The Gin O'Clock Club

by Rosie Blake

  I nodded, not trusting myself to speak.

  ‘She would have liked the arrangements,’ Sue added, her head motioning to the enormous standing spray Lottie and I had picked out, the smell hitting me suddenly, the sweet fragrance winding round me in the front row.

  One of the pieces you had chosen was playing, Haydn, and there was a gentle hum of talk, low voices, people reaching across to squeeze hands or kiss cheeks. I had been to services like this before, rifled through the Order of Service or stared round at the congregation. Now it was your funeral, your plans and it all seemed incredibly important. I wanted everyone to be still, to be quiet, to listen, to wonder at why you’d chosen this piece.

  The coffin was wheeled up the aisle and there was a general hush as it was manoeuvred close to the curtains ready for the committal.

  The service began. The female officiant had tight ginger curls and a thickening waist. She welcomed us and introduced the service. Sue delivered the first reading, her voice faltering at the start and then growing in strength as she looked round at us all. I tried to raise an encouraging smile, couldn’t hear the words, too aware of the coffin only metres away, the eulogy I was about to deliver. My palms dampened at the thought. I knew there wasn’t long, stared at the small stand set up on the left as the officiant moved the service along.

  ‘And now Cora’s husband Teddy would like to say a few words.’

  Cora’s husband doesn’t. He doesn’t want to say anything. He just wants you here, healthy, sitting next to him. He wants this to be someone else’s funeral.

  I felt my knees tremble as I walked past your coffin, couldn’t stop my eyes travelling its length, a breath catching in my throat, before I turned my attention to the rows in front of me, all eyes watching. Hastily I stared down at the small square of paper I was gripping, unfolded it, smoothed it. A lone cough, someone rustled. The words on the page couldn’t possibly be a sum of your parts. I read them softly, quickly.

  Your sister gave me a watery smile as I passed her, dabbing fruitlessly at her face as the tears fell. Lottie was staring at the coffin. My heart ached for her, a small surge of anger at our son for not being the one standing next to her, and me. He should have got on a flight, he should be here. You’d never asked him for much; why wasn’t he here at your funeral? How could he miss this?

  Another reading. I could barely concentrate on what Geoffrey was saying, too aware of the moment the coffin with you inside would disappear behind the curtain. It finally did. I stared at the space, the curtains remaining stubbornly closed as the service ended and we were being dismissed. People lingered in the doorway opening umbrellas to protect themselves against the dribbling rain, not enough to really get drenched. Lacklustre weather. Cars moved on out, windscreen wipers going. We had hired the hall back at Maplelands club for drinks and canapés, normally a place I loved spending time.

  How I longed to get in my car and drive in the opposite direction.

  The hall was two-thirds full and I could hear the burble of chatter as I pushed through the double doors of the small vestibule. Luke and Lottie were together, Luke’s arm around her shoulders, pulling her close: protective.

  Howard, Arjun and Geoffrey stood in a tight circle together in one corner, picking at sausage rolls on napkins. Arjun had a mark on his lapel, had done something funny to his hair with gel or water or I wasn’t sure what. How I wished we were all four on the golf course, walking in companionable silence between holes, only commenting on the awkward green or Howard’s ridiculously showy swing or Arjun’s ability to lose his new balls in the long grass. That was where I was comfortable, not here in a suit I hadn’t worn in years that smelt of mothballs and damp, panicking internally at the amount of familiar faces whose names I couldn’t recall.

  I felt awkward and exposed, unable to deal with the tears of other people. I stuck out a hand to shake: old friends of yours, work colleagues ignoring the hand, pressing their powdered cheeks to my face, dabbing at their eyes. They wanted to tell me stories about you, they wanted to ask how you had been in those final days and weeks. I answered their questions in monosyllables, not able to give them the answers they wanted to hear.

  You would have held their hands, produced tissues from a miniature packet in your handbag, asked the right questions, said the right things. You would have been so much better able to deal with this day.

  Why aren’t you here to help me any more? What am I going to do without you now?

  I love you, my darling. I miss you. God, I miss you.

  Teddy x

  Chapter 5

  Love is the space where nothing used to be

  ISABELLE, 79

  A few weeks have passed since the funeral and I’ve been dividing my time between Grandad’s and our flat. I feel like I’m living my life on trains and tubes, often turning up to court dishevelled and trying to fix my make-up and clothes in the ladies’. I barely see Luke, who often drops in on Grandad when he knows I’m busy. I love him for that; I know he’s doing it to ease my mind even though he has always got on well with Grandad. Still, somehow, by the time I’ve returned to sink into bed beside him, I never seem to get the energy up to say anything to him.

  I miss Grandma. I miss my grandad’s easy smiles, a little harder to summon these days. I miss the easy laughs, the endless tea, the Sunday roasts: the times when we weren’t all noticing what, or rather who, was missing. My grief is a weight that drags my whole body down, keeps me in bed in the mornings, not wanting to get up.

  I wasn’t sleeping well, at times disorientated over where I was, and struggling to concentrate on my work. I would straighten my wig, take a breath and step into the court, trying to put on an invisible mask, Lottie the Professional, to ensure no one knew that inside I was all squiggles and confusion. I needed to look strong, to be strong for Grandad, and sometimes it felt as if the effort of that drained me in every other area of my life.

  I had finished court early today, defending a man who had been charged with being drunk and disorderly on a plane when heading home from his eldest son’s graduation day. He had been discharged after a not-guilty verdict, mostly because he was so charming and apologetic in the witness box. At the end of the trial he had clutched both my hands promising that his family would be lighting a candle for me that night at home in Romania. The image had made me a little tearful and I was reminded it was these moments – helping clients, being their mouthpiece – when I really loved my job.

  I was out of court by two o’clock, the whole afternoon stretching ahead. I longed to return home, crawl under a duvet on the sofa and devour a mindless boxset, but I had a sudden image of Grandad alone in the house and knew how much he’d appreciate seeing me.

  I let myself in with my key and called down the empty corridor. Noticing Grandma’s furry hat on a hook, the one Grandad always said made her look like she was wearing roadkill, I felt my mouth lift, was glad I had come.

  ‘Grandad?’

  The living room was empty: two glasses of water on the coffee table, an abandoned newspaper, but no people.

  ‘Hello?’

  I wondered if he was out playing golf. He seemed to play in any weather but I had noticed his clubs hadn’t moved from the spot in the corridor for weeks now. It had worried me: golf and the club where he played had always been his passion. That, and Grandma.

  ‘We’re up here,’ a voice called from upstairs.

  I frowned and looked up, transported back to a moment when Grandma had been alive, then shook my head. Silly.

  I climbed the stairs, finding Arjun and Grandad in the bedroom, looking like they were about to drown in a sea of black bin liners, carrier bags, shoe boxes and hangers.

  ‘What are you doing?’ I asked them both, standing in the doorway.

  Arjun looked up, his black hair barely flecked with grey, glossy under the overhead light, his wiry frame practically buried under women’s clothes.

  ‘We thought we’d make a start sorting through some of your grandmoth
er’s things,’ Arjun said, in a voice that suggested he was already regretting it.

  I looked round at the room at the piles of clothes, shoes, belts, hats and more. My grandma had loved to dress and had never really changed shape so nothing was ever thrown away.

  Grandad was sitting on the bed clutching a thin black leather belt, pulled from a pile of other belts by his side.

  ‘Is that one particularly special?’ I said in my most sensitive voice, moving towards him, ready to give him comfort.

  ‘No,’ he said, his fingers inching along the leather. ‘I just can’t believe how much stuff there is. She could have dressed every woman in Maplelands club . . . for a year.’ He sounded dazed. I couldn’t help but giggle.

  Grandad looked at me properly then, still dressed in my suit and heels. ‘Lottie, did you come from work? You must be busy. We are more than happy to do this – you get off and do something fun for the day.’

  ‘Don’t be silly, I can help,’ I said, not wanting to leave now, overwhelmed by the enormous number of things strewn on the bed, furniture and floor. ‘You’re going to need it,’ I added, putting my briefcase down and folding my coat on top of it.

  ‘I wouldn’t leave that there,’ Arjun said, clutching a roll of bin liners. ‘You might find it heading to Oxfam.’

  ‘Good point,’ I agreed, picking my things up again and placing them in the corridor. ‘I’ll make more tea,’ I called, heading back down the stairs.

  ‘Just hot water for me,’ Arjun called after me. Arjun had always tried to get Grandad and Grandma into various health kicks: he treated blueberries like they were the food of the Gods, played endless rounds of golf and had introduced them both to aqua aerobics (Grandad had only attended the first session, claiming the pop music they played was not to his taste).

  The bedroom was stuffy and we worked in silence, heaping clothes into separate piles. Standing in front of the wardrobe I was overwhelmed by the scent of Grandma, a mix of mint and the outdoors, my hand shooting out for balance as if the smell would send me physically back through time. I could see her now at my cousin Nikki’s wedding in a lemon yellow linen dress; leaving for bridge in a pale blue fitted shirt, her hair shining; sitting up in her bed in a white, high-collared cotton nightdress, still beautiful and dignified even that last time.

  Once we had emptied the wardrobe I stepped into the fitted closet, reaching up and pulling things from the hanging space. Some of them I didn’t recognise at all: they must have been in there for years.

  ‘There are some extraordinary dresses from the 1980s back here,’ I called, emerging, hair askew, with a collection of coat hangers. I held one up. ‘Grandma loved a shoulder pad, it seemed.’

  ‘Oh, she was smitten over that one,’ called Grandad from across the room as I drew out a mustard yellow tea dress, pale pink roses printed on the fabric.

  ‘I can see why: it’s so pretty.’

  The label was almost entirely faded. The dress must have been at least forty years old and yet it was still pressed and ready to wear.

  Being among Grandma’s clothes made me feel closer to her than I had in these last few weeks since she’d gone. Remembering how sociable she had been, dragging Grandad off to various events when he’d happily have stayed in and watched reruns of Deal or No Deal (Noel Edmonds really tickled him). I remembered occasions when she’d worn some of these dresses, how even as a teenager I had conceded that my grandma had amazing style.

  Grandad had gone downstairs with another full bin liner and I was standing back in the closet, running a hand through the folds, feeling the different fabrics before pulling out a floor-length gown in dusky rose pink, tiny beads sewn into the bodice, a delicate chiffon skirt. I sucked in my breath as I removed it from the rail.

  ‘How did I never see her in this? It’s gorgeous.’ I held it up against me and stepped back into the room in search of a mirror. ‘Oh.’ The bedroom was empty.

  Arjun was in the corridor just outside, leaning against the wall, engrossed in a burgundy-leather-bound photo album. When he looked up at me, the dress still in my hands, he had tears in his eyes. ‘I got to know her so well these last few years. She was always so good to me,’ he said, sniffing and pulling out a tissue from inside the sleeve of his jumper. ‘She was a beauty,’ he added, indicating the photographs.

  ‘She was,’ I said quietly, picturing Grandma now at her dressing table, smoothing down her silvery-grey hair with the silver-backed brush.

  At that moment Grandad reappeared at the top of the stairs, taking us both in. I was still holding the dress against me and he smiled.

  ‘We got engaged when she was wearing that dress,’ he said, his voice low as he inclined his head towards me. ‘I took her to the opera, and then for dinner afterwards. I don’t remember the show, I couldn’t eat, and when it came to it I couldn’t get the words out I was so bloody nervous.’

  We were all crying now.

  ‘You should take it,’ he said. ‘You and she are about the same size. She would have wanted you to have anything you liked.’

  We locked eyes then and it was my turn to nod and swallow down the emotion. Grandma had always been generous to a fault, shielding me from bad weather with her own jacket while she got soaked, carrying me back from the bus stop aged eight when I’d twisted my ankle pirouetting around the pole, offering me food from her plate if I finished first. I smiled sadly as I fingered the shimmering material, pictured my own utilitarian wardrobe of blacks and greys: my uniform.

  ‘I can’t think of an occasion I’d wear it.’

  Grandad’s face fell immediately, the lines more marked as he turned away from me, his shoulders dropping a fraction. Arjun coughed and looked away. I regretted saying it the moment the words left my mouth.

  What was wrong with me? I felt my insides swirl in confusion. Suddenly I felt the familiar bubble of anger, always so near the surface, and bit the inside of my cheek. I should have fixed things but instead I wiped at my face, turned and moved back into the bedroom, replacing the dress where I had found it, and continued to clear the piles around me.

  Chapter 6

  Love is like falling into a large hole with no idea how to get back out

  PETER, 75

  I was running late for Amy, which Amy hated. It wasn’t just the teacher in her, she’d always been like that. Even at school when we were little she would roll her eyes, cross her arms and look disapproving. She was right, of course. I knew it was selfish but somehow, even with the best of intentions, I still managed to be late. I started preparing a lie as I half jogged along the pavement. I had blamed the Tube last time. This time I might go big and invent a foiled handbag-snatching attempt. Too much time in court maybe – and anyway Amy was trained to see through extravagant tales.

  I was still trying to divide my time between our flat and the odd evenings at Grandad’s house and felt torn and stretched thin, living on buses and tubes and buying underwear when out because my stuff was scattered around the place. I wanted to help Grandad, make him less alone, but sometimes wondered if I was creating more work for him. I had heard him sigh as he turned off the smoke alarm and washed up the mess I had created in the kitchen after starting a meal for us before becoming distracted by a work document. Grandad had snapped at me to leave the scorched pan and I had stepped back, stung. We both missed Grandma. She had always been the calming influence, capable and relaxed as Grandad and I circled each other, both perhaps a little highly strung.

  I’d apologised in a gruff voice, not meeting his eye, wanting to shout that I had just been trying to help, then wanting to be back in my own flat with Luke making me dinner. Then the crashing guilt after that thought.

  Luke was often with Grandad when I wasn’t, knew it was important to me that he had company. We could have spent this Saturday together – until I remembered I’d promised Amy I’d go wedding-dress shopping with her.

  ‘It’s important,’ I’d barked, shrugging off Luke’s hand inching around my waist in bed t
hat morning.

  His sigh had instantly made me bristle, feel cross. I was still tired, I wanted to stay in our freshly laundered bed with him too. I hadn’t said that, had simply stamped off to the shower, muttering underneath the jet of water before racing around the flat as the clock ticked, Luke watching his iPad in bed.

  ‘Are you just going to lounge around here then?’

  ‘It’s the weekend, Lottie. And you’re abandoning me.’

  ‘I told you’ – I looked up at him – ‘it’s Amy, I can’t not go.’

  ‘Hey.’ Luke raised both hands. ‘I know, I know, there’s no need to lose it on me.’

  ‘I’m not losing it on you,’ I said, my voice rising: there was nothing more likely to make me lose it than Luke accusing me of losing it already.

  ‘No, you’re chillaxed as ever,’ he muttered at the screen.

  ‘I heard that.’

  ‘You were meant to,’ Luke said, smiling sweetly up at me.

  Huffing, I finished pulling on my clothes, wincing as I hit my shin on the corner of the drawer I had just pulled out.

  ‘Fuck.’

  ‘You OK?’

  ‘Not that you care.’

  Luke didn’t respond, just went back to his iPad. I picked up my handbag. ‘I’m late,’ I said crossly, as if it was Luke’s fault.

  ‘Amy will understand. Come here.’

  ‘She’ll be angry,’ I said, petulantly.

  Luke put down his iPad, letting his breath out slowly.

  ‘Well, you’re late anyway so come here.’

  I grudgingly stepped round to his side of the bed and he reached out an arm and pulled me down into a hug.

  I let him hold me, my cheek on the cotton of his T-shirt, feeling strangely tearful all of a sudden. Blinking furiously, I wondered for the millionth time in the last couple of months just what had come over me.

  ‘I’ve got to go,’ I said, this time in a softer voice, gently pushing myself off him.