Worst Fears by Fay Weldon Page B

belief was that every small town and village in the country these days needed its communication centre, and riches would come to those prescient enough to provide a copier, a fax, and a computer-plus-modem to the community. But few in Eddon Gurney had much interest in the outside world, other than those in what Mr. Lightfoot called “the Bohemian Belt.” Angela Paddle wore a scratchy beige sweater with no blouse beneath. She seemed not to understand comfort, but her face was kind. “So sorry. A great shock.”
    “A great shock,” said Alexandra. “Could you do me copies of these?” and she handed over her trophies. She could see how unlikely it seemed that they were hers. These were not the personal records of anyone with many friends, or a great deal of occupation. She did not even want them thought of as hers. “My brother-in-law is up at The Cottage putting Ned’s affairs in order. We need these addresses and so forth for the funeral invitations.” Her voice faltered. Why was she explaining? Never apologise, never explain, Ned would advise. Which was, she supposed, just as well. He was certainly now in no position to do either.
    Angela Paddle looked both reluctant and doubtful. This was her custom when anyone asked her to use the new technology. “We don’t usually do anything bound,” she said. “But you must be upset. I’ll do my best. Funny to think of your husband lying on that slab just a couple of doors down.”
    “Very funny,” said Alexandra.
    “I’ll pop in and see him later,” said Angela Paddle.
    “You do that,” said Alexandra.
    “Better to see it for real than think about it. Mrs. Linden’s just been to see him for the third time,” said Angela Paddle. “Doing her best for him. The living need to watch by the dead. Strange how times change. When I had my baby it was unheard of to have a man around at the birth. Now it’s all but compulsory. Same with the dead. Once they kept bodies out of the way, tried not to think about them. Now everyone wants to see.” She broke into a hymn:
    Be there at our closing
    And give us we pray
    Your peace in our hearts, Lord
    At the end of the day.
    “Yes, give us peace,” said Alexandra, and thought this strange and dreadful woman might yet be the one to make her cry.
    “Mr. Lightfoot’s a good man,” said Angela Paddle. “I wouldn’t want to do a job like that, for all everyone treats it like nothing.”
    “No, you just stick to faxes,” said Alexandra. “So Jenny Linden was in, was she? She’s not a very close friend of ours.”
    “She said she was,” said Angela Paddle. “And a colleague of Mr. Ludd’s, and there when he died. What a shock for the poor woman.”
    “Jenny Linden is obviously very upset,” said Alexandra, “and very imaginative at the best of times. I don’t think you should take too much notice of what she says. My husband was alone when he died.”
    “That’s right,” said Angela Paddle. “He died in the night, didn’t he, and you were in London in that play of yours about the doll. I couldn’t make too much sense of Mrs. Linden. You know how some women get: all over the place, gulping and sobbing. I just thought it was good of her to sit by the body so much.”
    “Of course it is,” said Alexandra. “The more the merrier. I might go and sit myself. I’ll be back in a couple of hours, for the copies.”
    “It won’t be cheap,” said Angela Paddle.
    “I bet it won’t be,” said Alexandra cheerfully.
    Alexandra called in down the road to see Mr. Lightfoot. She didn’t have to re-park the car, the morgue was so close. He took her to view the body. Fortunately, there was no one else there doing the same thing. He asked her what she wanted Ned to wear for the cremation. He’d had a phone-call from the deceased’s brother, suggesting a cremation. Now he wanted to confirm with the widow that Mr. Hamish Ludd was the proper person for him to deal with. Mrs. Linden had been in, wanting to know whether