by Shari Low
‘Mrs Harrow?’ The undertaker’s voice was steeped in sincerity.
Denise turned, holding the suit bag firmly by her side as she as she did so. She’d spent an hour that morning polishing his shoes until they gleamed, just as he did before and after every time he wore them. His commitment to looking smart was one of the things she loved about him. Always had been, even in the early days when they didn’t have two pennies to rub together. She wasn’t going to let him down now. She’d picked the casket, the order of service and music on her previous visit the day after he died and informed the funeral director that they’d be having a cremation. Solid rosewood coffin. Top quality. Fifty copies of the Order of Service, although she doubted there would be that many people there. They’d deliberately kept their world small. They didn’t need anyone else. And the music… That had been the toughest decision, but she settled on Maria McKee’s ‘Show Me Heaven’ and Sinatra’s ‘My Way’. The first captured her wish that she could be with him eternally and the second… well, he’d like that. The boss in life and death.
‘Mr Steele…’ her words trailed off. What did one say in these circumstances? Lovely to see you again? It wasn’t. Thank you for seeing me? She was paying him to cremate her husband, so seeing her was part of his job.
‘Mrs Harrow,’ he replied, simply but kindly. Perhaps in his profession, he’d realised that pleasantries and inane questions like ‘Good to see you’ or ‘How are you?’ were both unnecessary and a minefield that should be avoided for fear of offence or irritation.
They both stood for a moment, a silence hanging between them, before Mr Steele took charge like a man who was skilled at dealing with people at the most vulnerable times of their life.
‘Ah, thank you for bringing these along,’ he said softly, reaching across to take the items from Denise’s hands. For a moment, she held them, unwilling to let them go, before relinquishing them to him. She watched as his long, almost elegant fingers curled around the metal hook, while his other hand folded effortlessly around the shoebox. ‘Is there anything else I can do for you today, Mrs Harrow? Or would you like a cup of tea? Some water?’
Was there anything else he could do? No. Nothing else mattered. There was nothing anyone could do for her now.
‘No, thank you. If there’s anything else you need for my husband, please let me know.’
His smile was kind as he walked her out, shook her hand and then opened the heavy oak door to let her go.
She stepped out into the August sunshine but felt no heat from the sun’s rays. Just like yesterday, a sweeping feeling of loneliness engulfed her. She couldn’t do this on her own.
She pulled out her phone and searched for Claire’s number again. Her thumb hovered over the green button for several seconds, her hesitation reinforced by the sound of Ray’s voice in her head. ‘She won’t come,’ he said. ‘That’s why we always had to stick together, because you can’t trust anyone else. Just us. The two of us. That’s all we need.’
Denise put the phone back in her pocket and walked on, wishing more than anything that she could hear the familiar sound of his steps beside her.
Just the two of them. But he’d never told her what she should do if only one was left.
Seven
Denise & Ray – 1979
Denise pulled a load of washing out of the spin section of the twin tub and dumped it into the basket at her feet. Her back was killing her, but there was no way she was complaining to her mother. Agnes worked two cleaning jobs, brought up three kids (the twins were twelve now and had a list of chores of their own), ran the house and was from the ‘get on with it’ school of motherhood. She would make absolutely no concessions to her daughter’s aching muscles and complaints were more likely to set her mum off on a rant about all the things she needed to get done that day before her dad came home from his shift at the power plant. Most of the men who lived in the town worked there – over 5000 of them. Her dad, Fred, worked in a completely different area from Ray, so they’d never met, although their parents knew each other to nod to. That was how it worked in this town – everyone knew everyone, and if they didn’t, they definitely knew someone who knew them. Whole families lived in the same street, went on holidays together, socialised together at weekends.
Ray’s family were a slight exception because his grandparents lived in somewhere called Giffnock, which was over the other side of Glasgow. Denise had never been. In fact, she’d only ever been to Ray’s parents’ house twice and that was on Boxing Day and again on Hogmanay.
His parents seemed nice enough. She’d helped his mum, Jenny, in the kitchen preparing the Boxing Day lunch and then on the next visit, she made the sandwiches and sausage rolls for the first-footers – the traditional name for the first guests to come knocking on the door after midnight. It was her first Hogmanay out of the house, and she was surprised that her parents had let her go, but Agnes said she was so knackered she’d be going to bed early anyway. She’d been tired a lot lately, which wasn’t like her, but she’d still never missed a day of work. Bills to pay, she said.
‘Denise, can you make sure you get that hung up in the next five minutes – I’ve got another load to go on and I need to get that lot dry pronto.’
‘I’m just doing it now,’ Denise replied, trying to add a smile that turned to a wince as a shooting pain caused an excruciating spasm in her back. Gingerly, trying to manage the pain, she bent down and picked up the basket, then turned away from her mother and headed for the back door.
She’d barely taken two steps when her mum let out a gasp of, ‘Oh, dear Christ.’
Denise stopped, turned, fear immediately sending her nerve endings to the outside of her skin.
‘Put that down, right now,’ Agnes hissed, crossing the room to her, not for one second taking her eyes off her daughter.
Denise dropped the basket just in time for her mother to grab her arm and turn her to the side, then run her hand over her daughter’s stomach.
‘Denise Margaret McAlee…’ She only used her full name when she was really, really furious and Denise knew, without any sliver of doubt, that her mother was about to kill her. ‘Are you pregnant?’
Not one part of Denise’s body was willing to work. She couldn’t speak, because her throat was being strangled by a sob. She couldn’t breathe because she was too terrified. She couldn’t even cry, because, God knows, she’d cried every tear she had to shed in the last month.
She’d suspected for a few weeks, but she hadn’t told anyone. Not Ray, not her mother, not even Alice. Instead, she’d decided to ignore it, hoping beyond hope that it would just go away. People had miscarriages. It had happened to a few of Agnes’s friends and even to Agnes twice over the years, so she’d just been praying that would happen here too. She couldn’t believe that her mother had spotted it. She was barely showing at all.
Agnes was so close now, Denise could feel her breath on her cheek as she nodded. She expected rage, fury, screams, but instead Agnes staggered back until she was leaning against the yellow Formica on top of the units beside them.
‘Jesus wept, Denise. How could you be so stupid?’
Denise stared at the floor. She’d asked herself that so many times too. The truth was that she’d held out for seven months, never let Ray go the full way, but then at New Year they’d nipped up to his room for a cuddle while everyone partied downstairs and he’d persuaded her. His hand had flicked open the top button of her jeans and pulled down her zip. She’d instinctively put her hand on his to stop him.
‘Come on, Denise, we’ve been going out for bloody ages and I love you, you know I do.’
Every time he said that, something inside her melted. He was the only person who had ever said that to her. Her mum and dad weren’t mean to her, but they didn’t do all that ‘mushy’ stuff, as they called it.
Still, something – probably the worry that as soon as they’d had sex he’d lose interest in her – had always stopped her from giving in. She had no idea why
that night was different, but it was. She’d taken her hand away, and they’d had sex that night, and many times afterwards – every time they could get a private moment at a pal’s house, at a party, even – a few times – in the staffroom at the cafe when she was left to lock up after an evening shift.
She’d started to feel different by Easter. Her boobs were sore, and she was getting waves of nausea in the mornings. Still she refused to believe it until one morning before school, when she could no longer fasten the button on her skirt. Since then she’d been in baggy jumpers and stayed out of the house as much as possible, either at school or working at the cafe, where the very smell of the fryers made her want to hurl. Which was a good thing, because that, combined with the fact that she could barely face food, had kept her naturally skinny frame from changing too much. Even Ray hadn’t spotted anything, although he was getting a bit irritated that she had made excuses not to have sex on the few occasions they’d been together over the last couple of weeks. He was so knackered after work that instead of seeing each other every day or so, it had tailed off to once or twice a week.
‘How far along are you? If it’s not too long…’ there was a glimmer of hope in Agnes’s voice, which Denise soon extinguished.
‘About five months.’
Another guttural wail from Agnes, followed by a babbling outburst of, ‘How the hell did I not see it before now? Why didn’t you tell me? Jesus Christ, Denise, we could have… Oh, bloody hell, your father will go mental. And what’s that boyfriend of yours saying to it then?’
Denise finally found the ability to speak.
‘He doesn’t know either.’
Agnes snorted. ‘Christ Almighty, you’re as daft as each other.’
Denise waited, unsure what to say next, waiting for the next outburst. It didn’t take long.
‘Right, get your coat,’ her mum demanded.
They were out of the door and down the street before Denise realised she hadn’t asked where they were going. The doctor? One of her aunts’ houses? The hospital?
Her steps got faster and faster as she tried to keep up with Agnes, going left, right, crossing roads, until… Oh, shit.
They turned into Ray’s street.
Agnes ignored the bell and battered on the door, while Denise tried not to pass out with panic.
‘Keep yer knickers on, I’m coming,’ yelled a voice from inside, before Ray’s mum, Jenny, finally answered. Her hair, dark like Ray’s, was pulled back in a ponytail and she still had on her brown uniform from the supermarket where she worked on the checkout. ‘Hello, love,’ she said, clearly puzzled. ‘Ray’s not here and—’
‘It’s you I’ve come to see,’ Agnes spoke up, while Denise, face burning, lowered her gaze to her shoes. ‘I’m Agnes McAlee, Denise’s mum.’
Jenny’s face gave away the fact that she immediately realised that this wasn’t a social call.
Agnes steamrollered on. ‘This one’s pregnant and your boy’s the father.’
To her credit, Jenny didn’t go for drama. She simply opened the door wider and let them pass through, before ushering them into the kitchen.
‘You’d better sit down.’
Agnes didn’t need to be told twice, and Denise thought again how exhausted her mum looked. Or maybe it was the shock of this afternoon’s discovery.
Jenny sat down opposite them. ‘Are you sure?’
‘Sure it’s your boy’s?’ Agnes asked, ready for battle.
‘No,’ Jenny clarified, maintaining her calm. ‘Sure that you’re pregnant.’
Denise managed to meet her eyes, before nodding.
‘How far along?’
‘Nearly six months.’
Jenny’s eyebrows furrowed. ‘But you’re not showing.’
Agnes smoothed down Denise’s sweatshirt so that a gentle bump was visible. ‘I was the same when I was pregnant with her. Didn’t show at all until I was six months gone and then barely went up two sizes before she was born. It was different with the twins though. Bloody huge with them.’
‘I need a cup of tea,’ Jenny suddenly announced, getting up from the table.
No one said a word until she put the teapot between them, added three mugs, then took a bottle of milk from the fridge and placed it next to the sugar bowl on the teak veneer table.
She poured as she spoke. ‘I don’t know what to say, Mrs McAlee.’
‘Well I’ve got plenty to say, so maybe I should start,’ Agnes retorted.
Denise wanted to die. She actually wanted to end it all, right here and now.
‘I can’t keep her and the baby in my house. We’re overcrowded as it is, with myself and Fred, and the twins and Denise already squashed into a two bedroom terrace. And I can’t be looking after a baby, especially not in the next few months.’
Jenny looked at her quizzically, making Agnes sigh.
‘I’ve got one on the way myself.’
Denise nearly fainted. Oh God. Her mum was pregnant too. No wonder she looked knackered. The embarrassment level just took another step towards unbearable. She was actually pregnant at the same time as her mother! This was a nightmare. A complete and utter nightmare.
The two women continued to talk, but Denise zoned out. She couldn’t bear it. Her heart was racing, her palms were sweating, she was faint with hunger but couldn’t face putting a morsel of food in her mouth.
It was almost a relief when they heard the front door open and Ray and his dad, Pete, came in from work. Both in the standard plant uniform of work trousers, steel toecapped boots and sweatshirts, they brought with them a sticky aroma of dust and oil.
Denise could hear them in the hall, laughing over some story Pete was telling, but Ray’s smile faded when he stepped into the kitchen and saw the committee of women before him.
‘Denise? What’s going on?’
Of course, she couldn’t speak, so his mum stepped in.
‘You’d better sit down, both of you,’ she said, then waited until they’d done as she asked, before getting straight to the point. ‘Denise and her mum came to tell us that Denise is pregnant.’
‘No!’ Ray blurted, eyes wide. Denise couldn’t keep looking at the shock and horror on his face, so she stared down at the table instead.
His dad said nothing, just sat there, his expression giving away nothing.
‘So we’ve decided that she’s going to move in here,’ Jenny went on calmly. ‘She can have the box room for now and then we can see how it goes when the baby is born.’
‘Aye, but they’ll be married by then, so one room will be fine for them,’ Agnes piped up, in a tone that made it absolutely certain it wasn’t up for discussion.
Marriage? It hadn’t even been discussed. This morning she’d told no-one and now, suddenly she was moving out of her house, coming to live with Ray’s family, and her mother was marching them up the aisle. The room started to spin. This was too much. She felt sick. Glancing up, Denise met Ray’s glance and saw nothing but fury and horror in his eyes.
The last thing Denise heard before she fainted was the screeching sound of Ray’s chair as he leapt up and stormed out of the room.
Eight
Claire – 2019
Claire was sitting cross legged on the floor on a thick padded red cushion she’d liberated from the chaise longue Val and Josie were perched on. Jeanna was now lounging one of the red velvet thrones that were usually reserved for brides, a lopsided, two foot wide pink mother-of-the-bride hat on her grey-free, expensively cut, shiny and extended russet hair, cackling into her second coffee of the day.
‘What’s so funny?’ Claire asked, puzzled.
Jeanna immediately caught herself, stopped laughing and assumed an expression of innocence. ‘Nothing. Just enjoying the stories and reminiscing about those days. What a way to spend the millennium. We had some great parties in that flat until they threw us out for noise pollution.’
After almost thirty years of friendship, Claire could spot a lie at a hundred paces. ‘No,
no, no, Jeanna McCallan, what are you not saying? Come on, spill.’
Josie and Val immediately cottoned on to what was happening. ‘Val, you hold her down and I’ll get the flashlight from the boiler cupboard. We’ll have the truth out of her in no time.’
That made Jeanna cackle even more, before she got a grip and pulled herself together. Claire was beginning to wonder if she’d added a little something of the alcoholic variety to her morning coffee. Hair done to perfection. Flawless make-up applied. Designer leisurewear on. Wee nip of tequila in her soya latte macchiato. Nothing would surprise her.
Jeanna finally composed herself enough to speak, albeit reluctantly and under pressure. ‘OK, OK. So, first of all, it might have been me who set you on fire.’
‘What?’ Claire gasped.
‘I’d cadged the cigarette off that bloke and it was in my hand when I hugged you. I’d given it back by the time we realised you were going up in smoke.’
Claire was dumbfounded. ‘Why didn’t you tell me? All these years, I’ve been looking for that guy in crowds, ready to punch him for almost killing me.’
‘I know!’ Jeanna blurted. ‘That’s why I couldn’t tell you! I’m so sorry! I didn’t want you to hate me. Or to get some kind of complex that I was trying to bump you off.’
Claire narrowly missed the target with the croissant she shot in Jeanna’s direction. ‘And what else?’
‘What?’ Jeanna asked, feigning innocence.
Val piped up. ‘You said “First of all”. So what else do you have to add about that night? Did you also hatch a conspiracy to nick all her worldly goods? Steal her identity? Shag her boyfriend?’
Jeanna was outraged. ‘Indeed I did not! I’d never do something so low. No, I shagged her brother instead.’
‘You did not!’ Claire squealed, unable to stop herself laughing at the same time. ‘You slept with Doug? How do I not know this? How?’ Claire had lost count over the years of how many of her friends had had a crush on Doug. He was seriously handsome back then, still had it now. On top of that, he was one of those people who had no interest in how he looked so that made him even more attractive.
