The Frances Garrood Collection

by Frances Garrood

  They had been doing just that more or less ever since. Their father had become drunker (how dare he drown sorrows that she knew to be no more than crocodile tears?), and the sisters had become closer. And they had indeed survived.

  Gabs too was unsure what to wear to Maudie’s funeral. She had a black leather skirt, but it was extremely short. She had a long skirt, but it was an Indian patchwork affair, with sparkly bits and gold beads dangling from the belt.

  “What do you think?” she asked Steph.

  “Haven’t you anything else?”

  “Nothing more suitable.”

  “You call those suitable?” Steph walked round her as though she might look different from behind. “Borrow one of mine. It’s going to be a long time before I can fit into any of them again myself.”

  “Wig?” asked Gabs.

  “Absolutely no wig. Don’t be ridiculous.”

  “Maudie liked me whatever I wore, and she quite admired my wigs,” Gabs said. “I think she was one of the few people who didn’t judge me.”

  “But you said she was mad!”

  “Only a bit mad. But she was pretty canny.” Gabs picked out a pale grey cashmere skirt. “Can I have this one?”

  “I suppose so. But don’t spill anything on it.”

  Driving to the funeral, Gabs wondered whether life could get any worse. She had been fonder of Maudie than she liked to admit, and certainly more than she could tell Mavis; after all, Maudie had belonged to Mavis, and so it would be inappropriate for her to exhibit too much grief. But there had been something decent about Maudie — something genuine, loving, kind. Gabs hadn’t experienced much kindness in her adult life, and she had been attracted to Maudie’s warmth and Maudie’s embraces, which always smelled of lavender water and mothballs (did anyone really use mothballs anymore?). She was going to miss her.

  Then there was Steph’s engagement. She still found it hard to believe that her sensible sister had actually consented to marry Clive, but there it was. The happy couple had celebrated with something sparkling (non-alcoholic, of course), and Steph now sported a (cheap) diamond ring and had already accumulated a stack of wedding magazines.

  “What are you doing with these?” Gabs had flicked through the magazines. They all looked the same: Barbie-doll girls in white dresses — from slinky, via prim Jane Austen, through to meringue — plus advice on everything from make-up to marquees. “Are you really going to — to dress up for this?”

  Steph sighed. “Oh, Gabs, you know I’ve always wanted a white wedding. I know it’s pathetic, but I want it to be the one thing I do properly.”

  “Of course you do.” Gabs had relented. “Poor old Steph. And you haven’t even got a mother of the bride to wear a posh hat and be proud.”

  “No, but I’ve got you. I thought — I thought you might be a bridesmaid?”

  “Did you now?” Gabs tried to imagine herself in a long conventional frock carrying a posy of something bridal, and failed. On the other hand, what had she got to lose? “Oh, go on then. Why not? But no peach, no aqua, and no yellow. I look terrible in yellow. When’s this going to happen?”

  “I thought in the spring. The baby will be a couple of months old, so I should have my figure back.”

  “If not, I’ve got an amazing corset you can borrow. I’ll lace you into it. You won’t be able to breathe, but you’ll look stunning.”

  Privately, Gabs blamed Father Pat for all this. How dare he coerce Steph into a lifetime of misery and boredom just in the interests of God and respectability? And yet it could be that Steph would be happy with Clive. She had always been undemanding, and Clive did seem genuinely fond of her. Stranger things had happened.

  Of course, one of the problems was that Gabs was jealous — not of the marriage (perish the thought), but of Clive’s place in Steph’s life. Hitherto, it had always been Gabs and Steph against the world. Now she feared that if she didn’t toe the line, it could well become Steph and Clive against Gabs. If this was to be avoided, she would have to embrace her new brother-in-law in every sense, and while she might come to accept that Steph liked — even loved — him, he would never be her kind of person. When she had had time to get used to the idea of the baby, she had rather liked the idea of its presence in the flat; she could even see herself sharing it (and thus being absolved of any need to have one herself). But Steph’s marriage would make her superfluous. She might be required for babysitting purposes, but otherwise she would just be an aunt (such an ugly, old-maidish kind of word, she had always thought). As for the flat, things were going to be pretty cramped, and she couldn’t imagine them all getting on together for long. She could probably afford to buy Steph out and find somewhere else, but she didn’t really want to. Clive, needless to say, had no place of his own, and in her less charitable moments, it had occurred to Gabs that this might have played some part in his decision to marry Steph.

  It was a bright cold day — not one of those wet, windswept funeral days you so often see in films — and Gabs cheered up a bit. She had filled the boot of the car with wine, plus a couple of bottles of champagne; whatever else she might feel about today, it would be nice to see the others and do a bit of catching up. But when she saw Mavis, she was shocked.

  Mavis was pale, and she had lost weight. Her clothes seemed to hang off her, as though they too were grieving, and when she came over to greet Gabs, her eyes were brimming with tears.

  “Thank you so much for coming,” she said as Gabs embraced her.

  “Did you really think I wouldn’t?” Gabs asked.

  “No. No, of course I didn’t. It’s just that you’ve been — you’ve been so kind.”

  Gabs muttered something about that being what friends were for, and took Mavis’s arm. “Is Clifford coming?”

  “I don’t think so. He said it wouldn’t be — appropriate.”

  “Oh, did he?”

  “And he didn’t really know Mother.”

  But he knew you, thought Gabs furiously. How could this pompous, selfish man, who over the years had taken so much from Mavis, not make this little effort when she most needed him?

  “Perhaps you’re right,” she said now.

  The interior of the church had the familiar smell of damp and incense hat always took Gabs back to her childhood Sundays, when she and Steph were marched off to Mass, washed and scrubbed and thoroughly uncomfortable, and instructed by their mother to “behave yourselves, don’t pick your noses, and make sure to hand over all your collection money” (Gabs had been known to secrete some of hers in her sock). There seemed to be quite a good turnout, although as Mavis had predicted, many of them required the assistance of Zimmer frames and sticks, and there was at least one wheelchair. Gabs wondered what it must be like, getting to a stage of life where funerals outnumbered other more cheerful rituals, and you knew that before long it would be your own turn. She looked at the row of cotton-wool heads in front of her and wondered what they were thinking. Was there some relief in knowing that yet another person had beaten them to it, that at least they were still alive? Or were they all wondering whether they would be next?

  The priest was brisk and businesslike, and the requiem mass for Maude Winifred Wetherby was soon over. A short address was given about Maudie’s life, her regular church attendance, and her numerous good works in the parish. But none of these related to the Maudie Gabs had known, and she felt sad. Mavis had said that she might say a few words if she felt able to, but apparently she did not, and so the real Maudie went unacknowledged.

  Afterwards, Gabs joined Alice and Finn as everyone gathered at the cemetery for the burial.

  “Do you think they’ve ever dropped anyone?” Finn asked as the funeral directors made their way down a grassy slope to the graveside with Maudie balanced precariously on their shoulders.

  “No. They’re used to it,” Alice told him.

  “But what if they did?”

  “Well, it would be a bit undignified, I suppose.”

  “How do we know it
’s really Maudie in there?” he persisted. “It could be anyone, couldn’t it? It could just be a pile of bricks.”

  “Why would anyone want to bury a pile of bricks?”

  “Or stolen goods,” said Finn, warming to his subject. “Then they could come back later and dig them up.”

  “Finn, will you please stop asking silly questions.”

  “But —”

  “Shut up, Finn. I mean it.”

  Finn turned to catch Gabs’ eye, and she winked at him. Such a shame he’s so young, she thought. In a couple of years, he’s going to be quite a looker.

  The coffin was lowered into the grave, and Mavis was handed a small lump of earth. She looked helplessly at Gabs.

  “You throw it in,” Gabs whispered. “On top of the coffin.”

  “Why? Why would I want to do that?”

  “I’ve no idea, but it’s what you do. Tradition, I suppose.”

  “Can I have some?” Finn asked.

  “For the last time, Finn, shut up,” Alice said, “or you can go and sit in the car.”

  “I only asked.”

  “Well, don’t.”

  Mavis threw her lump of earth, which scattered over the lid of the coffin, obscuring the shiny brass plate that bore Maudie’s name.

  “That’s it,” Mavis said after a respectful silence had been observed, and people began to talk in subdued voices. “She’s gone. Mother’s gone.”

  Weeping, she turned away and began walking slowly back towards the road and the parked cars. Gabs wondered briefly whether she should go and join her, but realised that just for the moment, Mavis needed to be alone.

  Right up until the last minute, Mavis had hoped that Clifford might come to the funeral, but she should have known better. He had told her that he wouldn’t be coming, and Clifford prided himself on being a man of his word, especially when that word involved an arrangement convenient to himself. Now, she felt hurt and disappointed and angry. Over the years, she had made fewer and fewer demands of him, and this was really such a small thing to ask. He need only have attended the service and then gone home. She wouldn’t have expected him to stay on afterwards — just perhaps to say a few words to her before he went.

  In the carpark, Gabs caught up with her.

  “So he didn’t come,” she said, taking Mavis’s arm.

  “No. No, he didn’t.” Mavis was grateful for Gabs’ understanding. “I knew he wouldn’t.”

  “But you hoped.”

  “Yes, I hoped. I seem to do a lot of hoping.”

  “Poor Mavis. Let’s get you home.”

  Mavis looked at the pink mini and hesitated for a moment.

  “Oh, why not?” she said, waving to Alice to show her what she was doing. “I’d like to go with you. I’m fond of Finn, but he does ask a lot of questions.”

  The mini attracted some strange glances, but Mavis decided she was beyond caring. She had just said her last farewell to the only person who truly loved her, and she would have been happy to travel in a tank had that been the only available means of transport.

  “It went well, didn’t it?” Gabs said.

  “I suppose so. But it wasn’t really Mother.”

  “I know what you mean. But funerals rarely are, are they? They never seem to do justice to the person who’s died.”

  “Mr. Strong didn’t come, either,” Mavis said.

  “Did you expect him to?”

  “Not really, but it would have been nice if he’d shown that he cared just a little. After all, I’ve worked for him all these years, and he met Mother several times. But I suppose he’s still annoyed with me.”

  This was an understatement, for Mr. Strong, in a particularly unkind moment, had actually totted up the amount of time Mavis had taken off work during Maudie’s illness, and had been outraged at the result of his research. That the illness had proved terminal had done nothing to ameliorate his anger (“after all, you didn’t know she was going to die, Mavis, did you?”), and neither had the activities of Mrs. Strong. Mr. Strong had unwisely brought in his wife to help while he was away for the afternoon, and this good lady (and she was a good lady — just a very bad shopkeeper) had contrived to lose half a day’s takings and three pairs of socks.

  “All that money, Mavis,” he had told her when relating this sorry tale. “And the socks. How did she manage to lose three pairs of socks?”

  “Perhaps she gave them away,” Mavis had suggested. After all, stranger things had happened when Mrs. Strong was in charge.

  “Now you’re being ridiculous.”

  “Is there any other explanation?” Mavis asked.

  “Theft. Yes, theft, Mavis. Someone stole those socks from under my wife’s very nose.”

  This conjured up such an extraordinary image (Mrs. Strong being particularly well-endowed in the nasal department) that Mavis, who was exhausted to the point of hysteria, had actually laughed. It was this, she suspected, that had proved the final straw in their relationship, and she was pretty sure that her days at the shop were numbered. For even if Mr. Strong wished to keep her on, Mavis wasn’t at all sure that she wanted to work for him anymore.

  The wake back at the house was attended by a respectable number of people, many of them neighbours, and Gabs and Alice helped Mavis serve them with tea and sandwiches. When everyone had left, Mavis suggested they open the wine (nobody had wanted it after all), and the others gladly agreed. The next day being Saturday, Finn had been collected by Trot, who was taking him home for the night, so the three of them were on their own.

  “Thank goodness that’s over,” Mavis said, battling with a champagne cork. “I’ve been dreading today.”

  “Of course you have. Here — let me do that.” Gabs took the bottle from her. “You fetch some glasses.”

  They toasted Maudie in champagne, and when that was finished, they toasted her in red wine.

  “What will you do now, Mavis?” Alice asked. “Your life’s going to be very different, isn’t it?”

  “I’m not sure.” Mavis had been giving the matter some thought. “I shall stay here, of course. I’ve lived here all my life. But I might find another job.”

  “What about travel? Had you thought of that?” Gabs asked.

  “I’ve always been a bit nervous of going abroad,” Mavis said. “All that business with tickets and customs and weighing your luggage. I went to Paris once, and my suitcase went to Madrid.” She felt considerably more cheerful and ever so slightly drunk. “No, I’m not sure about travel.”

  “What about Clifford?” Alice asked.

  “What about Clifford?”

  “I suppose you wouldn’t want to be away from him for too long?”

  “Ah. I didn’t tell you, did I?”

  “Tell us what?”

  “I left Clifford a message saying that if he didn’t come to the funeral, that was it. That I wouldn’t be seeing him again.”

  “You what?”

  “Yes. I wasn’t sure I meant it at the time, but now that he hasn’t turned up, I feel so angry that I may very well stick to my word.”

  “Did he reply?”

  “Yes. He left me a message saying the living were more important than the dead — the living presumably meaning him. But he seems to have forgotten that I’m not dead. I’m living, too. And I’m — well, I used to be important to him.”

  “Wow. You have come a long way,” Alice said. “But shouldn’t you wait a bit? At least until you’re a bit more… well…”

  “Sober?” Mavis suggested. “I was perfectly sober when I left that message.”

  “He’ll be very surprised, won’t he?” Alice said.

  “Yes. Very. I’ve made threats before — lots of them — but I’ve never carried them out.”

  “And you’re really going to carry out this one?”

  “Yes. I rather think I am.” Mavis topped up her glass.

  “Well, good for you,” Gabs said. “I think he’s treated you shamefully. The fat, selfish brute.”

&n
bsp; Mavis had forgotten that Gabs had met Clifford, and there had been a time when she would have taken exception to this description of her lover, but now she found herself agreeing.

  “He is a fat, selfish brute,” she said. “Nowadays, I’m no more to him than a — a kind of plaything. He uses me to while away the time when he’s not on the golf course or — or googling his spleen.”

  “So you could go travelling if you wanted to,” Gabs said. “There’s nothing to stop you, is there?”

  “I suppose not. Oh, I don’t know. I’ll have to see.”

  “I know!” Alice put her glass down. “I’ve had an idea. Let’s all go travelling!”

  “What do you mean?” Gabs asked.

  “Well, if Trot carries out his threat and takes Finn off on a jolly after his GCSEs, I’ll be free. Gabs — you could be free, couldn’t you, if you wanted to? And then, Mavis, you could come with us, and we’ll sort out all the tickets and things.”

  “Brilliant!” Gabs said, spilling wine on the cashmere skirt. “I’m up for it if you both are. Steph doesn’t need me anymore, and as for Mrs. Grant, she can stuff her job.”

  “We’ll all go on a gap year!” Alice said.

  “A gap year?” Mavis looked puzzled.

  “It’s really a young thing, but anyone can do it. You just — take off, and see what happens. It’ll probably be more of a gap six months, but it’ll be the same kind of thing.”

  “You mean, work our way round the world?” Mavis asked.

  “Who said anything about work? I could certainly work my way round the world. No problem.” Gabs smirked. “But with the greatest respect, I doubt whether you two could. No, we aren’t going to work. We’re going to have fun.”

  The three of them spent the next couple of hours fantasising about riding on elephants and buying exotic souvenirs in souks until Gabs and Alice decided it was time to phone for taxis home.

  “We’re far too drunk to drive,” Gabs explained, knocking over a chair as she made her way to the lavatory. “We can collect our cars tomorrow.”

  “You could stay here,” Mavis said, but immediately regretted it. There wasn’t much room for visitors in her small house, and she wasn’t ready to contemplate the prospect of anyone sleeping in Maudie’s bed.