Chapter Twenty-One
I knew Aunt Josephine for a little over a year. She demised not long after Peter had proposed marriage. Her departure was sudden and shocking. Peter inherited everything – apart from his aunt’s flamboyant car.
Just after midnight, in the first minutes of a Sunday morning, she’d lost control of the vehicle and driven off an eighty-foot cliff.
The proceeds of her estate paid for our marital home, Moonlight Manor. To this day, the house remained the largest in the village of Starlight Croft. Peter had always wanted the biggest and best of everything.
As I now drove along the Dyke Road and through Poynings, I tried to stop thinking about the past. I wanted to concentrate on finding the pub that overlooked the part of the Downs that I would be visiting. Perhaps I’d pop into the bar after the deed was done. Have a sharpener.
I was momentarily reminded of Alice and wondered, in hindsight, if I should have asked her to accompany me today. Anyway, I was here now. Alone.
Driving into the carpark, I found a space, then sorted out the parking fee. There were a few people milling about, and I felt a bit conspicuous as I returned to the car for the urn.
Grabbing my coat from the back seat, I chucked it over the container, then lifted it into my arms. It felt exceptionally weighty – just like all the memories threatening to burst forth from my head.
In the early, heady days of courtship – oh yes, I’d been delighted by Peter’s old-fashioned and charming use of the word – we’d both had loads of energy.
Often, we had walked all six routes of the Devil’s Dyke.
They were of various lengths. Each gave a strenuous challenge, and also glorious panoramic views across both the South Downs and Sussex countryside.
We’d often paused, puffing heavily, to admire the dramatic view from Fulking Hill – or Fucking Hill, as Peter had called it.
‘Bet there’s been a few sneaky shags around here, Jen,’ he’d said, nudging me in the ribs. ‘Are you up for it?’
‘Don’t be daft,’ I’d giggled.
‘I dare you,’ he’d said. ‘Come on, Miss Prissy. There’s no one around for miles.’ He’d tugged playfully at the zipper on my jeans. ‘Get ’em off!’
‘Stop it, Peter.’ I’d laughed nervously, dodging him.
‘Give us an Australian kiss then,’ he’d wheedled, grabbing my arm and pulling me back to him.
‘A what?’
‘It’s like a French kiss, except down under.’
Catching me off balance, he’d shoved me hard. I’d sunk painfully to my knees.
‘Geddoff,’ I’d huffed, hauling myself upright. ‘Oh, look,’ I’d tutted crossly, brushing my legs. ‘There’s mud on my jeans.’
‘Loosen up, Jen. Sometimes you’re so bloody strait-laced. My last girlfriend obliged me in the most outrageous of places.’
Stung, I’d not known how to reply. Was there something wrong with me for being uncomfortable about oral sex alfresco?
Without warning, a Labrador had thundered past. A small group of people had followed. I’d given Peter a withering look – one that had conveyed my thoughts.
See? We could have been discovered! How embarrassing would that have been?
Years later, I’d realised that Peter would have got a kick out of it.
I now hugged the concealed urn to my chest and approached a simple, circular route around the high ground. There was only a small amount of climbing on this route because it didn’t take walkers down into the valley.
After ten minutes or so, I was panting. The urn was heavy on my arm muscles.
Hardly surprising. I’d never been a gym bunny.
My biceps had the consistency of mashed potato.
Perhaps I should start working out? Join the local health centre?
If nothing else, it would get me out of Starlight Croft.
I’d make new friends. They would be people who didn’t know me. Who didn’t know my past.
I ground to a halt and squatted down, resting the urn on the ground. Glancing about furtively, I decided that this spot was as good as any.
As if in agreement, the wind suddenly picked up. Putting my coat to one side, I assessed the pot’s lid. It hadn’t been sealed. It was simply a matter of unscrewing it.
For a moment, I felt a bit peculiar. After all, this vessel contained human remains. Or to use the funeral parlour’s terminology, cremains.
Carefully, I removed the lid and was surprised to see that Peter’s ashes were in a heavy-duty plastic bag. It was securely sealed with a zip tie. The bag would certainly make things less cumbersome from a scattering perspective.
I stared at the contents within, feeling increasingly weirded out. It was so hard to imagine that my husband – a person who’d been so alive, so energetic, and such a force to be reckoned with – was now reduced to a few pounds of sand-like material.
I dumped the plastic bag on the ground and rummaged in my handbag. Donning the rubber gloves, I then broke the seal on the bag.
Turning my back to the wind, I pushed my gloved hand into the bag and scooped up a handful of ashes.
I’d expected them to whirl, like confetti, and imagined that I’d even summon some rose-tinted memories of our wedding day – how Peter and I had joyfully embraced a rainbow of paper petals.
The assorted colours had landed in his hair and become caught up in my tiara and veil.
But, just like a battery suddenly going flat, the replay of my mind movie cut itself short.
I wondered if a few words might be fitting. A speech, as such. But my brain refused to muster any flowery prose. As the last of the ashes hit the ground, I simple stared at them, absolutely poleaxed.
‘Rest in peace, Peter,’ I eventually said.
The wind unexpectedly slammed into my back, nearly knocking me off my feet.
Peace? it seemed to moan in my ear. After what you did?
Shaken, I stuffed the empty bag into the urn, then shoved it under a bush. Peculiarly, I felt like a murderer who’d secretly disposed of a victim. Trembling, I grabbed my coat and bag and ran as fast as I could back to the car.