Chapter Eighteen #2
‘I have got to have a copy!’ Tiffany whipped out a credit card and Pat found herself wondering fleetingly what the balance on it was.
‘Can you sign it to Justin? He’s my partner – he’s the one who recommended I come.
He’s worked with some people you know.’ She said two names that sounded like Fig Dicky and Oink Fee.
Pat watched this performance in an awed silence.
That must have been what all the scrolling on her phone was about.
Son was equally transfixed, eyes wide and bright under this torrent of affirmation.
‘And can I just say …’ Tiff’s face suddenly looked troubled, she dropped her hand lightly onto Son’s upper arm in a butterfly touch. ‘I hope you don’t mind me saying – we both wanted to say, Pat and myself – how very sorry we were to hear about Davey.’
Once again, the face changed without physically changing. Now there was a lost quality to the smile, an emptiness behind the eyes. Whatever wonders six significant steps could bring to someone’s life it seemed none of them involved dealing with grief.
‘Thanks,’ said Son quietly.
Pat was flushed by a sudden impulse to take the lead in a comforting hug and she noticed Tiffany’s butterfly touch grow firmer.
‘I wonder,’ said Tiffany, ‘have you time for us to take you for a coffee?’
The absolutely heartbreaking thing was that Son Masters didn’t actually seem aware of how sad and lonely he was.
Even now, some six months on, he didn’t seem to have done much beyond actually cremating his husband.
Sitting with Tiffany and Pat in Jemima’s Pantry (the kettle’s always on, folks!), he spoke about moving forward and moving on, of the need to bag up Davey’s clothes, to box up his possessions, but he spoke as though as these were vaguely desirable life goals – not the bleak necessities that occur in the aftermath of death.
Even Davey’s ashes were still in his utility room waiting for ‘the right head space’ for Son to go to Hisehope Reservoir.
Pat felt more than a little awkward at this intrusion into someone’s obvious grief and could think of little she felt comfortable saying; Tiffany-Jane, however, had no such scruples.
‘It’s just so awful,’ she said. ‘Such a horrible, horrible thing to happen. Going off the road like that …’
Son took a sip of rather pale coffee. ‘He wasn’t in a good place,’ he said softly.
Tiffany nodded. ‘Justin was saying he’d had a bad time at work.’ She spoke gently and her expression was soft and shining with sympathy. ‘I thought that was so awful—’
Son nodded. ‘He worked in a school and they’d had this inspection, and it hadn’t gone to plan,’ he said mildly. Pat mentally shook her head – talk about understating things! Was Son Masters always this laid-back?
‘I used to teach,’ she said. ‘Inspections can be awful things—’
Son shrugged. ‘I told Davey he shouldn’t let external judgements touch his inner validity.’
‘Very true,’ said Tiffany.
‘This adviser friend we know said the school should appeal, but his boss – Annie – she was very ill. She said to leave it. That was what bothered Davey. He felt he’d let her down.’ He shook his head.
‘I heard one of the inspectors was really awful,’ said Pat.
Son shrugged. ‘He was doing his job,’ he said. ‘He said what he had to say, I guess. I said to Davey, “Look, this is where the universe is.”’
Pat felt a sudden impulse to shake the man. No wonder Davey Fletcher had gone driving off in a blizzard!
‘Poor Davey,’ said Tiff softly. ‘I wonder where he was driving off to?’
For a third time Son shrugged. ‘I wasn’t there,’ he said quickly.
‘I was doing a book event.’ Pat had a sudden vision of a bleak function room with seven people, snow falling past the windows.
‘I didn’t know he was planning on going anywhere.
’ Son put his hands out in a gesture of resignation, with no discernible change to his amiable, slightly vacant expression. Too amiable? Too vacant?
‘Complete change of topic here.’ Tiff’s voice, whilst still sympathetic, contained a distinct ‘life moves on’ tone. ‘I don’t know if you can help me, Son – and this is horrendously cheeky of me – but I was reading on your blog how important colour is in the workspace.’
Son nodded. ‘Yes,’ he said placidly.
‘Only I’m realigning my home office, and I’d really welcome your view,’ said Tiffany. She spoke with such sincerity that for a panicky second or two Pat wondered if she was planning to redecorate the spare room.
‘Oh?’ said Son.
‘Colour,’ said Tiffany-Jane. ‘At the moment it’s this dove-grey, which is fine, but some days it like, you know, saps the energy – and I was thinking I needed a change.’
Son nodded. ‘What did you have in mind?’
‘A red?’ said Tiff. ‘A purple?’
Son shook his head. He was showing, Pat thought, the most animation he’d shown all afternoon. ‘No,’ he said. ‘The stimulation has to come from within not from without. You need something that soothes and nourishes.’
‘I like the sound of that,’ said Tiff. ‘What would you suggest?’
‘Personally,’ said Son, ‘I’d go for a soft, pale yellow – something like that.’
‘That,’ said Pat as they crossed the car park, ‘was brilliant!’
‘It just came to me,’ said Tiffany, looking pleased and modest.
‘Clever old you!’ Impulsively Pat put her arm round the younger woman. Tiff instantly stiffened. It wasn’t as though she was repulsing the gesture, rather as if she couldn’t allow herself to relax into it. Awkwardly Pat let her arm drop as Tiff fumbled for the car keys.
‘So, what do you think about Son?’ asked Tiff, turning on the air-conditioning. ‘Do you think he was involved in what happened?’
Pat frowned, wafting her side door in order to cool the interior. ‘It’s hard to imagine him doing anything out of anger,’ she said. ‘You saw how he was.’
Tiff nodded, and the two gingerly slid onto the roasting car seats. ‘He reminded me of Mavic,’ she said thoughtfully. ‘A friend from Manchester. Quite quiet, but when he was up on stage – honestly, Pat, you should have seen him.’
‘A singer?’ said Pat, as Tiff’s mobile began shrilling out Lady Gaga.
‘Sort of,’ said Tiff, frowning at the display.
‘A drag artist. Hey, Justy – I’m just out with your mum.
’ She spoke brightly into the phone. There was a pause.
‘Stockton,’ she said, a frown clouding her face.
From the tone of her voice, it was clear something was the matter.
‘Justy, I’m fine, your mum’s fine. We’ve just been to this talk; we’ve been inside the whole time.
I’ve been outside three minutes tops when I got out of the car.
’ Her voice sounded reassuring – almost soothing.
Why? Tiffany smiled apologetically at Pat and got out of the car, moving a way off to under the shade of a tree.
From her body language it was clear this wasn’t an easy conversation.
What was the matter? Had they maybe arranged to go somewhere?
Or for Tiff to do something? Or – and the force hit her with a chill despite the heat of the day – or was he quizzing her about who she was with? Should she maybe intervene?
No, Pat, neb out. It was as if Rod was sitting next to her.
And it was true – whatever was going on there was very little she could do unless asked.
Only – and she realised the thought gave her a pang – only she found the thought of her eldest son splitting up from this beautiful, clever girl quite distressing.
With an effort she turned her mind away from the earnestly gesticulating figure back to the question of Son Masters. There was something Tiffany had just said – something about Manchester … her friend Mavic – he’s a drag artist.
Pat sat up. What if the woman confronting Neville Hilton that night hadn’t been a woman, but a man … ?