The Last Minute

by Eleanor Updale

  ‘Ma-ax!’

  Stuart Penton feels awkward sitting in the churchyard now that people have started arriving for a funeral. He stands, and locks the buttons on his mobile phone. It looks as if it might rain, but the pub isn’t open yet, so he can’t go in there. Perhaps he’ll head down to the newsagent’s to buy a bar of chocolate before his interview.

  On flight GX413, the attendant reaches over again and gently pulls the headphones from the passenger’s ears. ‘Turn it off,’ she says. He still won’t meet her eyes.

  ‘ . . . quite by chance?’ says Matey, reaching the end of the set-up for his joke.

  Bernie isn’t really listening, but he’s got the idea that it’s going to be a tale of two old friends. He calls out to the gas man again, gesticulating at the envelope lying in the mud at the bottom of the trench.

  ‘Doggie! Doggie!’ cries young Chloe, as Lucy pulls her pushchair away towards the newsagent’s shop.

  Doreen spots the postman with his little cart making his way down the other side of the street. How ridiculous that she has to walk all the way to the sorting office when he was coming back today anyway! But she knows there’s no choice. The red-and-white card the postman left yesterday makes it clear that she must collect the package in person, and take ID with her.

  The parcel is likely to be a veil specially ordered for a wedding tomorrow. In fact, Doreen is depending on it being that, and not some stupid sample from a supplier. The bride’s dress has been altered to fit her ever-shrinking form, and is hanging at the back of the shop, ready to be delivered this evening. If the head-dress is missing, there is likely to be another volcano of tears like the one on Thursday at the final fitting. And it won’t just spoil a young girl’s special day, it will cost Doreen dearly. Used to pre-wedding nerves, she comforted the panicking girl (and her mother) when she lost faith in her previous choice, an elaborate confection of feathers and flowers. She reassured the bride that there would be no problem ordering a replacement, and promised her mother a refund if it failed to arrive in time. Doreen has no intention of telling them that it proved far more difficult than she expected to get hold of the diamanté-and-lace tiara, or that she had paid extra for swift delivery because she genuinely couldn’t bear the idea of a bride walking down the aisle with disappointment in her heart. What a dunce she had been to be out yesterday.

  And now, who knows what she will miss by going off to the sorting office? There might be a new customer on her way, full of hope and clutching a credit card, destined only to find a locked door. Doreen wishes she could stay in her shop, and wants to get the unwelcome trip over as soon as possible.

  TOCK

  46 seconds to go . . .

  THE BOYS ON the coach take no notice of Miss Hunter’s call, and some even mimic her hair-flick as they repeat the cry of ‘Mummeh!’

  Charmaine and Chenelle are on another round of ‘Fatty bum, bum,’ and Calum and Rahil, though successfully hiding from view, are clearly up to no good. There are two give-away signs: they are laughing extremely loudly, and they have not joined in the mass teasing of Kayleigh Palmer.

  At St Michael’s, Ben Whatmore, long a thorn in the vicar’s side, has stopped by the thermometer sign. Reverend Davis knows what to expect: a lecture about the folly of raising money to repair the roof, and how the Church’s human mission (saving souls and mending tattered lives) is more important than tending old buildings. The vicar hasn’t got time to engage in the argument, which is just as well, since he might not put the opposite case too well. Though fond of St Michael’s ancient stones, he has a lot of sympathy for Ben’s view. But he’s near retirement, and hasn’t enough energy to take on the enthusiastic group of locals who value the building as much as (or even more than) its purpose. And right now, drizzling with a cold, and facing a busy day, he’s more interested in getting Matthew and his ladder safely out of the way before the funeral.

  Behind him, Stuart Penton notices that one of his shoelaces has come undone. He bends down to tie it up.

  Across the road from them, Paul is reassuring Lotte that he is unharmed, though he’s bleeding profusely from a small cut near his eyebrow. Still on the ground, he’s picking up some of the lost coins.

  Looking down at the street, Terry Potts, the art teacher, has missed Paul’s tumble. He’s concentrating on the girl sticking up the poster outside the pet shop. She’s Kate Daintree. She’s seventeen and, like Sam, Deanna, Anthony Dougall and Terry himself, she should really be somewhere else. Her parents think she’s at her expensive private school. She left the house in full uniform as usual, and she’s still wearing it under the huge cagoule that makes her look comically overweight though she’s actually quite petite. She’s borrowed the coat and balaclava from Jon, her first real boyfriend, who has changed her life and possibly determined her destiny.

  Terry is assuming that her sign is an appeal for help to find a lost cat or dog. He’s wrong. Doreen is the first to take a close look, as she tucks her keys into her handbag. Kate is fastening down the last bit of tape, and over her shoulder Doreen can see that the poster is an attack on the pet shop for selling captive animals.

  Matey continues his joke, even though he’s not sure whether anyone is paying attention: ‘Jack was absolutely . . .’

  Across the road, Maggie Tate reaches higher: ‘ . . . and two . . .’

  Charmaine and Chenelle copy the move, slamming their hands against the luggage rack above their heads. Rory Lennahan is opening up his packed lunch. Kayleigh Palmer sees him doing it and shouts, ‘Miss!’

  The funeral director is slimmer than the florist, and, wrapping his precious coat tightly around himself to make sure it doesn’t catch on the exhaust pipe, he manages to shuffle sideways between the back of the coach and the Mini following it, which helpfully reverses a few crucial inches without bumping into the car behind. The driver, Sally Thorpe, is recalling advice her granddad gave her years ago, when she was first learning to drive: Never get behind something you can’t see through. He was right. With no idea what is up ahead, she can’t tell how long she is likely to be stuck here. She’s pretty sure she’s going to be late for work. Yet she’s half hoping that the traffic flow will still be slow a little further along, when she’s passing Doreen’s Dreams, just in case there’s a special dress in the window. It’s not that Gavin has actually asked her to marry him, but she has high hopes. It’s a long time since she’s been so happy. She’s longing for tonight, when they’re meeting for dinner at an Italian restaurant near his office.

  A little up ahead to her right, just as joyful, but now a little anxious, Deanna is craning her neck for another sight of Paul. Maybe it wasn’t him in the distance after all.

  The driver of the public bus, a hundred metres down the hill, has lost hope of reaching the next stop soon. He gives in to appeals from his passengers and, defying the rules, presses the button to open the door early, so they can get out and walk. Some are wearing black. Even though they thought they had left plenty of time for the bus ride to the funeral, it seems that their best bet for getting to the church on time is to go on foot.

  In the launderette, Marco has managed to loosen the faulty valve. He needs to clean it, but it mustn’t be detached for too long. Without the bung in place, the fumes from the belly of the machine are overpowering.

  TICK

  45 seconds to go . . .

  ALTHOUGH DOREEN HAS never liked Mr Eglington, who runs the pet shop, she doesn’t approve of the girl sticking up her sign. But she can’t leave her own premises shut for long, so there’s no time to stop and argue. She turns, to hurry on – away from the shops and the roadworks, and round the corner past the pub in the direction of the sorting office. It’s a long uphill walk.

  She’ll pass the churchyard, where Stuart Penton hears the unmistakable sound of his trousers ripping as he bends to tie his shoelace.

  As Mariam sings on, Noel Gilliard opens a new page to compose a tart message for the authors’ chat room about the agony of living next d
oor to a tone-deaf foreigner. What’s the woman doing in this country anyway? He’s never actually spoken to her, but he’s seen her coming and going. Her luscious black curls and swarthy skin leave him in little doubt that she’s from the Middle East, though her western clothes suggest that she is probably not a religious extremist. He assumes that she’s come to take advantage of the benefits system. For all he knows, she’s here illegally. She may have plans to fill her room with relatives and friends. Maybe he’ll write to the council about her. If he can find the time.

  ‘ . . . and three . . .’ Maggie’s looking at a turquoise T-shirt one of her fitter clients is wearing, and thinking that she’d like to get one the same shade for her holiday.

  The taxi driver watches his passenger walk towards the cash machine. One of the mourners from the coffee shop is dodging across the road through the traffic jam and looks as if he is making for the bank too. Who will get there first? Will the taxi passenger have to wait? The driver looks ahead for somewhere to pull in should the traffic start moving too soon.

  As Lucy tugs her pushchair backwards towards the newsagent’s, her unborn baby reminds her of its presence with the thump of its foot. Even though this happens several times a day (and even more often at night), it still feels odd to her to have part of her body absolutely out of her control – like a muscle moving of its own accord. Instinctively, her hand comes off the buggy to rub her tummy – not so much to comfort herself, as to say hello to the little one she already knows so well but will be meeting for the first time very soon.

  ‘ . . . thrilled to see . . .’

  Only half listening to Matey, Bernie looks up the street towards the church, and spots Nick the fundraiser talking to old Mrs Wilkins. Bernie notices her stick, with its curved handle. He can’t yet see the cyclist who is freewheeling downhill past the pub. Anticipating the temporary traffic controls, he’s riding on the pavement, unaware that Nick and the old lady are in his path just round the bend.

  The door of the launderette opens. Someone has arrived with a large bag of dirty clothes, wanting to drop them off for a service wash. Marco is still on his hands and knees at the base of the dry-cleaning machine.

  The flight attendant is losing patience. Although she’s never actually heard of an MP3 player bringing down a plane, rules are rules, and it’s her job to get the machine switched off while the plane is approaching the airport. The man can’t be listening to it any more, anyway, now that she’s removed his headphones. But his grip on the machine tightens as she tries to take it away.

  TOCK

  44 seconds to go . . .

  WAY DOWN THE hill, on the steep incline from the park, Lorraine Lee is breathing hard, but still determined to keep going. Scan-ner.

  ‘ . . . and four.’ Maggie would like a new bikini as well, but she’s not sure where she’d find one in Heathwick at this time of year.

  Frank, the funeral director, who has now arrived on the newsagent’s side of the street, gathers that the beggar is telling one of his jokes and, as the florist starts to gush apologies for being so late with the wreath, he tunes in to Matey’s story.

  ‘ . . . his old friend.’

  Bernie is tuning out. He’s formulating a new plan for retrieving the letter. He’ll borrow the old lady’s walking stick and try to fish the envelope out of the trench himself. He’d go up to Mrs Wilkins, and rescue her from the annoying young man, but Ritzi is still pulling in the opposite direction, and staying still is hard enough. He hates to think how Ritzi would react if he started walking away from the park, so he stays put in the hope that the old woman will come to him.

  The cyclist, flying round the corner, pulls on his brakes as he finds Nick and Mrs Wilkins in his way.

  In the shoe shop, Mrs Gibbon is asking the assistant to measure Lenny’s feet. What does she think he is, some sort of child? He makes a lurch for the door, but his mother grabs his wrist as if he were a four-year-old. His hatred for her is reaching new heights.

  Like Lenny, Mrs Gibbon is wishing he had gone on the theatre trip after all. She’s regretting being so weak this morning when he refused to leave for school. She’s determined, now, to establish some authority. He needs new shoes, and she’s going to make sure he gets them. That way the day won’t be completely wasted. And since she’s paying, they’ll get the shoes she chooses. It’s as simple as that. The boy needs to learn some respect. She’s not going to give in this time. Lenny needs discipline, and it’s her job to provide it. He won’t thank her in the long run if she caves in every time he protests. How did she get in this mess? How did her cheerful, cheeky little child turn into this nasty teenager? Is that her fault too?

  Unaware of the flood of bile lapping against the other side of the wall, Mariam is trying to attach a perished rubber shower hose to the bath taps. She hasn’t bothered to turn the taps off, and accidentally squirts water all over her pyjamas.

  Someone has stopped alongside Kayleigh Palmer’s mother by the plate-glass window of the dance studio. He raises his mobile phone to take a photo. Maggie, the dance instructor, doesn’t know it, but her landlord has sold the site, and this man is an architect who has been hired to plan the renovations. One of the exercisers sees him looking in, draws the wrong conclusion about the motive for the photograph, and sticks out her tongue.

  If she’d known who employed him, she might have done worse. He’s working for a big supermarket chain which has been trying for ages to get a foothold in Heathwick – one of the few local shopping streets where most of the businesses are still in private hands. They’re planning a miniature version of their big brand, although they must know that shoppers come to Heathwick from all over the area simply because its High Street still looks different from all the others. But things have already started to change. Despite the fuss over the coffee shop before it opened, many people who signed the petition against it have been unable to resist its lure. Belinda Davis, the vicar’s middle-aged daughter, who is secretary of the ‘Keep Heathwick Special’ campaign, is tucking into a chocolate muffin at this moment.

  Deanna Fletcher, just a few metres from the coffee shop now, stands still to let the man take his photographs. She can’t wait to meet Paul, but she’s too polite to ruin the shot, and too shy to want to be in the picture.

  ‘Blimey!’ coughs the man who has just walked into the launderette with a bin bag full of washing, only to be met by the fumes from the dry-cleaning fluid. Without looking up, Marco calls out for Stefano, hoping he’ll see to the customer – but Stefano is still across the road, queuing for his cigarettes, and chiding himself for his automatic suspicion of the new arrival at the shop: a bearded man with a large backpack, who’s selecting a battery from the stand by the counter. Stefano of all people, swarthy, and sometimes bearded himself, should know that appearances can mislead. He’s been stopped by the police, apparently on no evidence other than his looks, more than once. And what if the battery the man has chosen is one of those little oblong things that the London bus bomber used to set off his device? Maybe the man needs it for a smoke alarm. Crazy. Get a grip. No reason to interfere.

  On the coach, Rory Lennahan is leaning across the aisle, pointing a cold sausage at Kayleigh Palmer. ‘Miss!’ Miss Hunter, fiddling with her hair again, is trying to make out what is happening on the road ahead. Through the windscreen she can see the taxi in front of them, and some small cars ahead of that, then the digger in the middle of the road. The digger is the only vehicle that’s moving, and it’s going sideways, blocking the full width of the street. She looks at her watch and sighs.

  At the front of the line of cars coming the other way, Barbara Lapsom has a clear view up the side road between the church and the pub. She knows it’s no use turning into it: the street snakes round and would end up taking her back where she’s come from. She saw the bike coming down the pavement, and could tell that it might hit the old lady, but there was nothing she could do about that. There wasn’t even time to sound her horn – and anyway, what use would t
hat have been with so many others going off, uselessly, all around her as delayed drivers try to vent their frustration? In a swift reflex, Barbara puts her hands over her eyes, hoping for a near-miss. She’s angered by the cyclist ignoring the rules, but she’s even more furious with herself for obeying her satnav’s instructions. She’d heard about the emergency gasworks in Heathwick, but hadn’t realized that the machine would take her straight through them on its robot route.

  In her sixties herself, Barbara is on her way to the old people’s home where her elderly father has just moved in. He’s increasingly frail, and she is the only family he has. She’d promised herself she would never put him in an institution, but she can no longer lift him, and he needs professional care. He’s been brave about selling his own house, but when she left him in his new room last night, his face crumpled in despair. She knows he will worry if she is late for her first visit, and the thought of his childlike panic is making her anxious too. The lights in front of her have automatically turned green several times, but with the digger filling the road ahead she hasn’t thought it safe to move forward. The cars coming the other way are blocking the single lane available to both streams of traffic, and she’s leaving them a way out for when the digger moves away, to avoid making the gridlock worse. So far, she’s ignored the angry tooting of the drivers behind her, but maybe next time the green light comes, she’ll give in to their urging and move forward anyway, hoping for the best.