Brookes had asked Jack, among other things, if at the service he might want to say a few words of his own. Jack had said no, he couldn’t face it, which was only honest, and Brookes hadn’t pressed the point and had said, “Fair enough.” Then Brookes had asked Jack if he wanted him, in his own address, to say anything in particular—possibly something about those two Luxton brothers on the memorial outside? Jack had thought for a while and said no, he didn’t want that, and Brookes had also seemed to think for a while and had said again, “Fair enough.” By then Jack was getting the comforting impression that Brookes understood that what he wanted was real y only what he’d wanted that first time, twelve years ago, when they’d spoken face to face. As little and as simple as possible.
BROOKES, indeed, was wel aware by now (he’d been rector for over twenty-five years) that it was what most people real y craved at such events, even when there were no extraordinary circumstances to acknowledge, as little and as simple as possible being real y the essence of the thing, the bare bones, so to speak. So: a simple service, just the one address, and he would have to find some way
—but he’d somehow done it before—of referring to the exceptional (and violent) manner of the death. He’d have to give it some thought and come up with something. The coffin would lie in the church overnight and, after the service, be carried out to the churchyard—Jack as principal bearer (this was the bit, Brookes noted, that seemed to matter most to the man)—for a simple burial. Hardly more, as Brookes knew very wel , than eighty paces.
These thoughts had gathered in his mind even as he’d spoken to Jack on the phone. “So,” he’d said, sensing that Jack didn’t want to prolong the conversation, “he’l be next to his mum and dad again.” And had heard a silence down the line. He’d added, “It’l have been a long journey.” Then, hearing only more silence, he’d asked (he’d known he’d have to ask it and this was the only chance) whether there would be a flag, a Union Jack, over the coffin? And if not, would he like them—the parish—to organise one? Or anything else along those lines? Never having presided over an event of this kind before, Brookes was not at al sure how things worked. But Jack had final y spoken again to say no, he didn’t want a flag. There wouldn’t be a flag.
And Brookes, after a pause, had said, “Fair enough.” BROOKES WOULD BE THERE, Jack thought, looking older.
Who else? Sal y and Ken Warburton? How might Sal y shake her head this time? Bob Ireton? Stil the local bobby?
The whole damn vil age would be there—remembered or half-forgotten faces leaping out at him like flash bulbs—but, given that the thing was on the front pages, Jack thought, so might the whole bloody world.
As wel as speaking to Brookes, to Babbages, to Major Richards and to some other necessarily connected parties, Jack had in recent days been obliged to speak—or had avoided speaking—to quite a few people who wanted to speak to him. Most of whom had wanted to know, above al , how he felt, what his feelings were at this particular time, and had given the impression that they thought he might be only too grateful to be asked to share them. Jack had used the supposedly exempting word “private” with these people, but it hadn’t often worked, and he’d opted instead for a basic policy of evasion which, on the other hand, had felt shaming and—evasive. At yesterday’s event he’d successful y given the reporters (he’d noticed their presence, like a different kind of cluster) the slip. He’d given everyone the slip. But now, as he approached his ultimate destination, he had the feeling he’d had before of being liable to arrest.
Ireton, yes, Ireton would be there. With a set of handcuffs.
After the burial, and al its due al owances, he might say,
“Now, Jack, come with me.”
As he drew nearer, he was in fact already and very intently planning his escape. Right now, with his mobile stil firmly switched off, no one knew exactly where he was, or if he’d even appear. Let alone how he felt. Ten-fifteen. And away—by when? If he was not under the immunity of privacy, then he was surely under the protection, the alibi of grief.
While he couldn’t have feared more the clutching actualities of the occasion before him, Jack was hoping that he might pass through them like some shadow—both there and not there. Who could come near his situation?
His compounded situation. First that, now this. He would be untouchable. He would be, in effect—and what could be more appropriate and more purely expressive of his situation?—like the corpse he would nonetheless have to bear on his shoulder. This was how he felt.
And perhaps because he wished it enough or perhaps because, in the event, he was so simply and helplessly dazed and stunned by the whole process, this was how it was.
HE TURNED onto a narrow minor road (there was stil the same ivy-shrouded tree stump on the corner), and the matter felt out of his hands. It seemed impossible that the familiar sights now thickening round him could stil be here, or else impossible that he’d been away. He surrendered to their ambush. That strange word “repatriation” came again into his head. He said again, softly but firmly, “I’m coming, Tom. I’m nearly there.”
And very soon he was. After some more turnings the narrow lanes became the deep single-track trenches he remembered. In summer grass would sprout in the middle.
He’d chosen a route that avoided approaching Marleston from the east—past the entrance to Jebb—but, coming to a brow, he spotted through a gateway the church tower, across the val ey that included both Westcott and Jebb.
Then, having not encountered any other delays since turning off the main road, he immediately came up behind not one, but two, three, four—perhaps more—cars al heading in the same direction, and grasped at once where they must be going, as wel as something of the actual numbers at this strictly private event.
He became now part of a general, creeping congestion, as if he were no more than some frustrated minor attender at the occasion ahead. This turned al his other misgivings into a wild exasperation that was outwardly just the self-important rage of someone stuck in traffic. In al his journey so far, even in Portsmouth, there’d been no significant jams. Now here he was, less than a mile from Marleston and crawling. But what could he do? Press his horn? Flash his lights? This was Devon, where both sides of a vehicle almost touched the hedges. Let me through. Let me pass.
I’m a brother.
Such was his panic that he wouldn’t clearly recal later precisely how he arrived—how he parked or how he got himself from his car to the church. But he would remember having to say more than once, to clear a path, “I’m Jack Luxton. I’m Tom Luxton’s brother.” Though wasn’t it blazingly obvious? Who else did people think he was?
He would remember noticing that the Crown and the war memorial were stil there, stil uncannily in place, though he didn’t want to look straight at them, and the same applied to al the mil ing people—you couldn’t quite cal it a crowd, but it certainly wasn’t a handful. Something like a lock in his neck kept his gaze fixed on the gate to the churchyard and, beyond it, the church porch, so that even if he’d wanted to seek out and acknowledge familiar faces, he couldn’t have done so. He was in a tunnel. Pressing on into the churchyard, he registered, at the edge of his vision, the gravestones of his mother and father and, close to them, a special y prepared area with some vivid green carpeting spread over the turf, but he didn’t want to look directly at these things in case they might somehow render him unable to walk.