It was over now. (Over.)
Now the curtain had dropped, she had taken leave of the pulpit (and, thankfully, of that dingy church). Some absurd post-performance celebration typically known as a 'wake' was taking place.
So wrong, she thought, looking at the people clutching cups and slices. This is so wrong.
Ostensibly, she was celebrating the lives of her son, her brother, her sister-in-law, her nephews and one of her nieces. Celebrating! How could tea and cake ever change the irrevocable fact that Eustace Clarence, that Victor, that his wife and three of his children (and thirty-two others, cold statistic) were dead!
"I remember his first Ash Wednesday service," she heard an unfamiliar voice say from somewhere to her right. "He didn't come up to have the mark of the cross on his forehead, but he came up during Eucharist- and afterwards, he took me aside for a serious discussion because he wasn't sure he had made the right choice. Such a wonderful, if solemn boy."
That's not my son, she thought dimly, and she felt the lump stir in the current of her throat. I didn't raise him to go to church or to have Eucharist or to have ash crosses on his forehead. Solemn! - this was your doing, it was that dark church that did that to him! My Eustace Clarence was always self-assured! My Eustace Clarence!
But the words did not come, because she was afraid that if she opened her mouth, the waiting tears would pounce past the words, the same tears that had accosted her at the alien pulpit.
"I will be praying for you during this time," the unfamiliar voice said, and it was all she could do to prevent herself from snapping back, "I don't need your prayers!"
Harold, she thought, where are you, Harold?
And as much as she hated herself for her weakness (had she not been the most ardent supporter of WSPU, until Emmeline Pankhurst had thrown her support behind the Great War?)- as much as she hated that she could not stand and stay sane alone, she knew that she needed him, needed him by her side. He was all she had left in this time, now that Eustace Clarence-
Her hands trembled.
"Here," she heard Harold say, and suddenly he was behind her, a warm, solid presence (reminder). She felt him push a mug of tea into her clammy hands. "I'm- I'm here, Alberta."
Dimly, she felt him press a brief kiss on her forehead.
It was as if one of Eustace Clarence's little nets from all those years ago had broken, and butterfly and moth were madly fluttering in every direction. A tiny gesture- how many times had she seen Victor kiss Helen, on the forehead, on the cheek, on the lips?- yet how many years had it been since she and Harold had been so- so- publicly (even privately) affectionate?
Perhaps she had herself to blame for that. But in those awful hours since Constable Watson had walked into her door and forever ruined her life, she had lost count of the things for which she ought to blame herself.
Ought she have stopped Eustace Clarence fraternising with his cousins? - but they were his cousins. (And now, except for Susan, they were dead.) Ought she have stopped him from going to their place for that weekend? - but Harold had sanctioned it before she had even heard of the invitation, and he had explained it so rationally that she had, in the end, agreed with him. (And they were Victor's children.) No- she had done everything she could, she had been the best parent that she could have been.
And her son lay dead.
She had tried, at first, to blame Harold. He had been too lax with Eustace Clarence, had let him run around with that wretched Pole girl (but she, too, was dead)- had let him spend time with his cousins. He had allowed Eustace Clarence to do things that she, Alberta Scrubb, would not have allowed him to do. Though she had argued, and though she'd thought she might win the argument- and sometimes in all rights, had won- somehow, his decisions prevailed.
Yet she couldn't bring it in herself to blame Harold- not anymore than she could or couldn't blame herself.
"It's all right," she whispered instead, closing her eyes to inhale the familiarity of his ironed collar. "Thank you. It's all right."
It wasn't all right. It never could be all right. But what else had she to say? She didn't have the words.
It made her feel inadequate as a journalist, not to have the words. How many reports had she written centring upon death? But death (how she hated the finality of that word!)- death was something she could not have understood until now. Even when her parents had passed away, it had not felt like this, this raw pain like a cord yanked from its socket, strains still curling and coiling, drifting aimlessly in the uncaring wind.
Harold stayed there a moment more, and she closed her eyes again as she pressed herself against his shirt, feeling his warmth, breathing in his distinctively Harold smell. They stayed together a moment, and in that moment it was as if the people had come and gone, and the yellow smog of London halted against a single frame.
When she opened her eyes, Harold had left, but she did not feel quite so empty.
"I can only imagine how difficult it must be for you," came a warm, if tremulous, voice from her left.
Alberta turned her head, marvelling at how strangely difficult the simple action felt. As she blinked, the hazy, watery quality to her vision grew gradually sharper, clearer, and eventually she found herself staring at a woman she had never before met.
She was a plain woman.
That much was evident from the unfashionable cut of her coat to the distinct lines on her gloves, where the woman had clearly stitched at the worn cotton. It was further evident from the plainness of her face, the oh-so common application of her make-up), from the soft northern lilt to her accent. Even her hair hinted at untameable curls that once had been a shade of ginger but now resembled the scourers Alberta used to clean her kitchen.
Yet there was something in her voice, something in her eyes, and it made Alberta halt. It was imperceptibly soft, perhaps it was simply imperceptible. But it reminded her (ever so slightly) of that quiet, pulsing thread she felt- had felt- with Eustace Clarence.
The woman smiled, but there was a gentle pain tinging her smile, and something in it soothed Alberta.
"I'm Millicent MacPherson," the woman said, holding out a hand, and Alberta found that she did not mind the aging, fraying gloves. "My husband, Samuel, is one of the wardens here. You must be Mrs Scrubb."
MacPherson. So that explained the mildly northern lilt.
"Yes, I'm Alberta," she murmured.
Millicent nodded. "Even before you spoke at the pulpit, I thought it must be so." She touched her womb briefly, gently. "It is an unspeakable grief to lose your child. And your brother. But your child, especially." She took a short, shuddering breath and chewed her lower lip hesitantly. "But even so- you were blessed, Mrs Scrubb."
Alberta gaped at her indignantly. Blessed! Blessed!- a word that implied the existence of God, if there could be any god!
After a moment, Millicent looked at her sadly, tiredly. "You knew your son for years. You saw what a fine man he was becoming- had become. I- I knew my son for seven hours."
Seven hours.
Retorts burst immediately and flooded themselves upon Alberta's lips, clamouring like understudies fighting for an incapacitated lead's role.
Hours! That was not enough to claim motherhood. This Millicent MacPherson had not seen her son walk, had not heard him talk, had not seen him explain his collections of chitinous exoskeletons. She had not taught her son to speak, had not sent him to boarding college, had not worried and fretted over his future!
But even as those thoughts came, she remembered those first few hours- weak, aching and tired, with midwives bustling side to side. Harold, standing by her side- and a tiny, red faced child, squealing with cries too soft to be irksome. Eustace Clarence.
She remembered holding him. She remembered the pride, the satisfaction. That invisible glow, like a thread, pulsing, pulsing, till she thought she might burst from (joy). This is my flesh. He will grow and become a man, my child. That, too- that had been motherhood. And she had tasted of it, and drunk of it, for years.
So she swallowed and nodded, unable to speak.
Millicent touched her hand tentatively. When she spoke there was that same tremble in her touch, which made Alberta flinch involuntarily, but beneath it, she sensed a calmness, a strength, an indefinable strain. It was as if Millicent spoke with the voice of a single, fine brushstroke- but firm, and certain, whispering of some external, indefatigable strength.
"I- Mrs Scrubb, I only met your son a few times, myself. Here and there at tea after the service. or while handing out pewsheets and hymnbooks before the service. He was such a lovely boy, such a wonderful young man. My husband was fond of him."
Thank you, Alberta wanted to say, but she could not find it in herself to open her mouth.
I don't go to church, were the next words that formed and fell against her immovable lips. Would Millicent judge her? Most likely. Most church people did. (Insufferable).
But she hadn't spoken, and Millicent smiled at her. An image of Eustace Clarence, smiling, hands in his pocket and leaning against the doorframe, flickered by.
Say, Alberta, I was thinking we should clean out that spare room. Do you- do you have any plans for that old painting?
She burst into tears.
Huge, ugly racking sobs that ripped at her frame and tore at her lungs- this was why she never cried. It was weakness, it was vulgarity, it was horrid! But even as she reached blindly for her handkerchief, she felt a small cloth being pressed into her hands, dabbed against her cheeks.
"There, there," Millicent's voice whispered, "it's all right to cry. Our Lord Jesus cried at the prospect of death. It's all right to cry."
Thank you, Alberta thought. I should say thank you. But the words that tumbled out of her mouth in-between short uneven gasps formed the sentence, "I don't go to church."
Was that judgement that flashed through Millicent's eyes? Or had she only imagined it out of expectation? But whatever it was, it was gone in a second, and Millicent was pressing the handkerchief into her hands.
"It's still all right to cry," she said, and gave a sad smile. "Death is unnatural, death is an enemy. And Eustace was taken from us all so soon."
So soon.
Eustace Clarence had used those words, just last week.
"It's been so soon since the war ended- and it's still going on in China? Alberta, look at that! People don't care, it's on the third page and in a tiny box, but hundreds of thousands of people are dying! Look!" - flinging the newspaper over the breakfast. "And some think that people are going to evolve to be better? I don't know what that is if it isn't a sign of sin and brokenness!"
How she had both agreed and feared what he had been saying! How angry it had made her. She had snapped back, she remembered, and she remembered the hurt in his eyes; that dim shrinking sensation inside that whispered that she had somehow lost her son. (Impossible.)
But she had, she had, and so soon, and now she could never take those words back, the harsh tone. She would never be able to worry over Eustace Clarence again.
Never.
(Impossible.)
But Millicent was turning to leave, and even now her profile was angled away from Alberta.
"Wait," she called weakly, and Millicent turned again to face her. "I- thank you, Millicent."
Millicent smiled at her gently, sadly.
"I haven't done anything, Alberta," she said, then reached out and clasped Alberta's hand. Too stunned to pull back, Alberta stayed, locked in position. "But I will pray for you."
"I don't need prayers," Alberta responded automatically.
Prayers did not stop the Wars. Prayers did not stop my son from dying.
Millicent paused, a myriad of half-emotions settling, moving, rearranging themselves on her face in mimicry of Matisse's early Divisionist works. The effect was striking in a surprisingly subtle way, Alberta thought distantly; perhaps she ought to write on it later.
"Nevertheless," Millicent's voice broke through her scattered thoughts, "I shall be praying." She smiled again, her slightly tremulous smile, and released Alberta's hand. "Good day, Alberta."
Alberta nodded stiffly as Millicent walked away.
What a strange woman. How unsure and hesitant, while strangely insistent- "Nevertheless, I shall be praying". It was galling, truly; as if her own voice had not been important when she had said, clearly said, "I don't need prayers"! Yet Millicent had not seen fit to inappropriately quote John Donne, as Cousin Claudia had (how Alberta had longed to throw tea in her face when Cousin Claudia had solemnly intoned, "Death be not proud"), she had not mercilessly judged Alberta for not going to church.
"Nevertheless, I shall be praying."
"Eustace Clarence, what on earth are you doing?" - seeing her son kneeling- kneeling!- at the foot of his bed.
Her son, scrambling to his feet.
"Evening, Alberta. I was praying"- defiant tilt of the chin. "I think- I think I should let you know, I've started going to church with Edmund and Lucy."
Her own rage and confusion, bursting forth- who was this child? What had he done with Eustace Clarence?
"- peeled the skin off- sort of like pulling a bandaid off-"
Then the curtains fell, and the Fauvist memory rang like a far-off bell in Alberta's numbed ears.
A/N: So sorry this is getting so angst-ridden. I'm trying not to, but it's really rather hard, because each time I think reprieve is around the corner, Alberta angrily reminds me that she not only lost her son, but her brother. And three of his children, even if she didn't really care that for them...