When Cat is at work, he’s got into the habit of sitting on his bunk with his guitar, composing songs. Every one of them inspired by her. He thinks of her face while his fingers move across the fretboard, how her features change depending on the time of day or her mood, so that sometimes her face is gentle, as he imagines a nun might look, and other times she seems lit from inside by a burning light, so radiantly, fiercely beautiful that it hurts him. He loves her crazy dress sense – jumbling colours like she’s raided a dressing-up box – the fact that she’s not afraid to be different. He loves that she’s got a childish sense of humour, that when she laughs, she snorts. He loves that she finds joy in ordinary things. Then there’s her unwavering moral compass – admittedly daunting, but in the end, central to who she is. He’s never written love songs before, never felt the need. But these songs are clamouring for his attention, rising up in him almost ready-made. He doesn’t share them with her, in case she finds them soppy, and because they’re not good enough. Not yet. Not for her.
ELEVEN
Cat, April 1983
Ray has been to the airport to collect a body. An American woman from AC who married an Englishman. She’s to be buried at Our Lady Star of the Sea.
The woman has been embalmed in London and she’s arrived snug in her coffin. It’s a half-view casket of polished dark wood with brass fittings. The family want a public viewing at the service. Ray opens the panel, the oiled hinge releasing with a heavy clunk, and leans over to check that all is as it should be. He scrutinises her face intently. ‘Nice work,’ he admits. ‘Very natural-looking.’ He turns to me. ‘Take a look, Catrin. A real professional job.’
The front door rings and he goes to answer it. I step up to the coffin. Ray’s right. Whoever the embalmer was, he or she was an artist. The woman looks as though she’s sleeping peacefully. What Ray didn’t tell me was how beautiful she is, this dead woman. She’s pale with neat features, long dark hair framing her face in glossy bangs, her small, shapely lips flushed ruby red. It looks as though she might open them to speak. I find myself leaning closer to listen for the sound of her breathing. She makes me think of fairy tales where a princess lies sleeping in a glass coffin, until the prince kisses her awake.
When Ray touches my shoulder, I jump.
‘I need you for this funeral,’ he says. ‘We’re supplying pallbearers. You’ll ride with me in the hearse, okay?’
‘Oh, but I have it in the book that I get this weekend off,’ I tell him. ‘I have a … a friend here. He’s … he’s leaving soon.’
‘Sorry, Cat.’ He closes the viewing panel. ‘Can’t do without you. It’s only a few hours on Saturday.’
My insides clench with frustration. ‘But it’s important, Ray,’ I plead. ‘He’s important.’
‘Didn’t I just know there was a man involved?’ Ray sucks his teeth and looks sorrowful. ‘Losing your head like a chicken.’ He winks. ‘Tell you what, child. You can leave straight after it’s over.’
‘Thank you.’ I incline my chin towards the coffin. ‘What’s her name?’
‘Elizabeth,’ he says. ‘Elizabeth Dunn. That was her married name. She was an O’Reilly originally.’
The O’Reillys are the nearest we get to aristocracy in this part of the world. They own the Atlantic and Liberty hotels.
Ray taps the coffin. ‘Got to get this one right.’
‘I have to work this weekend,’ I tell Sam. ‘It’s the funeral of a woman who belongs to an influential family here. I’m sorry.’
‘How long?’
‘Just part of Saturday. I’ll be free by the end of the afternoon.’
He holds me tightly, presses his mouth against my hair. ‘I’ll meet you when you’ve finished,’ he says. ‘I’m not singing at the club any more. They’ve found a new frontman.’
‘Come to the Our Lady of the Sea, at about four o’clock?’
Sam nods. ‘Was she very old, this woman?’
‘No. She was young. And lovely. She was married as well.’
‘Damn,’ Sam says softly, wrapping his arms tighter around my waist.
It’s raining on Saturday. One of those freak storms the Atlantic likes to toss around: squalls of bitter rain, winds that pounce like a tiger. Ray is determined that the weather won’t ruin the glory of the occasion. He stands outside the hearse, immaculate in his tailcoat, overseeing the removal of the coffin, impervious to the water running down his dark skin. All six of us pallbearers hover with black umbrellas, trying to keep the rain off the casket.
When the coffin is installed amongst banks of white roses at the front of the church, lid lifted, the mourners arrive through a scent of flowers powerful as bottles of smashed perfume. We stand quietly in our soaking clothes at the back, eyes lowered, waiting for the moment when we’ll spring into action and cart the coffin out to the hole already dug in the wet ground.
I raise my chin a little, curious to spot the husband of Elizabeth Dunn. I’d imagined a prince – a big man with a head of fiery hair like a crown, someone imposing and full of authority – but the man I watch walking slowly down the aisle is slim, gentle-looking, with curling brown hair cut short. His round glasses are speckled with rain. He holds the hand of a small girl. She drags behind, stamping her feet, clutching a teddy to her chest. Throughout the service, I hear the wails of that child, rising to a peak during every eulogy. It gives me goose bumps over the ones I already have from the cold.
*
The lawn is slick with rain. We take it even slower than usual, the weight of the casket keeping us steady. Four men take over at the graveside, arranging the ropes that lower her into the shallow grave lined with fake grass.
I step back, allowing the family to have the front-row spots. The child kicks her father’s shins. He leans down and gently holds her shoulders to try and stop her. She smacks her sodden teddy into his face, throws it against the coffin, dislodging a spray of roses. The other mourners frown and purse their lips. An elderly lady with a black veil jutting over her face tut-tuts. The father crouches down and tries to soothe his daughter, but she wriggles out of his grasp, yelling: ‘I want my Mummy!’
Before I know it, I’m squatting down, looking into dark, angry eyes. ‘Hi,’ I say to the child. ‘What’s your name?’
She stops screaming, her mouth freezing into a silent O. She stares at me, pressing against her father’s legs. Her bottom lip trembles.
I take a deep breath. ‘See if you can guess my name,’ I say. ‘I’ll give you a clue if you like.’
She frowns and wipes a plump hand across her snotty nose. I pull out the clean hanky that Ray always makes us carry in our top pockets and offer it. She doesn’t seem to understand what it’s for, dangles it unused from her closed fist. She puts her head on one side. ‘Are you Rumpelstiltskin?’
‘What?’
‘Rumpelstiltskin.’ She repeats the long word carefully, stumbling over the syllables, her face serious.
‘Um. No. I’m not. My name is an animal.’
‘Dog.’