* * *
Once home, I called Edward. It was odd to be conversing with him twice in one day, and to be doing so civilly for once. Circumstances dictated that we had to heave our sizable differences to one side and work together, at least until the funeral had taken place and the estate had been dealt with. He informed me that the undertakers had been, and that he’d provisionally arranged the funeral for Friday of the following week. A cremation, he said. I had no objection to that; it’s beyond me why someone would want their family member’s body to putrefy in the sodden earth, or why they would want a shrine to frequent, as though the soul of the deceased will perch on the headstone waiting for a visit and a chat. So, good; we were in agreement.
“I don’t expect she left a will,” I continued. “She never mentioned anything. There’ll just be the proceeds of sale of the house and some savings to be divided between the two of us. I’ll deal with all that.”
A pause. “She did write a will, actually, Suze. A few weeks ago. She’d heard some program on the radio about how everyone should have one. I told her I didn’t think she needed it, but you know what she was like.” I remember a defensive tone entering his voice, or is that just hindsight?
“Really? She didn’t mention anything to me.”
He’d already contacted the solicitors to inform them of our mother’s death, which I thought showed remarkable practicality on the part of my brother, whose executive skills generally went no further than placing an accumulator bet or ordering a pizza.
“They told me they’d dig out the will and be in touch with us. I’m leaving it all in their hands. I don’t know anything about this kind of thing.”
I was going to be tied up at work that week so was forced, very much against my better judgment, to rely on Edward. I gave him meticulous instructions concerning the registration of the death, provided a list of suitable venues for the wake and directed him to my mother’s address book for details of friends who should be notified. He snorted when I asked if he was capable of doing all that.
* * *
It was nine o’clock by the time I finished speaking to Edward. I’d had nothing to eat all day, apart from two Rich Tea biscuits for breakfast, and I felt dizzy. I cooked a small portion of plain rice and sat down at the kitchen table to conquer the rising queasiness. The French windows to my courtyard garden were ajar, and the howls of upstairs’ new baby and the reek of next door’s bins drifted in. I should explain, I live in a flat—the ground floor of a converted Victorian terrace—in South London. I rented it for over ten years until the landlord decided to sell, by which time I’d saved up enough from my measly civil service salary for the deposit. So I’m now a property owner, or, more significantly, the holder of a colossal mortgage.
While I summoned the willpower to raise fork to mouth, I watched my neighbor’s cat Winston, a sturdy ginger tom, meticulously grooming himself on my terra-cotta paving tiles. I’m not usually fond of cats; I dislike the way they scuttle under parked cars or squeeze through railings when you make friendly overtures. Winston, though, is an exception. He stands his ground when you approach him, and tolerates stroking and petting until he’s had enough, at which point he yawns, stretches and pads away at his leisure. He’s intimidated by no one and feels no need to ingratiate himself. He calls to mind Kipling’s “The Cat that Walked by Himself,” one of my favorite stories as a child. I remember my father, in his more lucid moments, sitting me on his lap and reading it to me from a battered volume of the Just So Stories. As I watched Winston, I wondered where that book was now. Probably in a forgotten box in the loft of the family home, which reminded me of the work that lay ahead in clearing it for sale. That thought, in my present condition, was overwhelming.
* * *
When I called Edward a few days later to check on his progress with my list of tasks, the phone rang out for an inordinately long time. I was about to hang up when a voice that wasn’t Edward’s mumbled, “H’lo?” I hesitated, apologized for dialing the wrong number and ended the call, before remembering I’d rung my mother’s number on speed dial. I immediately phoned back. Again, the same offhand greeting.
“I rang a moment ago. Is this the Green household? Patricia Green—the late Patricia Green—and her son, Edward?”
“Yeah, it is.”
“This is Edward’s sister, Susan. I’d like to speak to him immediately.”
“Oh, Susan. Yeah, er, right. I’ll just see if he’s around.”
The sound of murmuring, followed by an unnaturally cheery, “Hi, Suze, how’re you doing?”
“Edward, who’s that man, and why’s he answering our mother’s phone?”
“Oh, it’s just Rob. I said he could doss down for a few weeks while he sorts himself out. He’s just got back from traveling. He’s a great guy.”
“I don’t care how great he is. I don’t want strangers staying in our mother’s house. Tell him he’ll have to leave. She’s only been dead three days, and the house is full of her valuables.”
“Look, Suze...”
“Susan.”
“Look, I’ve known Rob since college. You met him yourself a few times, years back. He needs a bit of help at the moment. He was there for me when I was going through a tough time and now I’m there for him. I’m not turfing him out—he’s got nowhere to go.” My brother’s loyalty to his drinking pals is really quite touching.
I decided to pursue the matter in person on my visit to Birmingham. It wouldn’t take me long to have this Rob character back on the streets. I turned the conversation to the more pressing matter of the funeral arrangements. Edward told me I’d be pleased to hear the wake was sorted; he’d hired the back room at a pub called The Bull’s Head.
“We can bring our own food if we want, and have a tab behind the bar,” he said with pride in his voice.
I explained that that was completely inappropriate; he’d have to cancel the booking immediately. “Mum was teetotal. She would’ve been horrified to think her wake would be in a pub.”
“Bollocks. She wasn’t teetotal. She liked a sherry or a half of shandy from time to time. And she’d want to know people were enjoying themselves, which they will at The Bull’s Head. She wouldn’t’ve wanted china teacups and polite conversation.”
“That’s exactly what she would’ve wanted. That’s the sort of person she was. She wasn’t a pints-of-beer-and-a-knees-up kind of woman.”
“Well, that’s what it’s going to be, Suze, and everyone’s going to have a good time, and swap funny stories about her, and get a bit pissed if they want to. And if you don’t like it you can bugger off.”
2
Deciding on the correct attire for an occasion is simple. First, know yourself. I’m petite and angular, so I look best in neat, fitted clothes. Second, make sure that any item you buy coordinates with everything else you own. I do this by only buying clothes that are charcoal gray or black, colors that contrast with my blond hair. Finally, glance occasionally at the style sections in the newspaper. I’m not against modifying my purchases if a trend makes sense. You might dismiss this as time-wasting frivolity, unworthy of a serious-minded woman. However, it’s precisely so that I don’t have to spend time worrying about my appearance, but am always dressed appropriately and well, that I’ve devised this simple modus operandi. And, of course, applying such organizational techniques to other aspects of your daily life, as I try to, considerably reduces the likelihood of being ambushed by unforeseen circumstances.
I smoothed a plain black shift dress front-down on my bed, laid a piece of A4-sized tissue paper on top of it and carefully folded it around the paper. I then wrapped the dress in another piece of tissue and placed it in the bottom of my suitcase. I did the same with a black cashmere cardigan. I packed tissue paper into the front of a pair of black patent leather heeled court shoes, put each one in a separate shoe bag and positioned them at the sides of the sui
tcase. The forecast for Birmingham was for dry, warm weather for the next two days but, never liking to leave anything to chance, I repeated the folding exercise with a lightweight gray trench coat and placed it between the shoes. After adding a black linen skirt, a charcoal T-shirt and a thin gray cotton sweater, I rolled up my underwear and fitted it into the remaining gaps.
As I locked my front door and turned to wheel my suitcase to Clapham North Tube station, the postman handed me a wad of mail, mainly catalogs from shops I have no recollection of ever having visited and pleas to change internet provider. I squeezed most of it through my letter box to be recycled on my return, retaining the two proper letters. When, half an hour later, the stifling Tube train slowed to a crawl, then to a halt, just after Leicester Square station, I had no reason to think it wouldn’t start moving again soon. Using a folded tissue, I dabbed at my forehead, then unfastened one of the buttons at the top of my black cotton sundress. I lifted my hair away from the back of my neck, but the air was too stagnant to provide any cooling relief. My breath, when I exhaled through my mouth, felt like a hairdryer. It wouldn’t be legal to transport livestock, let alone humans, in such conditions.
“Apologies for the delay to this service,” crackled the driver’s voice over the loudspeaker. “I’ll let you know as soon as I have any information.”
On looking around, my immediate impression was that a swarm of butterflies had been trapped with us; many of my fellow passengers were using their tickets to fan themselves, an act that must have been more symbolic than effective. I was thankful I’d managed to grab a seat when I boarded the train, unlike more than half of the carriage’s occupants, who were packed into the spaces by the doors. I caught my reflection in the darkened window opposite. My recent inability to eat had taken its toll: I looked deathly pale; there were hollows under my cheekbones; the sockets of my eyes were cavernous. If my appetite didn’t return soon, I’d be skeletal within days. Was this entirely normal in my condition? I wondered.
Time flowed like lava, and the temperature continued to rise. People were shifting in their seats, pulling their clothing away from their damp skin and slipping their feet out of their sandals. It occurred to me how humiliating it would be if I were to vomit in this situation, and the thought made me feel more nauseous than I already was.
“No effing phone signal, as per usual,” grunted the bodybuilder type next to me, who had rivulets of sweat running down his exposed lower legs to his saggy leather deck shoes. He jabbed, futilely, at the screen of his mobile, huffing that it would have been quicker to walk.
“Apologies once more for the delay,” came the announcement. “Rest assured I’ll update you the minute I’m able.”
Two gray-haired old women sitting opposite me were gripping the handles of the holdalls on their laps, their knuckles white.
“There’s no way we can make it in time now.”
“We might not make it at all.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Everyone’s thinking the same. There’s all sorts of dreadful things happening in big cities these days. This could be a terrorist incident. That’s why they haven’t given us any information—they don’t want to panic us. They could’ve found a suspect package, or they could’ve had a warning that there’s a suicide bomber on the train.”
“Oh, lordy, Jan, don’t talk like that.” The woman’s hand went up to her mouth.
I don’t make a habit of interacting with strangers, particularly on public transport, but I feel duty-bound to be of assistance wherever I can, even if it’s at a cost to myself. I leaned forward.
“Excuse me, but I couldn’t help overhearing your conversation. I live in London, and this happens all the time. Not usually for this long, but I promise there’s nothing to worry about.”
“How can you possibly know that for sure?” snapped the doom-monger. “You can’t. You don’t know any more than we do. I just want to get off this train right now.”
I often wonder why I bother.
“Once again, sorry for the severe delay, which I’ve just been informed is due to the preceding train breaking down outside Tottenham Court Road station. The engineers are in attendance, and we hope to have you moving again shortly.”
The announcement seemed to shatter the general mood of forbearance, and everyone started talking at once.
“I’ve got a train to catch from Euston in fifteen minutes.”
“I’m supposed to be meeting a group of overseas students at the British Museum at half past.”
“I’ll miss the start of the film if they don’t get a move on.”
“This is getting a bit claustrophobic.”
“I’m dying for the loo.”
I could have said, “My mother’s dead, it’s her funeral tomorrow, I haven’t slept for days and I want to vomit.” I never would, of course; I’m not a person who courts sympathy.
“You know they had to do an emergency evacuation of a train last month, don’t you?” said the smart black woman sitting the other side of me, putting down her magazine. “It was stuck between stations for hours, just like this one. Everyone had to climb out through the driver’s door and trudge for miles along the track in almost total darkness. I bet we’ll have to do that.”
There was a general murmur of unease, during which a skinny man in cargo shorts, who had taken off his shirt and tied it around his waist, sauntered into our section of the carriage. He was holding up a mobile phone, which he panned across us.
“What do you think about the delay, friend?” he asked the bodybuilder next to me, zooming in close. In response, the man raised his newspaper in front of his face.
I was the next target. “What do you think about the delay, lady?”
“Are you videoing this?”
“Yeah, of course. If this turns out to be a major incident I can sell the footage to the TV or the newspapers. Even if it’s minor, someone might be interested. If not, I’ll just stick it on YouTube, anyway. You’ll be able to see yourself on-screen, lady.”
“Turn that thing off, please. I have no wish to be on the news or on YouTube.”
“That’s right,” said the woman sitting next me. “I don’t want to be on the telly either. I haven’t done my hair or anything.” There was a general nodding of heads.
“Look, son,” said the bodybuilder, “I’m asking you very politely, but very firmly, to stop filming. Pronto.”
“Or what? Are you going to make me?”
“If you want to push it that far, yes, I am.”
“Wait a minute,” I said, making a valiant effort to rally myself. “I’m sure that won’t be necessary. If this young man’s got any sense he’ll stop before he gets himself into trouble. I’d just like to point out to you,” (I turned to the skinny man), “that this is a violation of our statutory right to a private life. We haven’t consented to being filmed. We could take you to court for a breach of the Human Rights Act. Are you sure you can afford to pay us all compensation?” Complete rubbish, of course.
“That can’t be right,” he said, looking less sure of himself. “What about all those people you see on the news, in wars and stuff?”
“Yes, but the footage you see on the news is recorded in the public arena. We’re all here in a private and personal capacity. It’s entirely different in the eyes of the law.”
He wavered, muttered something under his breath, then switched off his phone and put it in the pocket of his cargo shorts. He stomped off back down the carriage. It’s incredible how easily people can be intimidated by the mere mention of the law. My fellow passengers looked relieved, but the incident had done nothing to help the way I was feeling. I rummaged in my handbag and found a supermarket carrier, which would be my only option should I be unable to contain the sickness any longer. I bowed my head and tried to block out the inane prattling around me.
Abruptly,
there came the noise of an engine starting; a wheeze and a lurch, and the train crawled off. There was a muted cheer and a smattering of applause. Within a minute or two we were at Tottenham Court Road station, where the carriage cleared a little, and not long afterward I arrived at Euston. I’d missed my train to Birmingham, of course, and after an argument at the booking office, for which I didn’t have the energy, I had no alternative but to buy a ticket for the next one, in just under an hour’s time. The train company would be hearing from me.
* * *
On the concourse, in front of the electronic information boards, my fellow passengers and I waited like greyhounds in the slips for the “train now boarding” message and the announcement of the platform number. I resent the indignity of sprinting to the train to grab a seat, but, in the absence of a reservation, I had no alternative but to hurtle down the ramp and along past the almost-empty first-class carriages. Once on board, I settled myself, breathless and sweating, into a forward-facing window seat, placing my jacket and handbag next to me to ward off any unwelcome physical proximity. That ploy was effective as far as Milton Keynes, after which a pudgy young woman, dressed in gray jogging bottoms and a tight pink T-shirt became my traveling companion. Her jersey-clad thighs overflowed onto my seat, and every time the train swayed, which was often, her flesh pressed against mine. I shuffled as far over to the window as I could.
Contemplating the steady progress of the Grand Union Canal, sometimes veering away from it, sometimes hurtling toward it, I remembered the two letters. I wrestled my bag from the floor and took them out. I could see that the typeface through each address window was the same; one had been franked on Tuesday and one on Wednesday. I opened the older one first. It was from the firm of solicitors Edward had mentioned on the phone. The writer, a Mr. Howard Brinkworth, offered his condolences for the recent loss of my mother. He said she’d named him as executor of her estate; that he intended to carry out a valuation of her assets and apply for probate; and that he’d write shortly with details of the will. I was very surprised my mother had chosen to appoint a solicitor to act as executor, a role I could easily have fulfilled myself. I put the first letter back in its envelope and turned my attention to the second. After the usual preamble, Mr. Brinkworth got to the point:
The Cactus Page 2
