Read Online Fly in the Ointment by Anne Fine - Free Book Online

deep unease. The woman, meanwhile, picked her words with obvious care. ‘Of course, our only
official
responsibility is to the next of kin.’
    What was she saying? Surely if anyone was Malachy’s next of kin, then it was—
    Ah!
    Can shock be real and still shot through with cunning? ‘Malachy’s wife?’
    â€˜Yes. Janie Gay.’
    A name for her at last, then. Janie Gay. And they were married! And all I could feel was utter contempt for that part of myself that recognized my son was dead yet still took the chance to murmur with uttermildness, ‘Yes, of course,’ to make them think I’d known that all along.
    â€˜But Mrs Kuperschmidt was in the station picking up somebody’s file when –’ She stopped. I knew she must be glazing over something horrible she thought I didn’t need to know. ‘Anyhow, the desk officer was on the phone about arrangements. She overheard him saying Malachy’s name and told him she’d dealt with your family over a number of years and wasn’t sure—’
    Another stutter to a halt.
    â€˜In short, she wasn’t sure quite how you’d come to hear the news and didn’t want you to stumble on it in tomorrow’s papers. We did ask Janie Gay for your address, but I’m afraid—’ There was another long, long pause. ‘Well, she wasn’t in a fit state to help with your details. But Mrs Kuperschmidt did say that since you and Malachy had never formally put a stop to the counselling, we would be justified in—’
    Ah! So their worries were about
procedures
. Kind Mrs Kuperschmidt had pushed them into twisting rules. My head was bleached of sense. How could I even be making space for thoughts like these when there was Malachy – no, when there
wasn’t
Malachy – when—
    The officer was still explaining. ‘And there are channels we can use to find a person’s address when it’s –
important
.’
    I didn’t have to play her hesitation through again to know that she’d pulled back from saying ‘when it’s a death’. And once again I was distracted by the sheer astonishment of finding I could lose my son and still have room in my brain to wonder at the graciousness and tact of someone else’s daughter.
    And then I forced myself up, up, and up some more, till I was standing. I took their hands. I thanked them and assured them both that I’d be fine. I promised I would phone if I could think of anything that anyone could do. I took the leaflet that they offered me called
Help at Hand
and laid it carefully aside, for all the world as if I were going to keep it, not simply rip it into pieces and stuff it in the bin. I showed them to the door and gave a little wave as they walked down my path, still thanking them sincerely for bringing me the news of Malachy lying on a marble slab – kicked, beaten, drowned, and lost to me for ever.

10
    THE OTHER KIND words came from Mrs Kuperschmidt. Just as I stepped into the bath on one of those first black, everlasting evenings that followed the dreadful visit, another police car drew up outside and before I could put on my dressing gown and hurry down, something had dropped through the letter box.
    It was a note: ‘
I was so very sorry to hear
. . .’
    I wondered why she hadn’t posted it, then realized the officers’ unofficial favour had not extended to passing on my address. She said she could offer no comfort except to say that in her experience grief had a life of its own. It was born – kicking strong and greedy, and draining everyone around of every ounce of energy. Then, as time passed, it grew more settled: one could live with it. And in the end, just like a person, it would age and die, to leave only memories.She wrote her phone number at the top, and then again in the last paragraph. She said she hoped to see me on Tuesday morning at the crematorium, but she was