All day, helped by two of her friends, sharp-faced women in long black coats, Falkman’s sister moved quietly about the house. Her quick deft hands shook the dust from the velvet curtains in the library, wound up the miniature Louis XV clock on the study desk, and reset the great barometer on the staircase. None of the women spoke to each other, but within a few hours the house was transformed, the dark wood in the hall gleaming as the first callers were admitted.
‘Mr and Mrs Montefiore…’
‘Mr and Mrs Caldwell..
‘Miss Evelyn Jermyn and Miss Elizabeth..
‘Mr Samuel Banbury…’
One by one nodding in acknowledgement as they were announced, the callers trooped into the hail and paused over the coffin, examining Falkman’s face with discreet interest, then passed into the dining room where they were presented with a glass of port and a tray of sweetmeats. Most of them were elderly, over-dressed in the warm spring weather, one or two obviously ill at ease in the great oak-panelled house, and all unmistakably revealed the same air of hushed expectancy.
The following morning Falkman was lifted from his coffin and carried upstairs to the bedroom overlooking the drive. The winding sheet was removed from his frail body dressed in a pair of thick woollen pyjamas. He lay quietly between the cold sheets, his grey face sightless and reposed, unaware of his sister crying softly on the high-backed chair beside him. Only when Dr Markham called and put his hand on her shoulder did she contain herself, relieved to have given way to her feelings.
Almost as if this were a signal, Falkman opened his eyes. For a moment they wavered uncertainly, the pupils weak and watery. Then he gazed up at his sister’s tear-marked face, his head motionless on the pillow. As she and the doctor leaned forward Falkman smiled fleetingly, his lips parting across his teeth in an expression of immense patience and understanding. Then apparently exhausted he lapsed into a deep sleep.
After securing the blinds over the windows, his sister and the doctor stepped from the room. Below, the doors closed quietly into the drive, and the house became silent. Gradually the sounds of Falkman’s breathing grew more steady and filled the bedroom, overlaid by the swaying of the dark trees outside.
So James Falkman made his arrival. For the next week he lay quietly in his bedroom, his strength increasing hourly, and managed to eat his first meals prepared by his sister. She sat in the blackwood chair, her mourning habit exchanged for a grey woollen dress, examining him critically.
‘Now James, you’ll have to get a better appetite than that. Your poor body is completely wasted.’
Falkman pushed away the tray and let his long slim hands fall across his chest. He smiled amiably at his sister. ‘Careful, Betty, or you’ll turn me into a milk pudding.’
His sister briskly straightened the eiderdown. ‘If you don’t like my cooking, James, you can fend for yourself.’
A faint chuckle slipped between Falkman’s lips. ‘Thank you for telling me, Betty, I fully intend to.’
He lay back, smiling weakly to himself as his sister stalked out with the tray. Teasing her did him almost as much good as the meals she prepared, and he felt the blood reaching down into his cold feet. His face was still grey and flaccid, and he conserved his strength carefully, only his eyes moving as he watched the ravens alighting on the window ledge.
Gradually, as his conversations with his sister became more frequent, Falkman gained sufficient strength to sit up. He began to take a fuller interest in the world around him, watching the people in the avenue through the french windows and disputing his sister’s commentary on them.
‘There’s Sam Banbury again,’ she remarked testily as a small leprechaunlike old man hobbled past. ‘Off to the Swan as usual. When’s he going to get a job, I’d like to know.’
‘Be more charitable, Betty. Sam’s a very sensible fellow. I’d rather go to the pub than have a job.’
His sister snorted sceptically, her assessment of Falkman’s character apparently at variance with this statement. ‘You’ve got one of the finest houses in Mortmere Park,’ she told him. ‘I think you should be more careful with people like Sam Banbury. He’s not in your class, James.’
Falkman smiled patiently at his sister. ‘We’re all in the same class, or have you been here so long you’ve forgotten, Betty.’
‘We all forget,’ she told him soberly. ‘You will too, James. It’s sad, but we’re in this world now, and we must concern ourselves with it. If the church can keep the memory alive for us, so much the better. As you’ll find out though, the majority of folk remember nothing. Perhaps it’s a good thing.’
