden. A light rain was falling from a brightish brownish sky. The good weather seemed to be over. I shook Christian's hand off my arm and put up my umbrella.
Roger, looking responsible and manly and bereaved in smart black, was thanking the poetry-reader and another crematorium official. The coffin-bearers had already gone. Christian was talking to the three women and they were affecting to admire the dripping azaleas. Francis, beside me, was trying to get in under my umbrella, and was repeating a story which he had already told me, with variations, several times. He was whimpering a little as he spoke. He had wept audibly during the service.
«Oh Brad, forgive me.»
«Stop whingeing like a bloody woman. Go away, will you? It wasn't your fault. It had to happen. It was better like that. You can't save someone who wants death. It was better so.»
«You told me to look after her, and I-«Go away.»
«Where can I go to, oh where can I go to at all? Brad, don't drive me away, I'll go mad, I've got to be with you, otherwise I'll go mad with misery, you've got to forgive me, you've got to help me, Brad, you've got to. I'm going back to the flat now and I'll tidy it up and I'll clear it all, I will, oh please let me stay with you now, I can be useful to you, you needn't give me any money-I don't want you in the flat. Just clear off, will you.»
«I'll kill myself, I will.»
«Get on with it, then.»
«You do forgive me, don't you, Brad?»
«Yes, of course. Just leave me alone. Please.» I jerked the umbrella away, turning my shoulder against Francis, and made for the gate.
Flip-flopping rainy steps caught up with me. Christian. «Brad, you must talk to Roger. He says would you wait for him. He has some business to talk with you. Oh Brad, don't run off in that awful way. I'm coming with you, anyway, don't run off. Do come back and talk to Roger, please.» o ' r «He should be content with having killed my sister without bothering me with his business.»
«Well, wait a moment, wait, wait, look, here he comes.»
I waited under the arty lich-gate while Roger advanced under his umbrella. He even had a black macintosh.
«Bradley. A sad business. I feel much to blame.»
I looked at him, then turned away.
