Nick?'
I'd called earlier to check she was in.
The door opened. Tallulah was tall, a good foot
taller than Pete. She was wearing a baggy red
jumper. Her feet were bare. The shock of long,
wavy, hippie-girl hair I'd seen in the photographs
and movie clips was tied at the nape of
her neck.
She shook my hand blankly. 'Come on in . . .'
I followed her past a sitting room and stairs,
then down a couple of steps towards a
new-looking kitchen-conservatory. She steered
me into a room just before it on the right. Maybe
she didn't want me to comment on how nice the
extension was and ask for the builder's name.
It was a family room, with a sofa, TV, toys, a
beaten-up computer. A window gave out on to
a small but perfect garden. Pete's seven-year-old
was playing on a swing.
'Ruby?'
There was no doubting whose block she was a
chip off.
Tallulah stood a couple of steps away from me,
arms folded. She smiled. 'I told her Daddy's gone
to heaven. You know what she said? "Is he
making a film about God?" '
On the wall behind her were pictures of Pete
doing camera stuff, and the three of them on
holiday, all the normal gear. A couple of cut-glass
cameras stood on the first shelf above his desk;
awards he'd won for doing the job he loved.
She offered me tea but, fuck it, I had no time
for that.
I didn't sit down but Tallulah did, expectantly.
I unzipped the side pouch of my Bergen and
handed her the bag containing Pete's belongings.
'Thank you so much for doing this, Nick. You
don't know what it means to me.'
She lifted out his things one by one, laying
them on the lid of a pink mini-piano at her feet.
She almost caressed each item.
She took out his wedding ring and the tears
came. I just stood there, thinking maybe tea
would have been a good idea. 'The station's looking
after you, I hope?' I said.
Tallulah closed her fingers round the gold
band. She looked up and sort of nodded.
I didn't understand.
She pointed at the shelf. An opened envelope
stood between the two glass cameras. 'They cremated
him in Basra.' Tallulah reached for a fistful
of Kleenex.
'Oh . . .' I thought about the donor card I'd
seen amongst his stuff at Basra airport. 'I
thought . . .'
'I know, it doesn't make sense. He always
wanted the bits that still worked to go to someone
who needed them.'
Her head dropped.
'Do you mind if I have a read?'
She took the memory stick from the bag and
plugged it into the PC. As she sat down in front
of the screen I took out the single sheet of A4 and
unfolded it. The embossed FCO crest was top
centre. There was no extension under the main
Whitehall number. The signature block belonged
to David Morlands, but there was no departmental
accreditation.
I stood behind her and read the six stark, sterile
lines that had been sent to a grieving wife. 'I
don't understand, Tallulah,' I lied. 'Maybe there
was a mix-up and they thought he was a soldier.'
I was glad she couldn't see me. I was trying
to sound compassionate, but really I wanted to
scream at the top of my voice that this was
bollocks. There wasn't going to be a David
Morlands anywhere in the FCO.
Tallulah stroked some strands of hair away
from her mouth. 'But they bring soldiers home in
coffins, don't they? I wouldn't have expected
them to drape him in a flag or any of that, but
they should have got my permission for
cremation, surely.'
The screen filled with the pictures of Ruby that
Pete had shown me.
What was I going to do? Tell her my
suspicions? What was the point in making these
two's lives even more complicated, especially
when I had no proof? 'Have you heard from
Dom?'
'You're the first to come. The station's been
sorting out for me to go to Brize Norton to collect
the urn. But I don't really care about that, Nick. I
just wish he'd been brought home the way he
wanted.'
She clicked on a movie clip I hadn't seen. Pete
was in the garden in a pair of orange Hawaiian
shorts I could only hope he'd been ashamed of, trying
to push Ruby's ice-cream cone on to her
I'd called earlier to check she was in.
The door opened. Tallulah was tall, a good foot
taller than Pete. She was wearing a baggy red
jumper. Her feet were bare. The shock of long,
wavy, hippie-girl hair I'd seen in the photographs
and movie clips was tied at the nape of
her neck.
She shook my hand blankly. 'Come on in . . .'
I followed her past a sitting room and stairs,
then down a couple of steps towards a
new-looking kitchen-conservatory. She steered
me into a room just before it on the right. Maybe
she didn't want me to comment on how nice the
extension was and ask for the builder's name.
It was a family room, with a sofa, TV, toys, a
beaten-up computer. A window gave out on to
a small but perfect garden. Pete's seven-year-old
was playing on a swing.
'Ruby?'
There was no doubting whose block she was a
chip off.
Tallulah stood a couple of steps away from me,
arms folded. She smiled. 'I told her Daddy's gone
to heaven. You know what she said? "Is he
making a film about God?" '
On the wall behind her were pictures of Pete
doing camera stuff, and the three of them on
holiday, all the normal gear. A couple of cut-glass
cameras stood on the first shelf above his desk;
awards he'd won for doing the job he loved.
She offered me tea but, fuck it, I had no time
for that.
I didn't sit down but Tallulah did, expectantly.
I unzipped the side pouch of my Bergen and
handed her the bag containing Pete's belongings.
'Thank you so much for doing this, Nick. You
don't know what it means to me.'
She lifted out his things one by one, laying
them on the lid of a pink mini-piano at her feet.
She almost caressed each item.
She took out his wedding ring and the tears
came. I just stood there, thinking maybe tea
would have been a good idea. 'The station's looking
after you, I hope?' I said.
Tallulah closed her fingers round the gold
band. She looked up and sort of nodded.
I didn't understand.
She pointed at the shelf. An opened envelope
stood between the two glass cameras. 'They cremated
him in Basra.' Tallulah reached for a fistful
of Kleenex.
'Oh . . .' I thought about the donor card I'd
seen amongst his stuff at Basra airport. 'I
thought . . .'
'I know, it doesn't make sense. He always
wanted the bits that still worked to go to someone
who needed them.'
Her head dropped.
'Do you mind if I have a read?'
She took the memory stick from the bag and
plugged it into the PC. As she sat down in front
of the screen I took out the single sheet of A4 and
unfolded it. The embossed FCO crest was top
centre. There was no extension under the main
Whitehall number. The signature block belonged
to David Morlands, but there was no departmental
accreditation.
I stood behind her and read the six stark, sterile
lines that had been sent to a grieving wife. 'I
don't understand, Tallulah,' I lied. 'Maybe there
was a mix-up and they thought he was a soldier.'
I was glad she couldn't see me. I was trying
to sound compassionate, but really I wanted to
scream at the top of my voice that this was
bollocks. There wasn't going to be a David
Morlands anywhere in the FCO.
Tallulah stroked some strands of hair away
from her mouth. 'But they bring soldiers home in
coffins, don't they? I wouldn't have expected
them to drape him in a flag or any of that, but
they should have got my permission for
cremation, surely.'
The screen filled with the pictures of Ruby that
Pete had shown me.
What was I going to do? Tell her my
suspicions? What was the point in making these
two's lives even more complicated, especially
when I had no proof? 'Have you heard from
Dom?'
'You're the first to come. The station's been
sorting out for me to go to Brize Norton to collect
the urn. But I don't really care about that, Nick. I
just wish he'd been brought home the way he
wanted.'
She clicked on a movie clip I hadn't seen. Pete
was in the garden in a pair of orange Hawaiian
shorts I could only hope he'd been ashamed of, trying
to push Ruby's ice-cream cone on to her
Similar Books
