by Lynda Renham
He was feeling peckish now. He should have bought one of those pies. Rita certainly did have tasty wares on her stand. He wondered if she would think to bring one to the teashop with her. The walk to the greengrocer’s was pleasurable in the sun even if it was chilly. He passed a bridal shop and stopped to look at the window display. Mannequins dressed as a bride and groom stared blank faced at him. The dress was similar to the one Imogen had worn for their wedding and Henry smiled. It had rained that day too. The sky had been clear and blue until three and then, as though on cue, the heavens had opened at the same time that Imogen had opened the door of her father’s Metro. Henry remembered waiting in the church, hearing the downpour and thinking ‘Poor Imogen’.
The church had been full of people that he and Imogen barely knew. It hadn’t been their choice. It was what Imogen’s parents had wanted; their friends, not Henry and Imogen’s.
‘They are paying for it,’ Imogen had explained patiently.
‘All the same,’ Henry had complained. ‘It’s not what we agreed.’
‘No, I know,’ Imogen had said. ‘But it’s the least we can do.’
They had agreed a quiet wedding. A registry office affair. Perhaps, a few drinks at the pub afterwards.
‘Just the two of us,’ Henry had said.
‘Perhaps our parents too,’ Imogen had suggested.
‘Just us and the parents then,’ he had agreed.
But the parents weren’t having any of it. This was their big day too. That had been the beginning of the friction between Henry and his new wife’s parents. They saw him as opinionated and forceful.
‘Just because I know my own mind,’ he’d said to Imogen.
‘I like that you know your own mind,’ Imogen had said cuddling up to him. ‘But, just this once let’s do it their way. It will make them happy and they are offering to pay.’
Henry had felt he’d had no choice. The wedding preparations began in earnest and the guest list grew bigger by the day. The rain had been a disappointment. They had hoped for a scorching hot day.
‘You always get lovely weather in June,’ Imogen’s mother, Cynthia, had prophesied.
It had poured for the entire day.
Someone had rushed out with an umbrella. Henry had heard all the commotion and again had thought ‘Poor Imogen’. But when she’d finally arrived at his side, she had not been in the least bit wet and had looked quite radiant in her flowing white wedding dress, her hand clutching a crimson and white bouquet.
‘Here we are,’ she had whispered.
‘Yes,’ he’d smiled. ‘Here we are.’
So, there they were, standing in front of many strangers, making promises to each other.
Later, the hall had buzzed with excited chattering. Then, Henry and Imogen had entered, and applause had spread around the room making them both blush. They sat in front of a bouquet of red roses and Henry thanked everyone. Of course there had been many presents, which had been very useful. It meant writing lots of thank you notes but Imogen had been very happy to do that. They were well suited. They had the same morals and the same dreams. They had both immediately agreed on their first date that children had no part in their lives
‘They are a financial burden and a great stress on a marriage, don’t you think?’ Henry had asked over a drink at the local wine bar.
‘Oh yes,’ Imogen had agreed. ‘I want to travel and do all sorts of things.’
‘Difficult with children,’ Henry had agreed.
‘Yes, I suppose so.’
It had been their first date, but Henry always made sure to get things straight. He saw little point in spending too much time with someone if his or her views weren’t compatible with his. Supposing things got serious and then he discovered they felt differently to him. It would be quite difficult to pull away and not break one’s heart. Henry never wanted his heart broken. He had hoped very much that Imogen would not break his heart for he had wanted her right from the moment he had first set eyes on her.
They had met at a jazz club. Henry could never recall why he had been there. He had never much liked jazz. It had been smoky and hot in the basement. People smoked in public places then. Musicians had improvised on stage amidst a blue haze. As the sax, sweet and soothing, played in the background, Henry spotted Imogen at a corner table. Immediately, he knew she was the one, before he knew anything about her. She was his destiny. Their eyes had locked across the smoky air and they both knew. It was as if they had never been strangers. She was studying, she told him over a Bacardi Breezer. She had doubts, though, about continuing. University life was not what she had expected. When she threw it all in, her parents blamed him. He wasn’t what they’d hoped for. A chap with a degree was what they’d had in mind.
‘I didn’t want to go to university,’ he told them. ‘I wanted to work. You can work your way up. You don’t need a university degree to do that.’
‘Education makes a difference. People look up to you,’ Imogen’s father had said.
Henry thought that was a lot of rubbish. Most of the educated people he knew didn’t have an ounce of common sense. Besides, one day he wanted to buy his own house. You couldn’t do that, he told them, not if you’re paying off a student loan.
Their first dance at the wedding had been a Viennese waltz. Henry had expertly led Imogen around the dance floor. They had both liked ballroom dancing then. Of course, like everything, with the passing of time their love of dancing had diminished. More important things began to claim their lives. But Henry remembered that dance as though it were yesterday. Imogen’s chiffon wedding dress rustling as she twirled in his arms, her cheeks red from the cheap Prosecco, and her skin slightly sweaty from the heat. Henry had later learnt to discern good champagne and every year on their anniversary, they would share a bottle that Henry had spent hours choosing.
‘We couldn’t do this if we had children,’ they congratulated themselves.
Henry now looked longingly at the wedding dress and wondered sadly, why his devoted wife of eighteen years could not see him, but a woman he had known for barely a few months, could.
Henry turned from the bridal shop and continued on to the greengrocer’s. He could see the rosy red apples displayed in a box under the shade of the awning. Imogen often brought home Pink Lady apples, but Henry preferred Red Delicious. He imagined that Imogen got muddled sometimes.
‘It’s easily done,’ he’d told her.
‘I thought it was Pink Lady you liked,’ she had said, a hint of resentment in her voice.
Henry had decided not to mention it again if she brought home the wrong ones.
There were a few customers in the shop and it was easy for Henry to slip in when one of them opened the door. He was disappointed to see that the woman behind the till wasn’t Imogen. He saw a blue overall, similar to the one Imogen wore, flash past in the back room of the shop.
‘Imogen,’ he called.
Realising that no one had heard him, Henry ventured out the back. A tinny radio was playing 80’s music. He recognised Evelyn, Imogen’s co-worker. She was arranging flowers. Beside her was a mug emblazoned with a photo of Prince William and Kate Middleton’s wedding day. The inside of the mug was tea-stained and Henry shuddered. That should be cleaned out with bleach, he thought. That was no way to treat royalty. He stared at Evelyn’s pink hair which he was sure had been purple the last time he’d seen her.
‘Have you seen Imogen?’ he asked.
Evelyn continued with her flower arranging. Henry looked past her to the open door that led to the back yard and the large storage shed. He wandered out and called for his wife but there was no sign of Imogen. He stretched his neck from side to side to release the tension before walking back inside. Where could Imogen be? An open diary lay on the counter next to Evelyn. The date read 18th September. In big bold black letters were the words ‘Henry’s funeral 2.30 at St Andrews’.
‘No,’ he cried, his heart pounding.
Evelyn didn’t turn around bu
t continued with the flower arrangements and Henry, with a jolt, realised that the lilies were for him. Evelyn turned the volume knob on the radio and began singing. Evelyn was preparing his funeral flowers while drinking tea from a tea-stained royal mug and singing along to Cutting Crews I died in your arms tonight. It didn’t make Henry feel good, at all.
Frustrated, he left the back room and entered the shop again. He ought to try and buy the apples but what was the point? No one would see him. Instead, he took two on his way out and then began a slow walk back to the supermarket, hoping against hope that he might meet Imogen on the way. He scanned every face but disappointingly, none of the faces belonged to Imogen. They were just nameless, faceless people who neither knew nor cared that Henry had died and was stuck in no man’s land. Thankfully, the smokers had gone when Henry reached the supermarket entrance and he was able to take several deep breaths to calm himself. He hovered by the trolleys and waited for Rita to appear. He considered going inside the store. He had no idea what the time was, and it was chilly standing at the entrance. Before he could make a decision, he saw Rita walking towards him. He went to pull out the apples to offer her one, but they were no longer in his pocket. She was wearing a dark raincoat with a fluffy hood. She seemed nervous and fiddled with the small handbag that hung over one shoulder.
‘Hello,’ she said shyly on reaching him. ‘Where would you like to go for coffee?’
‘Do you know Pansies?’ he asked.
‘Oh yes,’ she said.
‘Let’s go there,’ he said.
Chapter Nine
Pansies was packed. Office workers were rushing in for their lunchtime sandwich. The queue for takeaway was almost out the door. Henry stepped back for Rita to enter. What a gentleman she thought. She couldn’t imagine Billy ever doing that. She wished she could stop thinking about Billy.
Inside, the café was warm and cheery. Framed Monet prints adorned the walls and light jazz music played in the background.
‘Where would you like to sit?’ Henry asked.
So considerate of him, thought Rita. Except she saw there was nowhere to sit apart from the shabby couch in the dark recesses of the café. No one ever wanted to sit there. Still, it would be cosy, she thought, just her and Henry hidden away.
‘Over there in the corner,’ she said, leading the way, her head held high.
She would excuse herself to the loo while Henry ordered. The wind had blown her hair and she couldn’t be sure how it looked She didn’t want to sit in a packed café with her hair all messed up.
‘Would you like something to eat?’ Henry asked.
‘I wouldn’t mind a toasted teacake,’ said Rita.
She was rather partial to a buttered toasted teacake.
‘I’ll have a breakfast tea,’ she added.
That sounded much better than just saying, ‘a cup of tea,’ thought Rita.
‘Yes, I will too,’ said Henry.
‘I’m just going to the ladies’,’ she said, standing up.
‘Yes,’ he said, as if he had expected her to do just that.
She walked to the toilet and once inside she hurried to the mirror and studied her reflection thoughtfully. Her hair was okay after all and she sighed with relief. The waves were not as tight as earlier, but she hadn’t expected them to be. Her face was flushed, the skin glowing. The lipstick had faded a little, so she carefully reapplied a small amount and then went back into the tearoom. She didn’t want to keep Henry waiting too long.
‘I can’t order,’ Henry said miserably. ‘No one can seem to hear me.’
‘Oh,’ said Rita, looking around ‘They are very busy.’
Waiters bustled about but not one of them spotted Rita and Henry in the corner.
‘They probably think you’re waiting for someone,’ said Henry.
Rita didn’t really care about the tea and buttered teacake. It was exciting enough, being in a café and sitting on a tatty sofa next to Henry. Henry leant closer as if they were conspirators. He’s close enough to kiss, thought Rita and her cheeks grew hot at the thought.
‘I can’t believe you can see me,’ he said.
Rita shrugged and forced a laugh.
‘Why shouldn’t I see you?’
‘Because I think I’m dead,’ he sighed.
Rita had very much hoped that by the time she met Henry for tea he would have forgotten about the being dead thing. But she was now seriously beginning to wonder if he had a point. The waitress had ignored his beckoning.
‘Oh, you’re not dead, silly,’ she said, while wondering If he actually was.
Henry looked disappointed and Rita immediately regretted her words.
‘Well, if you are, then you’re the most alive, dead person I’ve ever met,’ she smiled.
‘Oh dear,’ said Henry.
‘Why do you think you’re dead?’ Rita asked curiously.
‘Because this morning I read my obituary in The Times,’ he said. ‘It’s the 18th isn’t it?’
‘Yes,’ said Rita, feeling quite dazed.
‘Well, my obituary is in The Times and it clearly said I’d died on the 7th.’
Rita glanced over at the newspapers on the table at the side of the couch. Her eyes alighted on a folded copy of The Times.
‘Let’s look,’ she said.
Henry watched her expression as she opened the newspaper. Her hands shook. Her eyes widened in surprise and her rosy red lips parted.
‘Henry Frazer,’ she said and nodded. ‘It does say that you’re dead.’
He doesn’t look forty-nine, she thought.
Rita felt rather proud knowing someone that was in the papers, even if it was just to say they were dead. She couldn’t ever imagine being in the papers when she died.
‘But it can’t be me, can it? It must be another Henry, surely. But my wife’s name is Imogen too.’
Rita glanced down at the obituary and said, ‘Goodness, that is an odd coincidence that your wives have the same name.’
‘But if I’m not dead, then why can no one see me?’
‘I don’t know,’ said Rita, puzzled.
‘It’s another Henry,’ he said. ‘I’ve got some kind of virus that’s all.’
Henry glanced out of the window. The sun shone on the wet pavement. It looked like an oil slick. ‘So, why do you think this Henry isn’t you?’ asked Rita.
‘Because my name is Henry Booker Frazer,’ he said.
What a fabulous name Rita thought. She wanted to ask if he had talked to his wife about this being dead business, but she really didn’t want to bring her up.
‘I wonder why I can see you,’ she said finally.
‘Yes, I’ve wondered about that,’ he agreed.
‘Perhaps I can help then,’ she said eagerly.
‘Yes,’ he said. ‘Would you come with me to my funeral?’
‘Well … I … When is it?’ she stammered.
‘Two thirty at St Andrew’s Church apparently,’ said Henry. ‘But I can’t believe that’s me. I would never have my funeral in a church. I’m sure that must be a different Henry. We should go to the crematorium first, I think.’
‘Well,’ said Rita, considering. ‘I do have the afternoon off.’
‘Would you?’ asked Henry, his face brightening.
‘Yes, I will,’ she said decisively.
It would be a different way to spend her afternoon off and she really rather liked Henry.
‘Won’t you find it rather strange going to your own funeral?’ she asked.
‘Yes, I expect I will,’ said Henry.
The café was getting hot now and Henry was starting to feel claustrophobic. It was dark and stuffy in the corner.
‘I don’t think we’re ever going to get served,’ he said.
‘No,’ agreed Rita, watching two customers walk out in a huff. ‘We’re not the only ones.’
‘Next stop my funeral,’ said Henry.
How odd is this? Rita thought. Attending the funeral of a man I hardly kno
w. She must surely be dreaming. At least she didn’t have to feel guilty any more. After all, how could you be sinful with a dead man?
Chapter Ten
Henry and Imogen had never discussed funerals, theirs or anyone else’s. The closest they’d come to talking about death was when Henry mentioned taking out life insurance, should anything happen to him.
‘I don’t want you to have to worry,’ he’d said and that was the end of the conversation.
Henry’s parents were in good health, enjoying their retirement in Spain, while Imogen’s parents lived in the city. Henry hated both places. Spain was too hot. Henry didn’t like the sun. If asked he would state quite clearly that he didn’t approve of it. It gave you cancer and he didn’t trust suntan lotions. He also hated the all-day breakfast, which his parents seemed very partial to. The restaurant they ate it at seemed very suspect to Henry, all fat and little else in his opinion. He and Imogen preferred porridge, toast, and fresh fruit for breakfast. He also disliked looking at his father’s paunch, swollen with fat, and his red face, blotchy from rosacea. He was just thankful his father’s liver was not on show.
‘I’m retired, son,’ his father would say. ‘I’m going to enjoy it.’
‘But not for long,’ Henry would think.
London was just as bad if you asked Henry. All polluted air, stabbings, and terrorist attacks and no doubt, plenty of all-day breakfasts too if one wanted them.
He liked it where he lived. Not too close to London and not quite in the country. It was safer too, if you asked Henry. Violence was escalating out of control in his opinion.
