The double doors of the larger chapel were thrown open, the opening number of my playlist of music clearly audible. The funeral director had marshalled all those who had insisted, come what may, on being there, into a socially distanced line either side of the cortege. I walked alone. Thankfully it became obvious who I should invite to join me inside. The doors remained open.
As we left the chapel, I mumbled through my mask: ‘Mr Murchison, my apologies, I always assumed I’d be running around trying to organise a much grander affair. There was a notice but, I’ve not even attempted to contact many, they’d just have had to be turned away.’
‘I was very attached to your aunt, such a remarkable woman in many ways. She put up such a front to the world. I flatter myself I was able to breakdown her defences; I shall always remember our afternoons on the patio.’
‘I, er, I’m sure you were a great support to her.’
‘You must introduce me properly to your girl Sparkwell sometime, I’m sure we have much to discuss, matters of mutual interest.’
‘That wasn’t a funeral, that was a guard of honour.’
‘Yes. Yes, you're right. Bizarre, but strangely appropriate.’
‘Did you love her?’
‘Love, hate, who can tell? We were tied for life, she was always there in the background, lurking.’
‘You’ll miss her.’
‘Yes, but all said and done I prefer you as my moral compass.’
‘She was always giving me instruction in your wellbeing.’
‘I can imagine.’
‘She took it for granted I’d comply and stick around, for the foreseeable - as you might say.’
‘Just one thing, promise me you’ll grow more like me and not more like her!’
The following day we made a second visit to the Villa. ‘I want to walk you through everywhere. Rummage a bit. Fact is, I’ve had an email from Bernard Merriweather saying I should turn-up next week for a reading of the Will. I don’t know what’s in it, I don’t even know who the executor is. It’s quite possible I didn’t know auntie as well as I thought. Murchison made a couple of cryptic comments yesterday which I didn’t quite follow. This might be the last time we have free unfettered access, legally speaking.’
‘I hope she leaves you the house, on condition you live here and hang her portrait at the end of the corridor, just there, so every time you...’
‘Okay, sorry for laughing at you.’
‘You want sex?’
‘What!’
‘You said it might be the last time…’
‘I’ll pass on that one, I’ll gamble on there being, another time.’
‘When was the house built?’
‘I would guess, eighteen sixties or seventies, I was wrong to call it Edwardian, I think it must have been earlier, built to accommodate the ever-growing middle classes, the clerical class and the growing number of small business owners pushing the products of industrialisation. So, servants would come in by day, perhaps a cook and a maid. Their domain would’ve been the kitchen and the pantry.’
‘Did you actually stay here at all?’
‘Oh yes, when not at school, fifty-fifty split between here and Checkley. Quite a lonely place at times, only one of the four bedrooms occupied full-time, as it were. The garden was the centre of activity, veg garden beyond the bower, pantry door always open, tea on the lawn.’
‘All this furniture is old, was it handed down?’
‘Yes, sort of. Uncle Thomas had the property modernised in the sixties, but kept and renovated what remained of all the original fixtures and fittings, all the Victorian versions of fitted cupboards etc. Then, it was furnished with bits pinched from all the Trust properties Auntie had grown up knowing.’
‘Pinched?’
‘Well, you know how dominating she could be. I think she must have marched-in on quite a few sitting tenants and removed items they thought were theirs, for the use of, as long as the rent was paid!’
‘You are quite like her really.’
‘I beg your pardon! Would you care to explain that last remark?’
‘Well, grafting quite hard and doing what it takes - to hang on to the past. Like, continuity, traditional values.’
‘Oh, okay, that’s all right then.’
‘She even accepted you putting it about a bit, in a, “that’s what blokes do”, kind of a way. Just thought it had gone on too long.’
‘Where did that come from? Just for the record, Charlie, I’ve been a serial monogamist, I’ve never been unfaithful.’
‘This character looks a bit like you, who is he?’
‘That’s father. Look in the background, that’s the apartments as a building site.’
‘Oh, yes…’
Having persuaded my fellow investors in the Park development company and the key committee members of the club, that now was an ideal moment to switch our marketing strategy from protecting a private hideaway, to advertising ourselves as a commercial concern - albeit a very exclusive one - I proceeded to do a one-man virtual re-launch. Armed only with the Park and the club mailing lists, I signposted everyone to Twitter, Facebook and YouTube accounts. From there they could get to the website and if members, to their own portal. Forty-eight hours later I posted on Twitter and Facebook a forthcoming live-streamed event!
‘Wow!’
‘Wow indeed.’ It gives one a ridiculous sense of power operating from one’s own media suite, set-up as if presiding from the platform of the Park ballroom to a packed audience of virtual attendees.
‘What do I do?’
‘Stand off camera, sign-in with your tablet now. We go live in five minutes.’
‘You’ve put me in the front row, I don’t want to be in the front row. I should be off to one side, surveying all, covering your back.’
‘Explore touchscreen from that page.’
‘Oh my God, I’m half way to the ceiling now.’
‘Okay, so you have privileged administrator access to today’s event, everyone else can only change their seat - just the perspective really - within the seating area. You, can go where you like. But you’ll only be seen by anyone if you walk into shot here on Camera One.’
Inevitably it was but a matter of moments before she switched to a fixed grip and by exploiting tilt, was dancing around the room. ‘Going live, five, four...’ I warned her.
The event was, by necessity, really just a modest student induction-like session, but to get there at all - signing-in and loading portal - involved them all in a twenty second compulsory viewing of a walk into the virtual club. Fin had managed to catch, and edit in, Charlie in uniform, doing one of her “step this way, sir” type silent gestures.
All went according to plan, though rather boringly, until the Q & A. Instinctively I punched in Barmy first, who’s avatar I’d registered in my periphery. A safe place to begin I reasoned, can’t go wrong with him, after all he’s far more accomplished at this game than I am... Within a few seconds I realised I was about to be totally upstaged. As he asked his long serious question, somehow his camera slowly zoomed-out revealing more and more grey, then blue sky, then a faded in roaring clatter sound as the dark menacing shape of a Royal Marine attack helicopter appeared to hover, insect-like over his right shoulder.
The only other incident of note, came at the very end when I felt duty bound to allow Tuffy a question. ‘Where’s Charlotte?’
Charlie reacted as if talking to Julia or Uncle, standing behind me and leaning over; ‘Hi everybody,’ she said, waving at the camera. But of course, she wasn’t in uniform, she was in her yoga kit, with a top that owed more to the fashion designer’s crayon than the practical practitioner, the real illusion was suddenly shattered by a virtual, exaggerated cleavage!
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