“You will not drive yourself, will you?”
“No. I’ll probably go with my dad.” I imagine Mum will come too unless she has plans to reunite with lover boy. I can’t believe all the crap that’s flying around my head. Maybe I should take up the undertaker’s offer of being put in touch with someone and try to let it all out. Although it would take a unique specialist to pervade and help make sense of my thoughts and feelings right now. I feel like I could explode. And if I start to open up to someone, who knows what state I will end up in.
“Can we make an appointment for the funeral celebrant? For a chat about the service content? Is Wednesday afternoon any good?”
“Erm, yes, so long as it’s before I collect my son from school. It’s his birthday, so I’d want it done and dusted well before then.”
“Shall we say 1:30 then? At your home address?”
“Yes. That’s fine.”
“His name is Joseph Alexander. He’s really nice.” She smiles.
“Good. Thanks.”
“Do you want us to set up a newspaper announcement? With the basic details of your husband’s passing, and of the funeral details?”
“Can do.”
“We’ll just put, beloved husband of Fiona, and father of… what’s your son’s name?”
“Jack.”
“Does he have other significant family that need a mention?”
“No. He was an only child and his parents are both dead. You could put son-in-law of Roger and Maggie.” He and Dad were close, after all. I don’t know what he’d make of Mum being given a mention though. Eventually her belittlement of me, and my fear of her, had made him despise her. And look down his nose at me.
“Right. Leave it all with me. I suggest you put an announcement on social media as well, as not everyone looks at the newspaper. And let me know if you would like to arrange a viewing time. You can change your mind up to the day itself.”
She makes him sound like a house. “Is there anything else I need to do?”
“Just have a think about the service. Whether you’d like it religious or spiritual. What songs or readings you’d like, if any? And whether you’d like a photo carousel displaying throughout the service – it’s two pounds fifty per photograph. There’s a minimum of twenty photographs, or you can have a static one displayed throughout for twenty pounds.”
She shakes my hand again. I turn and head along the carpet’s thick-pile towards the exit, appreciating the exchange of the chilly funeral home, for the comparative warmth of the June Monday.
* * *
No news is very good news.
As the days go on,
I can make plans.
Chapter 34
I slide into the driving seat of the Jeep, grateful to be on my own again, with the chance to gather my thoughts. How I should behave right now, I do not know. God knows how others are perceiving me. But I know that I’ve had enough funeral talk for the time being. I pluck my phone from my bag and fire off a text to Sam’s Mum.
Hi Lynne, it’s Jack’s birthday on Wednesday but given the circumstances, I haven’t got around to organising anything. I wondered if Sam would like to come for pizza and a film with Jack. They could have a sleepover if that’s OK with you?” I’m sure Jack will be happy with that. I haven’t got the time or inclination to organise anything else.
Quick as a flash, she replies. He would love that, but I’d rather collect him later, if that’s OK. With it being a school night. You and I could have a glass of wine together. Get to know each other more.
Well, it will be a cup of tea for me. I don’t drink. No doubt that will give her some new gossip to share with her friends.
What would Jack like for his birthday?
His daddy, I type, but then delete it. I’m absolutely all over the place. I’m relieved that there had been no comeback from the visits I made to Bracken Furniture and the garage yesterday, but I still haven’t heard a thing since the interview at the station. Part of me hates the not knowing – I’d rather they put me out of my misery.
He has popped his football, so he’d love a new one.
I think I can manage that! Sam will be very excited when I tell him.
I’ll pick them up from school, then if you could collect Sam at around half seven to eight o’clock, that would be great.
OK. I’ll see you on Wednesday if not before. Can you drop me a text to let me know you have picked Sam up safely?
What does she take me for? Someone who is completely inept? She doesn’t know that they have charged me with aggravated assault. Word will get out soon enough. Nor does she know that I’m under investigation for causing death by dangerous driving, and being an accessory, if that’s the right word, to fraud. I bet she doesn’t know I’m a recovering alcoholic either. If she knew the half of it, she would never let her precious son anywhere near me.
Whilst I’m in an organisational mood, I make a doctor’s appointment for Thursday morning. If I’ve got the Antabuse in my system before Friday, I won’t be tempted to drown my sorrows at the funeral.
I feel numb and empty one minute, and full of rage the next. I know grief is a cyclical process so perhaps, by Friday, I might be in the depths of sorrow, or anger, depending on who turns up. Bryony’s face flashes into my mind. I wonder how that works out with the bail conditions stating that I’m not allowed to contact her, directly or indirectly. I’ve got more right to be at Rob’s funeral than she has.
I expect Denise will turn up too – that’s unless it’s her who gets charged for Rob’s killing. I imagine she will bring Simone, three years older than Jack. She’s too young to attend a funeral but it’s not my decision. With Jack, though, it is.
I point the Jeep in the direction of the town centre. I’ll sort Jack’s birthday gift whilst it’s in my head. If I don’t, it will zip out again and no matter how much he says he’s going to forget about his birthday because he is too sad, he would be devastated if there was no present there for him on Wednesday morning.
He’s been raving on about a new scooter and luckily Argos has two left. He’s been playing in the street on his micro scooter, then coming in moaning that it can’t do the same things as the stunt scooters that the slightly older boys in the street have.
I trudge around the supermarket, throwing in other items for his birthday, small gifts to open; chocolate, a frisbee, a DVD. Then some party decorations, and a birthday cake. I’ve hardly shopped for over a week, so I fill the trolley up.
The neighbours have been wonderful in leaving the odd casserole and shopping basics on the doorstep, but they don’t think about things like Jack’s Nutella, breakfast cereal and biscuits.
As I unload the bags into the Jeep, I feel a sense of normality. Outwardly, there’s no difference between me and the other women loading their cars up.
I have a flashback to when I used to shop with Grandma. I recall millionaire shortcake, Appletize and Turkish Delight. If I hadn’t had her in my life, I’d be even more messed up. I hate being my mother’s daughter. A part of me wishes she’d disappear back with that Shane and leave us all alone. She wants the best of all worlds – I’ve never known anybody so selfish.
I’ve nearly arranged my husband’s funeral. I couldn’t feel any less normal. Only when it is over, can any sort of order return.
* * *
The not knowing is killing me.
Pardon the pun.
Things are quiet. Too quiet.
Perhaps this is the calm before the storm.
Chapter 35
I don’t know what I would do without Dad. I’ve woken late, so he’s got Jack dressed and breakfasted. He’s taken him to school, so the house is in silence.
I’m sleeping like I’m dead. Each morning I have a moment when it could be just another day, then within a minute, reality smacks me around the head. It’s nearly forty-eight hours since I was at the police station. I may have to take matters into my own hands if I don’t hear from them soon.
I reach for my phone
and see that there’s nine plus Facebook notifications. It’s the usual stuff. Top man – will be sadly missed … condolences to Fiona and Jack… Gone too soon. RIP… So sorry to hear this awful news, sending love to the family. And on, and on. I click ‘like’ next to each one in acknowledgement, though it’s them, they are enabling to feel better with these condolence messages, not me.
I decide I should probably write something. It would be expected. Under all the comments, I put. Thanks for all the messages of condolence at this awful time – they mean a lot. Funeral details to be announced on Rob’s page.
I go through to his page and type: Funeral Announcement. A celebration of Rob Matherson’s life will be held this Friday, 19th June at 11:30 am. It will take place at Rawdon Crematorium, followed by…
I haven’t even thought about that. I stop typing and think. The golf club. I search for Otley Golf Club and hit call. The lady who answers couldn’t be more sympathetic when I say who I am and why I’m calling.
“How many mourners are you expecting Mrs Matherson?”
“I’m not sure to be honest. Fifty maybe.”
“Rob was really popular here,” she says. “He will be so missed by everyone. I think there could be at least thirty or so of his golf club friends wanting to be there – they’ve even had a whip around for you.”
“Really?” This brings tears to my eyes. I never expected that. Maybe it will cover the cost of the wake.
As if she is a mind reader, she says, “And as Rob was such a valued member of this club, I’d like to offer the room free, and give you a twenty percent discount on the catering. We’re so sorry for your loss Mrs Matherson. We’ve all been so shocked about it.”
I gulp. “Thank you. I don’t know what to say. You’re very kind. I guess I’d better ask you to cater for around seventy then. He was an active member of his cycle club too. He lived for his golf and cycling.”
“I’m sure he lived for you and your little boy as well.” She pauses. “What time do you think you’ll arrive? I’ll have everything set up in advance and get extra bar staff on so I can come to the service too.”
My ears inadvertently prick up at the mention of the word bar. It’s an ingrained response. In fact, if I bring to mind the funerals I have had to attend with Rob over the years, I’ve always ended up sozzled. Even when I attended one for his colleague with him, someone who I had never even met! I’ll never forget the disapproving glare of Phillip Bracken. I had felt like a naughty schoolgirl. This had encouraged me all the more.
I end the call and return to writing the Facebook announcement.
…followed by a wake at Otley Golf Club. Family flowers only please. A donation plate will be made available to collect funds for Shelter UK.
I don’t even need to think about the choice of charity. I know Shelter isn’t connected with Rob’s death, but it’s the charity I always support, given the choice. Their outreach service gave me so much help when I was on my uppers in my late teens, even sorting me a hostel place for a time. Then they helped me get my own supported tenancy and put me on a substance misuse programme. I’d have probably been dead without them. I’m lucky I crawled back from that time in my life. No thanks to my dear mother.
Dad and I have since discussed it; he feels dreadful that I sank so low as to have been homeless, and heavily alcohol dependent at such a young age. When I first left home at sixteen, unbeknown to Mum, Dad met me a few times; he would give me money and take me for something to eat. But when Mum found out, she gave him an ultimatum, her, or me.
What I hadn’t known at the time was that Mum was pregnant. Dad told me he had been utterly torn. That’s if the baby had been his, of course.
Karma intervened. Mum lost the baby, though it was some time before I found out about any of it. At thirty-seven, they had classed her as having a geriatric pregnancy. She’d have loved that label. She already hated being seen as someone with a sixteen-year-old daughter. However, I could imagine her relishing the prospect of wiping me out of her life completely, and being seen as the mother of a new baby instead.
When I later heard she had lost the baby, I can’t say I wasn’t relieved – no doubt she would have treated another kid like she had treated me. Unless it had been a boy. She has never tired of telling me she had wanted a boy whilst pregnant with me. She hadn’t even thought of a girl’s name. I was supposed to be Paul David. Maybe that’s another reason she would never allow me to have long hair or wear dresses as I was growing up.
I didn’t see either of them again until I was twenty-two. Dad made several efforts to contact me in between time, but I ignored him.
For a while, I didn’t even see my grandmother - I didn’t want her to see me in the state I was in. I didn’t know what planet I was on half the time and getting off my face was all that mattered. Luckily, by the time I had cleaned myself up in 2007, I still had a few years which I could spend with Grandma. I moved in with her for her last few months, to nurse her. I’ll always cherish that time.
She never forgave Dad for what she called his cowardice and hated Mum with a passion. When she died in 2011, it had been seven years since she had seen either of them. They tried, especially towards the end, but she was having none of it. Hence, she left me nearly everything she had, and only left Dad fifty thousand pounds. She had clearly done her homework and must have known this gift would prevent him from being able to contest her will, even if he had wanted to.
The relationship he had lost with his mum, and guilt about me, both contributed to Dad’s depression. And though I have never asked him this question, I bet if anyone were to say to him, have you ever felt truly happy being married to Maggie, his answer would be no.
I look back at my phone. People have already been commenting on the Facebook funeral announcement. That’s soon… thanks for letting us know… let me know if you need any help with anything… let’s give him a good send off, etc. Then I notice a Val Turner has clicked ‘like.’
Val Turner. I click through to her page and scan her ‘about’ information. Married to James Turner. Bingo. She certainly looks a different woman to the glamourous, model-type, stood outside a huge house, in the photographs which Rob had previously forwarded to me. Her page isn’t locked up, like her husband’s is. I scroll down. There’s a picture of her, possibly on holiday, with him in the background, at a holiday park in Blackpool. The tower is in the background.
Blackpool, for goodness sake - a far cry from the luxurious villa in the French Riviera, which had also been alluded to. I scroll down some more. Val Turner has posted pictures of dog after dog, and it becomes clear that she runs a small dog grooming business from a shed in her back garden. I can see the modest two-up, two-down behind her and a van in the driveway. Funny looking mansion and Porsche.
If James Turner and his wife are so loaded from his so-called investments, there’s no sign of it. I wonder for a moment if it’s even the same person. There’s a picture of them, on a night out, in what looks like some sort of club. He’s there, clear as a bell, balding and paunchy. I click through to James Turner to check. Yes, it’s him alright. What’s going on? They’ve had three hundred and seventy-five grand of our money, and there’s no sign of it.
I’m relieved to find an address for Klipper’s Grooming Services, there on her Facebook business page. I pull on my usual jeans and t-shirt, grab a banana and a bottle of water from the kitchen and head out towards the Jeep.
I momentarily wonder where Dad might have got to. He should have been back by now, but then decide I need to set off before he comes back. He will only try to stop me if he finds out where I am going. He will tell me to leave the police to do their jobs without my interference.
It seems I’m easy pickings for the police, and I will be surprised if they’ve even bothered to try to contact James Turner, or Rob’s bitch of an ex-wife yet. Perhaps it’s less of a drain on their resources to pin it on me.
If I get on my way now, I can be in Manchester inside an hour and a ha
lf. This might be the only way I see my money again. I type the address into my sat nav and ignore the warning voice that nags inside my mind. You’re going to make things worse. It’s as though I’m developing a split personality as I reply to myself - how on earth can anything get any worse?
A loud beep and a screech make me gasp as I find myself in the centre of the road. Shit. I’ve overshot the junction. I’ve been so deep in my thoughts; I haven’t been paying attention. Thank God the other driver was. I reverse back into the junction and let him pass. I’ve been driving for around twenty minutes and am about a mile from the motorway. I can’t recall getting here. If someone were to ask me, I wouldn’t be able to tell them which way I’ve travelled. It’s almost as if I’ve zoned out. My breathing comes in rapid blasts now. At least the adrenaline rush means I’ll be fully alert for the motorway.
* * *
I’m grateful
for the moments when my mind
escorts me away from reality.
Chapter 36
I park a couple of doors down from the house, my heart hammering. There it is, the modest terrace with an equally modest front garden. The pebbled drive is long enough to squeeze the Klippers Dog Grooming van onto. A battered Volkswagen golf is pulled up onto the kerbside bordering the garden wall. A sign shows the way to the dog grooming shed in the back garden. I take a deep breath and walk towards the front door, hesitating before I knock on the peeling paint. I should not be here but what choice do I have?
“James Turner?” I square up and look him straight in the eye. He’s even more balding and paunchy in the flesh. He’s got stains on his t-shirt and a hole in his sock. No way is this some hot shot businessman. “I’m Fiona Matherson. I’d like a word with you, please.”
“You can’t turn up at my house unannounced.”
Hit and Run Page 19
