One Moment, One Morning

  Steve opens the oven door. ‘Perfect. Pass me the gloves.’

  Anna does as she is told. Karen’s kitchen is his territory now; he has established his domain over the course of the afternoon – even the kitten has been banished to the living room. Anna feels a whoosh of hot air as Steve removes two quiches from the bottom oven and a third from the top, each swollen with baked egg and cheese and expertly browned.

  ‘One tuna, one ham and mushroom and one mixed vegetable,’ he announces, laying them on mats so they don’t scald the worktop.

  Anna feels a mix of relief and pride. Relief that they have come so far in the last few hours; pride in Steve’s accomplishment.

  ‘I think that’s us done for today,’ he says, looking around. The surfaces that were previously covered in tins, packets and jars are testimony to his endeavours. Almost miraculously, he has transformed an ill-matched assortment of purchases into an appetizing array. He has made vast bowls of salsa dip and hummus, from scratch. He has assembled trays of dates stuffed with Parmesan wrapped in bacon, and goat’s cheese, grape and pistachio truffles. He has baked four pizzas and one caramelized onion tart, and made three giant salads – one cracked wheat and two bean – that will, he has assured Karen, get better as they absorb dressing overnight. Anna did have to head to the local delicatessen for extra ingredients, not once but twice, and they have both been barked at several times, but nonetheless, it is a truly spectacular spread.

  ‘Now, all you need to do is stick the vol-au-vents and Brie in filo in the oven for a few minutes tomorrow,’ he instructs. ‘And make the green salads, put out the crisps and bread and bake some potatoes. You could reheat the quiches and pizzas and tart too, if you’d prefer them hot.’

  Anna glances at her friend. Karen is nodding, but Anna can tell she is overwhelmed.

  It is one of Steve’s many inconsistencies: he can be so useless one minute and so capable the next, yet when he is performing well he forgets his own failings – and sometimes those of others – and can be brisk, even bullish.

  Anna empathizes with Karen. When exactly is she supposed to do this? It is not as if she is throwing a party, where her only worries other than food are when to take a bath and what to wear. She’s going to be at a funeral; her husband’s funeral. Inevitably, it will be extremely tough for her. She can hardly leave early to switch the oven on and toss lettuce leaves. She will be a mess.

  Anna doesn’t want to say this, however, so simply points out, ‘It is quite a lot to remember.’

  ‘Doesn’t seem that much to me,’ mutters Steve. Anna can tell he’s offended, as if they’re saying that he has not been that helpful, and is setting Karen too big a task. He is so contradictory, she thinks, momentarily maddened. He can be overly sensitive himself one minute, insensitive to others the next. Yet he can be exceptionally considerate too, as this intricate preparation demonstrates.

  She tries to ease the situation. ‘We’ll help though, won’t we?’ she says to Steve.

  ‘Of course.’ He pauses, as if he’s only just remembered what all this food is in aid of. Then he declares, ‘In fact, yeah, why not? Look, I don’t really need to come to the funeral. I can stay here, if you want, do it for you.’

  ‘Sorry?’ Karen can’t keep up with what he is saying.

  ‘I don’t really need to come to the funeral,’ he restates. ‘I hate them, to be honest. I know Simon was your husband and everything, but – well – I just can’t really handle them – the coffin and all that crying and stuff.’

  Karen sighs. ‘No, I hate them too.’

  ‘I mean, I’ll come if you want, of course,’ Steve adds quickly, clearly concerned he might have sounded callous. ‘I liked Simon, obviously, and I do want to pay my respects.’

  ‘No, no, don’t come if you don’t want to. I am sure there will be lots of people there.’

  I want him to, thinks Anna, but perhaps it is not the time to express her own needs.

  ‘Seriously, though, if you’re not bothered, I really don’t mind coming here first, if you like. You can let me in, and I’ll – you know – sort this lot while you’re out. Turn on the oven, cook the rest of the food, put everything out. I’ll even serve if you like.’

  ‘You wouldn’t mind? Really?’

  ‘Not in the slightest,’ says Steve. ‘It would be my pleasure, and my way of paying my respects to Simon.’

  Anna can see him already, wearing her apron, serving generous portions and charming the guests. He will be in his element, enjoying the kudos of hosting without the stress of it being his ultimate responsibility. For a split second she worries that he might drink too much, but surely he wouldn’t do that . . . Anyway, the funeral is late morning; that early in the day they should be safe enough. She would like him to go with her – or at least ask her if she minds that he doesn’t – but she’ll cope, she supposes; doesn’t she always? And besides, he is doing this to support Karen. Anna allows herself to feel proud of him once more.

  * * *

  ‘Now, children,’ says Karen, going into the living room once she has said goodbye to Anna and Steve. ‘Telly off. You’ve had enough for one day.’

  ‘No!’ says Molly. Not that she appears to have been watching it anyway; she is dancing one of her many Barbie dolls along the back of the sofa on her perpetually pointed toes.

  ‘So have you finished cooking?’ asks Phyllis.

  ‘Phew, yes, till tomorrow.’

  ‘You look worn out. Do you want me to give the children their supper?’

  Karen thinks she could do with sitting down, but is so out of touch with her physical needs she can barely tell. And Phyllis appears shattered – she has been looking after Molly and Luke the entire afternoon pretty much single-handed. ‘No, don’t worry, I’ll do it. You relax. Can I get you a cup of something?’

  ‘Tea with lemon would be lovely.’ Yet instead of staying put on the sofa, Phyllis follows Karen into the kitchen and gently shuts the door. ‘Um, I didn’t want to mention this when the others were here,’ – her voice is low – ‘but I think you ought to know that Luke is saying he doesn’t want to come tomorrow.’

  ‘What, to the funeral?’

  ‘Mm.’ Phyllis nods. ‘I didn’t really want to push it, I didn’t feel it was my place. I suppose it is a huge amount for him to deal with and understand.’

  ‘Of course,’ says Karen, reaching for a mug. Actually she wouldn’t have minded if Phyllis had pushed it. She is not sure she has the strength to manage Luke quite as sympathetically as she would like. He’s still being what Karen, in normal circumstances, would term difficult. He’s been uncommunicative and sullen since the incident at Tracy’s, and she’s finding it difficult not to snap at him. Nonetheless, she can appreciate why Phyllis thought it wasn’t her role. ‘I think he should come, though, don’t you?’

  ‘I don’t know, dear.’ Phyllis frowns. ‘Yes, I suppose I do. But he is adamant.’

  Karen quickly dunks a teabag in the mug, slices a lemon and hands Phyllis her drink. ‘Leave it with me.’

  Luke could stay at home with Steve, she supposes, so it isn’t a problem logistically, but instinctively she feels that if he doesn’t come, she – and he – will always regret it. It is not as if he will get another chance, when he is older and more able to handle it. She returns to the living room, her mind made up.

  ‘Before we have supper,’ she announces, realizing she sounds far more authoritative than she feels, ‘I want to talk to you both. You know tomorrow is Daddy’s funeral?’ Molly nods, but Luke says nothing. ‘Luke? What’s the matter?’

  ‘Don’t want to go.’ Luke is sitting on the floor, fiddling with the Velcro straps on his shoes, fastening and unfastening them with repeated ripping sounds.

  It’s an irritating noise. Karen stifles an urge to tell him to stop it. Instead she sits down beside him, crosses her legs so as to be able to get really close and says, ‘Do you know what, sweetheart, I don’t want to go much either, but I am going to. Why don’t you w
ant to go?’

  ‘Just don’t,’ he says, looking down.

  Sometimes Luke can be like this, Karen is aware. Although he is physically adventurous – unknown sporting and outdoor activities rarely intimidate him – he can be disinclined to venture into new social terrain. Unknown quantities and people unnerve him. Starting school was a real trial, for instance, even more than for most children.

  She has to think, hard. Through the tangle of her own upset and anxiety it’s a real struggle to work out what is going on for him; it’s almost impossible, when she hasn’t begun to process her own emotions. He seems as conflicted as she is; one moment apparently coping well – he wanted to say goodbye to his father, after all. Yet here he is, barely seventy-two hours later, refusing to go to his funeral. But wasn’t she laughing one minute and crying the next with Anna, earlier? Maybe it’s not so odd, after all. It’s simply Luke’s way of showing her how unhappy he is. He doesn’t want his father to be dead; therefore he doesn’t want to go to the funeral.

  Perhaps if Karen explains again what to expect it will make it less overwhelming. ‘I know we’ve never been to a funeral before, is that what’s worrying you?’

  Luke is silent. Molly has resumed dancing Barbie round the room, seemingly oblivious. Tip tip tip go her pink plastic toes, all along the edge of the fireguard, up and over the telly, down its side and along the window ledge.

  ‘I know funeral is a bit of a strange word,’ Karen continues, struck by the fact. ‘It sounds very serious, and we’ve not ever been to one before. But it isn’t strange, really. It’s very normal when someone has died, like your Daddy. Pretty much everyone who dies has a funeral.’

  ‘Why?’ asks Luke.

  Karen hesitates. Yet again she is making this up as she goes along, plucking definitions and answers from the muddle of her brain. She’s not convinced they are good ones, but what choice does she have? ‘It’s a special chance for Daddy’s family and friends to meet up, you see, and say thank you and goodbye to Daddy. You and Molly got to do that already, but not everyone did, and this is so they can say goodbye too. There will be lots of people you know, including some of your friends, like Austin and his Mummy, and Tracy and Lola – and we want to all be together.’

  ‘Will everyone be crying?’ asks Luke.

  Maybe that’s what’s worrying him. But Karen can hardly lie. ‘Yes, some people will cry, I’m sure. They will be sad that Daddy has died, just like we’re sad.’

  ‘Will lots of grown-ups be crying?’

  Ah, so this is definitely a source of concern. Karen can understand. She can remember how awfully disconcerting it was seeing adults cry when she was little; it flummoxed her completely, it wasn’t their role. Again, though, she feels she must be honest. ‘I’m afraid some grown-ups will probably cry, because they will be sad, just like I am and you are and Granny is. But there will probably be lots of laughter too.’ She pauses, wondering what else she can tell him. ‘You might notice that some people will be wearing black, or dark colours too, which might look a bit odd at first, but you will get used to it. In fact, we’ll go in a very big black car, you and me and Molly and Granny. It’s very big and ever so shiny.’

  ‘Really?’ Karen can tell this has impressed him.

  ‘Mm. You wouldn’t want to miss out on that, would you?’

  Luke places his bottom lip over the top one and sucks, a gesture Karen knows means he is thinking.

  She can understand his trepidation. The rituals with which he is familiar – Christmas, Easter, birthdays – are focused on children, if not Luke personally; his part is clear. He is a key participant, his behaviour understood, appreciated, enjoyed. But funerals are different: Karen doesn’t remember ever going to one as a child. Relatives died; adults marked their passing. Yet although part of her feels she should shelter Luke from this pain, she is determined not to baulk.

  ‘Sweetie, I know it’s a bit weird and a bit scary, but I do want you to come. It’s a special family thing, and it is important to me that you are there with me. I promise that if you don’t like it when we’re there, or you feel a bit funny or anything, you can leave and go outside to play or go for a walk or something. We’ll find a grown-up – maybe Godmother Anna or Tracy – to go with you. But as you’re Daddy’s special boy, and it’s Daddy’s special day, I want us all to be there, together.’

  Luke doesn’t say any more, and Karen can tell he is far from happy, but she decides to leave it there. She knows that Luke is best cajoled in stages, rather than all at once – not that she has ever had to deal with anything quite like this. And of course, usually, she has Simon to help her . . .

  Still, still, she can’t begin to grasp that she’ll never be able to talk to Simon about the children again.

  ‘They’re coming! They’re coming!’ Karen charges down the stairs from the upstairs bay, flip-flops clacking. ‘Back garden, everyone, this instant! Stop that, Phyllis’ – she gently slaps her mother-in-law’s knuckles to indicate now is not the time to be snipping chives to garnish a tomato salad – ‘Anna, grab that bubbly’ – and shoos them outside. She follows, pushing the back door shut behind her.

  Nearly three dozen people are gathered in the yard. Those close to the window crouch down so as not to be visible from the kitchen. It’s a squeeze – the space is barely thirty feet by twenty, and even in ordinary circumstances it’s bursting with pots of flowers, garden furniture and toys: beach balls, buckets and spades, small plastic tennis bats.

  ‘Where’s Daddy?’ Molly’s high-pitched voice pierces the air.

  ‘SHHH!’ Excitement and nerves make Karen short. ‘Sorry, Molster,’ she whispers into her ear. ‘Daddy and Uncle Al are walking up the hill. They’ll be here any moment.’

  A few beats’ silence. Friends and relatives share expectant glances; children struggle to suppress giggles. Will Simon have guessed? Will he be happy to see them all? Some people hate surprises.

  The only sound is Steve, who is stationed down the side return that runs the length of the house, softly turning coals on the barbecue. Karen frowns. He shouldn’t have lit it yet. Simon might see the smoke from the street and wonder what is going on.

  Through the open kitchen window, she can hear the key turning in the front door. There is the heavy stomping of two men on the doormat – presumably they are removing dirt from their boots – then they step into the hall.

  ‘Karen?’ It’s Simon.

  ‘That’s strange,’ says Alan, deliberately throwing his voice, ‘I thought they were going to be here.’ He’s in on the act, of course. The brothers have been playing football together on Hove Lawns as they do most Sundays, but nonetheless it’s a responsibility, getting Simon here on time. Karen imagines Alan will be keen to get the pretence over with so he can abdicate responsibility and relax.

  ‘Blimey – what a lot of food,’ Simon mutters. Evidently they are in the kitchen.

  We should have hidden it, thinks Karen. He’s expecting them to have lunch with Alan’s family, but there’s far too much for eight. It’s clearly not a roast, either. But hopefully he won’t have time to think about that. Sure enough, in seconds, the back door opens and the two men pause on the threshold.

  ‘Karen?’ Simon says again. Before he can take in the throng before him, up they all jump.

  ‘SURPRISE!’ they yell in unison, pressing forward.

  Bang! Bang! go the party poppers. Pop! goes the champagne. At once there are coloured streamers and overflowing plastic glasses, squealing children and laughing adults everywhere.

  And, in the centre of the throng, Simon.

  Looking at first stunned, then overwhelmed, then – Karen can tell – overjoyed.

  ‘Oh, my GOD!’ he is saying, his hand to his mouth to smother his emotion. ‘You shouldn’t have . . .’ Men are slapping his back, women are kissing his cheeks; he struggles to turn round and take in who is there. It’s almost everyone he knows: Alan’s wife, Françoise, with their teenage children; Tracy, who looks after Mol
ly and Luke, and a couple of families from up the road. There is his mother, of course, and his school friend Pete, with his new girlfriend, Emily. There are several of his colleagues – his boss, Charles, has come all the way from Hampstead – and even his fellow footballers, who only just made it to the house before he and Alan got there; Alan was under strict instructions to pull in for petrol en route. And these are just the people to hand. She can see tears glistening in her husband’s eyes and he chokes, ‘You shouldn’t have.’

  The children run towards him, released from their curfew. ‘Happy birthday, Daddy!’ they cry. Simon scoops them into a double hug; they are still small enough that he can lift them both in his arms.

  Then more slowly, with measured steps, Karen comes forward. ‘Happy birthday, darling.’ She reaches round the children’s heads to kiss him. His lips are soft and warm, heat radiates from him; he is still sweaty from the game.

  ‘Wow.’ He shakes his head. ‘I can’t get over it. Really, I had no idea.’

  ‘You didn’t?’

  ‘Not a clue.’ He turns to Alan. ‘You sneaky bastard!’

  ‘Fifty.’ Alan raises a bottle of beer. ‘You didn’t think you’d get away with that scot-free?’

  Simon shakes his head. ‘You knew all along.’

  Alan grins. ‘Why do you think I said we couldn’t stop for a swifty?’

  ‘He didn’t want to!’ Karen chides.

  Simon laughs. ‘I said don’t tell the wives.’

  Karen reaches round his bottom, hugs him and the children tight. ‘Seriously,’ – she needs him to verify – ‘you don’t mind?’

  ‘No, no, it’s great. It must have taken heaps of planning. Whenever did you find the time?’ Again he pauses to take it in; he is calmer now. ‘I can’t get over it. Tell you what, though,’ – he puts the children down – ‘I would like a shower.’ Although he has removed his football boots and is in his sandals, he is still dressed in his red and white sweatshirt and shorts and his legs are very muddy.