In another life, he thought,I wonder if we might have been friends?
Chapter Three
Funeral
On Friday morning—the day of his father’s funeral—Leonard stood barefoot in the middle of his parents’ overgrown back lawn still in his grey silk pyjamas. Beneath clear skies and mild sunshine, perspiration beaded his forehead from the range of movements he had performed. At first—for only a fleeting moment—he’d sensed the damp grass beneath his toes and wondered what his mother’s neighbours might make of the strange man performing exotic routines in her back garden. But once he had begun, as soon as his mind switched off and his muscles stretched and burned, concentrating intently on performing the range of precise Qigong movements—The Eight Strands of Brocade—nothing had been able to penetrate his concentration.
Seated finally in a lotus position on his workout mat and surfacing from meditation, conscious once again of his surroundings, he surveyed the yard with a critical eye. Should the weather remain dry, he would attempt to tidy the small garden during his stay. On looking back towards the house, he noticed his mother moving around in the kitchen.
Neither of them spoke as they breakfasted on boiled eggs and buttered wholemeal toast with a glass of freshly-squeezed orange juice. With all the preparations for the funeral ceremony made—more easily than Leonard had anticipated—they had little left to discuss.
Much to his surprise, his mother had insisted on contacting people herself about the arrangements as well as sorting out the post-funeral gathering. A true professional, the local undertaker had taken care of almost everything else after getting a sense of their budget. Leonard had been left to sort out his father’s correspondence—cancelling subscriptions and removing names from bills—as well as placing a small obituary in the local newspaper. Many of the tasks he remembered from when Kris died, although Kris’ family had snatched those away from him after they’d stepped in and frozen him out of everything. At least today he would be there to bid goodbye to his father, a rite of passage Kris’ family had denied him.
According to his mother, thirty-seven accepted the invitation to the chapel service, most of those medical professionals and other colleagues from the university. The former chancellor of the college agreed to provide a eulogy on behalf of other teaching fellows and the current executive team. Leonard would also speak, albeit briefly. His mother, who had never shown any desire to speak publicly, wanted to get the whole tiresome business over and done with as quickly as possible.
After he'd washed up and tidied away the breakfast things—they had settled into a comfortable routine of his mother preparing food while he tidied up—Leonard had a whole morning free, so he pulled out his laptop and caught up on work. Touching base with his team back in London had become a highlight in the otherwise monotony of staying with his mother.
“Hey, Leonard.” Isabelle’s cheerful face filled the screen. “How are things going?”
“Funeral today, followed by snacks and drinks at a local pub. Then all I have left is a meeting with my father’s solicitor on Monday, to go over his will, which should be routine. So I’ll stay the following week and be back in the office the week after, all going well. How are things your end?”
“Perfectly fine. Don’t hurry back if you’ve got other things to deal with. The accountant meeting went well, as you heard. I’ve sent you a soft copy of the report and put the original on your desk. Murray Drummond and his crew let us down again—”
“What do you mean?”
“Reading between the lines, I think they’ve taken on more than they can cope with, so we’re going to have to source someone else for the Cheltenham manor renovations.”
“Again? That’s four times he’s done that.”
“I know. I’ve tried GHB and a couple of other specialists, but they’re all busy, too. Any suggestions?”
“Yes, delete Drummond from our preferred builders’ list. Shit. I would have suggested GHB, but you’ve already tried them. Heritage. They’re going to be expensive, but give Molly from Heritage a call, see if they’re available. I’m getting a bit tired of us bouncing around trying to source decent builders. When business is good, we’re the first they blow off, because they all want the easy, well-paid work. Of course, as soon as times are hard when the market slows down, they’ll be on their knees begging us for work. Anything else while I’m on?”
She gave him a very brief update on their other sites. Everything seemed to be going fine. Only the building specialist for the listed building in Cheltenham had his temper frayed. He’d bought the property in the hopes of renovating and getting a buyer on board by May. But significant structural work would have to be undertaken, and approvals sought from the local buildings authority to ensure none of the listed building’s original features would be affected.
“Kieran’s out today in Sussex seeing a private owner of vintage Bentleys. Otherwise, I’d put him on. At least he isn’t leaving rude Post-it notes on my screen.”
“He’s doing that to you now?”
“Yep. I think he’s missing you.”
Leonard laughed.
“Keep up the good work, Isabelle. In case I don’t tell you enough, you’re doing a fantastic job. See you soon.”
Sweet girl that she was, she turned away to her right at that remark as though someone or something had caught her attention. But he spotted the telltale red tinges on the cheek caught on camera. She always blushed when anyone complimented her.Funny little thing.To save her embarrassment, he clicked off the program.
* * * *
Just after midday, dressed in a traditional black suit and tie combination—with an allowance of colour in the trademark handkerchief of light-grey and burgundy polka dot tucked into his breast pocket—Leonard held the front gate open for his mother. She’d chosen a simple long-sleeved black dress and carried a black handbag, but wore no hat or gloves. Across the street, a few neighbours he didn’t know peeked through net curtains or stood outside their front porches to observe the black limousine filling the road. After his mother had called the funeral director’s suggestion of a hearse ‘morbidly garish’ and ‘ridiculously expensive’, they’d agreed for the coffin to be taken directly to the crematorium. Leonard had put his foot down when she’d suggested he drive his own or his father’s car, or that they ride the public bus.
“At some point, you need to take this contraption for a run,” said his mother as they stepped off the kerb behind his father’s navy-blue Astra, ready to climb into the back of the plush limousine. Leonard simply nodded, opening the limousine door for his mother and adding another chore to his already long list. The Astra had a thick film of grime on the bodywork, giving the machine a sheen of neglect. “And soon, too, before it turns into a lump of rust. The thing’s been sitting there gathering dust for over a month.”
“I thought you were going to learn to drive?” he asked before walking around the other side of the limousine and climbing into the soft leather seat next to her.
“Well, I didn’t. Your father did all the driving. And it’s too late now.”
“Why is it too late?”
