by Lynda Renham
Frederick, who’s Frederick when he’s at home?
‘Frank,’ I correct. ‘His name was Frank.’
Oh God, they do have Frank, don’t they? I was sure I asked them to bring him here.
‘What was that?’ asks Doris.
I nudge her in the ribs and we both sit down. Graham looks at some paperwork on his desk.
‘Ah yes, of course, Frank Foster. Domino’s Pizza van wasn’t it?’
Thank goodness. For one awful moment I thought Doris and I would have to spend the day trying to find Frank.
‘Yes,’ I say.
He nods sympathetically.
‘We never know what’s going to take us, do we?’
We don’t expect it to be a Domino’s Pizza van though, do we?
‘Would you like a cup of tea, coffee or just a soft drink?’ he asks.
‘Tea for me,’ says Doris. ‘Two sugars, please.’
‘I’ll have tea too,’ I say.
He nods and leaves the room.
‘Crikey, that music’s a bit much,’ says Doris. ‘I tell you what. It looks a bit pricey here.’
‘Do you think they do budget funerals?’ I ask, clutching my holdall.
‘It won’t sound nice you asking that will it? I don’t somehow think the word budget is ever spoken here.’
I sigh.
When the police had asked me what funeral home they should take Frank to, I honestly hadn’t a clue. So, I’d googled, and this was the first and the nearest. I wasn’t thinking about cost then. Everything had been so quick, and I was in shock, both from my winnings and Frank’s death. I didn’t know if I was coming or going.
Graham returns with a tray of flowery china cups. He lays it on the table and spoons sugar in one cup and hands it to Doris. He says something and for the life of me I don’t know what it was. He looks questioningly at us. Doris leans forward her forehead wrinkled in concentration.
‘Can you say that again?’ she asks.
‘Do you already have something planned before we look at arrangements?’
‘Oh, erm, not exactly,’ I say. ‘It was all a bit quick.’
Doris fiddles with her ear and whispers.
‘I’m putting me ‘earing aids in. God knows what you’ll end up agreeing to if I don’t.’
There’s a high-pitched whistle and Graham glances around the room, a bewildered look on his face.
‘Let me get some brochures,’ he says.
He returns with a bunch of brochures in one hand and an iPad in the other.
‘We provide a comprehensive service with everything from the car to the flowers,’ he says laying out the brochures.
‘Right, erm …’
‘What’s your cheapest funeral?’ pipes up Doris.
I cringe.
‘The cheapest plan do you mean?’
His voice has risen. Maybe cheap plan people don’t get the soft voice treatment. I expect the music will be turned off next.
‘Yeah,’ says Doris, her hearing aid whistling each time she opens her mouth.
‘Well … we have a range of coffins. The cheapest are the cardboard stock,’ he says pointing to a picture of a flowered coffin.
‘A cardboard box?’ questions Doris.
I can’t put Frank in a cardboard box. What will people say?
‘How many cars will you need?’ he asks with a pained expression on his face.
‘Oh,’ I say, ‘can’t we drive there ourselves?’
‘You and your family may not feel like driving to the funeral. It’s a very difficult day.’
‘We can always get a cab,’ says Doris.
My head spins. This is going to take every penny of my winnings.
‘I need to think about it. Is that alright?’
‘What did you say?’ asks Doris with another whistle.
‘I said I need to think about it.’
‘Yes, of course,’ says Graham, handing me his card. ‘We’ll take care of Frank in the meantime.’
‘Come on,’ I say to Doris.
‘Oh right, thanks,’ says Doris standing up.
I turn at the door as a thought occurs to me.
‘If I decide to use someone else …’ I say hesitantly.
‘I’m sorry?’ he says.
I’m not sure if he didn’t hear me or if he was actually sorry I may go to another funeral director.
‘If she finds somewhere cheaper,’ clarifies Doris, with another whistle.
I groan.
‘Can I take Frank out?’ I say.
You’d think he was a child at school, wouldn’t you?
‘Of course,’ he says forcing a smile.
‘Thank you,’ I smile.
Finally we’re outside and I take a deep breath.
‘I bet they don’t give a monkey about old Frank now,’ says Doris, whistling for all she’s worth as she takes out the hearing aids. ‘I hate these sodding things.’
I sigh.
‘I don’t know what I’m going to do.’
‘Brian, who goes down the pub, has got a second-hand hearse. He uses it for his ‘man and a van’ business. He’ll do it for fifty quid, I’m sure. The rest of us can follow in our cars. You don’t need all that bowing and scraping at the front, do you? Tesco do nice flowers, we can get them on the day. You just need a vicar to say all the right stuff and you’re sorted. You’ll need a coffin of course, but there must be cheaper places than this one,’ she says, nodding at the door of the funeral parlour. ‘You should try eBay. You can get everything on eBay.’
‘I can’t buy a coffin on eBay. What will people think?’
‘What people will know?’
I nod.
‘I’ll think about it.’
Sam had reminded me that Frank wanted a horse and cart to see him off. I don’t know who he thought was going to pay for that. I don’t think Freemans catalogue do that on the weekly.
‘Do you think a couple of hundred will cover it? Only Frank said he wanted a horse and cart.’
‘Did he?’ scoffs Doris. ‘Good job he won’t know he ain’t got it. Get one of those cheap coffins. Don’t piss about with brass handles and all that malarkey. It’s not like it’s going to sit in your living room is it?’
‘Do you think I should?’ I say thoughtfully.
‘What?’
‘Have the coffin in the living room? Do people still do that?’
‘Only the weird ones love. Besides how do you expect to get it up there? It’s not going to go in the lift is it? And they’ll never get it up six flights. Besides who’s going to want to come and look at your dead Frank’s face?’
She’s quite right, of course. Oh dear, death is a real pain isn’t it, especially for those of us still alive.
Chapter Five
Alfred
‘They’re lovely people, aren’t they?’
‘Who are?’ I say, looking up from the Daily Mail.
‘Moira and Harry, they’re so good, aren’t they?’
‘They sure are,’ I nod, lowering my head back into the newspaper.
‘Moira’s really helped me,’ he persists.
I nod again.
‘That’s good.’
‘I expect she’s helped you too, hasn’t she? You know, to get over your wife’s death. That must have been hard.’
How does he know about Cath’s death? I look up at the blond-haired lad in front of me.
‘Not really,’ I say roughly. ‘She won’t even let me use the fluffy towels in the bathroom.’
The lad blinks nervously and wrings his hands. I suppose no one has ever said anything bad about his Moira before.
‘Oh,’ he mumbles. ‘Still, they let you live here. That’s nice isn’t it?’
I look at him. Don’t get cross, I tell myself. He’s an idiot. He probably can’t help it.
‘You what?’ I say.
‘They let you live with them, that’s nice. I suppose they don’t want you to be alone.’
‘She wants my ho
use, that’s all she wants. She’d have me in a nursing home as quick as damn it and I’ll have you know Cath and I paid the deposit on this house, so I have every right to live here if I want to.’
I don’t know what I’m doing talking to this good for nothing. I need my head examined.
‘Well, she’s helped me anyway. I’ve got a little part-time job now and …’
‘Blimey, don’t overdo it.’
‘I’m sorry.’
I push the table back and stand up just as Moira walks in.
‘Dad, what are you saying?’ she snaps.
‘Oh, it’s okay. I expect he’s upset about his wife,’ says Blondie.
‘Are you telling all your layabout friends that I just lost my wife?’ I bark.
Stupidly I feel tears well up. How dare she discuss my business? Cath and I don’t discuss our business with strangers.
‘Dad, don’t be rude. Luke is one of my clients,’ she hisses.
‘Don’t call me Dad. I’m not your dad, thank goodness. He deserves a medal, he does. How dare you discuss my private life with these people.’
‘What does he mean, ‘these people’?’ asks Blondie.
‘Why don’t you wait in my consulting room, Luke?’ says Moira gently.
Consulting room, my backside. It’s nothing but a spare bedroom with two tatty couches in it, and it stinks of lavender. I can’t stand that stuff, it gives me a headache.
‘Luke is very sensitive, Dad,’ she says fiddling with the pearls around her neck.
‘So am I, I don’t like everyone knowing my business. What a bloody cheek.’
She winces.
‘Please don’t swear Dad. You know how it affects me. We’re Evangelical Christians and …’
‘Oh for God’s sake,’ I say without thinking. She slaps a hand to her chest and takes a deep breath.
‘I know you’re suffering from grief and …’
‘I want to go home,’ I say.
‘Home?’ she questions, looking bewildered.
‘Yes, I do have one Moira. It is still mine.’
‘It’s far too big and we don’t feel you can cope on your own. We were thinking …’
‘Were you?’ I snap.
‘We can discuss it tonight. Why don’t you make yourself a cup of tea? You know where the everyday mugs are.’
Before I can shoot back a sarcastic reply she has strolled up the stairs to her layabout client. I know what the chat tonight will be about. I’m not stupid. Moira and Harry want my five-bedroom detached house. It’s nice. It needs a good clean and a bit of decorating, but that’s all. They know I’m not short of a bob or two. Take my advice and never tell your kids what you’ve got in the bank. They think they’re entitled to it. What do I want to go into an old people’s home for? I won’t know anyone and most likely half of them will be in cloud cuckoo land. No, I’m not doing that. While I can still get myself to the loo and take a shower on my own I’m not going into a home, and Moira can stick that in her pipe and smoke it. I miss my Cath. I miss watching her while she does her knitting. I should wear some of those jumpers she made me. Problem is they’re either too tight or too baggy. I do miss her. If only she were still here. She knew how to handle Moira. Cath was always sensitive but firm. I call a spade a spade and that’s it. I’m seventy-three. I’m not going to change now. I’ll stand my ground. I’ll thank them tonight for all they’ve done, not that they’ve done bugger all, and tell them that I am going home. What’s the worst that can happen? Moira is probably worried I’ll burn her precious inheritance down. I can’t picture my house with fluffy towels and dual-action flushes. Give me a good old standard bog. That’s all you need. I hear Blondie crying upstairs and sigh. What’s happened to the real men, that’s what I want to know?
Chapter Six
Moira and Harry
‘I’m trying to be really patient with him Harry.’
‘I know you are. Let’s keep our voices down though.’
‘He’s having a bath. He won’t hear us down here.’
Moira picked up Harry’s tie from the table and shook her head in irritation.
‘Why is this here?’ she asked with a sigh.
‘You started talking to me when I came in so …’
‘Ties don’t live on the kitchen table, Harry.’
Harry picked up the tie and took it into the hall where he carefully laid it over his jacket in the hall cupboard. Moira stirred the bolognese sauce, her hand gripping the wooden spoon so tightly that her knuckles turned white.
‘He doesn’t need that house. He’s just hanging onto it to spite us,’ she said angrily.
‘Of course he isn’t,’ sighed Harry.
‘You’ve got to talk to him. He can’t live in that house alone.’
Harry took plates from the Welsh dresser. He wasn’t feeling too good. There were a lot of colds going around at the office. He’d most likely picked one up. He’d take a cold remedy. He wished Moira wouldn’t go on so much about his dad’s house. It really wasn’t theirs to have, at least not yet anyway. There was nothing wrong with their three-bedroomed semi-detached, but Moira always seemed to want more.
‘We can’t tell him he has to leave his home,’ he said.
Moira glared at him.
‘But it is a complete waste for him to live in that huge house on his own. A family could live there. We could live there. Think what we could do with that house. It’s huge. We could have some lovely barbecues there in the summer and …’
The kitchen door opened, and Holly strode in. Moira stared in shock. Holly’s face was caked in make-up and she was wearing a dress so short that you could see the top of her thighs. Her long brown hair had bright pink streaks in it.
‘What’s happened to your hair?’ asked Harry.
‘Will that wash out?’ said Moira worriedly.
Holly took a selfie with her iPhone and uploaded it to her Instagram account.
‘I’m off out,’ she said.
Her phone bleeped, and she tapped at it again, while Moira looked on anxiously.
‘Not dressed like that, surely?’ she gasped.
‘Dressed like what? We’re off to Heartlands. It’s Phoebe’s birthday.’
‘But I’ve made bolognese.’
‘I did tell you,’ Holly sighed, taking another selfie.
‘Harry, do something,’ pleaded Moira.
‘What exactly do you want me to do?’ asked Harry laying out the cutlery.
‘She’s asking for it, dressed like that.’
‘A girl isn’t asking for anything just because she wears a short skirt and make-up,’ protested Holly. ‘Where’ve you been?’
‘Huh,’ scoffed Moira. ‘You look like a tart.’
‘Mum,’ squealed Holly.
‘Hello Holly, alright?’ said Alfred stepping into the kitchen. ‘That scent’s a bit strong.’
‘It’s perfume, not scent.’
Alfred nodded.
‘Well, whatever it is, it’s a bit strong.’
Holly sighed.
‘On your phone for a change,’ Alfred quipped.
‘Harry,’ exclaimed Moira. ‘For goodness sake, do something.’
‘You’re not going out like that, are you?’ asked Alfred, sitting down.
‘Like what?’ Holly demanded.
‘Like a typical Essex girl. The boys will be asking you how much?’
‘For goodness sake,’ groaned Moira.
‘I’m going,’ said Holly. ‘Can I have twenty quid? Only I’ve got no money.’
‘I may have twenty in my wallet …’ began Harry.
‘Are you insane Harry? She can’t go out like that. She’s only seventeen,’ snapped Moira.
‘All my friends are going,’ shouted Holly. ‘I’ll be the only one not there. It’s not fair.’
‘Why haven’t you got twenty quid?’ asked Alfred. ‘You only borrowed thirty off me yesterday.’
‘What? Why did you give her thirty quid?’ asked Moira.
<
br /> ‘The sauce,’ cried Harry.
Moira spun around and watched in horror as the sauce boiled over onto her shiny white hob.
‘She lost her purse,’ said Alfred.
‘Grandad,’ pleaded Holly with a pained look on her face. ‘I said not to say anything.’
‘Where did you lose your purse?’ asked Harry.
‘If I knew that then it wouldn’t be lost would it, dumbass,’ she retorted.
‘Holly!’ Moira exclaimed, while Alfred stifled a snigger.
‘She does have a point though,’ Alfred said.
‘You shouldn’t disrespect your father, Holly. Have you picked this behaviour up from your friends?’ asked Moira.
Holly responded by putting her hand behind her back and secretly giving her mum the middle finger. Alfred raised his eyebrows.
‘Don’t be late then,’ said Harry, as he handed Holly a twenty-pound note.
‘You’re not letting her go,’ said Moira, surprised.
‘If all her friends are going …’
‘For goodness sake,’ Moira sighed.
‘She’s spoilt,’ said Alfred.
‘All right, Dad,’ said Harry.
‘I won’t get any rest tonight for worrying,’ Moira groaned.
‘When will dinner be ready?’ asked Alfred. ‘I’m starving.’
Moira grabbed a pan of spaghetti from the hob and slung the contents into a colander.
‘I want you home by ten,’ she said firmly.
‘You’ll be lucky,’ Holly said under her breath.
Harry sneezed loudly.
‘I hope you haven’t got a cold,’ said Moira. ‘That’s the last thing we need.’
Harry fought back a sigh and sat at the table next to his dad.
‘Kids,’ he said. ‘Who’d have them?’
‘Too right,’ said Alfred.
Harry felt too rough to realise what he meant.
Chapter Seven
Rosie
Some thieving rotter has only gone and nicked my car. Honestly, can you believe it? Of all the posh cars sitting around our estate, they have to choose mine. I’m not even sure if it’s insured. I was going to ask Frank about that. He always took care of those things. I don’t want to phone the police in case it isn’t. I’ve got enough on my plate. I don’t have much left but what I do have the rotters take. How I’m going to cope without the Fiesta, I’ll never know. I don’t have my bus pass yet. What’s the point of getting older when you don’t get anything for it? I’ve got to wait another seven years yet. I’ll probably die the day before I’m due to get it. I suppose that’s what the government are hoping.
