Mary Breckenridge, 54, widowed, balanced the remains of her husband Errol in one hand, and punched out her sister’s telephone number with the other. The answer-phone kicked in and she waited impatiently for Jane’s lengthy message to finish.
“Hello? Jane? Jane, I need to see you. I’ll be round at two this afternoon, so make sure you’re in.”
Mary hung up without waiting for an answer. It was 1 a.m. and Jane slept heavily. If she waited round for a reply she would never get to bed herself.
She put Errol’s urn back on the mantelpiece and dusted him off before turning for the bedroom. It was comforting to have him where she could see him and to know that he would still be there in the morning. There was a certain satisfaction in having the upper hand at last.
Promptly at 2 p.m. she rapped out a tattoo on Jane’s door and walked in without an invitation. Jane sighed and meekly followed, as her sister moved determinedly in the direction of the living-room.
“So what is it that can’t wait until the weekend, Mary?” Mary had been rehearsing the next bit all week, but uncharacteristically hesitated now the moment was at hand.
“Er … well … I wanted to see how you were coping without Jack. You havent talked about him since he died, and I wanted to make sure you were alright.”
She chose to ignore Jane’s look of total surprise and now she’d picked up the lie she ran with it. “I’ve been so worried about you Jane. You need to share your grief you know. You are not alone.”
She patted Jane’s hand for extra effect and was relieved to see the tears spring to her sister’s eyes. “You’re so kind Mary, and you so recently bereaved yourself. I’ve tried to be brave, really I have, but it is hard. We were together so long and now I’m alone again.” She dabbed her eyes with a crisp white handkerchief swiftly produced by Mary, and stared at the urn on the mantelpiece, sobbing quietly.
Mary tried hard to keep the impatience from her voice. “I know dear. You were so right for each other. When are you burying his ashes?”
Jane blew her nose loudly and straightened her shoulders. “On Friday next”, she said, “I wanted to keep him here a little longer.” She looked apologetically at her sister but she could see that Mary understood, and was quite unexpectedly supportive of her decision.
“That’s good dear. I’m going to the States to visit Errol’s mother and take his ashes to her for burial and I will be home again by next Friday. I’m glad that I can go with you to the service. Now how about a cup of tea? I have to go soon.”
“Oh yes of course. I’m so sorry. Where are my manners?” Jane bustled off into the kitchen and Mary waited until she heard the clash of crockery before moving from her seat.
It took only moments to empty Jack’s ashes into a plastic box and put Errol’s ashes into the urn. By the time Jane came back with the tea-tray Jack was safely stashed in Mary’s bag and Errol was the new occupant of the mantelpiece.
Mary took two sips of her tea and stood. “Well, I must go now Jane. I have to pack. See you next Friday.”
Once safely back in the car, Mary couldn’t hold back the laughter. This would serve her bitch of a mother in law right. When she was praying and crying over her darling Errol’s grave, she would really be sobbing over Jack.
Four days later, as she stood next to her mother in law at the family grave in Ohio, Mary couldn’t resist a smile. Everything had gone perfectly and she had so far resisted the temptation to tell Flora what a swine her son had really been. Although two days of listening to her mother-in-law’s repeated outbursts of “What a darling boy my son was’, and “You were so lucky to have him Mary, many young ladies would have given anything for the chance to have him”, were eroding away her patience.
Mary was in no doubt that many young ladies had had to give nothing more than a flicker of their eyes to ‘have’ darling Errol, and she doubted she could keep up the charade of heartbroken daughter in law for much longer. She decided to head back to the house, and accordingly interrupted Flora’s flow of loud sobbing.
“Look, I’m going to have to leave Errol with you now and go and pack, or I’ll miss my flight.” She didn’t wait for Flora to answer but turned briskly in the direction of the car.
Flora quickly followed, and joined her on the back seat, motioning the driver to take them home.
“Well, Mary, I don’t suppose we will be meeting again now that our darling Errol has been called to the Lord. It’s a shame you never gave him any children, but life can be hard for a man.”
Mary had long ago stopped wincing at Flora’s back stabbing, but she was very glad that an ocean still separated them. Anyway, she was going to have the last laugh, in a letter,` which she would send in a year or two. The saying was true. Vengeance was definitely a dish best served cold.
The following Friday dawned wet and cool, and Mary found a certain satisfaction in burying Errol on such a day. She arrived at Jane’s door, dressed in her best tweed suit, and for once waited patiently for her sister to answer.
Jane gave her a brave smile, but it was obvious she had been crying. Mary suddenly felt her sister’s sadness and realised it had been hard for her too. For the first time she considered how cruel it would be if Jane ever found out the truth, and resolved to make sure she never would. She smiled gently.
“Are you ready Jane? We don’t want to be late do we.”
“Yes dear, I just have to get Jack.”
They drove in silence, until they reached the gates of the cemetery. As Mary parked the car, Jane remembered where Mary had been for the last week and belatedly asked how it had gone.
“Oh it went alright, thanks. Flora was as bitchy as always. Couldn’t wait to get rid of me so she could have Errol all to herself.”
Jane tut-tutted. She had never met Flora, but she had heard enough about her to know that the tiny fussy American had a cruel tongue and a temper that belied her motherly looks. She blamed Errol and his mother for the changes she had seen in her sister over the last few years, and was relieved to see something of the old Mary shining through at last.
After the service the sisters had tea in the nearby café and then went to their respective homes, one to cry, and one to laugh.
As she stood in the doorway of the bedroom she had shared with Errol for so many years, Mary reflected on the success of her plan, and on the delicious irony of Flora weeping heartbrokenly over Jack, while Errol’s ashes had been buried with much pathos under a wooden cross that said. ‘In memory of my darling Jack. True friend and companion. The best Labrador in the world.’
© Sue Booth |
