The Likely Resolutions of Oliver Clock

by Jane Riley

  I’d never thought of it like that before. I chewed a nail. Earlier in the year I had made a resolution to ask Marie out. It was the one resolution I had written in my notebook that I had been properly serious about, the one I had been minutes away from enacting in real life with a real person. And one that in hindsight I had discovered could very well have been achieved, had I not been thwarted by Marie’s announcement. My dream cut in half as abruptly as an apple with one of our sharpened embalming scalpels. Yes, perhaps I was clinging on to the diary, but only because of the hope and love and joy I got from reading her reciprocated love for me. The diary was an emotional life raft that had been keeping me afloat these past few months. Hadn’t it helped me say yes to Edie’s candles and embark on a new venture I never would have taken on in the past? Hadn’t it helped me say goodbye to Caroline? Wasn’t it helping me move forward?

  ‘I can see where you’re coming from,’ Andy said, ‘but I think it’s time to cut the cord.’

  ‘I don’t know, Andy. Give it back to her horrible husband?’ The thought of doing so made me feel physically sick.

  ‘He’s probably not that horrible. He’s got a drinking problem, that’s all. Considering he lost Marie’s love to you, he’s doing pretty well.’

  I thought about how fear has a smell, or so Edie had said. Right then, it smelt like damp wool and congealed blood. I feared that by giving the diary back I would somehow lose Marie and jinx everything I had done over the past few weeks. That the candles might fail or Caroline might start doing something scary, like stalking me. I knew it sounded ridiculous, yet I didn’t want to risk it. Marie was a comfort blanket I didn’t want to give up. I got up to get away from the smell and put the peas back in the freezer before they defrosted completely, thinking I could use them later for a pea and Parmesan risotto. But fear followed me into the kitchen. I tried to ignore it and called out to Andy, ‘Is it too early for a beer?’

  As I opened the door, an image of my baby sister lying on the grass suddenly seeped into the shelves in the fridge, took over from the hummus, mustard, beer bottles and apples. At a glance, Lily looked as if she was sleeping, except she wasn’t. She had seen the rain outside, Mum had said, and wanted to dance among it as if it were water from the sprinkler Dad sometimes set up on the lawn, only better. Mum had been spinning cake batter in the mixer and I’d been too engrossed in building Lego on the floor to notice Lily skip out. She was so swift and nimble that no one knew she had gone until Mum saw her jiggling hips and waving elbows under crystal-beaded curtains of rain and ashen clouds charging. She danced and giggled as if the rain were tickling her until lightning splashed off a tree and got her heart fair and square. That was what the ambulance man had said, with elongated vowels and a voice like grinding metal. Fair and square. All I saw was Mum’s flapping apron strings and bouncing hair as she ran out through the swing door from the kitchen into the back garden. And all I heard was her wail. It was a noise unlike anything I’d heard before, apart from Dad’s drill, which he wasn’t always allowed to use, having not inherited my great-grandfather’s carpentry skills.

  ‘Hey, mate, what are you doing in there?’ Andy called out.

  Remembering where I was, I closed the fridge door and shuffled to the living room.

  ‘Sorry, got distracted.’

  ‘Yeah, you left the beer behind.’ He laughed.

  I went back to the kitchen. Told myself to pull myself together and hoisted my trousers as a symbolic gesture, even though they really did need pulling up, despite my lack of dieting commitment. Why had that memory come to me then, so crisp and clear, like an old film that had been digitally restored? I’d never wanted to remember so much. Never wanted to remember at all. Over the years, I had been successful at shoving memories of Lily in a drawer, the one labelled ‘The Childhood Memories You Wished You Never Had’, which could have been turned into a sardonic comedy song performed solo on guitar, if I hadn’t wanted to forget them. What happened to Lily had made me fearful of so many things. Like lightning. Like discussing Lily with Mum. Like letting go of Marie. Like standing up for myself and my decisions – especially with Mum – and taking risks. Now I realised it was Mum who feared me taking risks. Her fears had become my fears, which was understandable, I suppose, as the mother of a child who had passed away in such tragic circumstances, but wasn’t it time for her to let go, too?

  All these thoughts flooded my brain like the endorphin rush you get from overindulging a sweet craving. My head was pinging with one realisation after another, so much so that it was too much to take in. When Andy called out again, telling me the fridge door was beeping and asking had I got the drinks yet, I had to snap myself back to the present. I rejoined Andy with the beers and changed the topic of conversation to when he would be free to do a photoshoot of the candles. Yet I couldn’t stop thinking: was now the time to face my fears?

  When Andy left, I went to the bedroom and pulled out Marie’s diary from under the mattress. I looked at the cover, sniffed it but didn’t open it. Even though it still smelt of honey and leather, bound paper and Marie, it seemed different to me now.

  ‘You’ve been good to me, Marie, more than you will ever know,’ I said out loud. ‘But you know what? Your diary has been troublesome.’ I hugged the cover and lay on the bed. Yes, Andy was right. Marie was in the past. The love we had for one another may have felt real, and may once have been real, but it wasn’t any more. Clinging on to the diary had hindered my ability to fully engage with another woman and being in the middle of a tit-for-tat competition with Henry over it was undesirable and bothersome. It wasn’t right for me to denounce Henry’s love for Marie because it was tarnished by an alcoholic temper, and yet, having an unrequited love didn’t mean it was mine to keep either. All I had wanted was one read of the diary, one insight into her thoughts, and I’d got that many times over. Was it time to give it back? Was it time to face my fears and truly let go?

  I sat up, left the diary on the bed and found my notebook of resolutions and a pen from the bedside table. Turning to a fresh page, I wrote in capitals so it took up the whole piece of paper: FACE YOUR FEARS. I didn’t even bother to write ‘Thou shalt’, which seemed inappropriately formal and passive for this particular entry. For this resolution was meant to be an order. I added an exclamation mark to enforce the command and make me show that, this time, I truly meant it.

  Then I had the biggest realisation of all. It wasn’t just about facing my fears – hadn’t Caroline persuaded me to go swimming, after all? – it was about being true to myself and doing the things that were right for me and my business. My fortieth birthday was now only six weeks and one day away and it was time that I started making the right decisions, the ones that honoured me, Oliver Clock. For I knew deep down that returning the diary was the right thing to do; that future-proofing the family business was the right thing to do; that now was the right time to tell Mum about the candles, as I believed in them as much as I did Edie; that I should have stood up for my decision to hire Cora Mulligan, as she was the right embalmer for Clock & Son; that eating cheese and cake made me happy and denying myself them unhappy. I was scribbling so fast I hadn’t realised I’d nearly come to the end of the notebook. What a lot of resolutions, and not a lot of time before my birthday: only six weeks and one day. I had to start now!

  So I did, beginning with the last one. I would buy cake to celebrate my new beginning. It was a shame I had no candles to put on top. But I reckoned it didn’t matter; they could wait until my birthday.

  I put on a cap and sunglasses to hide my cheek wound, even though it was now dusk, furtively checked that Henry wasn’t flattened next to the wall by the front door or hiding behind my car, and drove to the patisserie. I fancied a slice of white chocolate cheesecake or perhaps hot cherry pie I could slather with vanilla ice cream for dessert. But when the last chocolate ganache cake caught my eye, I thought, Why buy one slice when you could buy the whole cake? Back home, I placed Marie’s candle in the middle
of my round four-seater dining table and cut what Mum would call a ‘sensible slice’ of the cake. It was so good I had to have another. Two ‘sensible’ slices.

  That’s when I thought of Lily again. I was standing on a stool at the kitchen bench with an oversized apron folded over and tied around my waist, smelling of raw butter and flour. Mum was next to me waving a sticky wooden spoon as she taught me how to make a cake. I followed each instruction, waiting for the next one, desperate for the mixing and pouring to be over so I could lick the spoon. We were making a cake for Lily’s second birthday and would do the icing and decorations during her afternoon sleep. Mum had it all planned, timed to the minute with rose-pink food colouring, pre-bought fondant daisies and two large white candles ready to be arranged. I nearly weed my pants with excitement as the cake mix burst into life, but didn’t dare let on in case I wasn’t allowed to stick around for the decorating. The memory made me chuckle. This was what remembering someone should be like. I shouldn’t be pushing memories of my sister away but welcoming them with fondness and joy. I didn’t want to pretend she never existed. Nor did I want to live my life as if I, too, would be struck by lightning at any moment. I owed it to Lily to do something about it.

  I ate the last mouthful and opened the notebook again. On the second-to-last page I wrote: Thou shalt not live your life as if you might be struck by lightning.

  I would have tucked into a third slice if I hadn’t thought of Edie. Why she popped into my head right then I didn’t know, but it occurred to me that she deserved a thank-you gift for introducing the candles to me and proving they could be a hit with customers. I could save some cake for her. Yes, I would deliver celebratory cake to her tomorrow – a dose of decadence for her hard work; it was the least I could do. I put the rest of the cake in the fridge, the box sliding easily into the middle section, next to a packet of Weight Watchers bacon and a carton of eggs, which reminded me that I really must stock up on food that wasn’t breakfast-related.

  And I went to sleep that night eager to present to the world the new Oliver Clock.

  Cake

  I woke early to the sounds of the rubbish truck, which felt symbolic, as if it were a metaphor for the night before and the truck was taking away the old Oliver. It was an analogy I wasn’t unhappy about. I dressed in my favourite blue suit and galaxy tie in maroon, and breakfasted on bacon and eggs before fetching the cake from the fridge and heading out of the door. I would start my new life by giving cake to Edie on my way in to Clock & Son.

  Just as I found a place to park outside, I saw Edie walk past on her way to the pharmacy. I wound down the window and called out to her.

  ‘Hi, Oliver,’ she said, coming over. ‘What are you doing here?’

  ‘I’ve brought you cake,’ I said.

  ‘Cake? What for?’

  ‘To thank you for the success of the candles.’

  ‘That’s so sweet of you.’

  ‘I’d love to say I made it, but I didn’t.’

  I picked up the box and was handing it to her through the car window when she suddenly noticed my face. ‘Oh my goodness, what happened to you?’

  ‘Oh, that,’ I said, touching my cheek, having forgotten that I resembled half a swede and a sliver of red chilli. ‘I had an altercation with the coffee table.’

  ‘Are you sure you’re alright?’

  ‘Top of the morning, as my father liked to say.’

  She looked at me quizzically, which she needn’t have as, apart from my wound, I was perfectly fine and felt even better now that I could give Edie cake. ‘Do you want to come in and we’ll find something for that cut? It’s looking a little angry,’ she said.

  ‘I don’t want to get in the way of your work.’

  ‘You won’t be. You can sit out the back and I’ll make some coffee. Diana has already opened up.’

  ‘Well, alright then. I suppose you can’t have coffee without cake.’ I laughed. Tucking the cake box under one arm, Edie led me to the back room of the pharmacy.

  ‘Have a seat on the stool,’ Edie said. ‘Now, let’s have a look at that injury of yours.’ She came very close to my face, which was a little disconcerting, yet I couldn’t help but notice that she smelled enticingly of apples that had been delicately stewed with brown sugar and a sprinkling of cinnamon. She dabbed at the cut with a damp cloth and applied antiseptic cream. ‘You’ve got a nice bruise forming,’ she said, ‘but otherwise it should be fine. Keep the cream – use it a couple of times a day for the next few days. OK, let’s get the coffee machine on and check out this cake,’ she said.

  She flipped the lid and immediately the lingering aroma of antiseptic ointment was drowned out by that of rich chocolate. I took another look inside and immediately felt a fool. I had forgotten quite how much I had eaten the night before.

  ‘Did it have an altercation with the coffee table, too?’ Edie laughed.

  ‘I’m sorry, I should have mentioned: I indulged last night.’

  She looked at me curiously, then said, ‘Do you want to tell me what really happened?’

  I had not intended to bore Edie with my woes at nine o’clock on a weekday morning, so I stood up to go. ‘It’s a long story and not that interesting. Thank you so much for your nursing skills, but I should let you get on with your work.’

  ‘It’s much better talking about things than letting them bottle up inside, you know. Anyway, I haven’t made the coffee yet.’

  The way Edie looked at me then, with such kindness and care, made me sit back down. I felt my guard drop and before I could stop myself I was telling her about Henry and the diary; how Marie was his wife and how it was only natural that Henry was angry with me but that neither of us had known we felt the same about each other. I didn’t go into extensive detail; it was an abridged version that gave her just enough information so she could understand the significance of the diary for me and how it was similar to a comfort blanket I liked having around. I hadn’t intended to open up to her, had never thought I would tell anyone else about Marie and the diary other than Andy. I didn’t with Caroline, hadn’t with Mum and, come to think about it, I’d never opened up about much to Marie either. Neither of us had divulged our deepest fears, worries or emotions. Yet with Edie, I had done so without thinking. It just felt right, which was really rather odd.

  Edie handed me a coffee and a slice of cake. ‘You know, I had something like that once. It was a silver bracelet my grandmother gave me for my twenty-first birthday a few weeks before she died. I wore it every day and, because I wore it every day, it felt wrong when I didn’t wear it. Like I was missing something. As if something would go wrong because I wasn’t wearing it, which doesn’t make any sense, but that’s what it felt like. Then one day I lost it. I think the clasp must have caught on something and the bracelet fell off without me knowing. I never found it. But you know what? Nothing bad happened when I couldn’t wear it any more,’ she said gently. ‘Everything carried on just fine.’

  My conversation with Andy and all the thoughts I’d had yesterday came back to me in a rush of unnerving clarity. ‘It’s ridiculous, really. All I have to do is give back the diary.’ I scooped some cake on to the spoon and reminded myself, again, of the comforting benefits of chocolate.

  ‘I could help you, if you like?’ Edie said. ‘Two sets of hands are better than one.’ She looked at me expectantly.

  ‘You don’t have to do that. I’ve burdened you enough with my problems, when I shouldn’t have.’ The joy I felt that she seemed to care enough about me to offer to help return the diary was as good, if not better, than a few mouthfuls of chocolate cake. What kind of business colleague does that?

  ‘Honestly, I don’t mind.’ Then her eyes lit up. ‘Why don’t we do it now? I can nip out and do it with you and won’t take a lunch break.’

  ‘I only have to put it in a post bag.’ I laughed. How silly it all was sounding.

  ‘So? I’ll come with you. I’m experienced at post office queues,’ she said.

>   ‘Well . . .’ I started, which she took as a resounding yes.

  ‘Great! You’ll feel so much better once it’s done.’

  She took my hand and led me through the pharmacy to my car.

  ‘You’ve done enough for me already, Edie, you know that, don’t you?’ I said, following her. ‘And you know we have to go to my place first to pick up the diary? Are you sure you have time?’

  ‘I don’t mind.’ She smiled. ‘Honestly, I really want to help.’ Then she blushed and looked away.

  I felt a fool for letting her insist on coming with me, and yet having her by my side was not unwanted. How wonderful to have someone care about you so much when they didn’t have to at all, when their relationship to you was one of a purely professional nature. Caroline hadn’t been like that, and we had been dating.

  Letting Go

  Back at my flat, Edie waited in the car as I went inside. But I couldn’t do a thirty-second grab and run. I had to have a minute to say goodbye. I held the diary to my nose, breathing in its aroma one more time. Velvet roses, softened leather, old paper, musky perfume. I closed my eyes and kissed the cover. Then, it was time.

  I went back to the car.

  ‘Are you OK?’ Edie asked.

  I nodded, said, Goodbye, Marie, in my head, so Edie wouldn’t hear, and started the car.

  I reversed on to the street and drove up to the main road. Even though I knew I was doing the right thing, I couldn’t help but feel a little sad, a little subdued and quite a bit daunted. This wasn’t just about giving something back to someone, handing it over to a post office employee. It was closing the door on one life to let another one open. This was a significant and symbolic moment and I felt the need to observe a minute’s silence. Thankfully, Edie noted the importance of the occasion and remained silent, too. In hindsight, I probably should have made light conversation, asked her how her morning had been, thanked her again for the cream she had given me free of charge. But I was too focused on the task at hand. When we reached the main road you could see the red-and-white post office sign in the distance, even though there were still three sets of lights to get through.