E-Book, Englisch, 384 Seiten
Hogan The Phoenix Ballroom
Main
ISBN: 978-1-80546-072-5
Verlag: Corvus
Format: EPUB
Kopierschutz: 6 - ePub Watermark
The emotional and uplifting read from the bestselling author of The Keeper of Lost Things
E-Book, Englisch, 384 Seiten
ISBN: 978-1-80546-072-5
Verlag: Corvus
Format: EPUB
Kopierschutz: 6 - ePub Watermark
Ruth Hogan studied English and Drama at Goldsmiths College and went on to work in local government. A car accident and a subsequent run-in with cancer convinced her finally to get her act together and pursue her dream of becoming a writer. The result was her debut novel - The Keeper of Lost Things, which went on be a global bestseller. She is now living the dream (and occasional nightmare) as a full-time author, along with her husband and rescue dogs in a rambling Victorian house stuffed with treasure that inspires her novels. Insta: @ruthmariehoganauthor
Autoren/Hrsg.
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Chapter 1
Venetia Hamilton Hargreaves wondered whether sandwiches and sausage rolls might have been a better choice than canapés as she waited for her husband’s corpse outside St Paul’s Church. It would soon be lunchtime and surely people would prefer something more substantial than a sliver of smoked salmon on a cracker smeared with cream cheese? Well, it was hard cheese now. Too late to change. The air was heavy and humid, and a heat haze shimmered off the gleaming black paintwork of the hearse. A storm was forecast. The coffin was crowned with an elaborate spray of lilies and ivy, and the blooms trembled with every step the pallbearers took as Venetia followed them down the aisle; the same aisle that she had walked as a bride, carrying freesias and lily-of-the-valley on the arm of her handsome groom almost fifty years before. A sad but somehow satisfying symmetry. This time she had her son at her side. It had been her son, Heron, who had insisted on canapés, specified the champagne, and booked the hotel where both were to be served after the service. Venetia’s suggestions had been swatted aside because Heron had assured her that he ‘knew best’. He had even chosen her outfit, and she had let him have his way. For now. He took his place beside her in the front pew as the coffin was set down on trestles before the altar. His face was red with the effort of containing his emotions and he clutched a meticulously folded handkerchief in his fist in case eventually he should fail. Heron was an unfortunately comic misnomer for one so deficient in stature and grace, but his grandfather had been a keen amateur ornithologist. He had named his children Hawk, Osprey, Nightingale and Swan, and his sons had continued the practice with their own offspring. With his scarlet cheeks and tubby torso, poor Heron looked more like a crotchety Christmas card robin. Venetia placed her hand on his arm and gave it a gentle squeeze. She felt him tense at her touch and returned her hand to her lap. In contrast to her son’s discomfort, Venetia was surprisingly sanguine for her public debut as a widow. She would miss her husband, of course she would, but in the way that one misses a comfortable cardigan that has shrunk in the wash and become too tight to wear.
The church was almost full. Hawk Hamilton Hargreaves had been a popular and well-respected man, and he would have been gratified to see such an impressive turn-out for his last hurrah. He had chosen the order of service himself and Venetia was grateful. It had saved her the worry and she was glad for him that he was getting exactly what he wanted. After welcoming the congregation with respectful solemnity, the vicar announced the first hymn and as they stood to sing ‘Jerusalem’, the small boy beside Venetia clattered to his feet, dramatically brandishing his hymn book in both hands. Kite was Venetia’s ten-year-old grandson, and this was his first funeral. He was clearly enjoying the occasion immensely and sang with gusto, his dark curls bouncing as he nodded vigorously in time to the music. A growl of thunder added an impromptu percussion accompaniment to the organ and Kite’s eyes widened with delight. The front-pew line-up was completed by his mother, Monica, who was a born-again atheist and had made it clear that she was only there to keep up appearances. When the congregation sang ‘Bring me my spear, O clouds unfold’, their command was seemingly obeyed as a bolt of lightning flashed and forked behind the largest of the stained-glass windows, showering its rainbow colours onto the altar.
The rest of the service was conducted in competition with the storm and was, at times, all the better for it. Heron’s eulogy to his father – touching and sincere in sentiment but a little dull in its delivery – was much enlivened by cracks and booms from the heavens above. Swan, sister of the deceased, wearing a velvet opera coat and a black net veil attached to a jewelled Alice band, recited the Henry Scott-Holland poem about death being nothing at all and the person having only slipped into the next room. Having forgotten to renew the batteries in her hearing aids, Swan spoke at a volume that not only could be clearly heard above the thunder, but was probably audible in the next street. Kite struggled valiantly to supress his giggles until Monica silenced him with a scowl. Venetia caught his eye and winked at him consolingly. Prayers were said, ‘Abide with Me’ was sung, but it wasn’t until the final piece of music began to play that tears blurred Venetia’s eyes. Hawk had chosen Edward Elgar’s ‘Nimrod’ to mark his farewell. Of course he had. Dignified, tasteful, British. Achingly conventional. Exactly like himself. A decent, kind, respectable, slightly pompous man who had guarded his conventionality with his life. Literally. And Venetia couldn’t help wondering how things might have been if he hadn’t. But he had been the best husband to Venetia that it was possible for him to have been and for that she would be forever grateful.
Before leaving the church, Venetia approached the coffin and brushed her fingertips across the polished oak.
‘Goodbye, Hawk,’ she whispered. ‘Time to face the music.’ She hoped sincerely that he would dance.
Kite hovered behind her uncertainly. ‘Can I touch it?’ he asked.
‘Of course,’ Venetia replied.
Kite slapped both hands down on the lid of the coffin with a resounding thud.
‘, Grandpa! And don’t forget you said I could have your chess set!’
Outside, the storm had passed, and the air was clean and fresh. Sunlight glistened on the wet pavements. It was only a short distance to the hotel, and although Heron would have preferred them to travel in the limousine, Venetia insisted on walking.
‘The arrangement was that we should take the car,’ he chided her, clearly irritated at the deviation from his meticulously planned programme for the day. But Venetia held firm. She took Kite’s hand to cross the busy main road and set off towards the town’s Victorian embankment in her smart but sensible low-heeled, much-hated black court shoes. Within minutes they had reached the hotel and were met by a member of staff who told them that she was ‘very sorry for their loss’ and showed them through to a function room overlooking the river where the wake was to be held. A waiter offered Venetia a glass of champagne, which she accepted gratefully, and she took a large sip. Heron frowned.
‘Best take it easy with that, Mother,’ he warned. ‘We have a lot of guests to greet’ – the first of whom arrived before Venetia had a chance to reply. There followed almost half an hour of thanking people for coming and accepting their condolences, during which time the waiter discreetly refilled Venetia’s glass as necessary. It struck her once again that this was a strange echo of their wedding – the stream of guests and perfunctory exchanges with people ranging from family and friends through to acquaintances and even some, to Venetia at any rate, complete strangers. The last mourners to enter the room were two men whom she had never seen before. Heron thanked them for coming and excused himself before they could reply, his priggish sense of propriety finally exhausted, or perhaps simply usurped by the desire for a drink. But Venetia was curious. They certainly didn’t look like former colleagues of Hawk’s from the legal profession, nor did they resemble his usual brand of cronies who wore jumbo cords, had season tickets at Twickenham and Lord’s, and holiday homes in Scotland or Norfolk. The first of the two, a man of about Venetia’s age with grey hair and pale-green eyes, took her hand and instead of shaking it, simply held it between his own.
‘You must be Venetia,’ he said. ‘We were old friends of Hawk’s. We lost touch with him some years ago, but we thought of him often. I’m so very sorry.’
His sincere and concise expression of sympathy was spoken quietly, but with warmth and confidence, and Venetia was touched. Before she had time to respond, Kite appeared wearing a pained expression and waving a canapé, and the two men moved away towards a waiter serving champagne.
‘Nisha, what this?’ Kite asked in a stage whisper, sniffing the canapé with exaggerated suspicion. ‘Why isn’t there any proper food?’
‘Nisha’ had been his earliest attempt at pronouncing her name and had somehow stuck.
‘It’s smoked salmon and cream cheese.’
Kite was unimpressed. ‘It’s all slimy. Aren’t there any sandwiches? I’m starving.’ He was still whispering, having been warned by his father to be on his best behaviour, but his grandmother was always his chosen ally.
Venetia smiled. ‘I’ll see if we can rustle up a bag of crisps.’ She spoke to one of the waiters and Kite was soon tucking into his favourite salt and vinegar snack.
‘Now that I’ve got you some crisps,’ she told him, ‘you can return the favour.’
He immediately offered her the packet. She shook her head.
‘No, I want you to come with me and chat to your great-aunts. I need a wingman.’
‘What’s a wingman?’
‘Someone who helps you out in tricky situations. Someone you can trust.’
Kite grinned. ‘Well, that’s definitely me. I’m your wingman. Mum says Nightingale and Swan are as mad as a box of...
