The Difference a Day Makes

by Carole Matthews

  ‘Are you sure he’ll be all right in there?’ my sister asks nervously.

  ‘We don’t have any choice,’ I say. ‘We’ve got to go.’ I have a quick hunt round the kitchen. ‘I can’t find my mobile phone.’

  ‘You’re not going to need your phone at the church.’

  ‘I’m sure I had it this morning. Now I can’t see it anywhere.’

  ‘The vet called again earlier,’ Serena tells me. ‘He asked if it was okay if he came to the service. I told him it was.’

  I nod, gratefully. Despite my continuing guilt when I think of him, it would be good to see him there, to see at least one friendly face. Guy Barton has been quietly slipping in and out of the yard tending to our animals, stealthily making sure that I’m remembering to take the hens in at night. More than once he’s saved them from the clutches of the wily foxes who are only looking for the slightest excuse to help themselves to a free lunch.

  People I don’t even know from the village have been calling me all week to express their condolences – people who didn’t even know Will. Which is in sharp contrast to our oldest and supposedly closest friends.

  Serena called round all our colleagues from the British Television Company for me, those that we treasured, friends from years ago who have been through all our trials and tribulations with us, and no one – not one single one of them – has been able to make it to William’s funeral. Without exception, they cited a whole host of plausible reasons why they were unable to attend the funeral of someone who had once seemed so dear to them, like childcare considerations, work commitments (how often have I used that one myself?), travel difficulties. And I just got the impression that if we’d still been living in Notting Hill and had suffered this tragedy, then I’m sure that they would have been the first to come around. But in Yorkshire we’re now out of sight and out of mind. Not even Maya is coming. She says that her new employer won’t give her the day off. Old friendships clearly count for nothing when there’s a long stretch of motorway in between. My sister tried to convince me to bury Will in London, but I know that this is where he’d want to be. We’ve been here for such a short time, but I know that he’d want his soul to settle here.

  Our friends and colleagues have all sent floral tributes to assuage their consciences. I feel like throwing them on the fire. How could they do this to Will? Did my husband mean so little to them? What a meagre party we’ll make for Will’s send-off. How can someone who has been so popular in life be so neglected at his death? The people that we cared for have turned out to be nothing more than fair-weather friends. It’s at times like this when you find out who your true pals really are.

  Hamish howls some more. I give up the search for my phone. ‘Let’s go. Are the children ready?’

  Serena nods. ‘They’re being very brave.’ More than I am. I feel like lying down on the floor and never getting up again. My sister shouts to the children and they come into the kitchen.

  I bend down and hug them. Jessica is crying silently. ‘I love you both very much,’ I tell them. ‘Daddy would be so proud of you.’

  Then I take their hands – for once Tom doesn’t object – and we go out to the funeral car.

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  I’ve wanted to come to this lovely little church since we arrived in the village; I just didn’t imagine it being in these circumstances. The day is incongruously bright and warm. In the churchyard the trees are hanging onto the last of their autumn coats, their few remaining leaves tinged with gold and raspberry, the rest of them forming a colourful carpet in the churchyard. Will would have loved a day like this. He’d have taken the children by the hand and kicked through the leaves with them, shouting happily. I blank out the image.

  We follow the coffin into the church and I find it hard to believe that my husband is lying in there. I keep having to say it over and over to myself – he’s gone and he’s not coming back. I squeeze the children’s hands and they look up at me with tearful eyes.

  The church has been decked with white lilies and the scent is beautiful. But that’s not what takes my breath away. Inside, the pews are filled with people from the village, people that I’ve barely glanced at over the last few months. Yet they’ve all turned out to say goodbye to Will. I’m touched that they’ve taken the time to find space in their busy lives to be here when our friends could not.

  We walk down the aisle, our sad little procession, and the sun streams through the stained-glass windows, casting kaleidoscopes of rainbow colour across the floor. This is very beautiful in its own poignant way.

  The vicar comes to the front of the altar and the undertaker’s bearers place the coffin on its stand. I don’t know the vicar, but he called on me yesterday and discussed what I’d like him to say, what readings, what hymns. How could I tell him that I couldn’t care less? Now he starts to speak and a respectful hush falls on the congregation. ‘We’re gathered here in the sight of God,’ he says solemnly, ‘to celebrate the life of William Ashurst . . .’

  I feel my legs start to shake. How will I be able to get through this?

  Then, all of a sudden, behind us there’s a terrible howling noise. I turn in terror. The shout is out of my throat before I have time to consider where I am or what the occasion is. ‘Hamish! No!’

  Through the church doors, the dog charges. I dread to think how he’s got out of the house, but he has. He barrels down the aisle, knocking us all out of the way and showering the congregation with spittle.

  ‘No!’ I shout as I make a futile lunge for him. ‘No!’

  I see Guy Barton dive forwards, but he’s too slow for Hamish. In a masterly body swerve, the dog evades the vet, but loses his footing on the flooring worn smooth by the feet of many worshippers. He slides down the aisle, paws scrabbling against the stone as he goes careening towards the coffin.

  The congregation gasp in horror. Hamish starts backpedalling. But it’s too late. He rushes headlong into Will’s coffin, where it rocks violently on its hinges but mercifully stays put. The congregation, as one, let out their breath.

  Hamish stands on his hind legs and lays his head on the casket, whining pitifully.

  I somehow regain the use of my legs and march towards him. ‘Hamish, come here,’ I shout, all decorum of the grieving widow flown out of the window.

  Hamish looks at me, fear in his eyes, and slumps to the ground. Whereupon I hear a familiar sound.

  ‘It can’t be,’ I say, mouth agog. But it is.

  That’s my mobile phone ringing. I’d know my ringtone anywhere. It was mine and Will’s favourite anthem. And it’s coming from Hamish’s stomach. So that’s where my phone got to. He opens his mouth to bark and the sound of the phone comes out even louder.

  The strains of our much-loved Queen hit slices through the silence and the church is filled with ‘Another One Bites the Dust’.

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  I don’t know how we get through the rest of the service, but we do. Guy Barton wrestled Hamish to the back of the church where he tied him to a pew with the belt from his trousers. Apart from the occasional plaintive howl to interrupt the vicar’s eulogy, Hamish behaved himself long enough for the funeral to continue, thankfully, without further incident.

  Now Hamish is locked in Guy’s Range Rover in disgrace and the rest of us are in the small village hall. I assumed that there would only be Serena, the children and me at Will’s funeral and had planned to go home and continue the day in quiet contemplation. The village, it seems, has other ideas.

  The hall is decked, like the church, with white lilies and everyone has brought food to make up a marvellous buffet of local produce. From the butcher in Scarsby there’s a platter of pork pies and a glorious array of cheeses from a shop I’ve yet to discover. It feels as if it’s a welcome party as well as a goodbye, and I dearly wish that my husband was here as he really would have enjoyed it.

  A woman called Cheryl who works as a receptionist at Guy’s veterinary practice introduces me to everyone.
They all seem extraordinarily nice and I realise that I’ve been churlish to have pretty much ignored them all so far. But then I was too steeped in my own self-pity to make a good neighbour. The children are being fussed over by a lady and gentleman who I think run the village pub. Serena gave them a little plate of food each and I’m relieved to see that they’re both eating it while they chat animatedly to the couple. The resilience of children never ceases to amaze me. They have coped so well with today, that I’m extremely proud of them. It seems that it was Guy’s idea to hold this get-together after Serena told him that none of our friends were making the journey to Yorkshire, and I think how kind he is to do that for a couple he barely knows. I can see him across the room charming two elderly ladies and it makes me smile in spite of my pain.

  When everyone’s eaten and many strong cups of Yorkshire tea have been consumed, I stand up to say a few words. ‘Thank you so much for this,’ I tell them. ‘It has meant a lot to me and my family. My husband would have been very grateful for your kindness. He adored life in this village even though we’ve only been here a short time, and was looking forward to a long . . .’ At this point my voice gives up. What William thought was that Helmshill would give us all a long and happy life. Someone else, it seems, had other plans. ‘I want to thank Cheryl and Guy for organising this for me as I’m not sure that I could have managed it myself.’ I lift my teacup. ‘To William Ashurst,’ I say. ‘A wonderful man, a loving husband and a caring father. He’ll be greatly missed.’

  ‘To William,’ my new friends echo.

  Ordeal over, I melt into the background and go to seek out Guy Burton. When I find him, I prise him away from his two elderly admirers. We walk to the door of the hall and slip out into the feeble warmth of some winter sunshine. There’s a bench by the green and I sit on it and give out a weary sigh. Guy sits next to me. Hamish in the Range Rover starts to bark maniacally. He must be crossing his legs by now. Either that or he’ll have piddled in Guy’s car.

  ‘I just wanted to say thank you personally,’ I tell Guy. ‘I really do appreciate this. William would have too.’

  ‘It was the least I could do.’

  ‘Seems as if a lot of our friends were very fair-weather.’

  ‘It might take people a long time to accept you round here, but when they do you’re a friend for life.’

  I smile wanly. ‘I didn’t realise how important that was until now.’

  ‘How long is Serena staying?’

  ‘A few more days. She has a very high-powered job. I’ll try to find a house close to her when we move back to London.’

  A shadow crosses Guy’s face. ‘I thought you might have reconsidered.’

  I shake my head. ‘No. The house is going on the market as soon as possible.’

  ‘Oh,’ he says.

  ‘Serena’s the only family I’ve got. I need to be near her.’

  ‘Of course.’ Guy sighs.

  We hear the strains of my mobile phone ringing again from inside Hamish’s stomach. I start to laugh shakily. ‘Wonder who that is?’

  ‘I’d better take that dog of yours back to the surgery.’

  ‘Surgery?’

  ‘I need to get that phone out of him. I’m not sure that we can trust it to nature. It could be harmful to him.’

  ‘I hadn’t thought of that. Will it be expensive?’ I hate to think of these things now, but finances are very tight. We haven’t yet begun to sort out Will’s affairs. And I’d hoped to be able to find some freelance work, but who would I get to look after the kids now if I had to go off to Manchester or somewhere for a couple of weeks at a time? What I need to do is start looking for work back in London.

  ‘Don’t worry about that now. You’ve enough on your plate.’

  ‘You’ve done so much for us already,’ I say, tears welling. I force myself to be brisk and businesslike. ‘Just tell me how much it is and I’ll settle up with you.’

  ‘I hope that Hamish’s antics didn’t entirely ruin the day. It was a lovely service. I’m sure that you’ll have good memories too.’

  ‘William would have found it very amusing,’ I tell him. In fact, my husband would have loved it. ‘In time, I probably will too.’

  ‘I hope so.’ Guy stands. ‘I’ll keep the big guy in for a day or two, make sure he’s all right. I’ll call you to let you know how he’s doing.’

  ‘Thanks.’ Guy heads off to his car. Hamish goes to bound out as he opens the door but, this time, is successfully headed off at the pass.

  ‘Be careful with him,’ I warn. ‘He’s a menace.’

  ‘He just needs a firm hand,’ Guy says.

  He just needs a ton of tranquillisers. I shake my head. Damn dog. He’s too much like hard work for me. As soon as he’s better, he’s going straight back to where he came from.

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  By the time Guy got back to the surgery, Cheryl was also pulling up outside.

  ‘That dog looks mad,’ she said, as she opened the surgery door.

  ‘He’s just a bit boisterous.’ Guy struggled to coax Hamish from the car where he’d happily taken up residence in the front seat. He tugged at his lead. ‘Come on, boy.’ The phone went off again in Hamish’s stomach. Amusing as it was, Guy knew he had to get that phone out of there now before it caused a serious blockage that could be life-threatening for the dog.

  He’d vowed not to get too emotionally attached to another dog since he’d had to put down his own Border Collie, Robbie, last year. Guy didn’t know what it was about Hamish – he was as troublesome as Rob had been bright – but somehow this great lump of a dog had blundered its way into his affections. Perhaps it was because he belonged to Amy who, unfortunately, never seemed to be too far from his thoughts.

  Guy went round to the driver’s side of the car and, pushing Hamish with all his weight, finally managed to dislodge him from the Range Rover. Immediately, he bolted for the surgery door. Guy chased after him. Inside, Hamish barrelled into the carousel of helpful leaflets that was just inside the reception, scattering pamphlets on cat neutering, dog worming and the joys of rabbit keeping all over the floor.

  ‘Stop that, you monster!’ Cheryl cried. She loved that display and could happily spend hours replenishing the information, finding artistic ways to fan the brochures.

  Hamish skated round the floor. At that moment, Mrs Evans arrived with her cat, Tabby, who’d come to have a bad tooth removed. Hamish launched himself at the cage, knocking it out of Mrs Evans’s hand and causing the door to fly open. Tabby sprang out, claws splayed, spitting. Hamish barked and jumped backwards in fright, sending himself crashing into the aquarium with its excellent display of tropical fish. Hit by a twelve-stone dead weight, the glass shattered on impact, sending a spray of water and tropical fish across the room.

  Tabby’s bad tooth might have been putting him off his food, but that didn’t stop him from catching an Angel fish on the fly and swallowing it down whole. Mrs Evans looked as if she was about to pass out. Hamish barked in delight.

  ‘Get that dog out of here at once,’ Cheryl shouted.

  ‘Hamish! Hamish!’ Guy made a lurch for him, feet slithering on the soaked floor. He locked his arms round Hamish and dragged him forcibly towards consulting room one. ‘I’ll be with you as soon as I possibly can, Mrs Evans,’ he said over his shoulder, fixing his professional smile in place. ‘Cheryl, can you send the nurse in, please?’

  Shutting the door behind Hamish, Guy leaned on it to get his breath. He’d treated enormous cows, raging bulls, kicking horses, but none of them had the strength or ebullience of this dog.

  ‘Hamish,’ Guy said, panting as much as his new canine charge. ‘You and I need to come to an understanding. If you don’t start behaving, lad, you’re going to be back in that rescue home before you can say “walkies”.’

  Hamish barked joyfully at that. Presumably, the only word that had registered was ‘walkies’.

  ‘Up on the table then.’

  The dog neede
d no further encouragement and bounded onto the operating table in one leap, wagging his tail frantically.

  ‘You’re not going to like this much,’ Guy said, as he turned his back on the dog to fill a syringe with anaesthetic. ‘In fact, you’re not going to like this at all.’ He took the precaution of giving Hamish a hefty dose. It was going to take a lot to knock this dog out and he certainly didn’t want Hamish waking up while he was trying to extract a mobile phone from his stomach.

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  ‘I can’t bear to leave you,’ my sister says with a tear in her eye.

  ‘I’ll be fine. Don’t blub or you’ll start me off too.’

  Serena laughs. ‘Come down as soon as you can.’

  ‘I’m going to try to get in to see my old boss in the next couple of weeks.’ As soon as he realises what he’s missing, I’m sure he’ll hire me again. Then I can start to rebuild our old life in London, take the children back to what’s familiar for them, to what they know best, to what I know best. How I have longed for this. I just didn’t imagine what tragedy would have to occur for me to achieve it. Now, it goes without saying, I’d rather have Will back and stay in this dilapidated old house for ever. But as that’s not going to happen, we have to move on. I have to steel myself for a new life without him.

  Tom and Jessica hug her. ‘Be good for your mummy,’ she instructs. ‘She needs you to be all grown up.’

  My children both nod solemnly and it makes my heart break. I draw them into me and we escort Serena to her car.

  We all kiss her goodbye and then wave her off in the drive as the Porsche roars away, breaking up the silence of the morning. As she disappears from view, the van from the estate agents comes and the man makes short work of erecting a For Sale sign while I stand and watch. I hope that the house sells quickly so that I can get away from here as soon as possible.