by Sue Watson
‘I know, love.’
‘He was just always there, wasn’t he? Last night a fuse went in one of the plugs as I turned a lamp off and my first thought was, “I must get Dad to look at that.”’
‘Yes, I’m the same. I changed a tyre on the car the other day. I wouldn’t ever have considered doing that when Dad was here.’
‘Wow, I wouldn’t know where to start, well done!’
‘Ah yes, but who knows, it could fall off at any time,’ I laugh.
‘Mum, you shouldn’t be struggling with tyres at your age. James would have done that for you.’
‘I’m perfectly capable. And it’s actually quite nice to look at the tyre on the car and think, “I did that.” It’s time I became more independent— And what do you mean “at your age”?’ I said, just realising the implication of what she’d said. ‘If Mick Jagger’s still tearing up stadiums at seventy-two I can change a tyre at sixty-four.’
She laughs. ‘And pout?’
‘Yes, I can pout,’ I say, pursing my lips.
‘No, I mean like Mick Jagger,’ she laughs.
I pout even more now and she reaches out across the table, touches my arm. ‘You are funny. It’s good to see you smiling again.’
‘I think you’ll find that was more of a trout pout than a smile.’
We laugh, then I say, ‘Yes, after my tyre success I’m feeling rather confident – I don’t need a man to do stuff. I was thinking, I might decorate . . . some fresh wallpaper and a lick of paint, you know?’
She nods. ‘Okay, but don’t take on too much, it looks fine.’
‘I just fancy making it a bit more modern, more me.’
Decorating is something Mike always did and though the house is looking a bit shabby, I put off doing any decorating after he died. I know it’s silly, but I didn’t want to paint him out of our lives, cover the past up with new wallpaper, but as I gazed at the stars through the back bedroom window last night I realised I must. I need to respect the past, but embrace the future. ‘Yes, I’m feeling very positive, I’m going to do a spring clean,’ I say. Then I take a breath. ‘I thought I might sort through the wardrobe and give some of your dad’s clothes to charity. Some of his shirts are still in good nick. I’m sure he’d like to know they were being worn again, what do you think?’
Anna is silent as she pours herself a strong, dark coffee and holds the steaming mug with both hands in a comforting gesture. ‘I suppose so,’ she says eventually. ‘I mean, we can’t hang onto his stuff for ever.’ She says this doubtfully, taking a cautious sip.
I nod and take a drink. Neither of us want to say any more, but both of us know it’s another closed chapter in our story. It’s about more than suits and shirts and ties, it’s a step further down the line, away from Mike, and it won’t be easy letting go of the past. The feel of his shirts, the memories in each tie, the weddings, the parties, the funerals when he wore his best suit . . . Our lives are stitched into the fabric, holding everything together. But I must be strong and try to move forward if I want to make the best of what’s left for me.
Grief isn’t a linear journey, it’s not a wound that heals, feeling better each day until one day you wake up and it’s gone away; the process is jagged and unpredictable, two steps forward, three back.
Just thinking of his suits waiting in the wardrobe takes me back to his grey wedding suit from Moss Bros. Our wedding day, his happiness, my relief and my mother’s anger. As if things weren’t difficult enough given the circumstances, she’d come shuffling over in her new shoes to inform me that, ‘Mike’s mother is wearing the same bloody hat as me!’
I don’t know what she expected me to do: run into the registry office and wrestle it from the poor woman’s head?
‘The cheek of it,’ she’d spat. That was my mother, she ruled the bloody world. Dad just winked at me, took my arm and we slowly walked in. I thanked my lucky stars for sweet escape as I was delivered to Mike, waiting calmly for me with a big smile.
I think about the look in his eyes during the ceremony and later the gentle way he held me. I felt like a precious jewel; someone finally loved me enough to treasure me. Mike was a thoughtful, reliable, loving husband and he was always there for me, which is why it’s such a shock he isn’t any more. Thinking about our wedding and all the hopes and dreams we had, I wonder now if I could have loved him more.
Some days I still wake up and feel the loss as I did the day he died, like a huge weight on my chest, pinning me down. But those days are ebbing now, a new tide is slowly coming in and now most days I wake, see the sun and think, Okay, I can do this. I can take on the world . . . or more realistically clean the windows or return one of Corrine’s many phone calls – things I did before without even thinking.
Tonight Anna has called round after work with yet another toy for Lily, my lovely new dog.
‘Katie saw this in the supermarket and said to bring it for her,’ she says, handing me a pink ball.
I thank her and give it to Lily who grabs it gratefully and stows it away under her floral bed.
Anna has also brought with her a takeaway and a bottle of wine and we call Isobel to see if she wants to join us. She says she can’t as she’s helping Richard with some DIY project. His latest obsession is their loft conversion, but you’d think it was a penthouse apartment with all the fuss he’s making.
I tell Isobel we’ll miss her but to have a lovely evening in the roof. She giggles and we say goodnight.
‘Richard needs someone to hold his ladder,’ I tell Anna as I put down the phone. I’m trying to sound impartial, Richard is lovely but he can be such a bore when it comes to DIY.
‘Oh, not that sodding loft conversion? I’d pull the bloody ladder from under him,’ Anna laughs.
‘Well, they’ve been married ten years and she’s been through all his DIY “projects” . . . give her time.’ I wink. ‘The joy of holding a man’s ladder can only last so long.’
‘Well, I’m never going to hold another man’s ladder again. Apart from James, they’re all pigs,’ she announces, sounding like my mother while lining up foil cartons on the kitchen worktops and uncorking the bottle of chilled white.
‘Some of them are okay.’ I breathe in the aromatic hit of chicken bhuna, the air spicy with curry and anticipation. I haven’t felt this for a long time and it feels good. While Anna enjoys huge forkfuls of curry and rice, I take small bites, savouring the tingly flavour and my daughter’s warming presence. ‘So how’s the lovely James?’ I say, trying to be interested without seeming to pry.
After fourteen years of marriage and two children Anna’s husband Paul walked out on her for someone much younger. It’s been a difficult time for her and the kids but after three years they are now settling into a different routine and she’s recently started seeing James, a local lad she met when he came to do some building work on our florist shop. They’ve been together now for about six months and I’m happy for her.
‘He’s good, thanks. I really like him, Mum. And it’s nice to have someone in my life again . . . someone just for me, you know?’
‘Yes, I do. I think when you’re married you take it for granted, but afterwards you miss the company of someone who knows you really well. The shared memories . . . ’
She nods. I was remembering how Mike and I . . . But this is about her relationship, not mine, so I move quickly on. ‘Emma and Katie will soon be living their own lives, and you mustn’t neglect yours. I’m glad you’ve found James, I like him, so easygoing. Why don’t you bring him and the girls over for Sunday lunch? I’d love to see him again . . . it’s about time I put my apron on.’
‘That would be lovely, we’ll come over next Sunday if you’re asking?’ she says, leaping in before I change my mind. I’ve been all over the place since Mike died. I know she and Isobel both want their old mum back and Sunday lunch is a good place to start.
I nod enthusiastically. I enjoy cooking but as soon as Mike lost his appetite so did I. ‘I’ll loo
k forward to it.’ I smile, finishing the last of my curry and taking a sip of wine.
‘Anna, I’ve been thinking – that big wedding is only a few months away, isn’t it?’
‘Yes, Mrs Parker’s paying for all the flowers for her granddaughter Poppy’s wedding, no expense spared. It’s in Cheshire at this big hotel . . . ’
‘I remember you telling me. She came in when I was off work with Dad, didn’t she? Everything was a bit of a blur back then.’ I smile sadly.
I haven’t retained much from that time, I think my brain has anaesthetised itself. The only phrases I’ve held on to are those with numbers – ‘Grade four cancer,’ and ‘Six weeks at best’.
I look up and thankfully Anna hasn’t noticed me drift off, she’s still talking. ‘ . . . the bridesmaids are in blush pink, lots of roses and lilies. Hundreds of buttonholes and corsages . . . huge floral decorations and table arrangements for the reception.’ Her words stressing the enormity of this booking.
‘That’s a hell of a lot of work,’ is all I can say, ‘which is one of the reasons I’ve decided it’s time to come back to the shop.’
She puts down her glass. ‘Oh, Mum, really? That’s good news; no, that’s great news. But are you ready?’
I nod. ‘Yes I am.’
‘Mrs Jackson is lovely but she hasn’t a clue and I don’t have your patience with her. She cocked up a wedding and a funeral last week.’
‘Oh dear, did she? What happened?’
‘You don’t want to know – but suffice to say the funeral felt like a party and the wedding looked like a wake.’
I have to laugh. ‘Oh, she’s fine, she just needs to be managed,’ I say.
‘Yes, I would like to “manage” her out of the shop, but we’ve been so short staffed. Isobel’s offered to muck in if her supply teaching’s still dried up, but she can only do buttonholes at best. If we’re going to do this we definitely need you back at work doing your magic on that bride’s bouquet.’
‘Well, count me in,’ I say. I’m flushed with wine, and smiling, but inside I suddenly feel quite petrified.
I’ve only just mastered a visit to the corner shop. Am I ready for a complete return to life – especially a big summer wedding and all the slogging and smiling that will entail?
‘I didn’t want to put you under any pressure so I never said, but I can’t tell you how relieved I am that you’re coming back. This wedding is a huge deal for Rosie’s; the profit from this alone will mean a great year for us. And you always say for one good wedding we can get at least three more bookings.’
‘Absolutely!’ I smile, pleased my daughter feels so passionate about our small business. I remember going home to Mike in floods of tears the day Mrs Cooper told me she was retiring and I’d have to find another job. He thought someone had upset me and was all ready to go out there and sort them out, but when I told him what had happened he said, ‘Okay, let’s think about this. You want to stay working there and Mrs Cooper wants to sell – so let’s kill one bird with two stones, and buy it.’ I’d laughed when he said that, we were only in our twenties, and people like us didn’t buy businesses. But Mike said he’d be by my side and though never ambitious for himself he believed in me and gently pushed us all to achieve our own small dreams. A flower shop for me, a marriage and babies for Anna – and for Isobel, a degree in French that almost defeated her. He was always there supporting us, urging us on in the wings.
‘Dad would have done anything for you, wouldn’t he?’ Anna says, finishing her wine.
It was true, Mike wanted to give me everything and we had nothing. To buy the shop we took a huge risk, remortgaged the house, and a week later began the process of becoming shop owners. I enrolled in a floristry course at night school and after a great deal of hard work we eventually had a thriving business. I was going to keep the Cooper’s name, but Mike came up with the idea of Rosie’s Roses, and that was it.
‘Dad worked so hard on the shop,’ I said, remembering him toiling late into the night to redecorate and get everything ready. ‘It really was a labour of love for him,’ I said fondly. ‘He spent our holiday money painting the walls rose pink and paying to have the shop sign with my name on. I felt like a celebrity: “There you are, Rosie – up in lights,” he said, “where you belong.”’
‘Do you remember our late-night picnic?’ Anna was smiling at the memory.
‘Oh yes, gosh I’d almost forgotten about that. I felt so bad that your dad was there all on his own fitting shelves on a Friday night . . . and as you didn’t have school the next day we all went over to the shop to keep him company.’
‘We made sandwiches and I carried the flask of tea. Me and Isobel thought we’d died and gone to heaven.’ Anna’s eyes are shining at the memory. ‘I’ll never forget that night, putting the blanket down in the middle of the shop floor and us all sitting round eating KitKats. People were peering in on their way back from the pub, it must have been very late, but we thought we were very important picnicking in our new shop.’
‘I remember telling you not to mention it to Nan. I doubt Margaret would have approved of me taking you out for late-night picnics.’ I giggle at the thought of my strait-laced mother ever doing anything after nine p.m., let alone putting two little girls in pyjamas in the back of the car and taking them out into the night.
‘Are you sure you’ll be okay, Mum? The last time you set foot in that shop it was to do the flowers for his funeral.’
I sit back in the chair. ‘The funeral was only one day – and it isn’t going to overshadow the hundreds and thousands of days Dad was in there, drinking tea, chatting to the customers, alive, full of life and helping out. It’ll be good to get back there.’
‘Yeah.’ Her eyes fill with tears and my heart breaks. I wanted to make her feel better remembering her dad, not upset her.
‘This sounds selfish, but when Dad died my first thought was “Who’s going to lift all the boxes for us when we have a delivery? Who’s going to drive us to the flower market when it’s icy in winter?” Do you remember he’d get up before his own work and insist on driving . . . He couldn’t bear to let us go out there on our own in the freezing cold.’
‘Yes, and I keep looking out at those stars and I’m sure he’s telling me to stop being a lazy sod and get back to work,’ I laugh.
Anna discreetly wipes an eye. Neither of us want the other one to see we’re upset, always trying to protect each other from hurt.
‘I’m so grateful, love. I appreciate you’ve been grieving too and I know it’s not been easy. It’s hard to explain, but I’ve just been scared to go back into the world again alone – it sounds so stupid, doesn’t it?’ I am a terrible mother leaving her to do all that by herself.
‘No, I get it, and you mustn’t throw yourself at it like you always do. Why don’t you just focus on the Parker wedding? I can deal with the day-to-day stuff.’
‘Okay, it’s a deal. Let’s start by making some notes; I have to work out what exactly needs doing,’ I say, getting up from my seat at the kitchen table to delve in what we call ‘the messy cupboard’ for my work notepad. The drawers are still full of nondescript bits of wire and screws that Mike dumped in there, along with granddaughters’ flavoured lip balms and cola-scented erasers. I know my notepad is in here somewhere but as I haven’t used it for a while I have to go deep, and end up at the back of the cupboard, a place no one has ventured in for some time.
‘I wondered where this was,’ I say, pulling out an old shortbread tin decorated with Scottie dogs in bow ties.
‘Oh, the photograph tin. We got that out for Dad, do you remember he wanted to look at all the old photos?’ Anna’s smiling, taking it from me. I recall Mike sitting up in bed, a frail old man smiling at a picture of the kids on the beach at Blackpool with my mother. Mike had said something funny and when my mother was unable to get out of her deckchair for laughing he took her picture, which made her laugh more, capturing her for ever with his Kodak, legs splayed, her h
ead back, in stitches. Margaret had always liked Mike – if it hadn’t been for her I probably wouldn’t have married him.
Before long we are knee-deep in faded photos and grainy memories.
‘Remember this?’ I hold up a picture of Isobel and Anna on holiday.
She takes it, smiling at her six-year-old self in Cornwall holding her bucket and spade in one hand and her two-year-old sister’s hand in the other.
‘Dad taught you to swim on that holiday,’ I say, rummaging for the photo of Mike holding her up in the sea like a trophy, her arms waving around in triumph.
She gazes at the photo. ‘He was always there for me. I’ll never forget the night I found out about Paul and that woman. He’d stormed off and I called Dad in tears – within minutes he was at the door, bundling us all into the car and bringing us home here.’
‘Yes. You were so upset and trying to tell me what had happened and in the middle of all the madness the girls wanted Granddad to play Monopoly with them like he always did.’ I giggle.
‘He just got the box, set it all out and by two a.m. they were buying up Mayfair and Park Lane.’ Her eyes filled with tears again and my heart twisted.
‘The girls miss him so much. Their own dad’s such a waste of space I always thought Dad would be there for them . . . teach them to drive and tell them they’re beautiful when boys upset them, like he did with us. He always knew the right thing to say or do . . . ’
‘Yeah, a broken fence or a broken heart and he was straight to it – always fixing something,’ I say, using my napkin to discreetly wipe my eyes.
‘I wonder what he’d want for us all, Mum?’ She’s looking at me, waiting for the ‘right’ answer.
‘He’d want us all to be happy, but mostly he’d want me back there behind that counter making bloody bridesmaid’s posies,’ I laugh.
‘Yes he would, and you seem ready, better, brighter,’ she says. ‘A few weeks ago you wouldn’t have been able to look at these photos without collapsing in tears.’
‘I’m only just holding it together now,’ I say. ‘Now, where’s that wine?’ I grab the bottle, pour us both another and send up a little thank you to whoever is up there for sending me such wonderful daughters.
