Free All Shall Be Well by Deborah Crombie Page A

said, lifting one easily.
    The Major opened his mouth to refuse, hesitated, then said, “Right. Thanks.”
    Kincaid followed him through the door of the flat. His first impression was of unrelieved brown. The Major flipped on a light switch and the impression expanded into neat, clean and brown. A faded floral wallpaper in tints of rose and brown, brown carpet, brown covers on the inexpensive settee and armchair.No paintings, no photographs, no books that Kincaid could see as he followed the Major through the sitting room. The only splash of bright color came from the gardening magazines and catalogs stacked tidily on the pine coffee table.
    The Major led Kincaid through the kitchen and opened a door into the concreted area which ran beneath the steps descending from Jasmine’s flat. To the right, in the corner formed by the fence and the wall of the building, the Major had built a covered potting area. Kincaid stuck his head in the door and was rewarded with a rich, humic smell so strong it caught in his throat.
    The Major climbed the steps to lawn level and put down his tub. Kincaid did the same and stood looking at the garden, struck by the contrast between the Major’s flat and this small oasis of color and perfection. He wondered what sustained the Major during the winter months when nothing grew except a few sturdy perennials.
    After a moment in which the Major seemed lost in contemplation as well, Kincaid asked, “Where are you going to put them?”
    “There, I think.” He pointed at the brick wall at the rear of the garden, the only unoccupied territory that Kincaid could see. “They’re climbers. They’ll take it over.”
    “Let me help.” Kincaid was suddenly moved by a desire to participate in this memorial, more fitting than any service spoken by a stranger.
    The Major hesitated before replying, a habit, Kincaid began to think, when anyone threatened to disrupt his solitary routine. “Oh, aye. There’s another old spade in the shed.”
    Kincaid moved the tubs to the back of the garden, and when the Major returned with the spades and pointed out a spot among the pansies and snapdragons, he started to dig. They worked in silence as the shadows moved along the garden.
    When the Major judged the holes deep enough, they placed the roses carefully, filling in around them and tamping down the earth with their hands. After years of living in city flats, Kincaid felt a grubby satisfaction he hadn’t experienced since making mud forts in his Cheshire childhood.
    The Major stood leaning on his spade, surveying their handiwork with satisfaction. “That’s done, and done well. She’d be pleased, I’ll wager.”
    Kincaid nodded, looking up at the darkened windows of Jasmine’s flat. A level above, the sun flashed off his own. “I’m famished. Come out with me and have something to eat,” he said impulsively, telling himself he was taking advantage of an opportunity to question the Major, and not influenced by the thought of his empty flat. He waited patiently now for the Major’s reply, counting the seconds to himself.
    The Major looked all around the garden, consulting the tulips and forsythia. “Aye. We’d best wash up, then.”
    They chose the coffee bar around the corner on Rosslyn Hill, settling in to the vinyl booth and ordering omelets with chips and salad. The Major had brushed his sparse hair until his scalp shone as pink as his face, and Kincaid marveled at the generation which still put on a tie for a casual Saturday night meal. He himself had swapped his cotton shirt for a long-sleeved rugby shirt, his concession to the cooling temperature.
    When their beer arrived and they had drunk the top off, the Major wiped the foam from his mustache and asked, “Did the brother come and take charge of the arrangements, for the funeral and such?”
    “The brother came, all right, but he didn’t feel up to taking over much of anything. And there won’t be a funeral just yet.”
    The Major’s pale