Old Filth - Jane Gardam [26]
“I’ll do the silver later,” said Filth. “I shall be busy this morning with my Letter of Wishes. I shall see to my own Will.”
“I suppose I should do a Letter too,” she said. “I’d thought the Will would be enough. But after yesterday—”
“The less said about yesterday the better. London solicitors!” and he rose from the toast-rack, still a fascinatingly tall and taking man, she thought. If it wasn’t for the neck and the moles he’d look no more than sixty. People still look up and wonder who he is. Always a tie. And his shoes like glass.
“I’m going to plant tulips.”
“I’ll clear up the breakfast.”
“Do you mind? It’s not Mrs. T’s day.”
“I want to get on with the Will whilst I’m still in ferment.”
“Ferment?”
“About that woman. Solicitor. You know exactly. Lack of seriousness. Duty. Messy. The distance we travelled! Messy diary. I expect her diary’s on a screen.”
“Watch your blood-pressure, Filth. You’ve gone purple.”
He flung about the house looking for the right pen.
“You could do it on the computer. You can make changes much quicker.”
(They both played the game that they could work the computer if they tried.)
“I shan’t be making many changes.”
“The point is,” she said, “be quick. Get everything witnessed. Locally—why not? So much cheaper. We might die at any time.”
“So you said all the way home in the train. Solicitors!”
“So you have often said.”
He glared at her, then softened as he watched her healthy, outdoor face and her eyes that had never caught her out.
“I hate making Wills,” she said. “I’ve made dozens,” and looked away, not wanting to touch on inheritances since there was nobody to inherit. She didn’t want to see that Filth didn’t mind.
“I think,” said Filth, astonishingly, “one day I’ll write you a Letter of my Wishes. My personal wishes.”
“Have you so many left then?”
“Not many. Peace at the last, perhaps.”
And that you will never leave me, he thought.
And now, standing with the trowel, head racing a bit with the effort of being John Travolta, she closed her eyes against dizziness. She opened them again, shaded them with her hand and saw him seated above her in the sun-lounge. He had some sort of wrap over his bony, parted knees. The drape of it and the long narrow face staring into the sun made him look like a Christ in Majesty over a cathedral gate. All that was needed was the raised hand in blessing. His eyes were closed. How long is he going to last? she thought. How he hates death. However, Christ in Majesty opened his eyes and raised a hand not in blessing but holding an enormous gin.
“Gin,” he called down. “Felt like gin.”
I won’t get any nearer to him now, she thought, turning to pick up the bulb-basket, taking off her gloves. Too late now. The holes look good, but I’ll do the planting tomorrow. There might be a frost. I won’t risk them out all night on the grass.
THE FERMENT
After her funeral, Filth, now old as time, was at his desk again. Garbutt, the odd job man, trundled a wheelbarrow stacked up with ivy between the sun-lounge and the tulip bed. Garbutt’s jaw was thrust forward. He was lusting after a bonfire. The woman, Mrs. Thing, arrived at Filth’s shoulder with a cup of coffee, then with a Ewbank sweeper.
“Lift your feet a minute and let me get under them and then I’ll leave you in peace,” she said. “Here’s more letters. Shall I come back with your ironing tonight? I could make you a salad. The way he goes at that ivy!”
“Thank you, no. Perfectly capable,” said Filth. “I must keep at desk.”
“I liked the ivy,” she said. “Not that my opinion . . .”
“It’s done now,” said Filth.
“I’m sorry. Well, there