the attitude of his secretary when she rang us up to tell us the sacred presence was on his way, we ought to have treated with the sort of awe and respect the average person reserves for royalty and major religious figures. I was a little surprised he didn’t kneel and kiss the door-step when he unfolded himself from his Merc.
The undertaker had been dealt with, a few reporters fended off, Lewis - in London - reassured that there was nothing he could do up here for now, and told not to cancel his gig dates, and James, on a school trip in Austria, finally contacted. He would arrive the day of the funeral; one of his teachers would come back with him.
Dad’s study proved to be a wilderness of papers, disorganised files, chaotic filing cabinets, and an impressive-looking computer that neither mum nor I knew how to operate. The afternoon I got back mum and I had stood looking at the machine, knowing there might be stuff in it we’d need to look at, but unable to work out what to do with the damn thing after switching it on; the relevant manual had disappeared, mum had never touched a keyboard in her life and my computer expertise was confined to having a sound tactical sense of which alien to zap first and a leechlike grip on continuous-fire buttons.
‘I know just the person,’ I said, and rang the Watts’ house.
Twenty-four hours before the funeral, Aunt Tone had rung and said could we possibly come and see Uncle Hamish? He’d asked to see us.
And so here we were. Mum sat on the far side of the bed, her eyes bright.
I cleared my throat. ‘How are you, Uncle Hamish?’ I asked.
He looked at my mother, as if he thought she’d talked, not me. He shrugged. ‘Sorry to drag you out here,’ he said. His voice was flat, emotionless. ‘I just wanted to say how, how sorry I am, and I want you all to forgive me, even though I didn’t ... didn’t encourage him. He insisted. I told him not to do it.’ He sighed and tried to press one of the cardboard pieces into place on the puzzle without success. ‘We were both a little the worse for wear and,’ he said. ‘I did try. I tried to stop him, tried to talk to him, but ... but ...’ He stopped talking, tutted in apparent exasperation and took up the little scissors. He trimmed a couple of finger-nail sized bits of cardboard off the piece and forced it into place. ‘Don’t make the damn things right any more,’ he muttered.
I began to wonder at the wisdom of leaving Uncle H with a pair of scissors, even small ones.
He looked at me. ‘Headstrong,’ he said brightly, then looked down at the puzzle. ‘Always was. Good; liked him; brother after all, but ... there was no sense of God in him, was there?’ Hamish looked at mum, then me. ‘No sense of something greater than him, was there, Mary?’ he said, turning back to mum. ‘Proof all round us; goodness and power, but he wouldn’t believe. I tried to tell him; saw the minister yesterday; told him he hadn’t tried hard enough. He said he couldn’t force people to go to church. I said, why not? Did in the old days. Why not?’ Uncle Hamish took up another piece of grey cardboard, turned it this way and that. ‘Good enough then, good enough now; that’s what I told him. For their own good.’ He grunted, looked displeased. ‘Idiot told me not to blame myself,’ he said, staring grimly at the puzzle-piece, as though trying to pare bits off it with just the sharpness of his stare. ‘I said I don’t, I blame God. Or Kenneth for ... for goading ... inciting Him.’ Uncle Hamish started to cry, his bottom lip quivering like a child’s.
‘There, Hamish,’ mum said, reaching out and stroking one of his hands.
‘What exactly happened, Uncle Hamish?’ I asked. Sounded to me like the man had cracked completely, but I still wanted to see if he could come up with more details.
‘Sorry,’ sniffed Hamish, wiping his eyes then blowing his nose into the black hanky. He put the hanky in his breast pocket, clasped his hands on the edge of the tray holding the jigsaw, and lowered his head a little, seeming to address the centre of the puzzle. His thumbs started to circle each other, going round and round.