Five Wakes and a Wedding

by Karen Ross

  Is it my imagination, or does the man who’s pulling a bag of tools from the back of his van (I’ve learned his name is Rob) give me a wry smile? He must be a saint, putting up with so many call-outs from Mr and Mrs Happy. Either that, or he’s being well paid. But no matter which way you look at it – and right now, I’m enjoying the sight of him stretching his arms towards the sunshine – those are fab abs! Clambering across the roofs of London every day evidently gives the torso a better workout than merely toiling in the gym. I get up from my little desk and stroll to the window to check I’m not mistaken about Rob’s six-pack.

  Impressive. Although Barclay is a good three inches taller.

  There you go again, Nina Sherwood!

  Five years of celibacy. Then Jason Chung. And now …

  Now I wake up in the mornings, thinking about Barclay Banks. He torments me last thing at night. Maybe this is good. Perhaps I’m finally emerging from the deep-frozen emotional cocoon in which I’d wrapped myself in the wake of Ryan … but relationships hurt. Men like Barclay, golden boys who can have whatever they want (including purple skateboards), don’t choose women like me. They just don’t. It’s one of the laws of nature. A few dates, maybe. A romp. But as his own sister says, Barclay has a different girl every week. He’s out of my league so why even think about it? Why put myself through all that again? Why …

  … Why is that man in a green uniform taking pictures of my shop window?

  Not that it’s so unusual for passers-by to take photos of my lovely skeleton on the bike and the clever cremation urn that transforms human remains into trees. Visitors to Primrose Hill frequently pose for selfies. But this man is different. There’s something officious about him. Maybe it’s his walrus moustache that’s off-putting.

  No. It’s the fact he’s using a proper camera, rather than his phone. And not taking photos on impulse, because he likes what he sees. There’s something careful – methodical – about the way he’s working. I back away from the window and watch him take a further six or seven pictures before he packs up his equipment.

  Ah well, no harm done, and high time I tackled today’s to-do list. I’m about to accomplish item one – make coffee – when I realise the man has opened my shop door and is halfway inside.

  ‘I’m looking for Nina Sherwood,’ he barks.

  ‘You’ve found her. How can I help you, Sir?’ This man is not here to organise a funeral.

  ‘Joe Carter. I’m a senior inspector with Camden Environmental Health Department.’

  ‘Okay.’

  ‘We’ve had a report. A complaint.’

  ‘Really? Would you like to sit down and tell me about it?’

  ‘I’d prefer to stand. I’m going to need you to remove your window display. Immediately.’

  ‘Pardon?’

  ‘Did I not make myself clear? Your window display. You have to dismantle it.’

  ‘But why?’

  ‘As I say, there’s been a complaint.’

  ‘From whom?’

  The man looks at me scornfully. ‘I’m not at liberty to tell you that, Madam. Client confidentiality.’

  ‘Then you can hardly expect me to take any action. Not based on one anonymous complaint.’ I struggle to keep my voice polite. This is outrageous.

  ‘Madam, I agree.’

  Result!

  Then the man continues, ‘I expect you to take action because I am an official acting on behalf of your local council. And because I agree with the complainant.’

  ‘About what?’

  ‘Your window display.’ He’s looking at me as if I am a tiresome child. ‘It breaches anti-social behaviour legislation. On the grounds of taste and decency.’

  ‘But … but people like it.’

  The man gives me a hard stare. ‘I’m not concerned with people. I’m concerned that what’s in your window will give children nightmares. And upset anyone with a sick relative.’

  ‘And if I refuse? What happens then?’

  Before the man can tell me, my landline starts to ring.

  ‘You’ll have to excuse me,’ I say. ‘Business.’ I give him a hard stare of my own.

  ‘I’ll wait outside,’ he says at last. ‘But we need to resolve this at once.’ The man bangs the door behind him, and I pick up the phone. ‘Good morning,’ I say. ‘Happy Endings. How may I help you?’

  ‘Nina! At last!’

  ‘Dad!’ The pair of us have been playing telephone tag for weeks and I feel guilty for not having made more of an effort. At least now I can arrange a weekend visit.

  ‘So, I was wondering,’ Dad says, ‘how’s your business getting along?’

  And at least this time, I don’t have to lie. ‘The last couple of weeks have been fantastic,’ I say. I begin to tell him about Alice’s funeral, all the while keeping an eye on the man from Camden Council. Who is now stomping up and down outside my shopfront, shaking his head and tutting his disapproval.

  ‘… And pet funerals, are they especially lucrative?’ Dad asks.

  Less so than funerals for people. Customer Number One had been pretty generous and insisted on paying me more than I’d asked, but I’m still a long way from being able to treat my parents to a holiday in the sun.

  ‘Worried about your investment, Dad?’ I tease.

  ‘Actually … Yes. I am.’

  There’s nothing teasing about his words and I’m instantly on guard. ‘How come?’

  ‘I was going to warn you. But then I thought better wait and see. Just in case.’

  ‘What’s happened?’

  ‘It’s work. They’ve decided I’m past my sell-by date. Redundancy.’

  ‘Dad, I’m so sorry.’

  ‘Well, you know. Construction. It’s a young man’s business, these days.’

  ‘But you’re not even sixty!’ I’m not sure if I’m arguing for Dad’s sake, or my own.

  ‘So anyway …’

  Dad’s voice trails off and I say it for him.

  ‘You’re going to need your investment back.’

  ‘They’ve put me on three months’ notice. But because I’ve only been with this firm for a couple of years, the redundancy package is next to nothing. Still, you never know, Nina, maybe I’ll find another job.’ His voice lacks conviction. ‘And even if I don’t, I’m not asking you to pay me back what you’ve borrowed. That wouldn’t be fair.’

  Thank God.

  ‘But Dad …’ I can’t let myself off that lightly. ‘How will you manage?’

  ‘I think I’ve come up with a fair solution. That as of December, you pay me a regular income. Easier for you than paying everything back at once.’

  ‘Okay.’

  ‘Fifteen hundred a month. Does that sound reasonable? Now you’re doing so well? Not too much?’

  ‘Dad, don’t you worry. But look. Right now, I have to go.’

  ‘More customers, pet? I’m so proud of you. I always knew you’d succeed.’

  ‘Dad, I have to go.’ I can’t bear the relief pulsing up the phone line all the way from Southampton. ‘Everything will be all right. I promise. Love to Mum.’

  29

  Outside Happy Endings, everything is far from all right.

  The man from Camden Council appears to be denouncing my window display to a police officer. I recognise her. She’s the one who rescued me from the media vultures in the wake of Kelli’s funeral-that-never-was. I rush outside into the sunshine.

  ‘Good morning,’ I say to the woman. ‘Sergeant Hartley, isn’t it?’

  ‘Yes, indeed. You’ve got a good memory, Ms Sherwood.’

  ‘Nina, please. Good to see you again. I never got the chance to thank you.’

  ‘No thanks necessary.’

  ‘Were you just passing?’

  Sergeant Hartley pauses. ‘Actually no, Nina. I’m afraid there’s been a complaint about your activities. But I’m sure we can sort it out.’

  ‘The window display, is it?’ The Camden Council inspector looks as if he’s just won th
e EuroMillions.

  Sergeant Hartley examines the window display more closely. ‘Fabulous,’ she says. ‘Fascinating time-lapse photography, the way that man on the video goes from a baby to middle-age right before your eyes. And can you really have your ashes turned into a tree? You know, I think I’d really like that.’

  Is it against the law to kiss a police officer when you’re not actually at Notting Hill Carnival?

  ‘But it’s disgraceful.’ The inspector splutters a glob of spittle on his own moustache. ‘I’m here to ensure it’s removed. Pronto.’

  ‘Really? Are you empowered to do that, under local government legislation?’ Sergeant Hartley seems genuinely interested. ‘I can’t imagine you are. I know Camden has a great deal of authority,’ she makes it clear she thinks this is a bad thing, ‘but so far as I am aware, you’re not permitted to have an opinion on what traders keep or display on their own private property any more than you’re allowed to disapprove of the colour of my curtains.’

  ‘That’s just not correct.’

  ‘Then maybe you’d care to show me the legislation?’

  ‘Legislation?’ A shadow appears on the pavement in front of me, and a new voice joins our discussion. ‘My middle name. Well, close, anyway. The truth is, I prefer litigation. Fighting in court’s always such fun.’

  Barclay Banks steps off one of those hoverboard things – the ones that look quite fun but can overheat and explode your kitchen if you leave them to charge on a power socket – and greets me warmly.

  ‘Morning Nina,’ he says cheerfully. ‘Thought I’d pay you a social call. You remember how much I like to combine business with pleasure.’ Barclay turns to the other two, shrugs his denim-clad shoulders and adds, ‘She never writes. She never phones. Not even a text. And now the police. Has she been a naughty girl?’ That sexy emphasis … it turns me on and infuriates me in equal measure, even though I know anyone who’s ever typed #metoo would disapprove.

  Along the street, Julie is pretending to organise her flower display. I know she’s hanging on every word. I appear to have two choices. Slap Barclay’s chiselled cheekbones – hard – and add assault to whatever charges Sergeant Hartley may be about to bring, or invite everyone inside.

  I plump reluctantly for option two.

  I usher everyone inside Happy Endings and disappear to the basement to fetch a jug of water. As I come back up the stairs, I hear Barclay discussing the window display with the inspector.

  ‘I agree with you entirely about the skeleton,’ he’s saying.

  That’s it.

  I am going to hit him.

  Kick him out of the shop.

  Kick him out of my life.

  But before I can move, Barclay continues. ‘The bicycle just doesn’t look right. You have to agree he’d look way cooler on a motorbike. Maybe something like a Flying Eagle. Vintage, but still good to go. Or if you’re looking for something sleeker, how about an Ecosse FE Ti XX? That’s a seriously shiny piece of kit. Want to see a picture?’

  Sergeant Hartley giggles.

  ‘Mind you,’ Barclay continues. ‘What if we put the skeleton behind the wheel of a car? Classic Aston Martin. British Racing Green. Open top. Nice and aspirational, even for Primrose Hill. And making a statement … how you can’t take it with you when you go, so you might as well splash out on a nice, expensive funeral.’

  ‘You’d need to get the window reinforced,’ says Sergeant Hartley. ‘Too much of an insurance risk, otherwise.’

  ‘That’s easily done,’ Barclay tells her. ‘You know, I think the idea of the car is stronger. Metaphorical. Art, almost … especially if we gave it a name. How about Rust in Peace? Perhaps we could put in for a grant. Is Camden still supporting the arts, do you know?’

  I can hardly believe it. This is like my video in the shop window. Except Barclay is morphing into Edo right in front of my ears.

  The inspector’s heard enough. ‘I’ll excuse myself for now,’ he says. ‘I need to check the rules. It’s possible that if eighty-five per cent of the skeleton is covered from public view by concealing it in a car, you might get away with it.’ He makes it plain that I would still be committing a crime in all but name.

  ‘You do that,’ Barclay says. ‘And if you could get back to me on the arts grant front, I’d be very grateful.’

  By way of a response, the inspector slams the door on his way out.

  ‘So, Nina,’ Barclay acknowledges my return to the front of the shop. ‘One down, one to go.’ He takes the tray I’m carrying, sets it down on the table, pours three tall glasses of iced water and hands one each to me and Sergeant Hartley. Then he turns to the officer and says, ‘Seriously, is there some sort of an issue, or are you here on a courtesy call?’

  ‘Barclay,’ I say firmly. ‘I’ll deal with this. If you don’t mind.’

  ‘No worries. Is it okay if I go downstairs and plug in my hoverboard for a few minutes? It’s running out of charge.’

  ‘Sure.’ If that’s the quickest way to get him out of the room.

  Barclay picks up his hoverboard and leaves us to it.

  ‘So what’s this about?’ My conscience is clear and I’m genuinely curious to discover what I’m supposed to have done.

  ‘I hope it’s nothing, Nina, but as I said, there’s been a complaint.’

  ‘And you’re not allowed to tell me who made it, I suppose?’

  ‘Actually, it was a tip-off. Anonymous. But we’re obliged to investigate, as I’m sure you understand.’

  ‘Okay.’

  Sergeant Hartley pulls out a notebook and takes a quick look. ‘You’re not under caution or anything like that. But we do need to get to the bottom of this. The allegation is that you were seen disposing of human remains in one of the Royal Parks. Namely, Primrose Hill.’

  ‘That’s priceless!’ Barclay comes rushing from the back room, where he’d obviously been eavesdropping. ‘Nina was conducting a pet funeral. The ashes belonged to a sweet little spaniel called Alice. She was savaged by an out-of-control dog on Primrose Hill. That’s the crime you ought to be investigating.’

  Sergeant Hartley puts away her notebook. ‘That’s fine. I have no further questions, and thank you for your time. Just be sure that silly man from the council doesn’t find out, or he’ll have you up on a charge of littering.’

  We say our farewells and Sergeant Hartley departs, leaving me alone with Barclay. Who seems in no hurry to get out of the way.

  ‘I hope that was helpful,’ he says.

  ‘How did you know about the pet funeral?’

  For a moment, Barclay looks nonplussed. Then he says, ‘I read about it. On your blog.’

  ‘Good to know you’re taking such an interest in my business.’

  My sarcasm is wasted.

  ‘“The Know Before You Go” service,’ he says. ‘That’s clever, too.’

  ‘Let me know if you’d like a consultation.’

  ‘You’re on! How soon can you fit me in?’

  Whoops. That backfired.

  ‘Anyway, the reason I’m here …’

  Hallelujah! Barclay is finally getting down to business.

  ‘… Other than to charge my hoverboard. Which is truly amazing, by the way. Want to try it?’

  ‘Look, I’m busy. Cut to the chase, won’t you?’

  ‘I’d love to.’ A mischievous smile that I know I’ll be thinking about for the rest of the day. ‘First and foremost, pleasure. I know I screwed up last time. At the cemetery. Don’t know what came over me.’ Barclay is fiercely studying his shoes. ‘Sorry about that,’ he murmurs. ‘I really enjoyed our day, and I know you did too. Right?’

  Despite myself, I nod my head.

  ‘I’m competing in a Go-Kart Derby,’ he says. ‘Will you come?’ Before I can turn him down, he adds, ‘Extreme sport and all that. You never know, I might be able to help you bag a few customers.’

  So unfair.

  Barclay Banks is making me laugh.

  ‘I’ll take that a
s a yes,’ he says. ‘As for the business. Nina, I’m impressed. You play hardball. I was sure you’d be smart enough to jump at the chance of securing investment. Think how much more quickly you could expand the business. Happy Endings all over London?’

  I am thinking.

  Hard.

  It’s one thing to tear up a cheque for fifty thousand pounds fuelled by righteous indignation, Prosecco and the fear that someone I really like is having a joke at my expense. But now Dad’s about to lose his job.

  ‘Tell you what.’ Barclay mistakes my silence for a negotiating ploy. ‘I’m authorised to increase the offer to sixty thousand. But that really is the limit.’

  ‘Would you still insist I move to Kentish Town? I don’t understand how leaving Primrose Hill fits in with the idea of expansion.’

  ‘The thing is … What was that? Did you hear it?’ Barclay looks startled and he’s already heading for the door. ‘Sounded like one hell of a thud. Quick, let’s—’

  The rest of Barclay’s sentence is drowned.

  In the street, a man screams.

  We hear several people shouting over one another.

  I follow Barclay through my shop door to see what’s going on.

  On the pavement outside The Primrose Poppadum, a knot of people are standing in a semi-circle.

  I see Julie from the flower shop. ‘Don’t move her,’ she’s saying. ‘Has someone phoned for an ambulance?’

  ‘On its way.’ A man I don’t recognise. ‘Did someone go to the surgery to fetch the doctor?’

  ‘Here.’ A woman takes off her cardigan and begins rolling it up. ‘Use this to elevate her head.’

  The small crowd rearranges itself. Through the gaps, Barclay and I see a body slumped awkwardly on the ground. Face down. Orange trousers and a matching top, like an angry sun that has tumbled from the sky.

  ‘Is she still conscious?’ someone asks. ‘Keep her talking. Ask questions. Get her to count to three, or something. Look, she’s moving. Thank God! Shall we try to turn her over?’

  ‘Absolutely not!’ Barclay races from my side and immediately takes charge. ‘I think she’s impaled herself onto one of the spikes.’ The pointed metal posts that line the high street so people can leave their dogs securely outside the shops, he means. ‘If I’m right, it’s a job for the fire brigade. They’ll need to use cutting gear.’