Love, Almost

by Hayley Doyle

  ‘What?!’ my Mum shrieks, then lowers her voice for Carol. ‘She says she’s not coming home.’

  ‘Mum, I live in London now. I’ve got a job, a flat—’

  ‘Oh, you can’t be serious?’

  ‘Why is that so hard to believe?’

  ‘Because you’ve only been there two minutes. You’ve got to come home.’

  ‘I haven’t got to do anything.’

  ‘But it’s too busy down there; it’s too bloody expensive.’

  ‘Well, Pam Gillespie seems to think it’s fantastic.’

  ‘Oh, get your head out the clouds, love. You can’t survive down there on your own.’

  I think of all the gingham disguising what used to be my childhood bedroom.

  ‘Doubt I’d survive much better at home with you.’

  She gasps.

  ‘Where’s the Chloe I know, eh? That London’s gone to your head.’

  ‘Look, I’m sorry, Mum. I just haven’t had time to process everything yet.’

  ‘You will,’ she says, softer now. ‘It’ll all come clear, love.’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘Everything happens for a reason. You mark my words. You’ll look back on today soon enough and think, wow, this all happened for a reason.’

  Okay, it’s time to wrap things up.

  ‘Please don’t worry about me, Mum,’ I say, honestly not wanting her to hang up and start fretting. You see, she’ll be fine while Carol’s there – she’ll nick one of Carol’s ciggies (even though she ‘quit’ in 1988) and together they can chew the fat – but once she’s on her own she’ll overthink my whole situation and get herself into a right state. ‘I’m fine.’

  ‘But you’re all on your own, love.’

  ‘That’s not the tragedy here, Mum.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Never mind. Besides, I’m not on me own, I’ve got Beth … work … you know.’

  ‘You’re single, though,’ she says, sobbing.

  I hear Carol ask if she’d like a gin and tonic.

  ‘Slimline tonic,’ my mum tells her. ‘Open a new one. On the left in the pantry.’

  ‘Mum, I’ve got to go. I’ve got a hairdresser’s appointment soon.’

  ‘Oh, no love. How do you know you can trust this hairdresser?’

  I’m losing the will. Let’s be honest, unless she’s referring to Sweeney Todd, I’m not sure anyone’d be able to give a logical response. My brain hurts and I grind my teeth.

  ‘Are you still there, love?’

  ‘Yes, Mum. Still here.’

  ‘Chloe, wouldn’t you rather wait ’til you’re home, go to the place you like in town? The one with the purple chaise longue in the window?’

  ‘I can’t go the funeral with these roots, Mum.’

  I can hear Carol suggesting I wear a hat.

  ‘Did you hear that, love? Carol said—’

  ‘I heard her.’

  ‘You don’t half suit hats.’

  She’s genuinely concerned about this. I know she’ll play with her tea tonight now, unable to focus on Corrie, worrying how my hair will turn out. She’s never forgiven me for going full-on bleached blonde, forever suggesting I grow it out to my mousey brown and get some highlights with the cap. The cap!

  ‘I’ll speak to you soon, Mum. Love you millions.’

  ‘Love you more.’

  9

  On Friday morning, I arrive at All Saints Church in a Berkshire village, and spot a wooden bench beneath the shade of an oak tree. The scene is picture perfect. A small medieval stone building with a steeple, a weathercock proud at its tip; a quaint path leading from the wooden double doors to a pretty floral arch. Nothing like the church I got dragged to for Sunday morning mass growing up. Even the sky is an idyllic blue. For a moment, I feel like I’m starring in a nineties Britflick.

  That moment passes in a flash.

  I feel nervous. I feel jittery. I feel numb and I feel pain. I feel such a cocktail of contradicting emotions that I’m dizzy, I’m heavy-headed, I’m scared. I’m not wearing a hat – my roots are now a silvery blonde – but I’m wearing a black cardigan, and black tights beneath my black shift dress. So I’m hot. I’m sweaty. I’m wishing I hadn’t worn shoes with a heel because they’re already hurting, but nothing else I own would’ve been smart enough.

  I’m also early.

  Well, I’d got myself into a right panic about being late. I mean, I had to take the tube to Paddington, a train to Reading and then a slow train seven stops, followed by a fifteen-minute walk following Google Maps. The conductor on the Reading train had caught my eye and told me to have a nice day. It made me wonder how often people have said this to me on a daily basis and how often I’ve taken all those nice days for granted. I’m not going to have a nice day today.

  I sit myself down on the bench, slip my heels off and crack my toes, waiting for Jack’s mourners to arrive. I didn’t even know the location of this place until last night. When Jack’s mum sent that text, I’d replied saying, Thank you, Cx and forgot to ask where the funeral would be. I couldn’t bother her again, could I?

  So I turned to Facebook.

  I’ve been avoiding social media, knowing I’d lose days trawling through Jack’s online life, specifically his life before me. He was more of a Twitter user, really, following the football, his fave comedians, a few prolific scientists and activists. Personally, I use Instagram. My settings are private and my name is an alias because I’m a teacher. I nose often and rarely post. But I had to find out about the funeral – I had to go there – and wow, there’s nothing like a Facebook page to hammer home a tragedy, is there? Jack’s profile was plastered with tributes: lyrics to songs, emojis of broken hearts, photographs – some recent, many old, going back to his uni days and beyond, that moonfaced blur of retro snaps retaken on a smart phone – and – thank God – the details about his funeral, posted by his older brother, Alex.

  But there was nothing from me.

  And of course. I never digitally professed my love, and so neither have I declared how his death has shattered my world. There isn’t a single photo of us together posted. Not a mention of my name within the long lists of those tagged, those who will remain in people’s thoughts and prayers during this sad, sad time. Everybody on the list is a stranger to me, other than Patricia Carmichael and John Carmichael and Freddie Carmichael, Jack’s younger brother who I met briefly at a pub a couple of months ago. I never got the chance to meet his older brother, Alex, a tech whizz who lives in Seattle with his wife and kids. I recognised the name Ross Robson, the comedian we were supposed to go and see in Greenwich the evening I found out Jack died. I don’t know him, though.

  And this is why I didn’t want to expose myself to Facebook.

  This.

  As I scrolled through every public message to Jack, I found her. Florrie.

  Florrie Ellen Tewkesbury. I mean, it’s hard not to ignore a name like that, eh?

  We strive to find great love in life. Jack Carmichael, thank you for being my friend, my stormtrooper, my bud. Thank you for being one of my life’s great loves. Heaven celebrates what we commiserate. Boogie on up there and we’ll catch up again one fine day. I knows it. You know I knows it. You knows it. Haha xxx

  Stormtrooper??

  I had to click on her profile. (Wouldn’t you?!)

  Her privacy settings are tight but her profile pic told me enough. Sipping an oversized cup of hot chocolate loaded with floating marshmallows, her pinky out; a severe eyeliner flick; cherry-red dyed hair. I hated that I was peeking, presuming, imagining them together.

  ‘So don’t look,’ is what Jack would’ve said. ‘Simple.’

  ‘But I had to find out where your fucking funeral is!’ I yelled at the wall. ‘And thanks to that, not only have I been reminded hundreds and hundreds and hundreds of times that you’re dead and with the angels and never to be forgotten and taken too soon, but I’m wondering why Florrie called you her fucking Stormtrooper? Since when
were you into Star Wars? What the actual … Jack?!’

  I wished for him to be checking the spice rack for paprika, or singing the wrong words to Elton John songs from the bathroom.

  I opened Facebook again. Not to read any more tributes, though. I wanted to see him; Jack. I tapped on his photos, something I hadn’t done since our earliest days – when I found them, to be honest, uninteresting. His profile pic was simply his bushy beard and his teeth grinning. His last upload had been in March this year, and, typical Jack, it wasn’t a photo of him. It was a photo of a different person altogether. The man sat in the shopping trolley.

  The last morning we spent together floated into my mind: him pondering the meaning of what could be behind the picture. I wished I hadn’t rushed off to work, wished I’d been given the gift of hindsight so I could have called in sick, spent the day with him. Oh, how we could’ve pondered such notions all bloody day! I looked up from my laptop, over towards the cooker where the picture hangs, and saw Jack, arms folded across his chest, a smile – a little smug – stretching across his face.

  ‘I reckon I love you, Chloe Roscoe,’ I imagined him saying.

  ‘And I reckon I love you, too, Jack Carmichael,’ I said.

  And now, today, it’s his funeral.

  I squeeze my feet back into my heels. A couple of people have arrived, a few cars parking on the quiet country road. I stand; not sure why. It’s not like I’m looking out for a mate or hoping to be noticed. So I sit back down again and wait, watch; some women my age, linking each other; another with a baby in a sling, bouncing. Four fellas get out of one car, a variety of beards, all suited and booted. None of them are wearing black. In fact, their attire is more in line for a wedding. They all know each other. The fellas kiss the women on the cheek; coo at the baby.

  More people filter into the old graveyard, tombstones so ancient that the writing is too weathered to make out. And more, and more. A scattered few in black: the older generation.

  I spot Florrie running towards the group with the baby, hugging each one individually and swaying from side to side mid embrace. She’s got a peach fascinator on her head.

  I want to mingle, and yet I don’t. I really, really don’t. I want to make sure everybody knows who I am, that I’m Jack’s girlfriend; but I also don’t want be here at all, because quite frankly, who wants to be at a funeral? I want two weeks ago; I want a month ago; I want anything that isn’t this. But I want to be involved.

  Because I am. Involved.

  As I make my way from the bench beneath the tree towards the crowd, I wonder when everybody here saw Jack last. He’d spent the majority of the past few months with me, or at work. I bet some of these people haven’t seen him in years. I had sex with him the morning before he—

  A hand touches my shoulder.

  ‘Hey … Chloe, right?’

  I nearly scream.

  ‘Sorry, didn’t mean to frighten you!’ It’s Badge.

  He’s slight and holds his suit jacket by the collar, resting it upon his shoulder casually, pushing his square-framed specs further up his nose. I think his full name is Paul Badger, a colleague of Jack’s. I went to his house for drinks and nibbles one Sunday last month, something Jack thought would be a good laugh, except there were lots of small children. The majority of adults were bent at the waist chasing their offspring around in a tizz. When Jack had gone to the loo, I’d got stuck talking to a couple about potty training and catchment areas. We didn’t stay long.

  ‘Nice to see you again,’ I say, like an idiot.

  ‘Terrible, isn’t it?’ Badge says, clearly bewildered.

  I nod.

  ‘We just can’t believe it,’ he shakes his head. ‘The whole team, we’re just, you know.’

  ‘Yeah.’

  Then Badge holds up one hand and crosses his fingers.

  ‘So were you and Jack an item?’ he asks.

  ‘I’d just moved in with him.’

  ‘So that was you! I presumed so. Jack mentioned he was living with a lady.’

  I’m grateful for this information and although I don’t say anything, I hope others heard it.

  ‘Such a horrid tragedy though,’ Badge says, swallowing. ‘And the driver—’

  He stops abruptly as we notice the hush descending amongst us. An almost-silence falls. The only sounds creeping in are the leaves on the trees rustling in a soft breeze. The cars are here. They move so slowly that they don’t make a sound. Around me, people gently edge towards the church entrance. I can’t see anything. No coffin, no wreath that spells out Jack. I just see the black roofs of cars and allow the crowds to pass me by, my heels sinking into the soft, grassy earth. Badge is no longer beside me; he’s nowhere to be seen. There’s crying. Hefty, meaty sobs. The noise triggers my throat to tighten, to hurt. I watch everybody filter inside.

  The pallbearers surround the hearse. Jack’s brothers, both with kind faces.

  I can’t look.

  I won’t look.

  I turn around, my back facing what’s supposed to be Jack inside a box. My God, from what I see of the box before I turn it doesn’t even look big enough for him to fit inside. I don’t want to gawp, check, or think that thought ever, ever, ever again. I gaze out past the gate; the stone wall dotted with moss; the horses in the distance across a field.

  And when I turn back, the hearse is empty.

  The girl with the baby in a sling waits by the church door, jigging in and out of the entrance, her spot for the ceremony. I walk forward, give her and her baby a gentle smile and slip into the back row pew.

  The vicar begins. Jack’s brother Alex delivers a few anecdotes about Jack as a kid, ‘Always collecting things; ladybirds in matchboxes, football stickers, rings from Coke cans …’ Sweet; I never knew that. Alex reminds us all that Jack liked to own a room; to be heard. Laughter drops the tension of many shoulders and a few people clap. It’s more of a best man’s speech than a eulogy and Alex invites some of Jack’s friends to say a few words, too.

  They talk of terrible chat-up lines and something they got up to as students called ‘naked stair diving’. There’s much appreciation for the latter – it’s something a good chunk of the congregation seems to know about. We’re invited to look up to the white screen set up on the altar. A video montage begins, with ‘Don’t Stop Me Now’ by Queen as the soundtrack. People whoop and cheer at various moments – Jack downing a shot or bombing into a swimming pool – and there’s a group ‘ah’ for old clips of him as a kid with a dog or pecking his mum on the cheek. A short video game animation slots into the mix, made by work colleagues: ‘Jack’ the avatar running through a desert with a machine gun. As Freddie Mercury finishes up with the slowed-down ‘da’s of his song, the montage goes into slow motion too, ending with a familiar face, crossing his eyes and sticking out his tongue, raising a pint of Guinness …

  Familiar to everybody in this church bar one.

  Me.

  I barely recognise him. Of course, it looks like Jack. But it’s not Jack. A lad who was apparently into Moby and The Mighty Boosh? I mean, Jack? My Jack? Never in a million years. And as for the choice of song for the montage – well.

  As the vicar rounds up the service, Trish gets to her feet. A ripple of applause begins, more and more people standing, until I have to follow suit or I’ll be the only one sitting down. As the coffin is carried past me, I look at the mahogany wood and think, ‘You’re not in there – you’re not.’ Because if Jack’s in there, I won’t be able to cope. I’ll die right here on the spot from pain. Instead, I’m just going to feel ashamed that I’ve just crashed some fella’s funeral.

  I’m an intruder.

  Outside, I stand beside Florrie as the coffin is placed back into the hearse. It’s off to the crematorium where, the vicar had informed the congregation, only immediate family could attend. Florrie is wailing, as is the pal she’s arm in arm with. The girl with the baby in the sling says she has to nip off, pick up her other kid from preschool. They air kiss
.

  ‘Pub?’ Florrie asks around to nobody specific, but her eyes find mine.

  I don’t know.

  Should I go?

  I suppose Trish and John will be expecting to see me there later.

  ‘I’ve got space in my car,’ a fella says, and another says, ‘Me, too.’

  One of them is Ross Robson. Here we are, finally meeting. He’s the tallest of the men here; a fifty-fifty mix of smart and scruffy, with wild curly hair and a sweet baby face for a fella in his late thirties.

  ‘Ross?’ I say. ‘I’m Chloe.’

  He looks at me, blank. He’s not being rude though – I can sense his embarrassment, his panicked search around his mind. Who is Chloe? Did I sleep with her once? Is she a crazy fan? Was she the fat girl in school?

  ‘Jack’s girlfriend,’ I help him out.

  ‘Chloe!’ he sings. ‘Ah, mate. We finally meet.’

  ‘My thoughts exactly,’ I say, sadly.

  Florrie muscles in. She’s got that whole look going on: the forties dress, the victory roll. Up close, the fascinator is more of a pillbox hat, with a peachy net veil covering half of her face.

  ‘Flo, this is Chloe,’ Ross says, introducing me.

  ‘Oh, hi,’ Florrie says, and meekly shakes my hand with the tips of her fingers, all decorated in an assortment of silver rings.

  ‘As in Chloe,’ Ross tries to spell it out. ‘The girl Jack was dating.’

  ‘Ohhhh, hiiiiiiiiii.’

  Another fella joins, skinny-fat with enormous teeth.

  ‘I didn’t know Jack was dating someone,’ he snorts, but kindly. ‘What a dark horse!’

  ‘Actually, we were living together,’ I say.

  Ross slaps his hands to his face.

  ‘Ah, mate,’ he says. ‘I didn’t know it was that serious.’

  ‘You mustn’t have been together long,’ Florrie suggests.

  I shrug. ‘Almost half a year.’

  ‘Oh, you poor thing,’ Florrie cries. ‘That’s hardly any time at all.’

  Fuck. I’d meant for that to sound like a long time.

  The skinny-fat fella reiterates. ‘I had no idea.’

  ‘I better dash,’ Florrie taps my arm, then everybody else’s individually, as if she’s playing bongos. ‘I promised Trish I’d check on the caterers.’