He took a deep breath, hearing the tremor as he let it out. He leaned forward until his forehead was resting gently against the headstone.
“I know this doesn’t count for much now, but I am so sorry for never coming to see you. And for being so scared. You probably worked this out much sooner than I did, but you know I never really was able to accept that you were gone. After Dad, and Mum . . . and then Sally leaving . . . I couldn’t let you go too. And then somehow I got the chance to build this place, this world, where you were still here, and I couldn’t resist. It wasn’t supposed to be for long, but it got out of control so quickly. Before I knew it I was even inventing the arguments we’d have. Sometimes it was just silly stuff—you despairing about me and my silly model trains, mostly—but other times it was more serious: disagreements about how we were bringing up the kids, worrying that we’d not lived our lives to the full and hadn’t seen enough of the world. That’s the tip of the iceberg, really; I thought about everything. Because it wasn’t just one life with you I imagined, it was a million different ones, with every possible fork in the road. Of course every now and then I’d feel you pulling away from me, and I knew that was your way of telling me to let go, but that just made me cling on more. And, the thing is, it was only after the game was finally up that I was actually able to pull my stupid, self-absorbed head out of my arse and think about what you would have actually said if you knew for one single second what I was doing. I’m just sorry I didn’t think of that sooner. I just hope you can forgive me, even though I don’t deserve it.”
Andrew was aware that someone else had appeared to tend to a grave a few feet away. He lowered his voice to a whisper.
“I wrote you a letter, once, very soon after we got together, but I was too scared to give it to you because I thought you might run a mile. It started life as a poem, too, so you were really let off the hook. It was full of hopelessly romantic sentiment that you would have quite rightly laughed your head off at, but I think one bit remains true. I wrote that I knew the moment we first held each other that something in me had changed forever. Up to that point I’d never realized that life, just sometimes, can be wonderfully, beautifully simple. I only wish I’d remembered that after you’d gone.”
He had to stop to wipe his eyes with his coat sleeve, smoothing his hand along the stone again. He stayed there, quiet now, feeling a pure and strangely joyful pain wash over him, knowing that as much as it hurt, it was something he had to accept, a winter before the spring, letting its ice freeze and fracture his heart before it could heal.
* * *
—
The next train to Swansea was pulling into the station as Andrew got there, but he felt reluctant to leave so soon. He decided to stop in a pub nearby instead. As he approached the door old habits kicked in and he hesitated just outside. But he thought of Diane watching on, no doubt mouthing swear words in his direction, and he pressed on. And though the regulars looked at him somewhat curiously, and the barman poured him a pint and threw a packet of salt and vinegar on the bar without much enthusiasm, their reaction to him was benign rather than unwelcoming.
He sat in the corner with his beer and his book, and felt, for the first time in a very long while, content.
— CHAPTER 37 —
Andrew turned the pair of tights inside out and shook out a bundle of notes onto the bed.
“Bingo,” Peggy said. “Enough to cover the funeral, do you reckon?”
“Should be,” Andrew said, leafing through the money.
“Well, that’s something. Poor old . . .”
“Josephine.”
“Josephine. God, I’m the worst. It’s such a lovely name, too. Sounds like the sort of woman who’d always bring loads of food to a harvest festival.”
“Maybe she did. Did she talk about church in the diary?”
“Only when she was slagging off Songs of Praise.”
Josephine Murray had penned scores of diary entries, as she’d noted, “in an old Smith’s notebook, using a chopping board resting on my lap as a makeshift desk, much like I imagine Samuel Pepys did.”
The diary’s subject matter was largely mundane—short, spiky critiques of television programs or comments on the neighbors. Often, she combined the two: “Watched a forty-five-minute advert for Findus Crispy Pancakes interrupted sporadically by a documentary about aqueducts. Could barely hear it over the noise of Next Door Left rowing. I really wish they’d keep a lid on it.”
Occasionally though, she’d write something more reflective:
“Got in a bit of a tiz this evening. Put some food out for the birds and felt a bit dizzy. Thought about calling the quack but didn’t want to bother anyone. Silly, I know, but I just feel so embarrassed about taking up someone’s time when I know I’m probably fine. Next Door Right were out having a barbecue. Smelled delicious. Had the strongest urge—for the first time in goodness knows how long—to take a bottle of wine round there, something dry and crisp, and get a bit tiddly. Had a look in the fridge but there wasn’t anything there. In the end I decided that dizziness and tiddlyness wouldn’t have been a good mix anyway. That wasn’t the tiz, by the way, that came as I was trying to drop off to sleep when I suddenly remembered it was my birthday. And that’s why I’m writing this now in the hope it helps me to remember next year, if I haven’t kicked the bucket by then of course.”
Peggy put the diary in her bag. “I’ll have a look through this back at the office.”
“Right you are,” Andrew said. He looked at his watch. “Sandwich?”
“Sandwich,” Peggy confirmed.
They stopped off at a café near the office. “How about here?” Andrew said. “I must have walked past this place a thousand times and I’ve never been in.”
It was warm enough to sit outside. They munched their sandwiches as a group of schoolchildren in hi-vis bibs were led along by a young teacher who was just about managing to keep track of them all while taking the time to tell Daisy that Lucas might not appreciate being pinched like that.
“Give it ten years,” Peggy said. “I’ll bet Lucas will be dying to get pinched like that.”
“Was that your flirting technique back in the day?”
“Something like that. Bit of pinching, few vodka shots, can’t go wrong.”
“Classic.”
A man marched by them in an electric-blue suit, shouting incomprehensible business jargon down the phone, like a peacock who’d managed to learn English by reading Richard Branson’s autobiography. He strode out into the road, barely flinching as a bike courier flashed inches past and called him a knobhead.
Andrew felt something vibrating against his leg.
“I think your phone’s ringing,” he said, passing Peggy’s bag over to her.
She pulled out her phone, looked at the screen for a second, then dropped the phone back in the bag, where it continued to vibrate.
“I’m going to guess that was Steve again,” Andrew said.
“Mmm-hmm. At least he’s down to two calls a day now. I’m hoping he’ll get the message soon enough.”
“How are the girls doing with it all?”
“Oh, you know, about as well as you’d expect. We’ve got a long old road ahead of us. But it’s still absolutely for the best. By the way, Suze asked about you the other day.”
“Really? What did she say?” Andrew said.
“She asked me whether we’d be seeing ‘that fun Andrew man’ again.”
“Ah, I wonder which Andrew she was thinking of there, then,” Andrew said, mock-disappointed, but unable to entirely conceal how proud he really was, judging from the smile on Peggy’s face.
Peggy reached into her bag again and brought out Josephine’s diary, flicking through the pages.
“She seems like such a lively old lass, this one.”
“She does,” Andrew said. “Any mention of a fami
ly?”
“Not that I can see. There’s lots more about the neighbors, though never by name, so I’m not sure how friendly they all were. I suppose if one lot of them was always rowing then maybe she didn’t feel like talking to them. The others, though, the barbecuing lot—I might go back later and have a chat with them if I can’t find anything here. Part of me’s just intrigued as to whether she did ever decide to go round there for a drink or anything.”
Andrew shielded his face from the sun so he could look Peggy in the eye.
“I know, I know,” she said, holding her hands up defensively. “I’m not getting too invested, honestly. It’s just . . . this is yet another person who spent their final days completely alone, right, despite the fact she was clearly a nice, normal person. And I bet if we do find a next of kin it’ll be another classic case of ‘Oh, dear, that’s a shame, we hadn’t spoken in a while, we sort of lost contact, blah blah blah.’ It just seems like such a scandal that this happens. I mean, are we all really content to say to these people, ‘Sorry, tough luck, we aren’t even going to bother trying to help you poor lonely bastards,’ without at least offering them the chance to have some company or something?”
Andrew thought about what he might have done if somewhere down the line someone had offered him companionship. All he could really picture, unhelpfully, was a Jehovah’s witness standing at his door. But that figured, because, truth be told, he’d have rejected help outright. He said as much to Peggy.
“But it doesn’t have to be like that,” she said. “I wanted to talk to you about this, actually. I mean, I haven’t exactly got it all mapped out, but . . .”
She began to rout around in her bag, producing empty water bottles, an old apple core, a half-empty bag of sweets and fistfuls of receipts. Andrew watched, mesmerized, as she swore and continued to pull things out like an angry magician. Eventually she found what she’d been looking for.
“So it’s just a rough outline,” she said, smoothing out a piece of paper. “Really rough, actually, but it’s a summary of what a campaign to help people could look like. The gist of it is that people can apply to have the option of a phone call or a visit from volunteers. And the thing is it doesn’t matter if you’re a little old lady or a thirty-something high flyer. It just gives you the option of having someone you can connect with.”
Andrew studied the paper. He was aware that Peggy was watching him anxiously.
“What?” she said. “Is it mental?”
“No. It absolutely isn’t. I love it. I just wish you’d told me about it sooner.”
Peggy narrowed her eyes.
“What?” Andrew said.
“Oh, nothing,” Peggy said. “I was just thinking about a moment in Sainsbury’s about a week ago when I nearly punched you in your stupid face.”
“. . . Right,” Andrew said, deciding not to probe that one any further.
“There’s something else I want to show you too,” Peggy said, reaching into her Tardis bag again and pulling out her phone. “Obviously it’s a bit too late to help poor old Josephine find company, bless her, but what do you reckon about this?” She passed her phone over to Andrew, who wiped his fingers on a paper napkin before he took it. It was a post Peggy had drafted in Facebook.
“You know what?” Andrew said, once he’d finished reading it.
“What?”
“You’re actually brilliant.”
Andrew wouldn’t have thought Peggy capable of blushing, but her cheeks were definitely tinged pink.
“So shall I post it?” she said.
“Abso-bloody-lutely,” Andrew said. He handed her phone back and watched her upload the post just as his own phone started to ring.
“Yes, no, I understand, thanks, but like I said that’s out of my price range, I’m afraid. Okay, thank you, bye.”
“‘Out of my price range, I’m afraid,’” Peggy said. “Are you buying a yacht or something?”
“That’s next on the list, obviously. For now, I’m trying to move house.”
“Wow. Really?”
“I think it’s for the best. Time to move on.”
“So now you’re experiencing the joy of speaking to all those lovely lettings agents.”
“Yep. I’ve never had so many people lie to me in such a short space of time.”
“You have much to learn, my friend.”
Andrew rubbed his eyes and yawned. “All I want is to live in a converted train station on top of a mountain with sea views and Wi-Fi and easy access to central London, is that so much to ask?”
“Have another cookie,” Peggy said, patting him on the top of the head.
* * *
—
They were nearly back at the office—despite coming close to making an executive decision to dedicate the afternoon to Scrabble in the pub.
Andrew had been building up the courage, again, to ask whether Peggy had overheard him in Rupert’s kitchen, and this felt like the most opportune moment he’d had in the last few days.
“So, the other night . . .”
But he didn’t get a chance to finish, because Peggy suddenly grabbed his arm. “Look,” she muttered.
Cameron had arrived at the office ahead of them and was skipping nimbly up the stairs. He stopped to search for his building pass, only finding it once Andrew and Peggy had caught up with him.
“Hi, Cameron,” Peggy said. “We weren’t expecting you back till next week.”
Cameron busied himself with his phone as he spoke. “Had to come back early,” he said. “Last day of the course got canceled. Salmonella, it would seem. I’m the only one who managed to escape it. Well, hopefully,” he added.
The three of them walked down the corridor in silence. When they got to their office Cameron held the door open so Peggy could go through, then turned to Andrew and said, “Could we have a quick word in my office when you have a moment?”
“Sure,” Andrew said. “Can I ask wha—”
“See you in a minute then,” Cameron said, walking away before Andrew could say anything else. He didn’t know exactly what was coming, but he could make a reasonable guess that he wasn’t going to be awarded a knighthood.
A few weeks ago he would have been panic-stricken. But not anymore. He was ready for this. He dumped his stuff by his desk and made his way straight to Cameron’s office.
“Andrew,” Peggy hissed from across the room, her eyes wide with concern.
He smiled at her.
“Don’t worry,” he said. “Everything’s going to be fine.”
— CHAPTER 38 —
Another day, another funeral.
Today was the day Josephine Murray said good-bye to the world, and Andrew was the only one returning her farewell. He shifted his position on the creaky pew and exchanged smiles with the vicar. When Andrew had greeted him earlier that morning it had taken him a moment to realize he was actually the floppy-haired youngster whom he’d watched conduct his very first funeral service. Though that had only been earlier that year, he already looked to have aged considerably. It wasn’t just that his hair was neater, in a more conservative side parting, it was also in the way that he carried himself—it was more assured. Andrew felt oddly paternal, seeing how much he seemed to have matured. They had spoken briefly on the phone beforehand and Andrew, after discussing it with Peggy, had decided to relate parts of Josephine’s diary so that the vicar was able to add a bit more color to the service, and make it more personal.
Andrew swiveled to look to the back of the church. Where, then, was Peggy?
The vicar approached. “I’ll give it another minute or so, but then I’ll really need to start, I’m afraid,” he said.
“Of course, I understand,” Andrew said.
“How many were you expecting?”
That was the problem. Andrew didn’t have a clue. It all depended
on how Peggy had gotten on.
“Don’t worry too much,” he said. “I don’t want to cause a holdup.”
But just then the church door swung open, and there was Peggy. She looked flustered at first, but then relief flooded her face when she saw that the service hadn’t started yet. She held the door for someone behind her—there was at least one other person, then—and made her way up the aisle. Andrew watched as first one, then two, then three people came in after her. There was a short gap, and then, to Andrew’s amazement, a steady stream of people filed in until he lost count at over thirty.
Peggy arrived next to him. “So sorry we’re late,” she whispered. “We had a decent response on the Facebook page but then we managed to round up a few people from Bob’s Café across the road last minute.” She nodded at a man wearing a blue and white checked apron. “Including Bob!”
The vicar waited until everyone was seated before making his way to his lectern. After the initial formalities he decided—spontaneously, it looked to Andrew—to leave his lectern, and his notes with it, so that he could be nearer to the congregation.
“As it happens, I have a little something in common with Josephine,” he said. “My grandmother was her namesake—she was always Granny Jo to me—and they both kept diaries. Now, my granny’s, which we were only allowed to read once she’d passed away, was of course of great intrigue to us. It was only when we were finally able to read it that we realized she’d written most of the entries after a couple of strong gin and tonics, and so they were pretty hard to read in places.” There was a warm ripple of laughter from the congregation and Andrew felt Peggy take his hand.
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