Richard Poole was my favourite TV character in many years and I am thoroughly disgusted with the production company for killing him off when there were many other ways he could have left the series. But at least I thought they'd give him a decent exit, and give him and Camille a 'moment'. But no. It was hardly worth flying BM to Guadeloupe! As it seems clear from the jolly celebrations at the end that Richard will be soon forgotten (probably by next week) I felt impelled to pick up my virtual pen again, even though I said I wouldn't. So this short piece is by way of a valediction. I'm afraid there are an awful lot of tears!
Catherine looked up from the table she was polishing and the frown on her face instantly gave way to a welcoming smile.
"Father Charles! We don't see you here very often! Come and sit down."
The priest returned her smile and lowered himself into one of chairs on the patio. "Well, to be honest, Catherine, I was just passing so I thought I would call in and see how you both are. I haven't seen you since the funeral, that must be – what? – six or seven weeks ago now. I was quite concerned about Camille at the time, how is she now?"
Catherine heaved a deep sigh and the frown returned to her face. "I tell you, Father, be careful what you wish for. For years and years I wished for Camille to meet the right man and fall in love, and finally she did – and now I have a daughter with a broken heart who is half out of her mind with grief."
"It's no better, then?"
She shook her head despondently. "It's as if she's sleepwalking through life. She does everything mechanically but there's no life there. It's as if she's dead too. I try to talk to her about it but every time she just breaks down in floods of tears. I'm at the end of my tether, Father, I just don't know what to do, how to help her."
"Where is she now?"
"Where she always is at this time of day. At the grave. It's morbid. I tell you, I sometimes wish that stupid solicitor hadn't found Richard's Will at the last minute, just as they were about to ship him back to England. His poor parents, they had no idea he wanted to be buried on Saint-Marie, so they had to drop everything and fly out here. Well, you know, you were there. And now of course it is the focus of all Camille's grief. White orchids, every day. It would have been better for her if he had been taken back home, as originally planned."
"But I think he felt the island had become his home", the priest interjected gently. "So it was surely the right place to bury him, wasn't it?"
Catherine blew her nose furiously. "Yes, I suppose so. I don't begrudge him his space on the hillside, Father. I was really very fond of Richard, though we didn't always see eye to eye, and it's so sad that he had to die like that, on his own, without his friends around him. But it's Camille I must think about. Father, do you think you could help her?"
The priest pressed her hands reassuringly as he got up from his chair. "I don't know, Catherine, but I'll try."
He made his way through the market place and slowly climbed the hill to the pretty whitewashed church that served the community of Honoré so well. He paused at the gate of the cemetery, thinking for perhaps the hundredth time that, with its wide views over the bay and the endless sea, it must be one of the most beautiful places on earth to be buried. Particularly if you came from Croydon. He walked down one of the paths and turned right, picking his way through the graves until he reached the very edge of the cemetery. Then he saw her.
Camille sat, as she always did, with her face pressed to the cool marble, her fingers tracing over and over again the name that was etched in gold on the black marble. The grave was in a secluded part of the cemetery, shaded by a chestnut tree. She had absolutely insisted that he be buried in the shade – she could not bear the thought of the sun beating down on him as relentlessly in death as it had in life. In fact she remembered little of the funeral, it had all passed in such a blur. His parents had come out unexpectedly: she recalled a rather mousy little woman clearly totally bewildered both by her surroundings and by Richard's friends and colleagues. She had sniffed dolefully throughout the service. His father had been made of sterner stuff and betrayed not one iota of emotion. They had wanted to meet her of course, particularly since the Will had been found. She had replied mechanically to their questions but it was obvious that, fond though they might have been of their son, they had no idea who he really was – they didn't know him at all. She had pitied them. Then there had been that stupid woman Angela, who hadn't stopped crying from the moment the coffin arrived at the church to the point where the last sod was placed on the grave. She had kept going on and on about how she loved Richard. Not as much as I did, Camille had thought and he loved me back. It was because you brought the reunion party to Saint-Marie that he died. Angela would have to live with that for the rest of her life.
The Will had been a shock of course. Had she given the matter any thought – which of course she had not – she would have assumed that everything Richard had would go automatically to his parents. So when it was explained to her that – apart from some generous bequests to local island charities – his entire estate was bequeathed to her, she had collapsed in such an outpouring of raw grief that Catherine had feared for her sanity. The size of that estate had been another shock; she knew that on his last visit to the UK he had sold his house in Croydon but as she had no idea of the value of real estate in Greater London she was totally unprepared for the sums involved. Not that she wanted his money. It was no good to her now that he was gone and she had absolutely no idea what she was going to do with it. And even less interest. She had no interest in anything, in fact. She just wanted to be here, close to him.
A twig cracked behind her and she looked up. "Hello, Father Charles" she said with a wan smile.
"What are you doing here, Camille?" he asked gently.
"Talking to Richard" she replied dully. "I tell him everything that's happening at the station, the cases we're working on. I tell him how much I miss him, how much I …" The tears began to spill over and soon she was shaking with sobs, clinging desperately to the black marble. The priest let her cry for a while, all the time stroking her hair gently, then put his arms round her and gradually eased her away. She leaned her head on his shoulder and took several shuddering breaths before finally subsiding.
"I'm sorry, Father. It's just that it's so unfair. He had so much left to give, he had only just started to relax, to love life, to love the island, to love me. It all ended before it had begun. We never really had a chance. Do you know how long we actually had together? Four days. Two whole lifetimes and we had just four days. I blame myself of course: I allowed myself to be distracted by all his annoying little habits (and he had plenty) and it took me far too long to discover what lay underneath and then when I finally did, when I finally realised that he was the one I had been looking for all my life, it was too late. If I'd only realised sooner this might still have happened but at least we would have had longer together. And now there's nothing left for me to do except grieve. Nothing to go on living for."
"There's your work, Camille. Isn't that worth living for? Don't you think Richard would want you to carry on where he left off, to be the very best police officer you can?"
She fought back more tears. "Yes, I suppose so. But it's so hard. There's Humphrey sitting at his desk. Don't get me wrong, he's nice, he's smart, he's a good detective. But it should be Richard. And I'm afraid, I'm so afraid, that in a few months no-one will remember him any more."
"I'm sure no-one who knew him could ever forget him, Camille. But if you're worried, why don't you do something to safeguard his legacy? You have all his money, and I understand it's quite a considerable sum."
She looked up. "What do you mean?"
"Well, what sort of projects do you think Richard would have wanted to support?"
"I … I don't know. Something to do with policing … or science, he was very keen on science."
He patted her hand. "Just give it some thought. I'll help you if you wish, but it would do you good to focus on something other than your grief. Don't get me wrong, I don't underestimate the pain you are feeling. I do understand, you know."
She wept a little more, then raised her drowning eyes to his face to ask "How long did you grieve for Delilah, Father?"
He spoke softly. "I still grieve for her, Camille, though it no longer consumes me. I found another outlet you see. God comforted me in my grief and He will comfort you too, if you let him."
She sat up abruptly and pulled herself away. "I'm sorry, Father, you are a kind man and I know you mean well, but how can I take comfort from a God who has allowed this to happen? Where was He looking when 'Sasha' grabbed that ice pick? What did Richard ever do to deserve such a fate?"
The priest sighed. "I understand, my child. Perhaps in time you will come to see things differently. Perhaps something will happen to restore your faith, just a little. I will pray that it does. But in the meantime you should not spend so much time here. It's not healthy and your mother is so worried about you."
"I know. I do try but the pain just overwhelms me. I loved him so much, Father, and everywhere I go there are places that I used to go with him and I just can't bear it. At least here I feel close to him."
"But you're only close to his mortal remains, Camille. His spirit is all around you, you know: try to see him in the trees, in the birds, in the flowers, in the sea, in the sky. See him everywhere, talk to him everywhere, not just here. You're a strong woman, you will get over this."
She dragged herself to her feet and reached for his hands. "I'll try, Father, and thank you for your concern."
The next evening she did not visit the grave, but sat on the beach instead. She lifted her bottle and drank a silent toast to the man she had so cruelly lost. The man whom she had finally persuaded to sit on the sand with her and to wander through the surf. The man who had finally put his arm around her, the man who had finally kissed her and told her he loved her. She wept again as she remembered the first night they had spent together. He had been so gentle, so considerate, so loving and finally – once his confidence in her response had grown – so passionate that it had been the closest to perfect happiness she had ever experienced. Four nights, that was all they had had. He had never expected such joy from life, he had told her – he could not believe what he persisted in calling his good fortune. They had made plans for the future; they would get married, have a family, buy a house and settle down on the island. Four days and four nights. And then the reunion party had arrived.
She told herself she must be strong, that she would get used to life without him. But the longing to lay her head on his shoulder and to feel his arms around her again was overwhelming, though she knew it could never happen. Never, never, never.
It was too much. She flung the bottle away from her with the utmost force she could manage, buried her head on her knees and howled to the night.
Another week passed and Catherine began to entertain a slim hope that her beloved daughter might be turning a corner. She was still exceptionally quiet and withdrawn, there were still frequent tears but the eye of the storm appeared to be passing. She was no longer visiting the grave every day and there were no more than two bunches of white orchids a week placed in the urn. As she told Father Charles, it might just be the beginning of the end or the end of the beginning.
"Shall we go and find her?" he suggested. "I saw her earlier on her way to the cemetery with flowers."
They walked companionably up the hill to the little church. It was a beautiful day. For once, the heat was not too oppressive and the heavy scent of flowers hung in the air. They came across Camille not sitting clutching the grave stone as usual but standing in front of it, talking out loud. She appeared more animated than they had seen her since before Richard had died. They looked at each other in wonder. Coming closer they caught what she was saying.
" … if it's a girl I'll call her Lucy but somehow I feel sure it will be a boy and of course he will be Richard. And I promise I'll bring him up as you would have wanted. I'll bring him here every week so if your spirit is somewhere around you can watch him growing up. Perhaps he'll be a police officer, like his dad, or perhaps he'll be a scientist, who knows? And I promise I'll take him to England so he can get to know the country you loved and your parents, but his home will be here on Saint-Marie. He will never replace you in my heart but at least you will live on in him. And I'm going to put some of the money you left me in trust for him for when he grows up, but the remainder is going to form the Richard Poole Memorial Fund, which will pay for one young person a year to travel to England to study science at university. I hope you would have approved – I think you would. So that's it, my darling, and now I have to go and continue your work and be the best police officer I possibly can. But I know you'll always be here beside me to guide and comfort me when I need it – and I will – and you will always have my heart."
And she turned and walked straight into her mother's arms.
I hope you enjoyed that. I for one feel better for writing it but I am not intending to write any more - at least not yet. But I will still be reading what everyone else writes. I wish you all the best for 2014. Will probably still watch DiP - have nothing against the new man, but the character is nowhere near as interesting.