“Let me and Izzie take care of it, Len. It’s what you pay us for. Go do what you need to do. Izzy’s got a degree in finance. And I think between the two of us we can translate what he’s telling us into layman’s terms and work out what needs to happen next.”
“Okay, point taken. Thanks, Kieran.”
“Sorry, he can’t come to the phone,” came Kennedy’s voice again. “Little Clint’s having a meltdown and refuses to let anyone but Kieran touch him. Take good care of yourself, Len. Let us know when you’re back and we’ll drag you over for drinks and dinner—”
"And nappy changing," came a distant voice.
“Thanks, guys. Appreciate the call. Love you both. And the kids and the pooch.”
The call succeeded in making him feel lighter, but as he drove out of the darkened lane into the outskirts of his old town thoughts returned to his plight. Drayton dragged up mixed emotions. Having lived for most of his adult life in the hustle and bustle of South London, he remembered the towns around Norwich from childhood as being frustratingly sedate, full of people living out their twilight years in bungalows with well-tended gardens.
When he finally turned the car into his old road, a shiver ran through him. Memories returned, of traipsing along the street alone in the early hours to get his bus, a lone and lonely wolf.
He sat behind the wheel for a full five minutes, before finally taking a steadying breath, grabbing his suitcase from the passenger seat and opening the car door. He dashed the short distance through the rain to the front door. Nothing about the house appeared to have changed. The same frosted glass on the single-pane front door, surrounded by racing green woodwork, matching white net curtains at every window. The front yard had been concreted over, leaving only two ceramic pots containing small fir trees on either side of the front bay window, a testament to the inhabitants who cared nothing for gardening.
Almost immediately, his mother answered the door and ushered him inside. Once the door closed, she turned her face to allow him to kiss her left cheek. Never one to show emotion, his mother had always been hard to read, and he had never been able to understand her mood. If anything, she looked older but not distraught as some wives might be on losing their husband. She had even been to the hairdressers, probably in readiness for the funeral they had yet to arrange. The dress she wore—a simple plain pale green affair—she’d had for years. As always, her reading glasses hung from a silver chain around her neck.
“Take your bag up to your room. Your house keys are on the nightstand. And take those boxes of books with you. Been sitting there for weeks waiting for your father to take them up. I’ll put the kettle on. Then you can work out what needs to be done.”
She gave no formal greeting, no words of sympathy. In her typical impassive way, she got straight down to business and as usual, he did as asked. Once he had dropped everything on the floor in his old bedroom, he sat on the edge of the mattress and looked around. Nothing had changed. Single bed, small oak wardrobe, desk and chair with a table lamp. Whenever he’d come home from university for the holidays, he would spend as little time as possible in the room or in the house, both of which he’d always found oppressive. Unlike other boys’ bedrooms, he’d had no posters, stickers or toys on display, nothing to let a person know this room belonged to a boy. At twenty-two, when he’d met Kris and they’d moved in together, although he still came home from time to time, he’d rarely stayed over.
Minutes later, he was back in the kitchen.
“What happened, Mum?” he said as he joined her for tea at the kitchen table.
“He died in his sleep. Last night we went to bed together. When I woke in the morning his body was cold. Doctor Nguyen came this morning to do a preliminary check and then they took him away. Said he needed to report the death to a coroner because the cause of death was sudden and unknown. So they’ll do a post-mortem, but he suspects heart failure. We’ll know more tomorrow morning.”
“Can we organise the funeral yet?”
“As soon as the body’s released. Which, as I say, is likely to be tomorrow. After that we’ll get a medical certificate. In the meantime, you’ll need to go through his things—insurance policies, university pension procedures. Fill out any necessary forms. I’ve got everything else organised, but you’re better at that kind of thing. I’ll bring the box files down.”
Over the next two hours, she brought paperwork for Leonard to wade through. She instructed him to make a list of things he needed to do and people he needed to contact. Thankfully something that had changed since his last visit was the laptop computer his father had invested in, which was, fortunately, not password protected. Leaving him to finish up, his mother excused herself to prepare dinner. They sat in silence through a meal of pork chop, carrots and green beans—his mother cooked as simply as she lived. Afterwards, as Leonard stood at the sink washing dishes, the doorbell rang. Twisting his wrist, he checked his watch, wondering who could be calling on his mother. Seven-thirty. Maybe a neighbour.
“See who that is,” said his mother, sitting at the table with a cup of tea in front of her, and without even looking up from her magazine.
Something irritating registered then, a memory coming back to him about her reliance on other people to get what she wanted—subliminal bullying. She’d been good at it too, still was if after one phone call her son came trotting home. Usually, she’d had his father or her assistants at the college to run around for her. Was she expecting him to return home for good to take care of her? If so, they would need to sit down and have a cold, hard conversation. He wiped his hands on the dishcloth and headed towards the oversized silhouette behind the mottled glass of the front door.
“I knew that had to be your monster wagon. Little Lenny Day. Sorry to hear about Uncle Colin.”
“Eric? How are you?” asked Leonard with disbelief, opening the door wide and noting the rain had stopped. Cousin Eric, son of his mother’s brother, had lived along the same road throughout their childhood. Funnily enough, they’d never really connected as kids, mainly because boys considered two years’ age difference cavernous. Touching fifty now, he’d lost most of his hair and had a large potbelly protruding from his brown corduroy jacket. But his pronounced Norfolk accent was unmistakable. “Come on in.”
“Actually, I wondered if you fancied a pint. Down the Lion. It being Sunday night and all.”
“Who is it?” came his mother’s voice from the kitchen.
“Cousin Eric,” called Leonard, then more quietly added, “I’d love a pint. If only to get out of this bloody mausoleum for five minutes.”
“Tell him I’ll pop over to see Marcie first thing tomorrow morning,” called his mother.
“I’ll let her know, Auntie Gerry,” Eric called back. “I’m just going to drag cousin Len out for a pint. Hope you don’t mind?”
As he spoke, Len heard a movement from behind.
“He’s only just got here,” came his mother’s voice.
“I’m fine,” said Leonard, plucking his jacket from the coat rack. “And I won’t be long.”
“But you haven’t finished the washing up.”
