That Afternoon

About the Author

Marcus Toyne fell in love with reading and writing at an early age and has spent his working life as an English teacher, initially in school and later in adult education. He has played ‘cocktail piano’ in hotels. He and his wife, Barbara, have four sons and innumerable grandchildren. Family life has been strenuous, lively and very rewarding, particularly in the 1970s in the Findhorn Foundation Community on the Moray Firth. However, Marcus has now retired from full-time teaching and has been living in Devizes, Wiltshire, for nearly forty years.

Dedication

With much love to my four sons, James, Stuart, Peter and Simon, to whom I’ve always enjoyed telling stories, but not this one! For Peter Hamilton Cole, the friend of a lifetime.

Copyright Information ©

Marcus Toyne 2022

The right of Marcus Toyne to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by the author in accordance with section 77 and 78 of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior permission of the publishers.

Any person who commits any unauthorised act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, locales, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library.

ISBN 9781398402164 (Paperback)

ISBN 9781398402171 (ePub e-book)

www.austinmacauley.com

First Published 2022

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Prelude

I MAY AS WELL START WITH THE FUNERAL because that was when I made up my mind that, sooner or later, I should have to give an account of what had happened. Not that I’ll actually be able to account for it. They say that seeing is believing and certainly what I saw had nothing to do with wishful thinking or clinging to some consolatory fantasy. It was altogether too horrible for that. Quite against expectation or desire, I had found myself pitchforked into realising just how grievously he had betrayed me.

Betrayal of any kind is an ugly business, but it is surely worse when a child is involved. I was only six when he embarked on that long deception, taking full advantage of my vulnerability and complete lack of guile, and he never let up with his consistent lying and evasions for the rest of his life. Admittedly, it was vital for him to keep to his story in order to save his own skin, but to have done what he had done and still be able to sleep at night – that for me was the real atrocity. None of the hoary old clichés seemed to apply: on the face of it, he carried no burden of guilt, suffered no pangs of conscience, showed no sign of being haunted by disquieting memories, and seemingly had no fears of being found out. So, was he a psychopath? An amnesiac? A man who had sold his soul to the Devil? I don’t know. I shall never know. And frankly, I don’t care. All I do know is that he betrayed me, wilfully kept me in the dark, came close to destroying me. What follows is a kind of backhanded epitaph.

And then there is the little matter of how I came by this incriminating information. I can’t expect you to believe me, because I’m not at all sure I would be able to swallow such a yarn spun by anybody else. Personal conviction carries little weight as far as other people are concerned, no matter how heartfelt and sincere it may be, which is why the evangelically inclined, heaven bent on conversion, frequently have such a thin time. And how about those wild-eyed folk who claim they’ve seen a flying saucer land in their back garden, or bumped into an angel one enchanted evening, or remember being the Queen of Sheba in a previous existence? Nutty as a fruit cake? Schizoid? Drunk or drugged? Sincerely deluded? Take your pick. Those who have strange tales to tell must expect some hard knocks. It’s a hard sell all right and I am no salesman, but I haven’t the slightest doubt that what the old man unleashed, finally gave me the freedom I had long craved, but never acknowledged – the freedom to be myself, the freedom to start living to the full, the freedom to leave behind the rubble and ruck of the lost years.

I’m writing because I know I shan’t rest easy until I’ve created some kind of permanent record of the strangest and most healing experience of my life. Whether, dear reader, you are amused, edified or outraged is not my concern – I just want to tell you about it. I suppose the Ancient Mariner must have had the same kind of compulsion. Be my Wedding Guest.

So… I may as well start with the funeral…

*

Beryl Chambers, loyal as ever, had offered to come with me, and I appreciated that, but I told her this was something I wanted and needed to do on my own.

She simply nodded and said she understood, just as I’m sure she had a much deeper understanding of my whole situation than she let on. Not in any detail of course, but like everyone else in the office, she couldn’t have failed to notice that something extraordinary had evidently befallen me, something very different from the ‘devastation’ conventionally attributed to the bereaved. Beryl, being Beryl, had kept her counsel, remaining her quiet and dutiful self, but must have wondered all the same what had come over old Sunbeam, apart from losing his dad. Where was the sour-faced martinet the staff had hated so well? They must have found it positively unnerving to be greeted with a smile and asked if it wouldn’t be too much trouble to do whatever was required, and wasn’t it a lovely day, and how had that trip down to the coast gone by the way? Mr Talbot must have gone off his trolley.

A few days after Father died, I overheard one of the bright sparks on the second floor saying, Looks like he’s been abducted by aliens and they’ve actually managed to turn him into a human being! followed by a gasp of dismay as I pushed open the door, marched up to him and gave him a playful punch in the chest.

Cheeky bugger! I crowed. But, as it happens, you’re closer to the truth than you imagine, I said before I sailed out again with a great grin on my face.

Converts of any kind can be an embarrassment. We make up our minds about people with all their foibles and faults and find it disturbing if they change, even if the change is for the better. I’ve always found Scrooge’s conversion hard to take on that score. And I was not unlike Scrooge (before he became such an improbably genial old fellow), in the guise of old Sunbeam with his insufferable pedantry, his pinched attitudes and general tetchiness.

There is this notion of the figure ‘concealed’ in a shapeless block of wood, which is uncovered, almost discovered by the sculptor. As far as my work colleagues were concerned, they never got much beyond the block of wood. Beryl was more perceptive, because I was much less guarded with her, and we had our little shared jokes. At the same time, she never presumed on this, but always remained the perfect secretary. What neither of us could hide were the unspoken thoughts which came out in the ironic shrug, the covert smile, the tapping finger. She would sometimes take off her rather heavily framed glasses and look at me not so much quizzically as searchingly – with anything but a glazed expression – so that momentarily, I saw the hint of passion behind the studied primness. We never asked each other ‘personal’ questions. All I knew was that she lived with her old and ailing mother, but how they got on, or whether Beryl had any kind of independent social life, I had no idea. At 53, she was what is called ‘well preserved’: neat, slim and far from dowdy, but somehow faded and dried out. When we took our mid-morning break and drank coffee together in my office, we would sometimes exchange rather longer looks than etiquette usually allowed, and acknowledge each other’s sadness with quiet stoicism, before clambering back onto the safety raft of routine and predictability. Once, I recall, I saw her fine eyes begin to mist over and felt myself growing dangerously tearful in dumb sympathy. We’d both been peeking at each other over the rims of our coffee cups, but the clatter of china as we put the cups down, immediately broke the spell. She settled her glasses on her patrician nose and took up her shorthand pad, pencil poised in readiness. I nodded severely, back on duty, and started dictating a letter, both of us eager to escape back into our respective roles. Well-rehearsed and word-perfect, we knew where we were again and the show could go on. That, at least, was the way of things before Father died.

One of the consolations of the bereaved is that at least they are fully occupied to begin with, rushing about to make all the necessary arrangements, applying for a death certificate and so forth. Not that I felt any need to be consoled, but there was no escaping the arrangements, so it wasn’t long before I was seeking out an undertaker. Pettigrew and Gossett – funerals conducted with decorum and taste, always appeared on the front page of the local paper, so I made my way to their office in the High Street. These midwives of death come in all shapes and sizes, but the one I found was a far cry from the lugubrious figure I had expected (an image derived no doubt from the odious Mr Sowerberry in Oliver Twist). Douglas Pettigrew had only just taken over the business from his uncle and was new to the town, which was why I didn’t know him by sight. Large, florid and loud, in a pepper and salt tweed suit, he clapped me on the back in hearty commiseration before getting down to business and establishing what kind of coffin was required (the cheapest, please); when the next slot at the crem would be available (Wednesday week at three would suit me fine); whether I wanted a notice to go in the local paper (no thanks); the sort of service I should like (C of E traditional).

Father had lived in the parish of St Luke’s and I saw no need to say that he’d never darkened the door of any sort of church in his entire life. I have no idea what he may or may not have believed when it came to religion, or the lack of it. Theological discussion did not loom large in our conversations, apart from the blanket view that these churchy people were all bloody hypocrites and those nancy boys in dog collars, a load of creeps, who would touch up a boy scout at the drop of a cassock. He had regarded my half-hearted attempts to get in with the church youth club as ‘pansy’, and held the haziest of notions about Christian doctrines. He told me once that he didn’t fancy going to heaven, because he didn’t want to play the harp forever and ever. My private thought at the time was that he wouldn’t have been eligible anyway, quite apart from his musical shortcomings. As for Easter – well, it was all about chocolate eggs and bunny rabbits, wasn’t it?

Why then did I feel it was meet and right for Father to have an Anglican funeral? God knows, is the short answer.

I knew from passing the large noticeboard outside St Luke’s that the vicar was The Reverend Thomas Britlow.

Just the ticket, said the undertaker. You can’t go wrong with Tommy Britlow. Shall I give him a bell and say you’ll pop round to the vicarage sometime for a chat?

A chat?

Oh, all the usual, you know. What you’d like him to say about your poor old dad, sadly missed, good innings… bring The Reverend up to speed, like.

This Mr Pettigrew must have been a good psychologist because his casual flippancy perfectly matched my own mood of mischievous levity. Sadly missed indeed! I came close to exchanging a conspiratorial wink with this refreshingly jolly undertaker.

I’m sure The Reverend Britlow does a grand job on these occasions, but he’ll only be required to conduct the service according to the rites of the Church of England. Oh yes, and I should like to give the address myself.

Mr Pettigrew looked dubious. If I might make so bold, Mr Talbot, I’ve seen people get unstuck when they try to do that. Lump in the throat, touch of faintness, nose blocked up – that sort of thing. Think they’re going to be okay, but then suddenly they seize up. Grief’s a funny thing like that.

I smiled. I appreciate your concern, Mr Pettigrew, and I’m sure you’ve had some nasty moments when emotion gets the better of the speaker.

Well, it’s not what I call professional if you take my meaning. But The Reverend will be able to handle it because, after all, he’s in the business and it isn’t his dad at the end of the day. Means he can be more detached, like. Tommy Britlow’s taken more funerals than I’ve had hot dinners and he always comes up with the goods. Between you and I, he’s the favourite Reverend with our firm. Some of the dog-collared brigade make me cringe, to be honest with you.

I don’t think I’ll make you cringe exactly… although you never know.

Mr Pettigrew laughed uneasily. Don’t get me wrong, no offence to the cloth and all that. All I’m trying to say –

I’m not in the least offended. The clergy often make me cringe too. As far as the address is concerned, I’m more than ready to admit that I’m no orator and I don’t suppose I shall give a very polished performance, but I promise you I shan’t break down or make a pig’s ear of it. Rest assured.

Good on you, Mr Talbot. I just thought I ought to give you fair warning. Something tells me you’ll be on the ball. Make a change for me and the boys.

Yes indeed.

Having rashly undertaken to give the address, I had ample time before the funeral date to wonder about the wisdom of this decision. For all my brave words to Mr Pettigrew, it was going to be quite an assignment, but I could hardly hand over the script of what I had in mind to say and leave it to The Reverend Britlow to put it across.

I got in touch with the vicar on the phone who sounded a nice enough fellow, blessedly free of the fluting diction of his kind, but declined his invitation to call in at the vicarage. I explained that this wouldn’t be necessary and he could leave any personal tributes to my father to me. Meantime, I looked forward to seeing him at the crematorium.

So, everything was ‘up together’ as Beryl would say, and it only remained to work out what I was going to say. If it hadn’t been for what happened immediately after Father’s death at the hospital, I should have been quite content to leave everything in the vicar’s hands, after providing him with an anodyne CV. After all, Father and I had rubbed along together for all those years, if not exactly amicably then as well as could be expected in the wake of calamity. Like a couple of shipwrecked sailors cast ashore on a desert island, we made the best of it in the interests of survival. I took refuge in books, finding my salvation in living by proxy, while Father continued to work for the Water Board, visiting The British Grenadier most evenings for what he was pleased to call his Horlicks, before going home and slumping in front of the television to doze fitfully until he eventually lumbered up to bed. A numbingly boring existence for both of us, no doubt, but it passed the time until I left school and eventually drifted into employment at the tax office.

I struck out in my twenties to the extent of moving into my own place, leaving Father in sole occupancy of the home in which I’d grown up, but since we were little more than a mile apart, we met by arrangement from time to time, often enough in the snug at The British Grenadier for a desultory pint of best bitter to ‘catch up’ on our adventures with, respectively, the Water Board and the Inland Revenue, communicating with the élan and spontaneity of programmed robots.

The one thing we never talked about was what had thrown us together into an uneasy duo in the first place. Strictly off-limits. The two of us inhabited the space once occupied by the former three of us, a limbo in which there was no ‘before’ to our ‘after’. Never a true word was spoken, as we lisped our craven commonplaces. We skulked in the safety zone of the present, carefully avoiding the minefield of the past, knowing full well