Yet she needed to go somewhere with space – she realised she had been bottling up so many emotions since Albie had died. She had been so furious with him for leaving her, with no warning. And then the dogged thought that he had been lying to her, hadn’t trusted her enough to tell her about his heart condition, his wealth. That he hadn’t thought she was worthy of that information. So much festering anger stored up inside her that now she wanted to go somewhere she could let it all out. Now she had all this new information to absorb: the list, the apartment, how he lived.
Queen’s Park was large and anonymous, she thought, heading towards the park. As she walked around the pond, the water glistening in the weak sunshine, ducks causing gentle ripples to echo across the surface, she felt her muscles relax, her shoulders drop. It was deserted at this time, the odd jogger or parent bundled into a thick coat, pushing a fur-lined pram, and she was able to think as she strolled, reflecting back over everything she’d discovered.
The wish list had been burning a hole in her handbag ever since she’d read its contents, the last bullet point burnt into her mind. The list had seemed so typically Albie, and explained how he filled his days. He had always seemed so busy, plans spilling out of him, people he’d come across, and she had enjoyed basking in the stories he’d told, living vicariously through him. She thought of her own week: a single task to be ticked off every day, her only connections brief and professional. How small her world had become, not that she deserved anything else.
She stopped short on the path, someone tutting just behind her as an elderly man skirted round her, his Jack Russell yapping indignantly as they passed. She had only ever lived for Thursdays, she realised. Everything else in the week had always paled into insignificance while she had been waiting for the other days to pass. How wrong that he had gone, someone who had filled his days with such thought and purpose.
He could have bought a mansion, moved abroad, owned a dozen holiday homes around the world, spent lavishly, flashed his wealth. But he hadn’t done any of those things, hadn’t boasted about it, used it to make others feel awkward or lacking. He’d lived a humble life in a one-bedroomed flat, spending the money on other people. Why, she wondered. Why had he felt that he needed a list? Was it just generosity?
He’d always insisted on paying for their weekly tea and cake, exasperated if she ever got there first, and she saw now that maybe this was his small way of sharing his good fortune. She had always assumed it was just him being a gentleman but now she could see it ran deeper than that. She thought back to all the ticks: all the ways of making things better for people he came into contact with. What a way to live! That was Albie though, seizing opportunities. She recalled that very first Thursday in the café. She’d been sat quietly, nibbling at a toasted teacake, and suddenly there was a scrape of a chair and he was sitting down right in front of her, introducing himself.
‘Can I join you?’ he’d asked, barely pausing for her to do anything but nod.
She remembered she had wiped at her mouth in alarm, assuming she was covered in crumbs and butter, feeling wrong-footed by this shift in her routine. She hadn’t known what to say, readying herself to get up and leave. He had asked her whether she would like to share a pot of tea with him. She was about to say no, but there had been something in those navy eyes, something in the friendly way the skin creased round their edges that stopped her.
She had said yes. He had ordered a pot of tea, ‘And a slice of that lovely looking marble cake, with two forks.’
Just like that: two forks. And when the plate had been set down he had pushed it between them, as if it was the most natural thing in the world.
‘I’m Albie,’ he’d said and offered her a fork.
She had taken it.
‘Maria.’
She moved to a nearby bench, with an inscription on a plaque stating that Margaret had always loved to sit there and watch the world go by, and she wondered then if Albie might have liked something to mark his passing. Surely others would want to pay their respects? She imagined his full life, the people he had touched. He hadn’t left instructions for anything like that, the solicitor simply stating that he requested a cremation and directions as to where he wanted his ashes to be scattered. That request lay heavy on her chest as if he had deliberately chosen the spot for her and not him.
The world suddenly seemed smaller and greyer, a cloud skidding across the sky, plunging the water in front of her into semi-darkness. She reached into her handbag and smoothed out the piece of paper once more, reading again all the bullet points he had never ticked, wondering again what had led him to create this list. All those people who would never benefit from his kindnesses. She felt a familiar surge of sadness, her own grief always so near the surface now, and a terrible emptiness. Where should she go once she had circled this pond? What should she do with this new knowledge?
She traced the next bullet point with a finger: Keith. Albie had clearly taken some time to get to know Keith, with frequent deliveries of sandwiches and coffees. What family did Albie refer to? What had happened to Keith, she wondered. She thought of the brief glimpses she had had of him, sat on a filthy sleeping bag in a doorway in Kemptown, a plastic cup for loose change in front of him, a mop of dark brown hair, weathered skin. He didn’t seem old to her, was there a mother somewhere hoping he would get in touch? Let her know he was safe? Did he have siblings who had lost touch? What if no one helped him? It seemed worse now that she knew this might be the impact of Albie’s death, so much worse even than herself just losing him. The sun reappeared behind the stray cloud and as the sunlight beamed down, highlighting the family of ducks waddling determinedly to the water’s edge, the thought struck her: she must finish the list. The sunshine beat on the back of her head as she re-read the list, Albie’s wishes. This was how she could honour him. This was, she knew with certainty, how he would have wanted her to honour him. All these people wouldn’t miss out because Albie had died, she wouldn’t let that happen.
She stood, her knees cracking with the effort, a hand out to steady herself. She folded the list in two and placed it in her handbag once more: so precious, a road map of what she now must do. She looked out across the water, at the reflection of the sky on the smooth surface, felt as close to Albie in that moment than since the day he died. All the anger and hurt she had been harbouring ebbed away, a poison leaving her, every bad feeling replaced with this new desire.
‘I’m going to do it for you,’ she said aloud, lifting her handbag onto her shoulder in a decisive move. A woman pushing a pram looked over at her, but Maria didn’t care. She set off for home, a bounce in her steps, a small smile, the first in days, forming.
‘For you, Albie Young.’
Her first day at school. I kept a photograph on my desk for years. Scruffy hair tied up in bunches, wide light-brown eyes, a shirt untucked already, knobbly knees underneath an oversized skirt I wanted her to grow into. She had wanted to wear the uniform in bed the night before, had compromised by leaving it laid out ready at the foot of her bed.
In the morning she had looked up at me in awe as I had tried to teach her how to do up the tie. Then she had stood just outside the gate on the pavement, chin jutted out, the shiny, new brown leather satchel over one shoulder as she’d posed for my photograph. The expression on her face: a mixture of excitement and abject fear.
My girl. I had taken her hand and started that first walk to school, trying not to squeeze too tight, trying not to show her that I was as nervous as her.
Twelve
What do you dress in to impress someone for the first time? She spent far too long deciding, pulling out skirts, trousers, shirts and rejecting all of them. At one point she found herself holding up a floral summer dress with a pie collar before reminding herself with a loud scoff that it wasn’t a day out at the Queen’s Garden Party.
She didn’t want to appear too formal, too stuffy: the dress went the same way as the rest of her clothes. She picked out a pair of cott
on trousers, barely worn, a crease down the middle, and a soft grey cashmere jumper. She filled up a thermos with strong coffee, made two sandwiches and wrapped them tightly in cling film. With a last look at herself in the small mirror by the front door, and a you can do this, Maria, she set off.
She was almost there, nails biting into her flesh as she approached the doorway, could only glimpse the edge of a blanket from this distance. She had half-hoped he wouldn’t be there, that she could turn around and go home, console herself with the fact that she had tried. It was bad enough when strangers spoke to her but to initiate the contact was entirely new for Maria.
‘Maria…’
Rosie seemed to appear from nowhere in front of her. Maria felt herself sag with relief, putting off this moment for a little longer.
‘You were miles away, everything alright? I’ve been worried about you.’
Maria seemed to always forget how much energy Rosie had until she was standing bold as brass in front of her, all bright eyes and confidence. ‘Oh, I’m…’ Maria drew into a doorway, out of the way of people in the busy street. ‘I was going to meet someone from the list, someone Albie had helped. I’m, a little nervous.’ She coughed, embarrassed perhaps to be admitting this to Rosie, someone younger who she should be advising, not the other way round.
‘It will be fine, more than fine, people want other people to connect with them.’
‘I hope you’re right,’ Maria said, wanting to be emboldened by the words, not convinced they were true. She had learnt how to push the best of them away in the past.
‘I could come too, if you like?’
‘Thank you, you are kind but I know I need to do this on my own, to find the strength.’
‘Look,’ Rosie said, tugging on a stray strand of hair. ‘Remember, it was what your friend Albie wanted. All those things on the list.’
Maria blinked, imagining as she often did her own name in sloping green ink on the list, the bullet points underneath it. She didn’t want to think about those now. If she couldn’t even take this small step…
‘So that should give you some courage. Just imagine him: he’d want to be here still, doing his list…’
Maria swallowed, knowing there was truth in those words. The list, something Albie had cared about and wanted to complete for whatever reason. What had been driving him to do those things, she thought for the hundredth time.
‘You’re not convinced.’ Rosie laughed, and the sound, light and teasing, snapped her back into the present, glad Rosie had seen her, grateful to draw some strength from someone else.
‘I am. You’ve been a help, as ever,’ Maria said, her voice low and soft.
A small dog stopped then, yapping at the space next to Maria, the owner apologising as she waved the distraction away.
Squaring her shoulders, Maria peeked around the corner of the doorway: the blanket was still there. ‘OK,’ she muttered, almost to herself, ‘Wish me luck.’
‘Good luck.’
She marched off, hearing Rosie’s response caught on the breeze behind her. Taking a breath, she moved down the street towards him, knowing that this meeting was fraught with potential disaster. For a start she didn’t want to seem like some lady of the manor lording it over him, patronising him. She’d hate him to see her like that. She didn’t want him to be offended, or embarrassed. These thoughts almost forced her to turn around and scuttle away again. But she drew strength from Rosie’s words, reminding her of the folded piece of paper in her bag: this was what Albie had wanted to do and that was how she should do it. This wasn’t Maria doing it, it was Albie. She could draw on his strength. She had seen him with strangers – a wide smile, an easy word – instantly watching them relax. She had to channel that skill, that warmth.
He was sat in the doorway of a recently closed furniture shop. A large tartan bag, a rolled-up duvet cover and three or four blankets around him. He had a cap on his head, long brown hair sticking out of the bottom, and was wearing a scuffed pair of trainers and a bulky black Puffa coat. She took a breath, preparing herself.
Keith.
How often had she walked past? Not seeing a person but seeing only their homelessness. The sleeping bag, carrier bags, cup of change, bulky clothing, uncombed hair, weather-beaten cheeks hiding the person underneath. The person with family, friends, unique traits: a story. She felt herself flooded with a shame. It shouldn’t have taken Albie’s list for her to notice this person who she had walked past countless times. Pretending his situation had nothing to do with her because he was a stranger. Albie hadn’t thought like that.
‘Excuse me,’ she stuttered at first.
Keith looked up at her, a weathered face dominated by bushy dark eyebrows that shifted upwards slightly as she stood there, thrusting out the thermos flask.
‘I got you coffee, he said you liked it with milk and two sugars, but I wasn’t sure if they were heaped teaspoons so I brought some more in a bag in case you wanted to add, and I just assumed that is about the right amount of milk so I’m sorry if it’s too milky, or not. I could go back and get some more if it isn’t right…’ She knew she was babbling, words tripping off her tongue in a desperate attempt to make this first connection.
Keith struggled to his feet, towering above her so that she had to crick her neck to look at him. ‘Kind of you,’ he said, his eyes crinkling in the corners as he took the thermos from her, ‘I love it with milk.’
He didn’t sit back down but stayed standing as he twisted the cup from the top of the flask.
‘And sandwiches, I made sandwiches. He didn’t tell me if you were a vegetarian so I’ve made egg. I hope you like it. I’ve done it with butter, not mayonnaise, which I always think makes it taste better, but I didn’t have any cress and I do think cress makes all the difference so I’m sorry, next time perhaps. I know he liked to bring you them every day… Well, that’s what I’ve assumed from the list…’
Keith had been about to put the coffee to his lips but Maria noticed he had frozen midway through the action.
Her words trailed away as he lowered the cup.
‘He didn’t… who didn’t… are you talking about Albie?’
Keith’s eyes narrowed as Maria bit her lip and nodded.
The air between them seemed to instantly chill as Keith took a step backwards. ‘Sent you, has he? Feeling guilty, I suppose? I haven’t seen hind nor hair of him in two weeks. I should have known it was all a bit too good to be true. I thought we were friends, you know…’
Maria was alarmed at the sudden shift in his demeanour. His face seemed to shut down as he glanced off into the distance.
‘Oh, oh, you don’t… no, of course you don’t…’
He didn’t know. Of course. She should have realised he wouldn’t know. Who would have told him? How could he know? She realised with a sinking heart that she would have to be the one to tell him.
‘Keith, Albie is… Albie died,’ she said, quickly. The first time she had said those words aloud.
A range of emotions flickered across his face: shock widening his eyes before they darkened with hurt, his eyebrows dragged down as he looked at her. ‘I… how…’
A film of water and a single teardrop.
‘They told me it was his heart: the final moment happened in his sleep.’
Keith nodded slowly. ‘That’s g—’ He didn’t finish the sentence but sat down in amongst his blankets, spilling a little of the coffee onto the pavement.
‘I’m sorry,’ Maria said, knees creaking as she joined him on the floor, ‘I hadn’t thought you wouldn’t know, so insensitive of me. He really did care about you.’
‘And you are…?’
‘Oh, I’m sorry. I’m Maria. I’m, I was…’ she corrected herself, ‘a friend of Albie’s.’
Tears had left tracks on his cheeks as he twisted to look at her. ‘You’re Maria,’ Keith said, emphasising the ‘you’re’ as if he knew exactly who she was. It made her frown in confusion.
‘Albie told
me about you, so he did.’
‘Oh.’ Maria felt her face heat up. She fiddled with the tassel on the blanket beneath her. ‘Oh, he did, did he?’
Keith chuckled softly, a small choked sound. ‘He thought the sun shone out of your… you know.’
Maria plaited the tassel, feeling her own eyes sting with tears. She found she couldn’t reply.
Keith was silent now, resting back against the glass door, a faded ‘CLOSING DOWN’ sign behind its smeared surface. ‘I can’t believe he died. He was so…’
‘I know,’ finished Maria when he couldn’t find the words.
They sat back together in the small doorway, people passing them without glancing down. Boots, trainers, heels clacking past, jeans brushing the ground… Someone threw a cigarette butt nearby. Everyone moving quickly, distracted, busy: no time to stop, no time to notice.
Eventually, Keith spoke. ‘How did you know he came to see me?’ he asked, wiping his face with the back of his hand.
Maria rummaged in her handbag and drew out Albie’s Wish List, handing it to Keith.
He was quiet as he read the words.
‘The ticks are all the things he’d done so far. I wanted to keep ticking it, finish what he started,’ she said, filling the silence, worried for a moment that Keith would be hurt or angry reading about Albie’s desire for him to reconnect with his family. Maria still wasn’t sure what family Keith had lost touch with.
‘So, he wanted me to get a haircut,’ Keith roared with a short sharp bark of laughter. He didn’t seem offended, fingering the end of one of his strands of hair as if in thought.
‘The thing is, he left me some money,’ Maria went on. ‘He didn’t really seem to spend any on himself. I think he wanted to spend it on others, help them…’
Was that true? What had driven Albie to be so generous? Had he always been that way or had something happened to make it so?
‘…so I hope you don’t mind my offering, but if it would suit you, I would dearly love to introduce you to a couple of people I know.’
The Wish List Page 9