Another Night, Another Day (9 page)

She can tell the man is concentrating on what he’s doing, so she watches, curious, as he places a single red rose in a cluster of tiny white flowers. He has nice hands, she thinks.
They’re big, yet his fingers are long and elegant. And what he’s making is pleasingly simple compared to the gaudy bouquets many florists seem to go for. He’s taking great care,
running scarlet ribbon down the blade of his scissors to form corkscrew twirls. Finally, he attaches the ribbon with a heart-shaped sticker.

With a lurch, Karen realizes what the posy must be for, just as he turns and smiles at her.

‘Thank you for waiting. So, what do you think?’ He holds out the bunch. ‘Will it go down well with the ladies?’

‘It’s lovely,’ says Karen, and to her surprise she finds herself blushing. He’s nice-looking – his dark hair is threaded with silver, his features are strong, and
the deep lines round his eyes and mouth hint at sensitivity. It’s not often Karen encounters men she finds attractive, and he must be about Simon’s age – or rather, the age Simon
would be.

Before she can brace herself, grief hits her again.

Simon always remembered Valentine’s, she thinks. But no one gives me flowers any more.

* * *

‘Here, let me,’ says Michael, picking up the hanging basket. ‘Where do you want it? Boot OK?’

‘Yes, please.’ The woman nods, taking a seat behind the wheel of a battered Citroën. ‘It should be unlocked.’

He lays the basket inside, wedging it as best he can between a large teddy bear and a set of jump leads.

She seemed nice, he thinks, as she drives away.

Reassured by his customer’s enthusiasm, Michael makes several identical posies and drops them into some tin buckets which he places on the pavement. Not a bad job, he decides, stepping
back to check. I managed to make those roses from Jan stretch pretty well, though they’re nowhere near as good quality as Bob’s, and blimey, they were pricey.

He lets out a long breath. He’s still reeling after his trip to the market, but he can’t put off this moment any longer. He goes back into the shop, slides the envelope out from
under the till, tears it open and reads:

The words start to swim before Michael’s eyes. The contents are too much to absorb in one hit, so he slips the letter back under the till, vowing to reread it later.

I’m going to do those stairs before something else takes precedence, decides Abby, shutting the front door behind the Donaldsons.

She heads into the kitchen, unlocks the cupboard under the sink and locates a can of cleaner and a scouring brush. She fills a bucket with water and soon is on her hands and knees in the hall,
scrubbing, scrubbing, scrubbing at the flour embedded in the carpet, creating an ocean of white foam. Then, quite without warning, she feels strangely light-headed and giddy, her limbs start
tingling as if the nerve endings are on fire, and she goes hot and cold.

Everything is happening too fast,
says a voice in her head.
It’s all too soon.

But the Donaldsons seem interested in the house, she tells herself. That’s good, surely?

It’s impossible to take in, let alone cope with,
says the voice.

Don’t be ridiculous, she thinks. Of course I can cope. What choice do I have?

She picks up the scrubbing brush again but her hands are shaking so violently she can barely hold it, so she stops and sits back on her haunches.

Her heart is palpitating,
ba-boom, ba-boom, ba-boom
. . . Yet the harder she struggles to control her thoughts, the more horrible her imaginings become. The idea of the Donaldsons here;
of their little boy and girl running up and down this very stairway, putting their coats on in this hall, peeking through the letter box to see who’s come to visit
them
. . .

Her stomach heaves and she dashes into the kitchen, reaching the sink just before she retches.

Yet her thoughts continue to race. I can’t possibly leave this house. It’s so near the shops . . . and the park Callum knows . . . we’re in walking distance of his school . . .
and I’ve fitted all the cupboards here with locks . . . Imagine having to start again somewhere else. I can’t do it, I can’t . . .

She reaches for a chair, manages to sit down.

If only I had someone to call, she thinks, bowing her head between her knees. But who? Mum and Dad are miles away, and what would I say, anyway? They don’t seem to understand me that well,
let alone Callum.

Eventually the sickness passes, but it takes an age for Abby to stop shaking enough to put away the cleaning equipment. It seems no sooner has she done so than her mobile rings, making her jump.
What’s got into her?

The number on screen reveals it’s the estate agent.

‘The Donaldsons have put in an offer,’ says Ollie, and without preamble tells her the details.

Abby can barely think, let alone think rationally. ‘That sounds a pretty decent price,’ she hears herself say.

‘I don’t need to remind you that they’re cash buyers,’ he continues.

‘Of course. This is great news, thank you,’ she says, desperately trying to swallow her panic. ‘Er . . . I need to speak to my husband. We’ll come back to you.’

Slowly, she struggles to assimilate this news. It’s a few thousand less than we’re asking, but an acceptable offer means we’ll have to move really soon . . . Yet I’ve
only found time to look at a handful of flats, and not one has been promising. They’ve all been so small, so dark, so far from everything . . .

You’re being too demanding,
she tells herself. Then it dawns on her: maybe Glenn can handle this. He’s the one who’s keen to sell. But his mobile goes straight to
voicemail.

‘I wish you’d answer your phone,’ she says, when she finally hears back. She fills him in on the offer.

‘It’s not enough,’ he says at once.

‘Sorry?’

‘I want more – don’t you? We both need as much as we can if we’re each to buy somewhere decent.’

‘No one ever pays the asking price.’

‘And no one ever takes the first offer they’re given. We’ve only had it on the market six weeks. Let’s see if they’ll bump it up. They’re obviously
keen.’

‘
You
see if they’ll bump it up,’ says Abby. ‘You’re much better at negotiating than me.’

‘I can’t. You know calling from my work is extremely difficult.’

So it’s down to me, thinks Abby, rage rising. Like everything else in this household. Why should I do the tricky bit, when I don’t even want to move? She’s about to say this,
when she plays the conversation in fast forward. I refuse to phone the agent, Glenn and I row, I feel guilty, relent and end up calling anyway. At least her anger has made the panic subside.
Nonetheless, she’s too tired to fight.

‘If that’s what you want. Though I thought you were in a hurry to move on. This will delay it.’

‘I am,’ says Glenn. ‘But this is business.’

‘I see,’ says Abby. Funny, she is tempted to add, and there I was thinking it was about our family.

* * *

Molly and Luke race ahead up the drive. Anna and Karen stroll at a more measured pace, taking in the stone memorials on either side. Karen is clutching the bunch of anemones,
ready to lay on her husband’s grave.

‘I’ve always thought it a shame we don’t do death with the same panache as the Victorians,’ says Anna, tucking her arm through Karen’s. ‘Does that sound
terribly morbid?’

Karen smiles at her friend. ‘You always were more gothic than me. Just look at your outfit.’

Anna is dressed head to toe in black, whereas Karen is in her usual earth tones. It’s been raining, but Anna’s smart leather boots have high stiletto heels whereas Karen’s
ancient rubber wedges have sensible grooves to provide grip.

‘Point taken,’ Anna smiles. Square tombs line either side of the path; almost all are topped by angels with palms held aloft and eyes cast heavenwards. ‘Karen, please
don’t think me sacrilegious, but should I go before you, I’d really appreciate a nice big statue with proper wings and a serene expression.’

‘I’ll see what I can do.’

‘Though you can skip euphemisms like
She fell asleep
or
She was called to rest
. Plain old
Died
is fine by me.’

Sadly missed
, Karen reads. She identifies with the sentiment, but refrains from saying so.

Cobbles turn to tarmac and they walk on from the showiness of the nineteenth century to the simple crosses of the twentieth. ‘
In loving memory,
’ says Anna. ‘It’s
the same inscription time and again. Didn’t they have any imagination?’

‘You’re such a wordsmith.’ Perhaps it was a mistake to agree to her coming, thinks Karen. ‘I’m not sure the First World War gave much opportunity for
crafting.’

‘Sorry.’

‘Don’t be.’ Simon would have enjoyed our conversation, Karen reminds herself. He liked bantering with Anna. The last thing he would have wanted is me weeping every time I
visit.

Before she lost her husband, Karen pictured graveyards as secluded places where mourners sat with only birdsong and church bells to interrupt their remembrance, but the cemetery where Simon is
buried is wedged in between the busy Old Shoreham Road and the railway. Still, she wanted a grave to visit and this was the only place locally with available burial plots. At least a couple of
crows are hopping about on the grass – that feels appropriate.

She and Anna pick their way along a narrow path, past a semicircle of memorials dedicated to those who’ve been recently cremated.

‘Shame about the plastic flowers,’ says Anna.

Karen presumes they’ve been laid by people without much money who wanted something that lasts, yet again refrains from comment.

‘Mummy, look!’ Up ahead, Molly is jumping up and down, pointing.

‘Good Lord!’ exclaims Anna when they reach her.

Giant 3D letters made from the heads of lurid blue carnations reveal that Jayden has died recently. The grave is covered in animals and teddy bears, snowmen in glass domes and tea lights in
pastel colours, tiny chimes and spinning windmills. There are photos of him too, damp from recent rain. He looks barely more than a baby. Karen peers at the stone:
Aged 22 months,
and a
lump comes into her throat.

‘And please avoid anything like this,’ Anna continues. ‘I’m sorry, Karen, it’s very sad, I know.’

‘But the children love it.’ Molly is crouching down, fingering the magpie collection with admiration.

‘Darling, the day I use Molly as a guide to good taste is the day I’ve lost my marbles.’

Karen knows Anna is trying to cheer her up, but coming so soon after visiting her father, this is one dry comment too many. Normally she would let it go, but today she is already struggling.
‘So what if it’s over the top? I’m sure Jayden’s parents will take most of this stuff away in due course. It’s just their way of expressing grief.’

Her friend appears winded, but Karen continues: ‘Who are you to say what’s fitting and what’s not?’

They walk on in silence, save for the
click click
of Anna’s heels, up the gentle slope to Simon’s grave.

‘I’m sorry,’ Anna murmurs.

Something in Karen refuses to leave it be. ‘I hope this headstone meets with your approval,’ she says viciously. A rectangle of marble is simply engraved with the dates of
Simon’s birth and death.

‘I didn’t mean to upset you.’

Karen’s cheeks are burning. As she bends to help Molly place the anemones in the pot, she finds it hard to steady herself. ‘I’d like you to leave.’

Moments after she’s said this, Karen regrets it. Anna is my dearest friend, she thinks. She was there at my wedding and the birth of my children, she supported me hugely when Simon died .
. . Yet already Anna is a way off, so Karen simply stands and watches as she walks back down the narrow path, high heels clicking, black designer coat flapping in the wind.

* * *

Michael fishes the letter from under the till and braces himself. It is signed
Bob Hawkins
in the presence of a witness. So it’s official all right.

He checks the itemized list, alarm mounting. He can double-check the amount against his own receipts – which he’s jammed into a box in the back room and not been able to face looking
at for months – but he remembers almost every purchase, so it must be correct.

£3,800.

This is serious.

Perhaps I could offer Bob a few hundred pounds to appease him, borrow it somehow, he thinks. But if Bob’s after nearly 4K, Jan will soon be demanding even more. Over the last few months
I’ve bought my entire stock from the Covent Garden trader or the Dutchman. I can’t begin to settle both debts. How will I pay the mortgage? The kids’ college fees? Rent on this
place? I’m behind with them all as it is.

He looks up at the ceiling as if some higher power might come to his rescue. But Michael has no belief in God – this latest injustice only confirms he is right. As he lowers his gaze, his
eyes fall on the row of glass vases above the till. He rises from the stool, and, before he can stop himself, reaches for the largest. It is globe-shaped, valuable. A shower of dust makes him
cough.

Then he lifts the vase high in both hands as if it were a basketball, and hurls it with all his might against the grey concrete floor.

‘Mummy, why are you crying?’ It’s Luke, standing in the parallelogram of light created by the half-open door of the living room.

Dear me, thinks Karen. I put him to bed half an hour ago; he must have heard me all the way upstairs. Was I making that much noise?