I hear Carol’s raspy rattle in the background. She’s still on forty a day.
‘Chloe,’ my mum comes back to me. ‘Carol’s asking when you’re coming home.’
‘Dunno.’
‘What do you mean, you “dunno”?’
‘I haven’t made any plans.’
‘Well, you better hurry up.’
‘Why?’
I’m walking through a park now, along the footpath, dodging small kids on scooters. All hints of sadness have evaporated from my mum’s voice and she’s annoyed. Plain annoyed.
‘Chloe, I’ve got a wedding to organise,’ she reminds me.
‘Well, Kit has a wedding to—’
‘Don’t talk about something you don’t know anything about, love. You’ve never come close to organising a wedding in your life. There’s so much to do, and I’m gonna need to know when you’re coming home so I can get your room ready.’
‘I’m not coming home.’
‘What?!’ my Mum shrieks, then lowers her voice for Carol. ‘She says she’s not coming home.’
‘Mum, I live in London now. I’ve got a job, a flat—’
‘Oh, you can’t be serious?’
‘Why is that so hard to believe?’
‘Because you’ve only been there two minutes. You’ve got to come home.’
‘I haven’t got to do anything.’
‘But it’s too busy down there; it’s too bloody expensive.’
‘Well, Pam Gillespie seems to think it’s fantastic.’
‘Oh, get your head out the clouds, love. You can’t survive down there on your own.’
I think of all the gingham disguising what used to be my childhood bedroom.
‘Doubt I’d survive much better at home with you.’
She gasps.
‘Where’s the Chloe I know, eh? That London’s gone to your head.’
‘Look, I’m sorry, Mum. I just haven’t had time to process everything yet.’
‘You will,’ she says, softer now. ‘It’ll all come clear, love.’
‘I know.’
‘Everything happens for a reason. You mark my words. You’ll look back on today soon enough and think, wow, this all happened for a reason.’
Okay, it’s time to wrap things up.
‘Please don’t worry about me, Mum,’ I say, honestly not wanting her to hang up and start fretting. You see, she’ll be fine while Carol’s there – she’ll nick one of Carol’s ciggies (even though she ‘quit’ in 1988) and together they can chew the fat – but once she’s on her own she’ll overthink my whole situation and get herself into a right state. ‘I’m fine.’
‘But you’re all on your own, love.’
‘That’s not the tragedy here, Mum.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Never mind. Besides, I’m not on me own, I’ve got Beth … work … you know.’
‘You’re single, though,’ she says, sobbing.
I hear Carol ask if she’d like a gin and tonic.
‘Slimline tonic,’ my mum tells her. ‘Open a new one. On the left in the pantry.’
‘Mum, I’ve got to go. I’ve got a hairdresser’s appointment soon.’
‘Oh, no love. How do you know you can trust this hairdresser?’
I’m losing the will. Let’s be honest, unless she’s referring to Sweeney Todd, I’m not sure anyone’d be able to give a logical response. My brain hurts and I grind my teeth.
‘Are you still there, love?’
‘Yes, Mum. Still here.’
‘Chloe, wouldn’t you rather wait ’til you’re home, go to the place you like in town? The one with the purple chaise longue in the window?’
‘I can’t go the funeral with these roots, Mum.’
I can hear Carol suggesting I wear a hat.
‘Did you hear that, love? Carol said—’
‘I heard her.’
‘You don’t half suit hats.’
She’s genuinely concerned about this. I know she’ll play with her tea tonight now, unable to focus on Corrie, worrying how my hair will turn out. She’s never forgiven me for going full-on bleached blonde, forever suggesting I grow it out to my mousey brown and get some highlights with the cap. The cap!
‘I’ll speak to you soon, Mum. Love you millions.’
‘Love you more.’
9
On Friday morning, I arrive at All Saints Church in a Berkshire village, and spot a wooden bench beneath the shade of an oak tree. The scene is picture perfect. A small medieval stone building with a steeple, a weathercock proud at its tip; a quaint path leading from the wooden double doors to a pretty floral arch. Nothing like the church I got dragged to for Sunday morning mass growing up. Even the sky is an idyllic blue. For a moment, I feel like I’m starring in a nineties Britflick.
That moment passes in a flash.
I feel nervous. I feel jittery. I feel numb and I feel pain. I feel such a cocktail of contradicting emotions that I’m dizzy, I’m heavy-headed, I’m scared. I’m not wearing a hat – my roots are now a silvery blonde – but I’m wearing a black cardigan, and black tights beneath my black shift dress. So I’m hot. I’m sweaty. I’m wishing I hadn’t worn shoes with a heel because they’re already hurting, but nothing else I own would’ve been smart enough.
I’m also early.
Well, I’d got myself into a right panic about being late. I mean, I had to take the tube to Paddington, a train to Reading and then a slow train seven stops, followed by a fifteen-minute walk following Google Maps. The conductor on the Reading train had caught my eye and told me to have a nice day. It made me wonder how often people have said this to me on a daily basis and how often I’ve taken all those nice days for granted. I’m not going to have a nice day today.
I sit myself down on the bench, slip my heels off and crack my toes, waiting for Jack’s mourners to arrive. I didn’t even know the location of this place until last night. When Jack’s mum sent that text, I’d replied saying, Thank you, Cx and forgot to ask where the funeral would be. I couldn’t bother her again, could I?
So I turned to Facebook.
I’ve been avoiding social media, knowing I’d lose days trawling through Jack’s online life, specifically his life before me. He was more of a Twitter user, really, following the football, his fave comedians, a few prolific scientists and activists. Personally, I use Instagram. My settings are private and my name is an alias because I’m a teacher. I nose often and rarely post. But I had to find out about the funeral – I had to go there – and wow, there’s nothing like a Facebook page to hammer home a tragedy, is there? Jack’s profile was plastered with tributes: lyrics to songs, emojis of broken hearts, photographs – some recent, many old, going back to his uni days and beyond, that moonfaced blur of retro snaps retaken on a smart phone – and – thank God – the details about his funeral, posted by his older brother, Alex.
But there was nothing from me.
And of course. I never digitally professed my love, and so neither have I declared how his death has shattered my world. There isn’t a single photo of us together posted. Not a mention of my name within the long lists of those tagged, those who will remain in people’s thoughts and prayers during this sad, sad time. Everybody on the list is a stranger to me, other than Patricia Carmichael and John Carmichael and Freddie Carmichael, Jack’s younger brother who I met briefly at a pub a couple of months ago. I never got the chance to meet his older brother, Alex, a tech whizz who lives in Seattle with his wife and kids. I recognised the name Ross Robson, the comedian we were supposed to go and see in Greenwich the evening I found out Jack died. I don’t know him, though.