* * *
‘Hello, Lola.’ Lola is Tracy’s seven-year-old daughter. Karen crouches down slightly to speak to her so they’re at the same height. ‘Do you know who’s upstairs?’
Lola shakes her head.
‘A kitten.’
Lola gasps.
‘He’s called Toby. I wonder if you might like to go with Molly and her friends to meet him? Not too many of you, mind, he’s still very small.’
‘Can I?’
Karen nods. Lola is sensible and, because Tracy is a childminder, used to being around younger children – she seems to enjoy the natural superiority that goes with the role.
‘WHO WANTS TO COME AND MEET THE KITTEN?’ she yells now from the kitchen doorway, and within seconds a cluster of small girls and boys are following her to Molly and Luke’s bedroom. Just before they disappear from earshot, Karen hears Lola dictate, ‘We’ve got to be very gentle.’
‘Don’t let the kitten out of the room!’ Tracy yells after her daughter. She turns to Karen. ‘Will he be OK?’
‘He’s used to Molly and Luke,’ says Karen. She checks for her son outside. He seems happy enough; he’s trying to score goals against the back wall with his friend Austin; Uncle Alan is keeper. Their patio is hardly built for such an enterprise, and Karen is fleetingly concerned about the kitchen windows, but surely Fate must owe her a few after this week. It is far more important that the children are enjoying themselves; she doesn’t want them to remember their father’s funeral as a totally morose affair.
‘So, how are you doing?’ asks Tracy, then immediately corrects herself. ‘Silly question, I guess.’
‘No, it’s fine,’ Karen smiles to show she is not put out. ‘To be perfectly honest, the last couple of days I’ve hardly had a moment. Organizing this has taken so much time. I’ve had people phoning me, or I’ve had to phone them, nonstop; and there’s been a constant stream of visitors on top of that. I’ve had Simon’s mother Phyllis here, or Alan and Françoise; yesterday Steve and Anna were round to help with the cooking; now my Mum’s arrived . . . When all this is over, I expect that’s when it’ll sink in.’ She stops. ‘Though, frankly, I’m absolutely dreading having time to think.’
‘I expect you are.’
‘There’s so much I haven’t considered yet.’ It seems easier to talk to Tracy about these issues, perhaps because their relationship has always had the children as its focus, and Tracy didn’t know Simon well; Karen doesn’t feel she has to tread as carefully.
‘I can imagine you get so caught up in the aftermath, you can’t think further ahead.’
‘Exactly,’ Karen sighs. Her fear is that once the funeral is over, it will simply make space for her new reality to crush her. She tries to explain. ‘There’s the house move, for a start: I mean, I’m not going ahead with that now, obviously, but I‘m sure there will be lots of bits and pieces to sort out there, even so. And I know that Simon had life assurance, for instance. But I’ve done absolutely nothing about it. I don’t even know where the paperwork is.’
‘It’s a blessing he had that,’ observes Tracy.
‘Mm, though I’ve no idea what it means to us financially.’
‘There’s plenty of time.’
‘I suppose . . .’ Although Karen feels it is pretty pressing; the mortgage and bills still have to be paid, regardless. Charles has made a point of saying that she is not to worry, but she can’t help sensing that people will gradually expect her to start functioning more normally, and it might be way before she is ready. If she is ever ready . . .
Tracy seems to read her mind and want to help. ‘Anyhow, I just wanted to say that, over the next few weeks, I’m here. I can have Molly and Luke whenever you need me to, in addition to when I normally have them. And – you know – that’s for you, I mean, as a friend, not something I expect you to, um, pay for.’ She looks suddenly awkward.
‘Thank you.’ Tracy’s generosity moves Karen, especially because she knows Tracy has relatively little income and even less time on her hands. Her eyes well up. ‘Sorry.’ She reaches for a hanky.
‘And don’t ever say sorry to me for being tearful, either,’ Tracy admonishes. She takes Karen’s arm to guide her. ‘Now, you know what I’m going to suggest you do next? Come with me and let’s each have a plateful of this incredible-looking food. I don’t know about you, but I fancy some of that onion tart and maybe a piece of this pizza . . .’
Neither Lou nor her mother owns a car, but their reasons could not be more different. Lou is motivated largely by environmental concerns. She actually enjoys driving, and, when she was younger, had a Beetle. But these days she is more aware of the damage cars do, and she doesn’t really need one in any case. Brighton is a compact city, she lives centrally and it is easy enough to get around on foot or by bicycle, and commuting to London by train is relatively cheap, quick and straightforward.
Lou’s mother, on the other hand, has never even learnt to drive, and now she’s pushing seventy, it’s unlikely she ever will. This means she’s pretty much housebound, and has been since Lou’s father died. She’s heavily reliant on the goodwill of others to ferry her from A to B – Lou’s brother-in-law is called on far more often than he is happy about. (It’s significant, Lou thinks, that she rings him over and above Georgia, her daughter. But therein, Lou reckons, lies a clue as to her mother’s real motivation for not driving: she believes it is a man’s role to be behind the wheel.) And when the B&B is empty, as is often the case during the week and especially in winter, Lou’s mother ends up rattling around an empty home growing increasingly lonely and neurotic.
The lack of car also means that there is no one at the station to meet Lou, so she is forced to get a taxi. She hardly feels that she can ask her aunt and uncle to scoop her up, when her uncle has been unwell, and they are guests, too. Nonetheless, it is another few pounds that she resents paying on top of her fare; and when she doesn’t want to visit anyway, this only increases her feelings of resentment as she marches up the garden path, hungover, under-slept and braced for a grilling about her tardy arrival.
* * *
‘How’s Dad?’ says Karen. She realizes she and her mother have been together several hours and she has not even asked.
‘Oh, you know,’ replies her mother.
Karen does know. The last time she saw her father was at Christmas, when she and Simon and the children went out to Portugal for a few days. He knew who Karen was, and Simon, but he couldn’t remember Molly and Luke’s names. His mind can’t retain them. Old memories, people etched deep in his brain, remain; more recent experiences pass like cars on a motorway, whoosh, and they are gone.
‘I’m sorry he wasn’t up to coming,’ says her Mum. ‘But you know how travelling fazes him.’
‘I understand.’
It pierces Karen’s grief to think of her father like this. Little by little she is losing him as well. Her mother is losing her husband, just as Karen has lost hers. The bereavement may not be as swift, as sudden or as shocking – Karen’s father is eighty; nonetheless it is breaking her Mum’s heart.
* * *
Lou is welcomed in the usual way: with tea, in the lounge. While she waits for her mother to come through from the kitchen, Lou makes small talk with her aunt and uncle, Audrey and Pat. Eventually her mother arrives with a dark wooden tray covered, as is her custom, with a pristine white linen napkin placed so the corners hang over the edges in a perfect diamond. On it tinkle four elegant pink floral cups and saucers edged with gold, a matching teapot, a small jug of milk, a bowl of sugar cubes with an immaculately polished pair of silver tongs and a spread of biscuits carefully arranged in a flower shape.
‘Tea, darling?’ says her mother.
‘Why don’t you do the others first?’ suggests Lou. ‘I prefer mine strong.’
Her mother does as requested; nonetheless when Lou is handed her cup she can tell it is not as she likes it, even after all these years of the same request.
‘Choccie bi
scuit?’
Lou is hardly a child. The use of the diminutive phrase grates, even though she knows she’s being unfair. She reaches over, taking not one but two. She is very hungry.
‘Leave enough for the rest of us,’ says her mother.
Lou restrains from observing there must be at least a dozen biscuits on the plate still and murmurs an apology.
‘So.’ Her mother sits up in her chair, spine impressively straight for her age. ‘Tell us about this funeral you went to at such late notice, darling. Did you go dressed like that, by the way?’
Lou struggles not to rise to it. ‘Yes. It was a very informal ceremony.’
‘I see.’ Her mother makes it plain that she doesn’t. ‘Whose was it, did you say?’
Lou had hoped she would at least be given a few hours’ respite before the interrogation: that it is happening within minutes of walking through the door aggravates her further.
She takes a deep breath. How is she going to explain swiftly and clearly, so they can drop the subject and move on? She doesn’t want to get drawn into the details; it seems tasteless. Even though she didn’t know Simon personally, she is loyal to the sense she has of the man as Karen’s husband and Luke and Molly’s father. Lou doesn’t want this contaminated by her mother’s curiosity or judgement.
‘It’s just this guy I, um, well, sort of met on the train.’
‘Oh?’ Her mother leans forward, all ears.
‘I didn’t really know him that well, but, there was something about him . . .’ Lou fumbles for words.
‘Yes?’
She decides to omit the details of Karen and Anna and their subsequent meetings. This will only complicate affairs; maybe keeping it short and simple will satisfy her mother.
‘He died suddenly, really unexpectedly, you see. He was still, um, fairly young. We used to chat from time to time,’ – this is a bit of a lie, but Lou is making it up as she goes in an attempt to get her mother to leave the matter be – ‘and I, er . . . I liked him, we got on, so when I found out he had died, I decided to go to his funeral, pay my respects, you know, say goodbye.’ Phew. Hopefully this will suffice and she is out the other side.
But . . . ‘Ah, I see,’ says her mother. Her tone is full of innuendo.
At once Lou realizes the conclusion she has drawn: that there was some kind of romantic involvement. How could she get it so wrong? It’s almost laughable.
‘No, no, it wasn’t like that,’ Lou corrects. ‘He was just a friend.’
‘If you say so,’ says her mother, and glances knowingly at Uncle Pat and Aunt Audrey. She smiles sympathetically at her daughter. ‘No wonder you wanted to go to the funeral.’
Rather than argue, or clarify, Lou decides the simplest thing is to let it be.
* * *
By early evening Steve has used all the alcohol in the house. He seems to have made it his mission to spend the afternoon getting everyone sozzled: he has been topping up glasses before it’s even occurred to anyone that they might need a refill; Anna has been keeping an eye on him. The gathering turns into a riotous affair as a result. The stereo goes on in the lounge and some middle-aged parents even start dancing – to their teenagers’ mortification; younger children are allowed to run shrieking round the house playing sardines without supervision; conversation flows between strangers with ease. People are laughing – celebrating – and Anna is glad; Simon would have liked that. Nonetheless, the whole experience makes her uneasy. She is aware, as other guests aren’t, that this is a mask for Steve. It allows him to drink freely himself and hide his own intoxicated state, and Anna suspects that for every measure everyone else has, he’s had several.
‘We’re out of booze,’ Steve says now to Karen, grabbing her in the hall as she passes him on her way upstairs. ‘Do you want me to go and get more?’
‘Are we really?’ asks Karen. ‘I bought loads, and we had a couple of cases in the hall cupboard.’
‘They’re finished,’ Steve tells her. Anna is watching him from the lounge doorway.
Karen is disconcerted. ‘Mm, yes, er – I suppose we do need some more then.’
‘I’ll go,’ Steve offers again.
‘Thanks. That would be great.’
But he stands there for a moment before adding, bluntly, ‘I’ll need some money.’
‘Of course, sorry.’
Anna cringes. Cash is not at the front of Karen’s mind today, nor should it be. This is one reason she resents Steve for not earning much and for spending what money he does have on himself. It means he never treats anyone to anything, even a recent widow to a few bottles of wine. ‘I’ll sort this,’ she declares. ‘Let me get my bag.’
‘No, that’s fine. I should get it.’ Karen is evidently uncomfortable with Anna’s generosity.
‘We’ll work it out another time,’ she says, hoping Karen will not remember at a future date.
‘Sure.’ Karen smiles, and heads on up the stairs.
Anna goes into the kitchen, locates her purse and hands over two twenty pound notes.
‘Why don’t you just give me your card?’ suggests Steve.
Anna doesn’t trust him with her card, not after several drinks. He is quite capable of sneaking in a bottle of something stronger for himself.
‘Nope,’ she says. ‘This’ll be enough. I think you ought to take someone else with you. Help carry it.’ If he’s not on his own, then, with luck, he’ll be too self-conscious to buy himself anything.
‘Why don’t you come?’
But Anna does not want to go to the off-licence. She doesn’t want more alcohol, it’s nearly ten minutes’ walk in the cold, and actually, she doesn’t want to be alone with Steve. ‘Why don’t you ask a bloke to go with you? The bags will be heavy.’
‘I’ll go,’ offers Alan, and the two of them set off.
Half an hour later, Alan and Steve return, with six carrier bags between them.
‘Thank you,’ says Anna, greeting them as they put down their load. But her appreciation is really directed at Alan, and she kisses him on the cheek.
‘What, no kiss for me?’ asks Steve, but she ignores him. She has gone a couple of paces down the hall when Steve grabs her shoulder and spins her to face him. ‘You didn’t say thank you to me.’
‘Pardon me,’ she says sarcastically.
‘What’s up with you?’ he asks. He is almost shouting; he has lost the ability to gauge his own volume.
A few guests peer into the hall to see what’s going on.
Anna lowers her voice in the hope it will encourage Steve to drop his. ‘Nothing’s up. I’m fine.’
But – ‘Don’t lie to me!’ – he’s louder still. A couple who have been chatting in the kitchen doorway break off their conversation and glance at them, wary.
‘Just leave it, will you?’ Anna hisses.
‘I WILL NOT LEAVE IT!’ Steve bellows, and everyone in the vicinity falls silent. ‘Why did you kiss Alan and not me?’
Drinking always brings out jealousy in Steve. The sober Steve is confident, sexually; it was one of the first things that attracted Anna to him. But yet again the drunkard is a different beast: the archetypal green-eyed monster.
‘I didn’t mean anything by it,’ Anna says, conscious of the disturbance they are causing and wanting to ease the situation, fast.
‘Yes, you did.’ His lips are taut, eyes full of malice.
She shakes her head. ‘I was just saying thank you.’
‘Hey, mate,’ Alan interrupts, gently easing Steve’s shoulder away from Anna: he is towering over her. ‘Take it easy, eh? She didn’t mean anything by it.’
But his intrusion only exacerbates matters. ‘GET OFF ME!’ And with force Steve elbows Alan sharply away.
‘Whoa.’ Alan steps back, palms raised to indicate he wants no violence. ‘There’s no need for that.’
‘You would say that, wouldn’t you?’ Steve rounds on him. It is all happening at such speed that Anna is powerless to prevent it.
Karen appears at the top of the stairs to see what the fuss is about.
Steve looks up, sees her, realizes he has an audience.
‘Why don’t you just say it?’ he jeers.
‘Say what?’ Alan is mystified.
‘You’d rather it had been me!’
‘Sorry?’
Steve takes in the couple in the kitchen, watching; people in the living room open-mouthed, horrified.
‘You’d rather it had been me!’
Karen speaks from halfway down the stairs: – ‘I think you need to quieten down, Steve,’ but to no avail.
He stares at Karen; Anna sees the venom in his eyes – the venom she normally sees directed at her. ‘YOU’D RATHER IT HAD BEEN ME, TOO.’
Then he rotates, directing his fury a full 360 degrees. ‘YOU’D ALL RATHER IT HAD BEEN ME WHO DIED THAN SIMON.’
There is an appalled silence.
Then Karen says, her voice calm: ‘Do you know what, Steve? I don’t know about everyone else, I can’t speak for them. But actually, as far as I am concerned, you are right. I would rather it had been you than Simon. Now, I want you to leave my house, this minute. You’ve caused enough trouble. Go home, and sleep it off.’
Steve is so shocked that she actually said this that for several moments he says nothing.
‘Just sort him out,’ Karen mutters to Anna over the banisters as she returns upstairs. Anna can see she is shaking; beneath her composure is fury.
‘I’ll take him home,’ she nods. She’s vaguely aware that around her people have started talking again; the dialogue is a combination of forced brightness as if nothing has happened, and muted discussion of how awful Steve has been.
By now he is leaning against the wall, barely standing.
‘Will you be all right?’ Alan asks her. ‘I can see to him, if you want. At least let me come with you.’